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goldenlikedayl1ght · 10 months

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born to die - m. murdock

a/n: IM NOT DEAD i am very busy with finals but this has been rattling around the old noggin for a while now. i took a lot of inspiration from @ellephlox 's fic strawberry rhubarb which i 100% reccomend bc its better than most fics including this one! hope you enjoy! as always reblogs and comments are always appreciated! <3 warnings: oh boy. torture (cutting, burning) some sexually suggestive talk (nothing happens but it's not consensual) readers dad abused her, nightmares, lots of major character death (but not permeant) ANGST!!! but with a happy ending! kidnapping, medical stuff, cursing, and if i missed anything, let me know! word count: 4.8k summary: as matt murdock's wife, your life is rather full of surprises. getting kidnapped by wilson fisk takes the cake as the worst one. pairing: matt murdock x wife!reader now playing: born to die - lana del rey "choose your last words, this is the last time/'cause you and i, we were born to die"

You would think after patching him up too many times to count, five years without him, and countless sleepless nights worrying if he was alive, you would think you’d be used to Matt Murdock and his world of surprises.

And then you get kidnapped, so maybe you’re not so immune to surprises.

It’s really such a shame too, because you’re storming out of the apartment, too angry to take notice of your surroundings.

Silly, foolish, ditzy you.

Because it isn’t like Matt hasn’t told you time and time again that you need to be careful, especially when you go out alone at night. But he’s so angry that he doesn’t even think about the potential dangers of Hell’s Kitchen at three a.m. when Daredevil has been tucked away for the night and Matt Murdock comes back out to play.

He’s been taking more and more patrols because with Fisk being out of prison he can’t help but be constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

How silly he was to think that maybe he could have it all—A successful law firm, good friends and a loving wife.

Silly, foolish, ditzy Matt.

But after a week of nonstop patrols, you’re both fed up and tired, and above all, you’re yearning for each other. Neither of you allow yourselves to be totally happy all the time. It would just make everything too easy.

So, after yelling at each other over, what? Patrols? Cases? Burnt dinners? You’re freezing on the streets, and you get about five blocks before you stop and rub your eyes.

This is dumb, you rationalize. Of course, you’re both stressed out and tired, but you’ve gotten through rougher times before, and you both made an oath. To each other, in front of his God, to love each other no matter what.

You realize you left your wedding ring on the table, the ghost of the metal around your finger haunting you. You were dumb for leaving and Matt was dumb for telling you to go. You’re made for each other.

You turn around to go back to your shared apartment, and then, someone grabs you from behind. Your first instinct is to yell for your husband, but you don’t get the chance to before you’re knocked out, by what you can only guess to be a gun or maybe a large fist.

• • •

You wake up in this dingy room, the lighting not suitable for much of anything except to make you afraid. The set up is almost comical and in a fucked up away, stereotypical for a kidnapping. You’re tied up to a chair, and the lights shine only bright enough so you can see shadows and rats scurrying along.

The air is this weird musk of salt and earth, and you realize you’re near the docks, and that’s about all you know about your current location.

Your head is still pounding from whatever it was you were hit with, but you can see another chair a few feet from you and a wooden table with various weapons laying on it. You don’t feel good about this one. Also on the table is an old school record player. You have no idea what the intention is with it.

You try to keep your cool, knowing that wherever you wander, your husband will not be very far off. That whatever is happening, he will be coming to find you no matter how upset he is for whatever it was you were fighting about earlier.

And then, out of the shadows, there he is.

But he’s too big to be Matt, and he has a man standing next to him.

Frank, maybe?

And then you realize who this man is.

He’s Wilson Fisk, the kingpin who has done nothing but torture and kill people, shoving it in Matt’s face for years. Matt only met you after Fisk was put back in prison, and you know at some point in the five-year blip without Matt, he had escaped prison.

So, this is the first time you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Fisk. When he meets your eye, you do nothing but stare.

“Good evening, Mrs. Murdock. It’s a shame we must meet under these circumstances.” He tells you, taking a seat in front of you. His henchman stands behind the chair.

“It’s regretful to say the least.” You tell him, not intending to make any more of an enemy out of him than Matt already has, not right now.

“I wanted to congratulate you on your wedding. I remember my own, it was a rather special day.”

You know that was the day Matt took him down. The night that he, Karen and Foggy took him down.

“I’ve heard stories. It seemed like a lovely day.”

“You’re a much more gracious guest than your counterpart.”

“Well, I’m sure people say similar things about you and yours.”

He seems to consider this for a moment before nodding.

“You’re probably right about that, Mrs. Murdock. I wanted to tell you I’m terribly sorry these are the circumstances in which we are finally introduced. But it seems Mr. Murdock has been interested in finding out more about my endeavors. And you see, we simply cannot have that. I made a promise not to hurt Miss Page or Mr. Nelson but it seems you were not included in that deal.” Of course not, it had been a long time before you showed up. “So, you’re how we’re going to send Mr. Murdock a message.”

Huh.

So, this is how you die.

Well, you might as well go out with a bang.

“You see, Mrs. Murdock, When I was a boy—”

“I’m going to stop you, Mr. Fisk, because your sob story is rather dull. I know who you are. You were beaten by your father, just like I was. The difference is that I don’t use that as an excuse to murder my way to the top of the food chain. And you can torture me, assault me, whatever you feel you need to do. But if you think for a second that I’ll forget who’s coming to stop you, you are sorely mistaken. And if you think he’ll ever stop trying to find me, you do not know my husband very well.”

Fisk stares at you for a while, his gaze hardening into a glare.

“You’re right. You do know who I am. Because we’re rather similar.” He stands up and nods to the man nearby. “If Murdock can hear her far from here, make sure he hears her screaming.”

Then Wilson Fisk walks away, and you are left with the sickening gaze of a man who has no good intentions.

The man goes to the record player and starts to play a song you recognize quickly as “Fly Me To The Moon” by Frank Sinatra. As he does this, he speaks,

“Hello, Mrs. Murdock. I’m John.” You stay quiet, and he just enjoys the song.

He picks up a knife from the table and goes to you, this grin on his face that makes you sick.

But you remember a trick from not only your childhood, but also from Frank who told you the key to remaining strong under torture—Distraction.

You stare straight ahead, trying not to mind as the man runs the knife over your skin. You think about Matt. You imagine him in his wedding suit, the smile he had on as you approached him down that aisle. You think about when he asked you to marry him, and—

A sharp pain slashes down your arm, cutting open the shirt you’re wearing. You yell in pain, before moving in to try and take deep breaths.

You can do this. Matt will be here soon.

You continue to breathe through the anxiety and the pain, trying not to think too hard about when John hums along to Sinatra’s voice, guiding his knife around your skin. Another cut finds itself on your shoulder.

This goes on for a while, with the classic song looping over and over again. John never seems to tire of it, no matter how badly you will for it to end. As the song ends in one particularly good loop, John hits your face hard, and your nose starts bleeding.

You try to think of Matt’s voice. You don’t listen to John’s torments, knowing it will only egg him on further. You just want him to burn at that point.

By the end of… Countless Frank Sinatra serenades, you have cuts littered around your body, dry blood on your face from your nose and tears running down your face. When he’s eventually done, two men cut you out from the chair and drag you along to a smaller, darker room. You are left in there with a small meal, and you just huddle against a corner, nearest a barred window out of your reach.

And then, you begin to speak for the first time since you saw Fisk.

“Matt,” You whisper, “I’m by the docks.” You tell him, not sure if he can even hear you. “Please, I’m sorry for everything, please just come find me..” You mumble, too tired and aching to try and do more.

• • •

The next day, or what you presume to be the next day since you have no way to tell how much time has passed, you’re woken up by a loud banging on the door of your.. cell..?

The same two men enter and drag you back to the room, where John waits for you.

“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Murdock?” He asks.

You glare.

“Fuck you.”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“What happened to the polite young woman Mr. Fisk and I met yesterday?”

You’re filled with unprecedented anger.

“I said, Fuck you!”

He wastes no time, grabbing a lighter off the table and starting the record player again. Once more, Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the room, and you’re pretty sure once you’re done with John, and then Fisk, you’ll bring Sinatra back from the dead just to kill him again.

You’ve never really been a violent person, but you suspect that it lives in the worst parts of you, just as it did with your own father. You’re much better at keeping it all at bay. Besides, it does you no good to be violent while you have Matt. He’s plenty angry for the both of you.

Oh, Matt..

This is how time passes for you. While John tortures you, burning you or carving into your skin, you think about how great it will be to choke the life out of the singer… And you think about Matt. When you’re in your dark little room, you talk to him. Even if he can’t hear you, you must hope that he’s looking for you.

• • •

Days pass. How long have you been here?

One night, you have the following dream:

It starts out as a memory. A memory of you and Matt. You’re lying in bed with him, and the sunlight is hitting his face just right. You love this memory, it’s one you recall often. He just has this angelic look to him.

Yeah, most people who encounter him, especially at night, meet the devil. But occasionally, you get glimpses of the angel you know he is. He’s sleeping, and you think in this state, he is the most relaxed you’ll ever see him.

Then, before your eyes, the dream shifts and you’re in this black void, on the ground.

Foggy, Karen, Frank, and Matt stand around you. You run to Matt but hit a clear shield keeping him from you. You bang on the glass, well, maybe it’s glass, you don’t know. You try to scream, but your voice never reaches your ears. You begin to look around, looking for a way out.

An eerie version of ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ plays as you glance over to Foggy and watch in horror as his body begins to turn to ash, just like Matt and Karen did when they were blipped. You scream, banging against the shield, but your screams are silent.

You glance back and see the same thing happening to Frank. No, no, no! It was never supposed to happen this way! Frank and Foggy, they lived! They got their time! They don’t die like this!

And then Karen starts too. You start sobbing, not wanting her to go. You had missed her so much, and you only just got her back. But soon enough, she’s gone too, and you’re left in front of your husband.

His hand comes up to rest on the forcefield and he frowns softly.

He says your name gently, and then adds, “You know it couldn’t last forever, right?”

And then just as quickly as before, he is gone again. You remain there in that void, sobbing and screaming though no noise reaches you. This can’t be it! You just got him back, you needed him! You couldn’t take being alone for another five years… Or more…

The dream transforms and you’re in this grand ballroom. People are dancing elegantly and you’re in this.. obnoxious ball gown. But across the room, you can see Matt. He’s dressed in an all-black suit, with a red masquerade mask covering his face. The mask has little red devil horns on it.

Now, the orchestra plays their rendition of Sinatra’s romantic classic. And you step towards Matt, attempting to make your way towards him, only to be met with a masked man, beginning to twirl you around.

You jump from man to man, until eventually, you’re dancing with a man in an all-white suit, a man you quickly recognize as Fisk. No matter how hard you try to escape his grasp, he holds on tighter. The two of you stop dancing now, amid the crowd of moving bodies.

Fisk grabs your chin and tilts it in Matt’s direction, just in time for you to see him bowing to another woman, kissing the back of her hand. Your eyes widen and you think, this can’t be real.

“When I kill you,” Fisk says, “He’ll move on. You’re easily replaceable, Mrs. Murdock.”

And then, in an instant, the woman with Matt pulls out a dagger and plunges it deeply into his abdomen. It’s then that the other dancers, besides you, Fisk, Matt, and this mystery woman, disappear. Matt turns to you and falls to his knees, clutching his stomach.

He tries to crawl to you, blood seeping onto his hands and the beautiful ballroom floor. He yells your name, and the woman stabs him again from behind, and you watch as your husband dies. You hear him screaming, hear him yelling your name. But Wilson Fisk keeps you in place. You can do nothing but watch as Matt Murdock meets his end again, unable to save him. You start to scream, thrashing against Fisk, ready to claw your way to Matt.

You wake up screaming, the nightmare haunting you. A guard bangs on your door, yelling at you to keep it down.

It was just a nightmare, you tell yourself. Maybe Matt heard your screams.

Maybe he’s already dead.

You force yourself not to listen to the voice in your head that says that.

• • •

One day, Fisk visits again, only this time, He’s covered in blood. That damn song is still playing.

You just stare. They have long since stopped tying you up, recognizing that you no longer have the energy to try and fight back. He has this sick grin on his face.

“Good evening, Mrs. Murdock.” You say nothing. “Have you been enjoying your stay with us?”

You glare.

“I hope Matt kills you when he gets here, because it will be a lot less painful for you if he does it instead of me.”

Mr. Fisk just laughs at this and tosses something at your feet. You get down off the chair to see what it is.

Your face goes pale with realization. You pick it up and slip it on your thumb, with it being too big for your other fingers. Matt’s wedding ring. You know it’s his, it has your name engraved in braille on the inside. How did he get this?

As if reading your mind, Fisk speaks again. “I took it off his body after I killed him.”

Your head shoots up to him. What did he say?

“No.” You deny. “Fuck off, I don’t—I don’t believe you.”

“Your husband is dead, Mrs. Murdock. I killed him with my bare hands because he was stupid enough to come after you. Your friends will mourn you and Matt Murdock for a while, and the city will come to the realization that Daredevil did nothing but harm. I win, Mrs. Murdock.”

You feel tears start to fill your eyes, and you realize, no. He hasn’t won because you’re still alive.

Maybe not for long, but you are.

You gather the rest of your energy and leap up, lunging at the large man covered in the man you love’s blood. And there’s a part of you that gets it. Okay, universe, you win. Most people don’t get a second chance like the two of you did. And now he’s dead, and soon you will be too. You can at least try to kill Fisk.

But you barely get a scratch in, yelling and screaming obscenities at him, as John grabs your arms from behind pulling you away. Fisk laughs and shakes his head again.

“It’s been lovely knowing you, Mrs. Murdock. I’m sorry you’ll have to die, you had so much potential. John, when you’re done doing whatever you’d like to her, kill her.” You hear him say it, but you’re blinded by rage, by grief.

John laughs behind you and forces you back into the chair, tying you back up once more. He looks at you, enraged and grief stricken, and just shakes his head.

“You and I are going to have a lot of fun.”

He leaves for a few minutes, and you realize this is the first time you’ve been left alone in this room. You tug at the knots and realize that while John is a gifted torturer, he’s not much of a knot tier.

So you manage to wiggle out of the rope, approaching the table in front of you. You don’t have much time. Okay, maybe you won’t be able to kill Fisk, but John will do. You take a golf club off the table in front of you and turn to the record player.

You begin to smash the thing in, angrily cursing at it as Frank Sinatra’s voice fades off into nothing. When the song ends, the lights turn off. And then, red flood lights turn on in their place.

A back up generator. Lovely. You think that your smashing of the record player couldn’t possibly make the whole building’s power go off, but you don’t really care at that moment.

You’re tired. You won’t make it far, but you need to try. You grasp the club and open the door, being greeted with a man you don’t recognize. You smack him in the face with the club hard enough for him to fall to the ground.

The red lighting adds an eerie tone to the hallways as you creep around, concussing various henchmen that Fisk has working for him. You don’t mean to kill these ones, only John.

But you’re running out of stamina, peeking around corners. And that’s when you see him. John is just standing there like he knows you’re there.

“Come out to play, Mrs. Murdock?” He calls, approaching the corner where you are waiting on the other side.

You focus on his footsteps, taking a swing around the corner when you know he’s close enough. You hear a sharp crack! As he falls, and you can’t see the blood in this lighting. Good. You begin to hit his head in, sobs mixing with yelling. You hate him. You want him to die before you’re killed.

But you don’t get the pleasure, because a pair of arms are pulling you off him, and you begin yelling.

“No!” You yelp. “No, Fuck you! Let go of me! Stop!” You think it’s another one of his goons, and you just want to be able to finish the job before you die. The figure forces you to drop the club. “Please, stop, don’t hurt me—”

But he’s saying your name and turning you around to see him. You know that voice.

“Sweetheart, hey, it’s just me—” He pants, his hands going to your cheeks. “It’s me, It’s just me. I’ve got you.”

And you can’t believe your eyes.

“Matt..?” You whimper, not able to believe it. “No, you’re dead, this has to be—”

And then, Matt does something he wouldn’t do for anyone who wasn’t his wife. He pulls off his helmet so you can see his face. Oh.

“I’m right here. I’ve got you.” He says softly, his thumb gently rubbing against your skin.

That’s when you start to sob, falling against him, no energy left to carry yourself. His arms wrap around you, and you say it again.

“He told me you were dead..”

“I know.. I’m sorry, I don’t know how he got my ring but we’ve gotta get you out of here.” He tells you.

You’re so tired. You’re slumping against him as you try to walk, the warmth radiating off his body just drawing you to sleep.

The last thing you hear before you fall asleep is Matt’s voice, begging you to stay awake.

• • •

You see flashes. Your parents, your dad. Nightmares of Fisk killing Karen, Foggy, Frank, and worst of all, Matt. You see John’s sickening grin on the body of spiders, and you’re chased by his cruel laughter.

But the dreams are filmier compared to what’s happening around you. You know Claire shows up at some point, and you’re thankful to her. Karen sits next to you sometimes, petting your hair, or sometimes it’s Foggy, talking your ear off.

You have fever dreams of Frank in full military gear, tormenting you.

“Not so tough now, huh, girl?” He teases. “You really thought you’d kill the big bad wolf? Solve all your boyfriend’s problems?”

You say to him, “Husband, He’s my husband.”

• • •

Even in your dreams, where you were slashed and burned aches, and you long for the pain to end.

You wake up only once throughout these dreams, and it’s when Karen is playing music to try and calm you from your insistent nightmares.

Only one song snaps you out of it, and you hear it clear as day.

‘Fly me to the moon,” Sinatra sings, “Let me play among the stars,’

He only gets through a few more lines before you’re sitting up on the couch, screaming.

“No! Stop, please!” You cry, and in an instant, Matt’s arms are around you. “Matt, please, don’t let him hurt me, please! Please don’t die, don’t let him keep hurting me!” You beg, in a hazed, frenzied state.

“I’ve got you, No one’s going to hurt you..”

Karen turns off the music somewhere deep in the apartment.

“No..” You begin to grow tired in his arms again. “Matty, please.. You can’t die, please..” You whimper out, continuing to mumble out pleads as you fall back into your weird dream state.

• • •

You really wake up two days later. Matt’s hand is clasped over yours, and he’s just.. Sitting on the floor next to the couch, praying into your clasped hands.

Praying for what, you don’t know.

Your body aches. But something in you tells you you’re safe.

“Matt…?” You whisper gently, and his head shoots up.

“Hey..” He says softly, one hand leaving yours, coming up to brush your hair out of your face. “There she is..”

“You’re alive..”

He seems a little concerned you still had some doubts about this.

“I am. Fisk lied to you.. He never even touched me.” You nod.

“Did I kill him? The man you found me..”

“No. He’s just in a coma, I checked. He’ll be brought to justice.”

“I only wanted him dead when I thought you were too..” Because really, you would have nothing if Matt wasn’t there. Nothing to live for. When he was blipped away, you had the hardest time readjusting to life. Now you know if he died again, you’d probably go off the rails.

No love story is saved more than once. You used up all your luck. Now it will be doomed if he’s ever killed again.

“I know.” He said gently.

“How long have I been out? How long was I in there?”

“A week, and then you were out for four days here. They got you good, baby..” He says gently. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you earlier.”

You frown softly.

“You did find me though. That’s all that really matters anymore.” You know you’ll be nursing scars for a long time. Physical or not.

“Still..” He said gently, and he brings your hand up to kiss it gently. “And I’m sorry I told you to leave that night. I was just upset, but this past week and half.. I feel like I’ve been going crazy without you. No matter how mad at you I am, I never want to spend another night without holding you. Knowing that you could have been…” His voice breaks, and he just sighs, taking a moment to lean his head on your hand. “I love you, so much.” He kisses your palm again.

How are you so tired again? All you’ve done is talk to him, but it feels like you just ran a marathon.

“I love you. It’s why I married you. Because you and I, we were always meant to be with each other. No matter what.”

He smiles weakly and reaches over to the coffee table to grab something. He slips it on your finger and for the first time in over a week, your wedding ring is back where it belongs. You see Matt is wearing his. Your Matt. Your husband. The only one you were ever meant to be with.

“Did Claire patch me up? I remember her being here..” He nods softly.

“Yeah, we.. we really owe her one. She was a huge help..”

“Karen and Foggy were here… And Frank?”

“No, no, Frank’s still in Illinois, I think?” You nod softly. “You were mumbling to him, though. I heard you… you were telling him you had a husband.”

You would laugh if it didn’t hurt.

“He called you my boyfriend. I had to correct him.” You grin.

“That’s my girl.” He hums. Matt gently lifts you so you can sit up and drink some water. Then, he climbs onto the couch and brings you close. His arms wrap around your freshly wounded skin and you have a rare moment of gratefulness for his blindness.

You sit in silence for a while.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.

You think about it all. The torture, the cuts, burns, the small room. Fisk’s laughter, John’s grin. But something sticks out to you.

“Fisk said I was just like him.”

“What?”

“We.. We grew up similar, Matt, I mean.. What if he’s right? What if the only thing separating him and I is one bad move?”

Your husband frowns and shakes his head.

“Sweetheart, you are the.. the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You’re the complete antithesis of Wilson Fisk. Yeah, you grew up like him, but you’re living proof that you don’t have to go down the path he did just because of his background. You and I both know that there will never be a world where you end up like him. Especially not with me.”

You find comfort with his words. Not only did you make every choice not to be like Fisk, but you must’ve also made all the right decisions if in the end, you ended up with Matt. Oh, it won’t be easy, you know that for sure. You’ll never be able to listen to Frank Sinatra, and your upcoming nights are filled with nightmares and hauntings.

But one day you’ll be okay. One day You’ll be able to sit in the silence without thinking about it. One day you’ll get the image of dead Matt out of your head. You’ve spent many nights wondering about who will go first, you or him.

And then you realize the best-case scenario is that the two of you die at the same time, never living another moment without each other.

How would there ever be a world where you and your husband weren’t with each other, even just for a moment?

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock #daredevil #daredevil x reader #daredevil fic #netflix daredevil #matt murdock angst #matt murdock x you #matt murdock fic #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock hurt/comfort #matt murdock my beloved #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending

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babyangelsky · 6 months

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BL Challenge 2k24 ✨Day 7✨

Hello and welcome to @negrowhat's 15 Day BL Challenge! Full challenge can be found here.

Favorite Villain: Korn Theerapanyakul

It isn't often that we get an actual villain in a BL. We have plenty of love rivals but those are rarely ever villains in the true sense of the word. We also have a large, unfortunate array of shitty parents and parental figures, some of which absolutely do fall into the villain category, but they don't deserve my effort or your attention.

But then we have Korn.

Korn is a villain. Make absolutely no mistake about that. This man has dedicated his life to playing 4D chess with everyone around him, including and especially his sons, and he's brilliant at it. There is never a moment where he isn't in control, there is never a moment where he hasn't thought at least five steps ahead, and he has very few blind spots.

What gets me—and what makes him that much more insidious in my opinion—is how he presents himself to the world.

♡ gif by @guzhufuren from this set

"This man, a villain? Never! He's just a nice, soft-spoken dad in a sweater vest! Sure he's a bit intimidating but he's in the mafia, it's to be expected. And just look at how accepting he is of his gay sons! He's looking at a photo of his son and his son-in-law and smiling, isn't that lovely?"

False!

Korn's image is perfectly curated and if you only look on the surface, from the outside that's exactly what he is: a nice dad and a respectable businessman. He's rational, calm, and level-head, especially when you compare him to Gun—which you can't not do. It's impossible to have a conversation about Korn without talking about Gun, who is absolutely just as bad and who I easily could've chosen.

The difference is that Gun's evil is overt and in a way, it's more...honest because of it. He's not out here pretending to be a good person or trying to be anything other than exactly what he is. What you see is what you get. However, I chose Korn precisely because of that insidiousness, because his evil appears so much more subtle but only when it remains in the shadows.

♡ gif by @kinnbig from this set

Because when everything gets brought to light? Hoooooo BOY.

This man kept his foster sister in isolation under lock and key for years after he killed her husband and took her away from her two little boys. Then he left those little boys in the care of a degenerate gambler and watched them sink further and further into debt. And that's only the thin end of the wedge! If we got into all the ways he fucked up his OWN boys, we'd be here all damn day.

Kidnapping on perhaps more than one occasion, a hit squad, Kim's entire personality, Kinn's emotional range, need I go on?

But getting back to Porsche and Chay, Korn could've helped them at literally any point but he didn't lift a finger until they grew up and became useful to him. He could've cleared their debts, paid for Chay's education, provided for them, kept them from getting remotely close to a situation were men were beating them and trashing their home. But he did exactly none of that because whatever sense of obligation Korn might have felt toward them absolutely pales in comparison to his need for control.

♡ gif by @kinnbig from this set

That's what this all comes down to: control. The world is a chessboard and everyone in Korn's orbit is a piece on it. He proposed an outcome for himself and he got it.

He made sure Kinn was cemented as head of the main family and found a way to cement Porsche as head of the minor family. He got rid of Gun and the threat he presented and succeeded in burying the truth of what happened to Porsche's parents with him, because the truth that Korn gave simply is not the whole truth. It never will be because divulging the truth means giving up control, and that is something he will never do.

I could literally talk for hours about Korn. He's a fascinating character. He's got so many layers. Bottom line?

Este señor es el mismísimo diablo. This man is the living breathing devil.

#BLChallenge2k24 #korn theerapanyakul #kinnporsche

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tightjeansjavi · 9 months

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The Menu | Part 4

“splinters in his knuckles bangin’ on your door”

A/N: remember that meme I posted earlier about how this was supposed to just be a silly little smut fic? Yeahhh about that..🥴

~word count: 6.3k~

Pairing | dark!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel goes a little berserk after he doesn’t see you for almost an entire day.

Warnings: SA (not by Joel, not described in detail) implied prostitution, abuse of power/abuse by law enforcement, (FEDRA) unhealthy trauma response, degrading language, mentions of guns, threats, injures from punching a door, mentions of blood, removing splinters, dark!joel, mean!joel, protective!joel, is shit at communicating his feelings!joel, asshole!joel, FEDRA SUCKS, no smut, denial of feelings, stalking, possession, morally gray relationship to the reader, (they’re kinda toxic but it’s complicated) hurt feelings, angst, some fluff, age gap, (Joel is in his 40’s reader is in her late 20’s) reader has no physical descriptions, +18 minors dni!

Joel Miller cracked under the pressure when almost an entire day went by without a lick of your presence. Cracking under the pressure was..a severe misjudgment. All rationale was thrown out the door; he had gone completely balls to the wall insane.

It started in the morning when you didn’t show up to your ‘job’ where you and Joel would spend grueling hours dumping deceased infected. Of course, everyone around him could give less of a shit about your absence. And why should they care? It was a dog eat dog world in the QZ. Every man for himself. To Joel? This was a real problem. A thorn in his side because, well, frankly? You might have meant more to him than just a vice to fill a void. Or a warm body to stick his dick in. Maybe he had reluctantly grown to care for you in his own Joel way.

So, when he found himself in line for his ration cards, his eyes zoned in on the FEDRA officer you fucked out of spite. The same one who did business at Joel’s table while Joel’s fingers fucked you to ruin. He had to start somewhere, right?

“Y’got a minute?” Joel asked casually as he shoved his ration cards into the pocket of his jeans.

“Shoot.” Benjamin, better known as Benji, what the fuck kinda name is that.

“Y’seen Angel around this mornin?’ She’s usually out here with me. Didn’t show up.”

“Nope.” Benji responded smoothly.

Joel’s brow raised as he studied the other man’s face intently. He was looking for any clues, any indication that maybe this Benji fellow had something to do with your bizarre absence.

“Right. Well, if ya see her, tell ‘er Joel’s lookin’ for her.” He shoved his hands deep into his jean pockets.

If Benji was good for anything, it was ratting QZ folks out. So, maybe he did know where you were. He had no viable reason to tell Joel shit. In fact, he was the main reason for your absence. Not only did he catch you out past curfew, but with a handful of contraband that could have easily gotten you a week in lockup. He showed you just a smidge of mercy simply for the fact that you offered him a blowjob just to keep your ass off the line, and only in lockup for one single day.

Joel had no business knowing that, of course.

“Well, well, well. Whad’we have here?” Benji stepped out from the shadows of the darkly lit alleyway as a FEDRA patrol vehicle drove by.

“One hour past curfew, Angel. That’s a deduction of cards, and a night in lockup.” He tsked.

Your face scrunched inwards, as if you had tasted something pungent and sour. “Benji? Fuck. C’mon, man. Just let me pass on through. It’ll be like I was never here.” You thought you were being fairly reasonable especially since he did a lot of business with Joel. You thought that maybe you could get yourself off the hook easily.

“Can’t do that, Angel.” He sighed.

“My name is not Angel. And yes, you can. Just pretend that you never saw me.”

“Oh.” He chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for his concealed handgun. “So, I guess buddy boy can call you Angel, but I can’t?”

For fuck sakes.

“Christ, is that what this is about? Who has the bigger dick? What, are you jealous or somethin?’” You egged him on as you reached for your own concealed gun before an unpleasant chill ran down your spine from the familiar clicking sound of the revolver.

“Jealous? Now, why would I be jealous, Angel? Ain’t you just a common street whore? You’ll let anyone stick their dick in ya if they pay well. Ah, but you got that Joel Miller wrapped around your pretty little finger. Everyone ‘round here knows he’s your guard dog. Where is he now, hm?” He cocked his head to the side.

“Look, Benji, you’re a good lookin’ guy and all that, but I fucked you out of spite. I’ll stroke your ego or whatever, but can I please just fuckin’ go home now?” You were exhausted from the grueling day. Your feet ached, your whole body felt like a bunch of pins and needles were stabbing it all at once. All you wanted was to go home, pour yourself a stiff glass, and have a smoke. Was it really too much to ask?

“Turn around. Hands against the wall. No sudden movements.” He ignored every word that left your mouth as if it meant nothing as if you truly were just a whore. For the first time in a long time, you felt dirty. Like something that was disposable. A toy that was no longer shiny and new, but dull and tattered. It made your blood boil.

“Benji—is that really necessary?” You tried to reason with him, but your attempts were fruitless.

“I said turn the fuck around and put your hands against the goddamn wall. Don’t make me ask you a third time, Angel. I ain’t have all night.” His jaw ticked impatiently.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t have to ask me again.” You reluctantly turned around with your hands above your head before placing your palms flat against the brick wall. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, slicing the skin open from the pressure as you tasted copper along your tongue when he yanked you back by the hips as if he owned them.

“That’s right. Because that Joel Miller sure turned you into an obedient little cockslut, didn’t he?” Benji chuckled deeply against the shell of your ear. His hot breath on your skin sent a wave of nausea crawling up your throat.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about, Benji.” You hissed through your gritted teeth as he began to forcefully pat you down. You thought about trying to escape, but decided that would have been fucking reckless to even try.

“Oh, now what do we have here?” He said rather gleefully as he pulled out a baggy of pills. The same baggy of pills that Joel gave to you the night before to deliver to a client.

“Those aren’t mine.” Well, that was dumb.

“No? Hmm. You’re not good at this whole lyin’ game, Angel. Let’s see what else we got here.” He pulled out your gun from the belt loop of your jeans along with tinfoil wrapped cigarettes; fresh ones that Joel had rolled you.

“Well, my dear, you’re lookin’ at about a week in lockup just from this alone. Unless..” he trailed off knowing exactly what you’d offer him in return.

“You’re sick, y’know that?” You scoffed under your breath. Men really did only ever think with their dicks.

“Jus’ doin’ my job, Angel. So, what’re you gonna offer me, hmm? Make it good and I’ll only throw you in there for a day. Sounds fair?”

“Right. Your job at bein’ a fuckin’ rat? I’ll give you a blowie, right here, right now. I think that seems pretty fair, don’t you?” The sooner this is over, the sooner I get to go home.

“Hm.” He pondered it for a moment, as if he really had to think hard on your offer. “Deal. But I want you to act enthusiastic this time, and take your tits out. I’m gonna paint them and your face in my come, and you’re gonna sit there and fuckin’ take it, and if you don’t?” He flipped you around swiftly, caging you against the wall as he brought the barrel of the gun right against your temple, “I’ll spray your brains out right against this fuckin’ wall.”

This wasn’t the first time you had been threatened by a man in the QZ, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but the all too real gun being pressed against your forehead was alarming, and your brain went into compliance mode in an instant. Truthfully, you didn’t want to die, and certainly not in a manner such as this.

All you could think about as you slowly sank down to your knees, and as the pavement nipped at your exposed skin, was that Joel would never do something like this to you.

“Sure, you’ll be the first to know if I’ve seen her, Miller.” He nodded.

Something about Benji, and his stupid face, sent Joel’s hackles rising. But before he could even mutter a reply, Benji was walking away towards the other FEDRA officers.

Joel shook his head while he flipped through his ration cards for the day. He was doing his best to block out all the possible scenarios of your disappearance, but he failed miserably when he realized there was a high possibility that you were either dead, or infected. It happened more often than people would think.

The real start of his manhunt began after he confided in Tess in the utmost Joel fashion. He found himself pacing the length of his apartment while all she could do was watch from the entryway in the kitchen. Her arms were crossed over her chest as she leaned back against the countertop. Her eyes trailed after his frantic movements.

“Look, before you go thinkin’ about doin’ somethin’ reckless, did you ever stop to think that maybe she’s just in her apartment? She could have slept in—”

He cut her off sharply with a quick shake of his head. “Sleepin’ in? Really, is that all Y’got for me, Tess? I knew she should have just fuckin’ spent the night. She’s so goddamn stubborn. I would have even slept on the couch and she could have taken the bed if it was such a big deal. She’s so hot’n cold!” He growled frustratingly. His hands moved upwards towards his head as his fingers tangled through his hair, yanking at the roots till he was feeling a splice of pain. “Or, better yet, I should have just walked her home myself!”

“Texas, you’re actin’ fuckin’ insane right now! Pacin’ the goddamn apartment like a dog. Ripping your hair out?!” Just calm the fuck down for a second. Take some deep breaths, have a smoke or somethin’ and then let’s both think rationally.” She tried to reason with him. All this got her in return was a narrowed glare, a scoff and an eye roll.

“She could be fuckin’ dead, Tess! What if somethin’ happened between her leavin’ here last night and walkin’ back to her place?”

“I highly doubt she’s dead. And if she was, we would have heard about it by now, Joel. Do you want me to help you look for her? Cause I can start askin’ around.” She pushed herself off the side of the counter just as his pacing came to a complete standstill.

“Sure, yeah. Go ahead and ask around. But, before you do that, I need ya to tell me where Angel lives. I’m aware that you know, and that she doesn’t want me to know, but you’re gonna tell me either way.” He stated as a matter of factly.

“Joel, she doesn’t want you knowing where she lives for obvious reasons. How about you stay here, and I’ll go to her apartment. Like I said, I’m sure she’s just fine.”

“Yeah? Well, those reasons are irrelevant as of right now. So, quit your little girl code you got goin’ on with her or whatever, and tell me where the fuck her apartment is.”

Tess didn’t even bother to argue. She knew Joel long enough to know that he wasn’t going to stop until he found that you were safe. Otherwise, the unknown and the ‘what ifs’ would eat him alive, literally.

“You’re fuckin’ relentless, Texas. Y’know that?” She pulled out her own personal map of the QZ before laying it out on the worn down kitchen table. She pointed to your exact apartment building. “She’s on the third floor at the very end of the hall.”

“Yep. You damn right I am, Tess. You know me too well.” He merely glanced down at the spot on the map where Tess was pointing at before he snatched up the parchment, folding it neatly and tucked it into his back pocket.

“I’ll be needing that back, Texas.” Tess reminded him.

“And I’ll be bringin’ it right back as soon as I find her.” Joel responded smoothly, dripping in confidence to mask his true nature. Just like those women he used to sleep with, he could put up a facade with just a snap of his fingers.

“Yeah, well, you’re losin’ daylight. Better go find that Angel of yours.”

“Better me than anyone else.” Joel added with a curt nod. He left the apartment in a rush, skipping a few steps down the stairs. He never handled change of any kind all that well. Especially when you had become a constant in his life while living in this shit hole place. If something had happened to you, Joel would force himself to take all the blame. He felt responsible for you in some capacity.

“Swear to god when I find this girl..” he muttered to himself, shaking his head while slipping past the front door of the apartment building. Evening was steadfast on the horizon; he needed to move fast.

Was it something I said last night?

Was it because I asked her to stay?

Was it the goddamn strap on??

Is she avoiding me on purpose?

Is she dead?

Did she fuckin’ get infected?

Did..she find someone else?

These thoughts and more were swirling through his frantic brain. He fucking hated the fear of the unknown. Absolutely despised the whole entire notion of its existence. He’d much prefer when things were yanked off like a bandaid. Quick and mostly painless.

He triple checked Tess’s map the entire trek to your apartment building. He had no time to fuck this up, and to the passerby he probably looked like a crazed man; which would be an accurate statement given the circumstances.

Your apartment building was nearly an exact replica of his own. Same shitty staircase, peeling wallpaper, the occasional cry of an infant, or scream of a child. Just the day-to-day sounds of the QZ that we’re all white noise to Joel.

When he found himself standing outside your door, he scoffed at the faded “Welcome :)” mat outside of your door beneath his boots. The smiley face had nearly rubbed off entirely, and he wondered if the mat had been there by your doing, or the previous inhabitants.

Focus, Joel.

He pressed the side of his head against the outside of the door, falling silent as he listened with his good ear for any movements on the other side.

Nothing.

“Angel? Y’in there, doll?” He asked through the thin wood.

Silence.

“Look, I’m sorry if I said somethin’ to upset you last night, but I haven’t seen you all fuckin’ day, and I’m real worried that somethin’ bad happened to ya. So, if you’re in there, can you please say something?”

Nothing.

“Okay. Okay, so maybe I do deserve the silent treatment after I made you hold my cock in your mouth like a cum bucket whore, but it was uh—out of affection? And if you’re upset that I asked ya to stay the night, then I’m sorry. It was just late and I wanted to—”

This is fucking stupid.

“Can you fuckin’ answer me, please? Just fuckin’ say something!” He growled, throwing his fists against the door once for good measure. “I’m about five seconds away from lookin’ like a complete and utter psychopath if you don’t open this goddamn door!” His frustration was on the cusp of boiling over, like a kettle on the stove.

“Okay, so we’re gonna play the silent game, huh?! I swear to god, Angel. If you’re behind this goddamn door and you’re ignoring me on purpose?! Good god, girl. You got another thing comin’ for ya!” He laughed, one of those unfriendly, chills down the spine, oh shit! I’m fucked kinda laughs.

Joel Miller had completely lost all remaining shreds of rationale.

“I’m gonna give you to the count of five to open this fuckin’ door, y’hear me?!” He snarled threateningly.

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

He didn’t even get to two before his fists absolutely began to rain down on your doorframe. The cord had snapped and he was fully spiraling without giving a damn of who could see or hear him.

With adrenaline, rage, and fear pumping through his veins, he couldn’t even feel the skin along his knuckles being absolutely torn to shreds from how hard he was laying his fists into the wood.

It's like he had completely blacked out and all he could see was red. Red. Red. Red. Red.

Benji was ‘generous’ enough to let you out of being in lockup early and sent you right back out onto the streets. Ridden with exhaustion, you practically dragged yourself back to your apartment with only the thought of a stiff drink and your bed bringing you some form of motivation to keep going.

Your keys jingled in your grasp while you trudged up the stairs. You were oh so close to just plopping down in the hallway, but your apartment was only just down the hall. You could make it.

You passed by one of your neighbors on your way. And when you went to wave, they completely avoided making eye contact with you at all costs. Somehow you just knew that Joel was involved in this behavior, but how the hell did he know where you lived?

Then, you heard the sounds of banshee yelling intensifying the closer you drew to your door.

Jesus fucking Christ. Can’t a girl catch a break?

When you turned the corner, you were met with a grizzly bear of a man. Joel Miller had nearly beaten your door in with just his bare fists. You weren’t even all that shocked to see him outside of your apartment, but, nonetheless, you were pissed.

You leaned against the corner of the hallway, arms crossed against your chest and a displeased, yet mildly amused look plastered on your face.

“Joel?”

He whipped around in an instant at the familiar sound of your voice. His eyes were wide, nostrils flared, blood dripping down between the ridges of his knuckles, staining the already faded carpet crimson beneath his boots.

He looked crazy.

“Where in the fuck have you been? Do you know how fuckin’ worried I’ve been all goddamn day?! Huh, sweet girl? Do you have any idea—”

“You’re bleeding, sweet boy.” You mumble softly. You had hoped that you could advert his attention, but he was already stalking towards you, something indescribable flashes in his eyes when you call him, ‘sweet boy.’

“Yeah, baby.” He huffs out a raspy laugh. “I’ve got splinters in my knuckles bangin’ on your door. Tore ‘em all up.”

He’s so close now that you can taste his breath and see that flicker of fear in his eyes. His hands encaged around your face. Soft, wet from the blood, but gentle.

Droplets of blood trail down your neck and down the clavicle between your covered breasts. You shouldn’t be turned on—but that cunt of yours has a mind of her own, sometimes.

“Joel, you didn’t have to show up here like a crazy man and nearly go and break down my door.”

He glares, bloodstained thumb swiping across your lower lip. “Don’t tell me what I did and didn’t have to do, Angel. Haven’t seen you all day. Thought you were fuckin’ dead or somethin.’”

“Yeah, well, I’m not dead. I’m right here. Why the hell did you even care in the first place, huh? Can’t even go one day without losing your cool?” It’s your turn to challenge him now. You place your palms flat on his chest, giving him a firm shove.

He glared, eyes narrowing into slits. His head cocked to the side in a condescending manner. His jaw clenched and unclenched. He dropped his hands from your face only to then encage your wrists above your head. He used his sheer mass to press your back directly against the hallway wall. He loomed over you to appear more menacing, like a predator going in for the kill. “Who said anythin’ about me caring, huh? Is that why you think I’m here, Angel? Cus’ I care?” He questioned, pushing you further into the wall. His chest was pressed right against yours, leaving you no room to escape, let alone breathe.

“Why would I give a damn where my whore on stilts wandered off to? Y’think you mean anythin’ to me other than a hole to fuck? Don’t be so naive.” He scoffed.

“You have got to be the worst fuckin’ liar, Joel. Right. You don’t care. You just happened to track down where I live, proceeded to bust down my door, just because I’m a hole for you to fuck? Right. Keep on telling yourself that, buddy boy. Keep livin’ in your delusions. See how far that gets ya.” You held in your laugh from slipping past. Could he not see that you were exhausted? You had been beaten down enough as it was, you didn’t need Joel fucking Miller pushing you down further.

“That’s it? That’s all y’can say to me? No bite back? No fuck you Joel? What the hell happened to you, huh?” He pressed further, tightening his hold around your wrists. “What happened after you left my place last night, Angel?” His tone was much softer now, gentle, laced with concern.

You couldn’t keep up with his mood swings if you tried. Joel Miller was one hot and cold man.

“No. We are not about to do this again. Not when in one breath you’re a complete asshole, and the next?!” You laughed bitterly. “Joel, I’m fuckin’ exhausted, okay? I had a shit night, and I just want to go and have a stiff drink. If you want to join, then be my guest, but I won’t take another minute of your bitching. Y’got that?”

Joel found himself studying your face. He thought that maybe he could read between the lines and figure out exactly why you were so exhausted, but you weren’t budging, not even for him. What was that bit about him fucking hating the fear of the unknown? Oh, yeah.

“Angel, look..I’m—”

“Oh, fuck no. You are not about to apologize for that. No. You meant every word, Joel. You don’t get to take that back.” You shook your head in disappointment, breaking your wrists free from his gradually loosening grip before you pulled away entirely.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

You didn’t even wait to see if he would follow you, you could care less if he did, or didn’t. With your keys in hand you unlocked your door, muttering about how it probably wouldn’t lock properly anymore from the damage Joel inflicted on it.

Joel’s fingers twitched at his side. He was silently debating his options. It was pointly obvious that something had happened to you, but he had no right to pry. His footsteps followed yours like a shadow.

“You should probably get your knuckles patched up.” You muttered under your breath while carelessly tossing your keys onto the kitchen counter.

“They’ll be alright. Nothin’ I can’t handle.” He replied smoothly and shoved his hands into the deep caverns of the pockets on the front of his worn jeans.

“I have a first aid kit in the bathroom.” You stated plainly. Your back was facing him behind the counter while you grabbed your stashed bottle of whiskey, and two glasses.

He was observing you with a careful eye when you turned around to face him. “Are you offering to patch up my self-inflicted wounds, baby?” He asked in a crackling rasp, like logs on a fire.

“Sure. If that’s how you want to phrase it.” You shrugged before popping the cap off the bottle with your teeth. You poured a generous splash of the amber colored liquor into both glasses. You opted to take a quick swig from the bottle, needing that little bit of relief to kick in sooner, rather than later.

“Why?” He questioned. He reached for the glass, guiding it towards him before he snatched it up in his hand. He took a hefty sip, letting the warmth from the liquor spread through his system like a warm hug.

“Are you really that fuckin’ stupid, Joel?” You wanted to laugh, but it came out more like a strained scoff if anything.

“‘Fraid so, my Angel.” He smirked over the rim of the cloudy glass.

“Guess the apocalypse shrunk men’s already pea sized brains even more.” You muttered with a shake of your head before downing the liquor from your glass in one swift gulp. Your hand wrapped around his thick wrist, and before he could protest, you were dragging him to your bathroom.

“Sit” you commanded with a gesture to the closed toilet seat.

“Look, you really don’t have to do all this, it’s justa—”

You interjected swiftly, giving him a stern glare before grabbing the first aid kit from behind the cabinet door that was barely holding on by the hinges. “Okay, so then leave, Joel.”

His brows furrowed at your response, and his lips pursed tightly. He ultimately decided to plop down on the toilet seat with a huff. “Are you going to tell me where the hell you’ve been all day? Or are you just gonna keep avoidin’ my question?”

“If you’re good, then I’ll tell you. Cause frankly, right now? I’m sick of your shit, Joel. But somehow, some way, my cold cold heart has a shred of kindness left for you.”

He scoffed, resting his head back against the peeling wallpaper. “You’re sick of my shit?”

“Yes. Because you’re a fuckin’ asshole, Joel. How many times am I going to repeat myself? Normal people don’t stalk someone, attempt to break down their door, and then demand to know where they’ve been all day!”

“Oh boy, we’re still on that topic?” He placed his bloodstained hands on his knees and shook his head before he sat back. “So, what would you rather me have done, hmm? Sweetheart, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he gestured with his hands, “it wasn’t like I could fuckin’ call you up! Do you see a phone in sight anywhere? No? Wow, I wonder why! It’s almost like we’re in a fuckin’ apocalypse!” He said with sarcasm dripping with every breath.

And then you threw Joel Miller for a loop when you whipped out a fucking spray bottle and sprayed his snarky ass right in the face!

It didn’t even matter where the hell you found the damn spray bottle in the first place, it was the fact that you had the balls to spray him in the face, not once, but twice when he went to open his mouth. You swore you could see the steam rising from the water droplets on his skin. Like he was an animated bull from those old animated movies. Nostrils flaring red hot flames, smoke billowing from his ears. The tea kettle had reached its boiling point.

On the opposite end of the spray bottle, you saw that very bull with steam spewing. He was flabbergasted, bewildered at your rash decision. “Did you just fuckin’ spray me like I’m a goddamn cat or somethin?!’” His voice boomed like an overhead crack of thunder unleashing its rage in a crescendo.

“I did.”

“And why the hell did you think that you could jus—go’n spray me in the face like that?!”

“You say an awful lot of stupid and hurtful shit to me, Joel Miller. You hurt my feelings, pissed me off, and I’ve just about had it. So, everytime you open that big fuckin’ mouth of yours and say somethin’ mean and stupid, I’m gonna spray you in the face with this.” You waved the spray bottle around for a moment to get your point across.

Displeased, drenched like a damn cat, Joel sent daggers your way with one harsh glare. “Oh, I didn’t realize we were throwin’ a fuckin’ pity party ontop of all of this.” He scoffed.

“Did you not—” you laughed incredulously, “hear a goddamn word I just said? Fine. Well, let me remind you what happens when you’re fuckin’ stupid!” You sprayed him again.

This time he shut up..for now.

“Refreshing.” He mumbled very much like a dog with its tail between its legs.

You set the spray bottle down along the edge of the counter where it was in arm's reach, before you sank down between his spread knees with the first aid kit tucked under your armpit. “Let me see just what kinda damage you’ve done to your beautiful hands, Joel.” Your voice was much softer now compared to moments earlier. At least now you had him tamed and compliant.

“I didn’t break ‘em. Although, if you hadn’t shown up, I probably would have. And they ain’t beautiful, Angel. They’re ugly.” He gruffed out.

“They’re beautiful to me, Joel.” You reached for his hands once they were presented in front of you. The blood had already begun to congeal and dry in some places. “Yeah, you definitely have some splinters in there that are gonna have to come out.”

“Fuck no. Just leave ‘em.” He shook his head.

For the first time in over 24 hours, you smiled. It was really just a slight tug of your lips, but it was there. “Are you afraid of tweezers or somethin?’” You mused.

He scowled at your question and picked a spot on the wall to stare at so he didn’t have to make eye contact. “No.” He grumbled, jaw ticking under the dangling bathroom light.

“You sure about that?” You asked while placing the first aid kit alongside you on the floor. You popped it open, rifling through the different aids before pulling out disinfectant spray and tweezers.

“Crystal.” He confirmed.

“Ookay.” You did your best to hide your little grin while you held the disinfectant spray a few inches above his hands. “This might sting a little.” You softly warned him.

He barely flinched when he felt the sudden coolness from the spray adhering to his open wounds. His nose did twitch the slightest when the stinging sensation settled in.

“You’re being an excellent patient for me, Mr. Miller. Maybe if you’re a good boy for the next part, I’ll reward you with a lollipop.”

He finally looked at you, tearing his gaze from the wallpaper to meet your eyes. His lips curved upwards into a small smirk. “Sounds wonderful, Doctor. Do you promise to be gentle?” He played along.

“Always, Joel.” You replied.

His eyes stayed locked on your own for what felt like hours, neither of you quite ready to break the contact just yet. He cleared his throat, shifting along the closed toilet seat. “Uh, will..you hold my hand? I lied about the tweezer thing. Splinters hurt like a bitch, and uh—yeah.” He muttered under his breath while the heat began to rise rapidly to his cheeks. Even the tips of his ears turned beet red.

“If it’ll make you feel more comfortable, Joel.” You nodded reassuringly. Your left hand reached for his own when he had pulled back slightly in a jerking movement. You could sense his palpable hesitation radiating off of him before he finally relaxed.

“This is stupid.” He said suddenly, feeling more bashful as the seconds ticked by.

“It’s not stupid at all, Joel. Splinters are no fun at all.”

I mean, This. Me and you. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be blushing like a schoolgirl right now. And over what? Holding hands? He thought to himself.

He’s kinda sweet..in his own Joel way. You thought silently to yourself.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Sweet. Sweet. Sweet.

“Get on with it, please.” He nearly whispered when his left hand finally reached towards your own. He was the one to thread his fingers through yours and let your entwined hands rest along his left thigh comfortably.

It took all of twenty minutes for you to successfully remove every splinter from his hands. Some fragmented pieces of wood were a bit deeper than others. He was a real champ, and you surprised him with a kiss. A soft reward that he felt he was undeserving of.

“I think you should let them breathe a bit longer and then we’ll bandage up.” You said while moving to stand back up. Your left hand was still engulfed in his own when he stopped you from standing up.

“Aren’t you gonna kiss them all better, doctor?” He asked with a tilt of his head. He looked like a puppy with his tousled, wild hair, and big brown eyes staring at you.

You found your lips kissing his broken skin before you even had a chance to respond. A kiss was pressed to each knuckle in an affectionate manner.

He broke the silence when your hand departed from his and you busied yourself with putting away the first aid kit.

“Are you going to tell me what happened to you out there, or are we gonna keep dancin’ around the subject?” He asked rather softly. Almost as if he was concerned.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Joel.”

Please don’t ask me again.

“Angel..”

“Let’s go finish our drinks.” You interjected with a hidden fake smile.

His eyes follow your silhouette when you swiftly remove yourself from the small bathroom. He shakes his head with a sigh before he finally stands up. He eyes the spray bottle still resting along the bathroom counter, and in an extremely cat-like fashion, he swiftly knocks it over into the trash bin below.

Good riddance.

When Joel left your bathroom, he soon found you with your feet tucked under your thighs on the far end of the couch. You appeared to be staring off into space while you nursed your glass of whiskey in silence. He really wasn’t quite sure what to think of your behavior, let alone how he should approach you.

Nonetheless he grabbed his own glass and joined you on the couch. Your eyes stayed focused on the wall even when you felt the old cushions dip down from Joel’s weight pressing down on them gradually.

He swirled the contents around in his glass absentmindedly before he took a small sip. You could feel his eyes along the side of your head when he moved the glass to rest between his knees.

“I really wish you would jus’..talk to me, sweetheart.” He rasped softly while he twiddled with his fingers that weren’t wrapped around the glass. He was never really good at having these types of conversations, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try one last time.

You shifted uncomfortably from his words. You didn’t want to tell him what happened to you in that disgusting alley. Or the way that Benji’s touch made you feel nauseous. You didn’t want to tell Joel that you were made to feel like literal human trash. Pond scum, gum beneath men’s shoes. You didn’t want to confess that you spent a night in lockup, crying against the cold concrete till your body could no longer produce tears while Benji, and a few of his FEDRA friends proceeded to violate you further, stripping you of your autonomy and dignity with grime stained fingernails, and cruel laughter. Nothin’ but a common street whore, that one. Make her gag on it. I wanna see tears streaming down those pretty fuckin’ cheeks, boys. Miller ain’t here to save you now, Angel. You belong to us.

You didn’t want Joel to believe that you were this broken, damaged person. You didn’t want him to take pity on you. That was quite literally the last thing you wanted from him. But, you were only human, after all, and pain had a sneaky way of revealing itself even when you had done everything possible to cloak it.

He watched as you drained the contents of your glass wordlessly before you slipped down from the couch, falling to your knees between his thighs.

She loves it, don’t be fooled boys. She loves to be fucked like a dirty little whore. Ain’t that right, Angel? Joel Miller got her all obedient, just for us. She’ll do anythin’ you ask of her.

“Angel.” He started, words lodging in his throat. Something about this felt wrong.

You ignored him, reaching for his belt with trembling fingers as you worked it open.

Cus’ a whore is all you’ll ever be, sweetheart. The best pussy in all of the fuckin’ QZ. Bet he’ll smell me all over ya, Angel. I hope he does. I hope that guard dog can fuckin’ taste my come inside of ya next time he takes you.

Joel finds himself frozen in time when he sees the way your fingers tremble. He’s stunned and unsure what he should do in this situation. He’s never seen you like this before. He’s used to your brashness. Your confidence. Your swift, snarky, sarcastic remarks. The woman on her knees between his thighs is not you. He knows then that he has to stop this. He has to say something.

“Angel, baby. I don’t think we—” he struggles to find the right words to say. To be delicate, but firm. This had nothing to do with his own feelings, and had everything to do with yours. “This doesn’t feel right, sweetheart.”

Your heart sinks to the pits. He knows. He fucking knows. He knows, and thinks you to be worthless, just like the rest of them.

You sink back along your thighs, tears pooling in your eyes. “You don’t..want me anymore, Joel?” You ask above a whisper, holding on by a mangled thread.

He shakes his head slowly, his heart breaking in the process.

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briefinquiries · 2 years

Text

Luke Alvez x Reader: Hostage

Description: request: can you do an imagine where the reader is luke’s wife or girlfriend and she gets involved in a hostage situation at a bank and the bau is called in to help with the situation? thanks, i love your writing so much :)

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: hostage situation, gun violence, minor character death

“This came in just a few minutes ago from the Director,” Prentiss confirms. With the click of a button on the remote, a local news station clip projects onto the screen behind her, illuminating the chaos underway. “There’s a situation downtown that he wants the BAU to take the lead on.”

With bewilderment on his face, a reporter stands in downtown Washington D.C., which was littered with law enforcement and a crowd of people. The headline across the bottom of the screen reads ‘Hostage situation underway at Capital One Bank’.

Luke drops the pen he was holding, drawing attention from other members of the team as it clashes on the table in front of him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. The rest of the team averted their attention back to Prentiss, but Luke’s attention was halted in its tracks. Instinctively, he reaches into his pocket for his phone, quickly checking his messages under the table. He tries to remain calm and rational, but his stomach sinks when he realizes none of the messages were from you.

Luke had been in a rush this morning, per usual. He was running around the house, scrambling for keys, wallet, coffee, his to-go bag, just in case. He only half listened as you told him the list of errands you had to run that morning, while simultaneously scarfing down a buttered bagel. Whole foods, the post office, the bank–

Luke swallows dryly. You were okay, he tells himself. You were okay, you were okay, you were okay. He repeats the mantra in his head as he types out a quick, casual message.

Did you make it to the bank this morning?

Luke forces himself to turn at least some of his attention back to the team, but keeps his phone unlocked and open to your text messages.

“Local officers have invited us in,” Prentiss informs the group, she sets the remote down gently on the round table. “They’ve informed us of at least two armed man inside the bank, no contact or ransom demand has been made as of yet. Garcia is working to gain access to security footage of inside the bank as we speak.”

The sounds of Garcia typing frantically on her laptop can be heard throughout the conference room as she works.

Luke stares back down at his blank screen, waiting for text bubbles to appear, indicating that you were responding– alive and well. But there’s nothing. Luke starts frantically tapping his foot, why weren’t you texting him back?

“Alvez?” Emily’s voice causes Luke’s head to snap up.

Luke is quick to realize that the entire team is looking at him again as he sits anxiously in his seat, his phone still cradled in the palm of his hand.

“Sorry,” he repeats.

This time no one looks away.

“What’s wrong?” Rossi asks, his eyes narrowed in concern.

“I’m uh, I’m sorry.” Luke says for the third time. He tries to explain while his brain races. “My wife… My wife told me she was running errands this morning, that she had to go to the bank–”

The moment of silence feels like an eternity to Luke.

“That’s our bank,” he motioned towards the screen, still playing news clips on the board. “Do you mind if I just give her a quick call?” He asks, holding his phone up.

Prentiss nods. “Of course.”

Luke mumbles a quick ‘thanks’ before jetting out of the conference room. He escapes into the hall before dialing you. Luke can feel his heart beating rapidly inside of his chest as the line waits to connect– but he’s sent straight to voicemail.

Luke tries again. He’s not entirely sure why he expected a different outcome, but again, your cheery voice directing him to leave a message plays. This time he does.

“Hey, it’s me. I just– I really need to hear from you right now.” Luke swallows the lump in his throat, realizing how dry his mouth felt. “Call me back, please. I love you.” He ends the call and turns his phone over in his hand a few times. You were okay, he tells himself again.

“I– uh, couldn’t get ahold of her,” Luke states as he walks back into the conference room. He makes eye contact with Rossi, who’s gazing wearily back at him. “But I’m sure everything’s fine.” Luke says with as much confidence as he can gather. He’s not so sure he believes it himself.

That’s when Luke notices how eerily quiet everyone else is. He glances around the room to see everyone else staring at the screen.

Garcia had managed to tap into the security footage at the bank. Luke scans the image, his eyes immediately landing on the unsub. He was a tall man, dressed in all black, strutting around the frame with a rifle. He’s waving it wildly as he randomly lunges intimidatingly at one of the victims huddled on the floor. There’s no sound to the video, but it looks like he’s shouting at them.

Garcia suddenly lets out a gasp, her mouth falling open in unison. “No,” she whimpers, she tore her eyes away from the image on the screen to look at Luke.

Everything inside of him goes numb when his eyes land on one of the hostages curled up on the ground, her knees tucked tightly into her chest, and her familiar looking hair shielding her face as she hangs her head low. There’s a tense silence in the room as Luke stands motionless near the door. Only his chest moved as he let out choppy, labored breaths.

He could feel eyes on him as the rest of the team came to the same realization he and Garcia just had. You were inside the bank.

“We are gonna get this guy,” Prentiss says hesitantly, like Luke might break just by her words.

Luke just nods slowly. He couldn’t find the words to respond, even if he wanted to.

“She’s going to be okay,” JJ closes the distance between her and him and places a soft, gentle hand on his shoulder.

Luke should say something. He can’t just keep nodding, but all he could think about right now was you, and the way he rushed out of the house in such a hurry this morning. He didn’t even kiss you goodbye– or tell you that he loved you. What if that was the last time he’d ever see you?

“We have to get to the scene,” Prentiss declares somberly. She eyes Luke cautiously, but the clock is ticking.

JJ lifts her hand off Luke’s arm, leaving behind a cold spot that made him shiver. She follows Tara, Matt and Reid out of the conference room.

Rossi, Prentiss, and Garcia remain in the conference room with Luke.

Prentiss clears her throat before speaking. “Luke, you know you can’t come with us on this one.”

His jaw tenses at her order and he finally breaks his silence. “Screw the protocol, Emily, there’s no way I’m staying back here.”

“Luke, I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now,” Rossi says softly. He stands up from his chair and looks at Luke sympathetically.

“Don’t–” Luke whispers. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, but he blinks them back before sighing heavily. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of the victims’ families.”

Prentiss and Rossi both stare at Luke for a moment, neither one knowing what else to say.

“Emily, please,” Luke sighs, he lets his shoulders fall slightly. “I can’t stay here and do nothing.”

She sighs heavily and she turns to face Rossi, like she’s looking to the more experienced profiler for advice. They exchange a mutual nod before she responds. “Look at me, Luke.” His eyes meet hers. “You have to remain level headed and you have to follow my orders. Or I will take you off the case.”

Luke understands that Prentiss was legally bound to follow protocol. He wishes that rules and regulations could be pushed aside at times like this, but he nods in agreement. He would have to control his emotions in the field.

Emily nods back in affirmation before offering him a sympathetic look. She outstretches her hand and gives his shoulder a firm squeeze. “If it’s personal for one of us, it’s personal for all of us.” She tells him, implying what Luke already knew: that they wouldn’t rest until this was all over.

A variety of emotions flood through Luke’s mind as he rides in the back seat of one of the SUVs to the scene. Luke shared the car with Tara, Matt, and Reid, but didn’t speak to any of them. Instead he stares directly out the tinted window, remaining silent during the entire duration of their trip.

Spencer kept turning his head subtly towards Luke, in an attempt to gauge how he was doing. It was hard for him to see his friend suffering like this. Luke was generally the confident, reassuring one, but today he just looked broken.

The prospect of losing you was all too consuming as he thought about the careless and threatening way the unsub had been waving his rifle around. He thought about how you had been huddled on the ground, curled up and hiding your face against your knees. He thought about how you were probably wondering where Luke was, and why he wasn’t there to protect you.

Luke swallows the lump in his throat and forces himself to blink back tears building pressure up behind his eyes.

How could this be happening?

…

A round of loud pops rang loudly through the air.

“Everybody on the ground!”

Confused by the sudden chaos around you, your eyes quickly shift towards the door. Two men in combat gear stand there, their faces covered by ski masks. It takes you a moment to realize that the things they were holding high above their heads were guns. Your stomach drops.

You crouch to the floor in an instant, hastily trying to gauge the situation. Your view is partially blocked by the bench in the middle of the bank, all you can hear is frightened cries and the sound of heavy boots trudging across the floor. You scoot out from behind the bench so that you could better see what was happening.

Someone is talking with the men, probably a teller, you think. Their voices are angry and harsh.

Suddenly, in the distance, the sound of sirens could be heard. At first, you feel a wave of relief wash over you, thinking that law enforcement would be able to save you all soon enough.

But then, you hear someone curse loudly then a pair of boots stride back to the counter.

“Did you call 911?” One man asks. His voice is eerily calm. You watch as the teller shakes his head, terrified. The man laughs before raising his gun, shoving it near the teller. “Don’t lie to me!” He screams, causing you to jump.

The teller continues to shake his head, sobbing and pleading now. You watch as the robber rips the mask off, displaying his face. He smirks evilly before spinning his rifle around and jabbing it into the teller’s face. You jump in shock as he falls to the floor, groaning in pain.

Someone screams, another person sobs.

Fear floods through your entire body upon realizing that these men weren’t leaving peacefully. Now that their heist had been cut short, they weren’t going down without a fight. The heavy boots came closer and your eyes quickly became clouded with tears.

Your eyes remain fixated on the floor, even after the footsteps stop right in front of you.

“Get up,” the man orders.

You do as you were told, trying your best to steady your shaking hands. Everyone else gets up too, as the other robber circulates the room repeating the same order.

“Congratulations,” the man said menacingly. He lifts his gloved hand to trace the outline of your jaw. Your nostrils flare in response to his touch. “You’ve just been upgraded from background noise to hostages. Thanks to whoever called the cops.”

He motions for people to head towards the back corner of the bank. Once everyone is gathered around in a semicircle, (you counted eleven other hostages) the robbers bark more orders.

“Cell phones, now.”

People hurry to throw their phones towards the middle of the circle. You pull yours out, your heart sinking when you see an unopened message from Luke flash across your screen.

‘Did you make it to the bank?’

You wonder if the BAU had gotten wind about what was happening yet. You clutch your phone tightly before tossing it on the tiled floor with everyone else's.

No one speaks, everyone just watches as the two men circulate around the room. You curl your knees into your chest, hugging them tightly.

“You weren’t supposed to hurt anyone,” you hear the masked man whisper to the other. “You said we’d just take the money and go.”

“There’s cops outside, Diggy, we’re surrounded. The only way we’re getting out of here is a negotiation. Or if we shoot our way out.”

He strokes his beard lightly, another smirk washing over his face. “Now take that off,” he nods towards his partner’s mask. “Don’t matter much anymore if they see your face, does it?”

The man peels off his mask to reveal his young face. His features are furrowed, like he was concerned. “Cops have protocols they have to follow,” he says to the bearded man. “They won’t just barge in here unless you hurt anyone, so cool it. We can figure this out.”

Just then, the phone starts ringing.

The older man answers, “What?” he barked.

You hear muffled voices on the other end of the line.

“Oh yeah?” He said mockingly, “And what can you do for me, SSA David Rossi of the BAU?”

You let out a shaky breath upon hearing the name of your husband’s coworker. The BAU had been invited in– which meant Luke knew. You wonder if he was outside, too.

It makes your chest ache to know there was such a small barrier between you and his safe arms.

“I’ll tell you what I need, I need a way out of here, or else people are going to get hurt.”

You hear Rossi’s muffled voice on the other end of the line again, no doubt using his profiling skills to help defuse the situation. You see the man’s brows slide into a firm line, like he’s thinking hard about something Rossi’s said. But in an instant his face contorts into an angry scowl and he clenches his rifle tighter.

“Get me a way out of here or they die,” he snarls, before hanging up the phone.

The man walks back over to the group of hostages with malice in his eyes. He scans the faces of people before landing on a scared woman, looking to be in her early 30’s. He bends over and wraps his hand around her arm, hoisting her up on her feet.

“No,” she pleads, tears streaming rapidly down her face. “Please, no,” she sobs.

“Shut up,” the man yells, lifting his gun tauntingly, before dragging her from the group.

“What are you doing?” you can’t believe you were speaking, you even startle yourself with your words.

But he doesn’t even turn around– doesn’t even acknowledge that you had protested.

He pulls her towards the end of one of the teller stations and scribbles something down on a piece of paper. The woman stands by, shaking terribly in her shoes. When the man stops writing he hands her the note.

“Take this to the cops,” he orders.

“W-what?”

“Take this to the cops,” he repeats, slower this time.

She nods, her trembling hands accepting the note.

…

“Guys–” Tara says.

The team turns to face where her attention was focused. The front doors of the bank were opening.

Luke hurries to unholster his gun, his shaky hands gripping the handle as he and every other cop in the area draws their weapons.

Confusion washes over him as a woman exits the bank, her hands above her head.

“Please,” she sobs.

SWAT rushes over to escort the woman to safety.

“He told me to give you this,” she cries, handing a note over to the SWAT member.

Prentiss rushes over to take the note, reading aloud the demands.

“Two million dollars and an escape plan. Every 30 minutes you keep me waiting, someone will die.”

The knot in Luke’s stomach tightens.

…

“Tick tock,” the bearded robber states as he struts around the interior of the bank. The younger man had been quietly sitting on the bench, staring at his shoes for the last few minutes or so.

The robber picks up the phone, dialing the number that had previously reached out.

“Is this Rossi?” he snarls into the line. “It’s almost been thirty minutes.”

You watch as the robber converses with Rossi. You’re wondering what he’s saying.

“You just got someone killed.” He hangs the phone up harshly before taking a deep breath, staring at the clock on the wall.

“And thirty.” The robber made his way back over to the hostages. He doesn’t hesitate before pulling up the older man who had been praying silently next to you.

“No!” you cry, trying to grab his hand to pull him back, but the robber just yanks him harder.

The man is dragged across the floor, but he’s still visible to you. He’s slammed down on the floor on his knees, facing away from the robbers. Your eyes widen as the man brings the rifle up, only inches from the elderly man’s head. You know you should look away, but you can’t bring yourself to do it, especially when he turns his head and locks eyes with you.

You are the last thing he sees before the robber pulls the trigger.

You’re too terrified to scream, or cry, or do much of anything. You just stare in shock as the man collapses into a pool of his own blood.

“That’s what happens when these cops don’t listen to me!” He rants, waving the gun around. He fires a couple of more shots into the ceiling, causing debris to fall. More screams rattle the interior of the bank.

“What are you doing?” The quieter robber stands up fiercely and rushes over to his partner. He looks frantically at the dead body on the floor. “You just killed someone!”

They get in each other's faces. “I’m doing what I have to do to get us out of here!” he screams back. He postures towards the younger boy, intimidating him into backing down. “I’m trying to save us, Diggy.”

“But killing someone, man? I didn’t sign up for that, Kalo.”

“You just gotta trust me, okay?” The older man, you now knew was named Kalo, spoke.

Diggy lowers his head, biting his lip harshly. He shakes his head, still in shock that things had gone so wrong, so fast.

…

“Were those gunshots?” Reid asks, worry evident in his voice.

“Those were gunshots,” JJ confirms, strapping her vest on tightly.

Luke squeezes his eyes shut tightly. “We have to go in there,” he states, trying to remain calm.

Rossi lowers the phone that he had been talking to the unsub on. “He said we just got someone killed.”

“If they’re shooting people, we have to go in–” Luke speaks up again. He’s terrified. What if it was you?

“It wasn’t her,” Matt speaks up. He’s watching the video footage that Luke had been too scared to check. “It looks like an older gentleman.”

Luke lets out a shaky sigh. He feels guilty for being relieved about someone else’s death, but he couldn’t help it. He looks at the clock stationed above the monitor. In another 24 minutes, it could be you.

“What’s our game plan, here?” One of the SWAT members asks.

Emily sighs. “We have to play this smart– these guys are reckless and they’re not going down without a fight. If we barge in there, they’ll just start shooting. Who knows how many hostages could get hit in the crossfire?”

“If we don’t go in there, he’s just going to keep executing them one-by-one.” Matt refutes.

Emily nods. “Someone get me the layout of this building, I need to see the back entrances and side doors. If we go in, I want them surrounded.”

…

You’d never given much thought to how you would die. But sitting here, on the cold tile floor, surrounded by people you didn’t know and two masked assailants, wasn’t something you think you could have ever imagined.

You wonder how Luke was doing– you knew how protective of you he was. You just hope the team has convinced him to keep a level head.

The woman sitting next to you was spinning her wedding band around on her finger rapidly.

“What’s his name?” you ask, motioning towards her ring.

She looks up at you, tears glistening in her eyes. “Julian,” she spoke softly, her lips tugging into a sad smile. “And yours?” she asks.

You touch your finger to your own ring. “Luke.”

You move your hand across the floor and rest it on top of hers. “We’re going to see them again.”

She nods, using her other hand to cover the sob that was escaping her lips.

“These FBI agents just don’t learn, do they?” Kalo snarls as he struts across the floor. “They’re gonna let another one of you die.”

This time, he came straight for you. His firm grasp hauls you up to your feet, and before you had time to protest or fight back, he was dragging you to where he’d shot the last man.

Your breath became choppy and uneven as fear flooded your insides. You were going to die. He was going to kill you.

“Kalo– stop, no one else has to die!” His friend protests. He even reaches out to pull you away from his clutches, but Kalo shakes him off, jolsting you away from the other man.

“Kalo!” he shouts, but his partner ignores him.

Just as you get to the middle of the floor, an array of loud bangs echo through the bank, causing you to jump.

“FBI. Freeze!” A voice yells, before you realize what was happening, Kalo is wrapping his arm around you, and pulling you back against him. The hard barrel of his gun presses against your temple, sending shivers down your spine.

“I’ll shoot her!” Kalo hollers back, his forearm jabs into your throat.

When you finally get your bearings, you’re able to look around the room. You see a few faces you recognize.

The first is Emily. She’s got her gun pointed right at you– or the man holding you, you suppose. Rossi is beside her, he holds his gun up in his hand before holstering it.

“We just want to talk, Kalo,” he says calmly.

Of course they figured out who these guys were, you thought. With Garcia’s tracking abilities, she probably had the men identified within the first five minutes of the robbery.

You also notice JJ and Matt, they were to the side of you. Clearly they’d found a way in through another door. Reid and Tara flank on the opposite side, they made their way around the two of you, ensuring that the robbers were surrounded. You scan and scan for Luke, but he isn’t there. It was probably against some policy. You are glad he was following the rules, but you still wish he was there– you wish you could see his face.

“I’m done talking!” Kalo screams back. His grip tightens and you struggle to breathe. “Go away, or I’ll kill her!”

He was losing control, you can tell. You squeeze your eyes shut and think about Luke some more. You let his face appear in your mind, his warm brown eyes and soft smile came into focus. It makes you sad, thinking you may never be able to hear his voice again– or feel his touch.

“You know we can’t do that, Kalo. Put the gun down and we can work this out.” Rossi says calmly. You open your eyes again.

“I’m not going back to prison.” Kalo mutters. His arm becomes shaky as it is pushed deeper into your throat, you gag as your airway becomes almost completely blocked.

“Kalo– don’t do this,” Rossi pleads with the man, he senses that he is about to snap.

“I’m not going back to prison!” Kalo shouts, and you know– you know that this was it.

A loud gunshot rings out and you feel yourself dropping to the floor. Your entire body goes numb. You’re sure that you’re dead.

But as you collapse to the tile floors, you slowly realize that there was no pain– or darkness. You open your eyes to find Kalo lying lifeless next to you. His eyes are still open as blood starts to spread across the ground. You push yourself away, realizing the crimson liquid had splattered all over you and your clothing. You scoot backwards until you ram into the bench.

You look around the room as the agents jump into action. Rossi hurries to Kalo, kicking his gun out of the way before kneeling down to check his pulse.

Matt, JJ, and Tara rush to gather up the other hostages, still huddling on the floor in the corner.

Emily crosses the room to put handcuffs on the other robber. Diggy stands with his gun still pointing at his partner. The smoke is still curling off the end of the barrel as he looks at his fallen friend.

As Emily approaches him, he drops the weapon, showing that he is willing to go peacefully.

“No one was supposed to die,” he says in shock. “I had to shoot him.”

Emily starts telling him his rights when you are approached by a soft, calm voice.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Spencer says soothingly. He kneels beside you. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

You shake your head, your eyes staring blankly at him as you try to regain the feeling in your body.

“Can you stand?” Spencer asks wearily.

You nod, slowly getting to your feet, with support from Spencer.

“Luke–” you manage to spit out. Your voice is shaky.

Spencer nods, wrapping his around your waist reassuringly, “Luke’s here,” he tells you. “I’m gonna take you to him.”

Spencer leads you outside of the bank. The sunlight is almost blinding and you hold your arms up to shield some of it. You want to search for Luke, to scream out his name, but your senses are betraying you.

Your knees wobble, and you rely way too much on Spencer’s support to get down the steps of the building. You lean into his side, almost ready to fall, when you hear your name being called by a familiar voice.

“She’s okay,” Spencer tells Luke as he darts across the sidewalk towards you.

You barely have time to lay your eyes on him before he’s replacing Spencer’s arm with his own embrace. Suddenly, you’re engulfed by his touch and smell and everything Luke. It takes a moment for you to realize it’s real– that your husband is here and that you’re finally safe in his arms. But when you do, you let it consume you. You collapse into his frame and wind your arms tightly around his neck, squeezing like you just couldn’t get close enough. Your face presses into the nape of his neck and you breathe in his warm, familiar scent.

“You’re okay?” Luke asks, finally pulling back to assess the damage that had been done.

He winces when he sees the blood covering your shirt. “It’s not mine,” you whisper, knowing what he was looking so concerned about.

It was his– the man who had inflicted upon you the worst day of your entire life. You scratch at the fabric, suddenly desperate for it to come off.

“I want to go home,” you tell Luke.

He nods softly. “I’m gonna take you home.”

…

You stand in the bathroom later that night, staring at the reflection looking back at you. Your eyes were hollow– lifeless. The shower is running, the steam already rising above the curtain and starting to cause the mirror to fog up.

You peel off your shirt to showcase the deep, discoloration already evident on your neck from where the robber had held you. You were tracing the line of bruises across your skin when the wave hit you. In an instant, you let out an earth shattering sob. The cries come from deep within you and wrack your entire body.

You’re heaving so loudly that you don’t even hear Luke enter the bathroom. Only when he is behind you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tightly into your chest did you notice his presence.

He holds you like that for a while, muttering sweet nothings into your hair and swaying you gently. When your sobs finally subside, he slowly starts helping you undress. First, he helps you unclasp your bra, then he undoes your pants, and acts as a balance support while you step out of them.

Once you are finally naked, he starts undressing himself. He is much faster than you.

Luke leads you into the shower and piles in behind you. The warm water washes over you causing goosebumps to rise up on your skin as you adjust to the sudden heat.

Luke is gentle. He helps rinse the hardened blood that was caked in your hair out. You watch the water that falls off your skin turn crimson as it swirls down the drain. He softly takes a washcloth and runs it up and down your skin, you lean into his touch, grateful that he is here to help you.

Luke plants random kisses all over your skin as he washes it. On your forehead, your nose, your cheek, your shoulder. When he gets to your collarbone, he stops. Luke’s fingertips ran across the bruise that had been left behind on you. You watch as his face twists in pain. He hates seeing you hurt. He hates the fact that he couldn’t stop this from happening to you.

You break Luke out of his trance by gathering his hand in yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Your team saved me today,” you tell him. “You saved me.”

Luke brings your hand to his lips and softly kisses your knuckles.

“I thought I was never going to see you again,” you tell him. On the last word, your voice breaks, and you start crying softly again.

Luke pulls you in closer, his hands winding down your back. You press your face against his chest and wrap your arms around his waist. He holds you like that for a long time, until the hot water causes your fingertips to prune and until the mirror is completely covered in fog. Luke holds you tightly, his head resting against your wet hair as you breathe against his rising chest.

You sigh heavily. For now, you are content like that. In fact, you don’t think you’d care if the two of you stayed in the shower forever You could spend an entire lifetime like that– wrapped up in Luke’s safe embrace.

#luke alvez x reader #luke alvez x reader fic #luke alvez fic #luke alvez x reader imagine #luke alvez imagine #luke alvez #luke alvez x reader fanfic #luke alvez x reader imagines #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x y/n

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welikeimagines-andfandoms · 6 months

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F The Police- Spencer Reid x Alternative!Reader

Summary: Reader takes ‘f the police’ a little literally

Word count: 1, 162

A/N: Has tones of being anti-cops so if that’s not your thing please don’t read

Even though you despised the police and especially the FBI, you couldn’t deny how cute the agent in front of you was. He tried to be professional while asking about your missing coworker but you couldn’t help but make him blush.

“So is that all the questions you got, doc?” You asked him, standing in the empty car park of the bar together, your hand not very subtly reach over his cardigan.

“U-uh ahem, ye-yeh for now.” He asked trying to maintain his composure.

“Well if it’s alright with you, I’d like to ask you some questions.” You smirked up at him, slightly backing him against the wall.

“O-okay.” He stuttered out nervously as your hand skimmed his chest.

“If you promise to not bring the badge and gun would you come back to see me on Saturday? We had a band fall through so I’m gonna play some songs.” You stare up at him, batting your lashes at the handsome agent. “Although that’s not the only way you can hear me scream.” You whisper in his ear, lightly kissing his cheek.

You know you shouldn’t be so forward with an officer who’s interviewing you about a disappearance, but the way he blushed, and the slight moan you hear as your breath fans along his neck, you just couldn’t help it.

“Wh-what time?” He slightly moaned out as you lay sweet kisses on his neck, his hands now lightly on your hips.

“Be here around 9.” You almost order as you step away from him. “Got any requests let me know.” You shout over your shoulder with a laugh as you walk back into the bar.

*******

Spencer shouldn’t have done that, he really shouldn’t have. He should have stopped you and certainly shouldn’t have pretty much said he’d see you play, but he couldn’t help it.

You weren’t really the type of girl Spencer would usually get all flustered for, but he couldn’t deny how beautiful you were and he couldn’t help but be commanded by you.

*******

“So you did ended up making it, Doc.” You smirk up at Spencer as you both stand at the bar, the bartender handing you a glass of water.

Spencer barely registered what you’d said, too busy staring at your smudged makeup and sweaty body, especially your chest.

“Ye-yeh!” He nervously shouted back.

“Not really your scene is it, baby? Maybe we should go somewhere a little quieter.” You spoke loudly in his ear over the music.

“Ye-aaahh mhmm.” Spencer began to answer before your bites and kisses on his neck made his body tingle and his words slip.

“Come on, Doc.” You encourage as you take his hand, pushing him through the bar and to the toilets.

Luckily for you they were surprisingly empty.

Before Spencer had a moment to worry or spout off facts about hygiene and bacteria, you had him shoved against the toilet door, quickly overpowering his mouth. Reaching your hand down, you began to unzip his trousers, already feeling how hard and desperate he was.

“W-we shouldn’t be doing thiiiiss.” Spencer whined out, your hand now palming him over his underwear.

“Here or in general? If you want to stop now we can and I won’t judge you, but if you want to fuck in one of those stalls where no one can see us then we can.” You explain gently against his ear, sweetly nipping at his neck as you begin to palm him faster.

Spencer weighed up his options. He didn’t feel pressured by you and he did really want you, but he also knew all the laws about doing such things in public and all the facts about how unhygienic these toilets probably are. Soon his rational mind begin to quiet as he simply craved you.

“Please, please let me fuck you.” Spencer suddenly blurted out, your teasing becoming too much.

“You’re so dirty, Doc.” You tease him as you roughly pull at his hair, pushing his lips against yours in a bruising kiss.

Not bothering to break from the kiss, you backed up until you both fell into the toilet stall. Manoeuvring each other around, you pushed your own back against the wall of the stall, Spencer crashing into you hard and fast.

Making quick work of Spencer’s pants and underwear, you pulled them both down, revealing his leaking and bouncing cock.

“All this for me?” You tease him, smirking as you begin to jerk him off.

“Yes.” He answers breathlessly, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

Letting go of his cock, Spencer’s eyes shoot to yours, pleading you not to stop. Before he can protest too much though, he sees you’re stepping out of your panties. Cheekily smiling up at him, you put them into his jacket pocket.

“Hold onto those for me, baby.” You smile at him as you pull a condom out of your bra.

Opening the packet, you jerk Spencer’s cock a few times before putting it on him. Once it’s slid on, you raise your leg to sit over his hip, opening yourself up to him.

Surprising both of you, Spencer grabs both of your thighs as he holds you up against the wall and pushes deep inside you.

“Oh fuck!” You shout as Spencer quickly fills you up with his cock.

Spencer is quick to setting a brutal pace and you’re quick to grab at his hair and begin biting his neck.

“Fuck, baby! You really are a dirty boy!” You shout as he fucks you hard against the door.

Your nails begin to dig into his scalp, pulling his hair back to expose his neck. Licking, sucking and biting at him, you make sure not an inch of his neck and chest is left without a mark or saliva.

The room is filled with both of your moans and grunts, grabbing at each in, desperate and animalistic need driving both of you.

Feeling Spencer was close, you keep one hand in his hair as the other makes its way down to your clit, rubbing it so you can both meet your ends together.

“You close, Doc? You gonna cum for me? Come on baby! I’m so close.” You moan out as you throw your head back against the wall, the pressure becoming too much.

Spencer seeing an opportunity for a little pay back, leans down to your exposed neck and begins sucking his own bruises.

“Aaah-ah! Fuck I’m gonna cum!” He shouts as he thrusts a few more times into you, both of your releases coming at the same time with loud shouts and moans.

Rocking into you a few more times, he places you back onto the bathroom floor. Both of you wobble slightly as your hazed-filled minds come back down.

Spencer truly was a sight right now, all roughed up and sweaty.

“Maybe you should come to more of my shows.” You joke as you stare at the sweaty, bruised and roughed up agent before you.

#spencer Reid #Spencer Reid x reader #Spencer Reid imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #alternative!reader #Spencer Reid x alternative!reader

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nepentheseeker · 3 months

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LOOKISM 507

Not really talking (yapping) about anything but the theory part

As expected, Charles can just buy the media. It's that easy . Eugene's plan is so weak without the red paper. I think he was the lawyer (Law genius?) for James in Gapryoung's murder case

Now if DG is Charles (because that man is way to fvking calm about the whole thing and Charles is too confident so it feels like so but then again why the fvck did he pull up with a helicopter to record Charles kidnapping Hangyeol? Why did he gave Eugene the pendrive if he's Charles) there'd be no way Eugene can make it work.

And if DG is Charles and if Daniel got smarter , he'd keep the second body close to him. There's no way he'd win without it .

it actually makes so much sense for him not to fight. I like how he's not wasting time and energy on Gun or his approval anymore. And thinking rationally (he's always been smart but yk how he goes crazy) . I wonder when he'll inform Goo about everything. And Goo shouldn't arrive here.not yet . Not until everything is over . But we've seen a pattern haven't we ? Goo always ends up in situations where the fight is over but there's always a dangerous opponent waiting. Imo maybe this time he'd arrived when everything is over but Gitae will betray him and they'd fight or Tom Lee will appear OR Goo will be the one to kill ( defeat ) Gun as they promised.

These panels has revealed 99% of Eugene, Mandeok and Yuseong's backstory . I don't think there'd be a point to give them an arc for the backstories at all . Like, this explains everything.

I know it's meaningless, he'd probably die or be finished in 5-7 blows , but I'll still be rooting for Mandeok in next chapter

#lookism webtoon #lookism #lookism manhwa #lookism comic #lookism thoughts #lookism 507 #lookism spoilers

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 5 months

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Hit ‘Em Up! (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Cowboy!Gojo Satoru x Cowboy!Geto Suguru x Black!Cowgirl!Reader (Slow Burn/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You get to meet Geto & Gojo the Gunslingers, the notorious outlaws that have every town and law enforcement in a twist, when your bum-ass BF offers you as payment to avoid going to prison. Little do they know that this is only a part of your plan to get what you desire. But when you realize that the infamous gun-slinging, smooth-talking cowboys could be everything you want and more when they offer you a deal to team up with them, will you successfully be able to go through with it?

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINOS GTFO); poly!SatouSugu; Reader is Black & Fem; Mention of other JJK characters; Porn with Plot; Tragic Backstories; T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Hand Kink; Masturbation; Voyeurism; Gay Sex; Polyamorous; Double Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Fingering; CMNF; Spitroast; Riding; Unprotected PiV Sex; Creampies; Outside/Public Sex; Shotgunning; Multiple Positions; Spit Kink; Facials; MDom/fsub Undertones; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: This was one of my all-time favorite chapters to write despite how sad it is. Be wanted, y'all, this one is HEAVY. Warning for parental death, violence & childhood trauma. -Jazz

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen PT I & PT II. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Epilogue. Soundtrack.

********

EIGHT: GOOD DAMAGE.

“So you got a mom or dad?” Gojo asks, wearing Geto’s denim jacket as he slurps on your goodies.

The question is so random and hard-hitting that it makes you pause from eating the bowl of soup inspired by your mother’s recipe and made with ingredients given to you by the townspeople of Bull’s Creek.

After seeing Benji’s former bandits off to prison and receiving the thanks of the townspeople, including Miwa, Momo, Mechamaru, and Kuskabe (who does so with a nod your way), you and the gunslinging duo left Bull’s Creek and got on the road. It was only when the sun began to set and twilight sett in that you all decided to take a rest for the night.

At that point, you had entered the mountains and found a tiny alcove near a cave and a brush of bushes and trees whose branches serve as hangers for your and Geto’s soiled clothes from the creek. Above the cave is a hot spring bubbling with hot water while down below the rocky mountainside, a field of wildflowers and fireflies that float up to meet you, lighting up the darkness the further the sun sets.

“Why don’t we rest tonight?” Geto suggested. “This will be a decent place, I think.”

“And there’s a hot spring just above us!” Gojo excitedly said. “Ah, I could use a hot bath.” His stomach rumbles, evidently so by the sound that escapes his stomach. “And somethin’ to eat,” he sheepishly chuckled.

You had already begun to shed your bags after tying Reneigh up with the duo’s horses up at the hot spring, letting them chomp on the wildflowers that sprout there. “Well, we’ve got all these goodies the townsfolk gave us,” you said, digging into the sack of food.

In total, the Bull's Creek folk gave you two sacks: one of food and the other of fresh clothes. Between the three of you, you divided the coin you received and kept them for yourselves.

You looked inside the sack, pulling out each item: “Bowls, plates, bread, butter, rice, oooh, chicken broth!” Your excitement grew, happy to see such goodies.

Geto kneeled beside you, smiling fondly at the ripe tomato and the head of broccoli he found. “And all kinds of fruits n’ veggies,” he hummed, pleased with the turnout. “This will last us the whole trip if we ration well.”

Your hand touched something soft and you pulled out a whole raw chicken. Holding it up to the duo, you gaped at it. “Uh…anybody know how to cut a whole chicken?” Two began to laugh, mostly at your hilarious reaction. “Why? You cookin’ it?” Gojo joked.

You thought about tossing the chicken at him but decided not to. “Well, we’ve gotta eat and nothin’ beats chicken soup and wild rice.” Geto looked at you, shocked. “Oh…I was gonna cook for us.” But Gojo is pleasantly surprised, hands on his slim hips. “What a change of heart, little miss! Ya must like us now.”

You glared at him as you began to set up the steel pot for cooking. “Don’t push ya luck, boy,” you snapped. “You two can set up camp while I cook.” You stood up and hurried up the slanted, smooth rock to the hot spring to wash your hands, mostly to get away from them. “Ah, so you tryna do the easy work!” Gojo called out to you, but you didn’t answer.

Once you finished, you busied yourself building a small fire using some loose twigs, branches, and one of Gojo’s matches before preparing to cook. You roasted the chicken first which Geto kindly sliced the chicken up for you using one of your pocket knives. You had to turn the spit periodically on the fire while chopping vegetables (carrots, peas, broccoli, corn), so it was a lot of running back and forth.

But you didn’t mind. You love cooking. Fixing something to eat is the one time you feel normal. It’s what makes you feel close to the people you left behind in your childhood, including your old self.

Once the chicken is done roasting, its skin golden brown and juicy, you slice in into strips. You then fill the pot up with hot water from the spring, boil it, and fix the rice until its fluffy and white. Finally, you pour the chicken broth into the pot with the rice, sliced vegetables, and chicken, stirring it with a big wooden spoon you found in Geto’s bag.

Speaking of Geto, he and Gojo set up camp during your cooking session. They set up sleeping bags, yours included, and place a blanket underneath to keep the dirt out of them. They set their boots, hats, and jackets aside, separated from your things. It seemed that they gave you your own spot, allowing you privacy and space. You appreciated that.

Once the soup was finished, you announced that dinner was done and stood in front of the pot when they came running with their wooden bowls. “Hold up!” you exclaimed, putting out a hand to stop them. “Y’all wash y’all hands?”

The two looked at each other cluelessly which gave you you’re answer. “Hurry up before it gets cold,” you said and they went scurrying up the hill like rabid dogs, making you giggle to yourself.

Minutes later, they returned and helped themselves to the meal. You sat down on a log with your own bowl, stretching your legs out. The duo sat on either side of you in a circle, passing a bottle of Jack between the three of you and ripping off pieces of bread to dip in your soup.

Gojo was sloppy, slurping greedily at his meal and making you wonder about some naughty shit. “Mmm, shit!” he moaned. “This is the best soup and rice I’ve ever had in my life!”

In contrast to his partner, Geto was neat, taking his time eating his meal and (once again) making you mind wander. “I agree,” he sighed. “You’re quite the cook, little miss. Truly gifted.” Both compliments made your stomach flip. “Thank you,” you softly say, barely above a whisper as you took a sip of the Jack. It let a burn in your throat that you eased with the warm, hearty soup.

Then came the burning question: “So you got a mom or dad?”

You sit here now, the soup just at your mouth. Gojo looks at you expectantly, still slurping down his bowl. “Satoru,” Geto firmly says and shakes his head. Gojo raises an eyebrow, not understanding that this is a hot button topic.

“No, it’s fine,” you protest. I suppose it’s only fair to tell you since y’all have told me so much about your lives.” You lower your spoon into your bowl, the fire crackling in front of you. “I have a mom and dad, yes, but adopted. I never knew my birth dad, but my birth mom always told me he was a rollin’ stone.” You chuckle to yourself. “Guess that meant he was a playboy.”

You nod at the simmering pot on the ire. “This is my adopted mom’s recipe.” Geto smiles fondly, taking a swig of Jack. “Well, now I can see who you got such a gift from. Is she a cook?”

You shake your head. “Not professionally, no. She’s a schoolteacher. My adopted dad is a farmer.” Gojo hums thoughtfully, chomping on some bread. “Where’s your birth mother now?” he curiously asks. “Still in your hometown?”

You don’t think twice about it. You don’t even hesitate. “She was murdered,” you blurt. The silence that follows after this is deafening. The duo stare at you as if you just told them you’re pregnant. Placing the bowl aside, you turn to the crackling fire, not wanting to look at them and see their pity.

“I was a little girl when a bunch of outlaws invaded my town,” you explain to the flames. “They ransacked every store, destroyed every home, and killed nearly every single person…including my mom.” You can feel yourself going back to that time, your mother’s terrified eyes behind your eyelids when you blink. A hot rush of tears begins to build.

Sensing your discomfort, Geto steps in. “You don’t have to go on,” he soothingly says. But you shake your head. “It’s okay.” “No, it’s not,” you argue, forcing the tears away. “I need to tell you why I hate outlaws so much. I need to tell you why I am the way I am.”

You turn back to them, staring them in the eye. “But y’all are sure you wanna hear this?” you wryly joke. “I have to warn y’all that it’s quite long and tragic.” And the two stare you right back in the face. “I thought we already established that we’re ones for long and tragic backstories, darlin’,” Gojo replies. “Take your time.”

Geto passes you the bottle of Jack and you take a much-needed swig. “I was nine years old when they came,” you begin and the memories come flooding back like a tidal wave.

********

The summer you turned ten years old was supposed to be a joyous one.

It was supposed to be a day where you and your mother spent the day in your hometown of Pinewood, known for its farms and heavy population of flowers.

Your mom would usually wake you up with pancakes covered in strawberries and whipped cream (your favorite), presents, and then take you into town to the bakery, the library, the movies, the fruit orchard to pick peaches and plums, or any other place a young girl like you would love to visit for her special day.

But that was further from the case. It was only two weeks until you turned ten that your home was destroyed and burned to the ground.

Pinewood was once a small but humble town of a couple hundred people. Everyone knew each other and there was community. Adults looked after neighbors’ children late at night and pies were brought over to welcome newcomers to the town. Farmers, teachers, landscapers, florists, bakers and cooks, etc…you would find them all here, building their lives and careers.

The autumns were crisp and the summers were warm. This particular summer night you remember you were asleep in your bed, the sound of buzzing cicadas having hummed you to sleep earlier. Your bedroom, pink, cozy, and girly, was still except for you–the sleeping girl in her pony PJs. But late into the night, you awakened, feeling compelled by something to do so.

You sat up in bed and looked out the window. Your backyard of honeysuckle and your mom’s prized vegetable garden looked back at you. The sweet summer breeze blew your curtains around like pink wisps. You don’t know why you woke up. You usually can sleep through a tornado. But this time, you couldn’t.

Something felt…wrong.

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. And then you realized it: the cicadas had stopped singing. A warm night that was usually filled with the buzzing song of the cicadas in the trees had ceased, leaving the night eerily quiet.

Then, suddenly, your bedroom opened, and in rushed your mother. You were too deep in your sleep fog to see that she was frazzled and scared, still in her nightgown and slippers.

“Mama?” you mumbled sleepily, rubbing at your eye. “What’s going on?”

She came over and ripped the covers off of you. “Baby, get up,” she hurriedly said, pulling you out of bed by your arm. “C’mon, get your slippers on and follow me.”

You stared at her, confused and still sleepy. “But, Mama–”

“Stop it, Y/N!” she yelled. You are startled, confused, and afraid. Your mother had never yelled at you like this before.

And then you saw her eyes: wild and scared like a cornered animal. It scared you. “We need to go now,” she firmly said. “Now get on your slippers and let’s go.” This time, you didn’t argue or protest. You slipped on your slippers and took your mom’s hand.

She squeezed it as she led you out of your bedroom and down the hallway, walking past the bathroom, kitchen, dining area, and laundry room. Your home was a ranch, so it was only one floor with the bedrooms located at the back. Your mom guided you to the front door but looked back at you before she opened the door.

“Follow me,” she instructed. “Don’t let go of my hand, understood?” She didn’t wait for you to answer.

After unlocking the door, she yanked the door open. You still wish she hadn’t. Your town, once blossoming with businesses, cozy homes, and life was now burning.

Flames that exploded from buildings licked the night sky. Crops were on fire. Guns exploded in your eardrums that sounded like firecrackers. People and animals alike ran for cover and safety. People in black clothing and bandanas covering their mouths ran after them, hooting and hollering. Some of these intruders also ran in on horses, rifles and pistols drawn.

You didn’t see any bodies, thank God, but it didn’t matter. The trauma was already set in your body from that very moment you and your mother stood outside of your home in the chaos.

“Mama, what’s happening?!” you yelled, pulling on her hand.

She then began to run with you, hurrying down the road. “I don’t know, baby,” she answered, “but we’ll be okay! Just don’t let go of me.” You didn’t, but someone did it for you. As you were running with your mom, you unfortunately didn’t get that far away from your house when you suddenly felt two arms snatch you away.

You screamed, wriggling around in the stranger’s arms. Your mother looked back and rushed to help you, but she too was grabbed by another stranger in black and tossed to the ground. “Mommy!” you squealed.

You tried to struggle out of the arms binding you, but your mom’s assaulter took out a long-barreled pistol and pointed it at your mother’s temple. “Shut up, you little brat,” he snarled. “Keep that mouth shut or your ma gets it.”

You immediately went quiet and the bandit behind you cackled. Despite his own bandana covering his mouth, you could smell the booze on his breath. You looked down at his hands around you. One of them had a rose tattoo on his knuckles.

The bandit nodded at your ranch. “Nice house ya got here, bitch,” he chuckled. “Even nicer land. I bet ya got some pretty pennies for a pad like this, eh?” He crouched down beside your mother. She lied in the dirt on her side, her clothes ruined and her knee scraped by her fall.

“No,” she whimpered. “My people are humblefolk. We don’t have much money and neither do I, especially with a child.”

The bandit took a handful of her coiled hair in his fist, yanking her up. “So you callin’ me a liar?” he snarled. “I don’t like bitches who talk back, y’know.” He cocked his gun at her, but your mother was afraid like you were watching. “I don’t have what y’all are lookin’ for!” she snapped. “Please just let us go!”

The bandit tossed her down and shared a look with his partner. “If you don’t give us money then you’ll have to give us somethin’ else,” he growled at your mother. “How much you think her kid will cost, man?” The bandit hugged you to him, making a show of caressing your face. “Mmm…’bout a couple hundred at least.”

You shook in terror. What did they mean? Were they going to take you away from your mother? She seemed to know what they meant though and looked like she wanted to murder both bandits. “You wouldn’t do that,” she hissed. “You know damn well that the law is already out for y’all for this, so you’d only be sinkin’ your ship farther if you do anything to my daughter.”

The bandit pressed the bun to her temple, laughing. “You think we give a fuck about the law, bitch?” he cackled, tossing his head back. “The law won’t ever find us and half of them are pussies anyway. The bossman is like the Boogeyman to them.” Your mother’s expression softened and she suddenly looked hopeless. That scared you even more.

The bandit smirked and pressed the gun to her chin. “Now what should we do about that mouth of yours?” he whispered. His partner chuckled suggestively. “I’ve got a few ideas,” he sniggered. Despite the gun in her face, your mother turned her head to you, her eyes glassy but filled with acceptance. “Y/N, my little flower,” she tearfully said. “I love you.”

Before you could even blink, she bit down on the bandit’s hand hard. Hard enough to draw blood. The bandit screamed as he pulled his hand away now coated in deep, bloody teethmark.

“Oh, you bitch,” he spat. “Now you’ve pushed your luck.” He took her by her hair again and threw her down onto her stomach execution style.

“Mama, no!” you wailed, reaching for her. She looked up at you, eyes wild and dirt caked to her face. “Run, Y/N!” she screamed. “Run until you reach the fields!”

As your fight or flight kicked in, you elbowed the bandit behind you in the stomach, loosening his grip. Just as you turned to run, two shots ran out behind you. You never turned around to see if it was your mother. You just knew it was.

So you ran as you cried, your eyes blurred with salty tears and fear pumping in your blood. “Get that little bitch!” the bandit yelled, pointing at you.

Hooves began to thud against the ground behind you, but you didn’t turn. You didn’t stop. You just ran, something pulling you along despite your fatigue. You still don’t know if it was God, your mother’s spirit, or just your will to live. Either way, it got you all the way down to the cornfields three minutes outside of your town.

At this point, the sound of the bandits behind you faded, but you knew they would eventually gang up on you. Wheeled wooden carts sat beside the fields that usually were used to deliver food, flowers, and other deliveries into other towns. You chose quick and jumped into the back of one cart of flowers. You hid deep beneath the many plants, petals, and bulbs, keeping quiet.

Even as you heard the horses and saw torches flash beneath the flowers, you held your breath and imagined yourself as but a rock. A head of corn. A flower like the ones surrounding you.

“Where’d she go?” he gruffly asked. A light flashed in your face and you coveved your mouth.

“I think I saw her go in here,” his partner said before they walked into the cornfields together. You didn’t move even as the light vanished. Even as the rustling of the corn stalks got further away. Even when all you heard were the bandits’ horses chuffing to one another.

You don’t know how long you had been there–minutes? Hours?–, but suddenly, you heard footsteps and hooves beside you and then the cart moved slightly as someone got in the front to drive off. And then the cart began to move, taking you away and into the unknown.

‘The unknown’ turned out to be Elden Valley, a small town a two-day travel away from Pinewood. It is home to humble, quiet folk. Humble, quiet folk like Eren Tokiyami, an older farmer with salt-and-pepper hair and calloused hands, and his wife Yuri, a longtime baker.

Eren and Yuri ordered flowers and seeds specifically from your town’s florist to plant and decorate the outside of Yuri’s bakery. Imagine their surprise to find a scared, dirty, and traumatized little girl lying beneath the bed of tulips and petunias.

You found yourself in a barn smelling of manure and animals. Yuri covered her mouth while Eren stared down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. “My God,” he gasped. “Where’d you come from, little one?”

You could barely speak. You hadn’t had water or food in two days. “P-Pinewood,” you whispered, and then everything went black when you passed out in Eren’s arms.

After taking you to the town’s doctor and nursing you back to help, the couple adopted you as their own. The town of Elden Valley and all others in the county heard of the massacre of Pinewood. Dozens of people died, including your mother, but you didn’t any any detectives or coroners telling you that.

For nine years, Eren and Yuri fed you, dressed you, and cared for you. But it wasn’t enough to thaw you. It wasn’t enough to melt the ice that had formed and hardened around your heart and soul.

You had grown tough, taking your anger out on kids at school and constantly skipping to ride horses. It was when you turned sixteen that you met Reneigh for the first time who was no more than a stubborn, violent horse that Eren recently saved from an abusive owner.

You felt like she was just like you and maybe she did too, so she was always calm in your presence and became yours. Eren and Yuri thought that with Reneigh, along with some guidance and love, you would be able to get back on track. You did for a little while. You baked pies with Yuri, planted crops with Eren, studied, and graduated from school.

Then, one day, you just left.

It was a month after you graduated at age eighteen. You knew you couldn’t spend your life in Elden Valley, pretending that vengeance and bloodlust weren’t inside of you. To do something constructive with that anger, you took one of Eren’s many guns that he taught you how to use and went out to the woods beyond his and Yuri’s house. In the blue of dawn, you set up an old glass bottle there and stood yards away from it.

As Eren taught you, you kept still and calm, aimed, and shot. You missed. So you tried again. And again. And again. Every morning before your parents awakened, you went out to practice in secret. And every time you drew that gun and shot, you were better. Quicker. Sharper. Then, one day, you finally it: you aimed and the bottle broke. You knew what you had to do from that very moment.

So after a night of dinner with your parents and telling them how much you loved them, you waited until they went to sleep to pack, tossing everything you could into a bag. Including two of Eren’s pistols. You hid your identity behind a cowgirl hat and bandana, forever your disguise.

Before you left, you wrote a letter to your parents, not wanting to leave them without any last words:

Dear, Mama & Papa,

I’m sorry for all of the trouble I’ve caused you over the last nine years. I thank you both from the bottom of my heart for taking me in as your own. I’ll never forget your kindness. It is what is needed in such a cruel world. Please don’t come looking for me and don’t worry about me. Just know that I’m fine. If I never see you again, I love you both endlessly. Thank you for giving me back my innocence.

Love, Y/N.

And like a thief in the night, you hopped on Reneigh and you were gone. And so the Fatale Femme was born. You didn’t feel anything when you caught your first outlaw body…only more vengeance.

It got stronger the more you killed. The more you fled. The more you pulled that trigger. You have been doing this for so long that you believed that this coldhearted tyrant is you now. For so long you thought you had lost yourself and only the Fatale Femme remained.

But now, sitting here among two outlaws, feared and loved by many, you feel as if you’re finally getting yourself back. Geto and Gojo stare at you in the firelight, sadness in their eyes. You sit there, ravaged by your past and trembling.

“I never thanked y’all for savin’ my life today,” you say. “I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry I didn’t see that y’all are different from the others. I’m sorry that I didn’t want to acknowledge it.”

Tears begin to slip down your cheeks, too hot and too quick to stop. The real you, outside of the bandana, the guns, and the cool exterior, has been released. “That’s why I do what I do,” you tearfully explain. “That’s why I am what I am. That’s why I need to find Benji.”

Geto puts his gloved hand in yours, warm and comforting. “And we’ll help you,” he softly promises. “We had a deal, remember? We’re a team now, so do you ever go thinkin’ you’re alone in this.”

His brown eyes are firm but gentle, reminding you so much of Eren’s. “Thank you for sharin’ with us and I know you won’t believe me, but I know your parents are proud of you, includin’ your birth mother.”

He offers a smile that seems to melt you. When Gojo gets up to move next to you, squeezing you between them, you feel like you’re about to turn into a puddle. You feel nothing but warmth that overwhelms you in the best possible way. It is foreign and weird, but good. Real good.

Gojo’s blue eyes sparkle at you, as beautiful and as alluring as the fireflies that float amongst you. “Did I ever tell ya about the time I got my ass stuck on a bear trap?” he randomly asks. “Oh, or that one time Geto got eaten up by leeches?”

Geto rolls his eyes as he puts his hair back into a long ponytail. “Damn, you tellin’ her that one?” he sighs.

And that’s when you realize that the strange warmth you’re feeling is gratitude. You smile at Gojo and wipe your tears, knowing he would ask you to. “N-No,” you giggle through a sniffle. “I don’t believe you have.”

For the rest of the night, you laugh and drink with the duo, not a single care in the world despite your past and scars. At some point, the alcohol rears its ugly head and pulls you down into the ink black of a booze-induced sleep. You pass out in front of the fire and barely feel Gero cover you with a blanket...and lightly kiss you on the forehead. “The sweetest dreams, Y/N,” he coos. “We’ll try to have the same.”

When the long-haired outlaw sits up on his knees after closely examining the way the flames of the fire flicker across your beautiful face and the serene expression you wear, he looks at Gojo who wears an equally pained look. “You feel it too,” he states.

Geto looks down at you again and sighs a heavy, tired sigh. “Yeah,” he replies.

“So we’re fucked," Gojo once again states.

And Geto, now looking up at the stars for answers, once again sighs, “Yeah.”

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my works #black coded reader #my fic shit #black writers #jjk smut #cowboy gojo #cowboy geto #satosugu #satoru gojo x black!reader #suguru geto x black!reader #cowboy!au #cowboy!geto #cowboy!gojo #poly smut #poly love

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mesetacadre · 1 month

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Occasionally the International Brigades captures me and it's all I think about for the entire day. The Volunteers of Liberty, the living embodiment of proletarian internationalism, the laborers and peasants who marched through streets that have now forgotten them, under the tide of a 40 year dictatorship and the shameful policy by the succeeding democracy to place them in the same box as the interventionist fascist states of Europe. Those who purposefully bombed Madrid when the theaters closed to kill as many civilians as possible, flying down the main avenues with machine guns firing upon mothers and their own children, who were in line for rations, described by Alfred Kantorowicz; "This is fascism!", in a chronicle. Those are placed, by liberal historiography, at the same level as the brigadiers who weathered the terror bombings in the center's bars, some, like John Cornford, purposefully not running away, to infuse confidence into the people of Madrid.

As of today, there is only 1 monument to the Brigades in the city of Madrid, erected the 25th of October, 2011, 75 years after the foundation of the International Brigades. It is located in a small esplanade in front of the UCM's Faculty of Medicine; when the front in this area crystallized, where the monument stands today, it was no man's land. In 2013, Madrid's Supreme Tribunal ruled that the monument "violated the local urban laws" and that it should be removed, though thankfully nothing has come of it yet. To this day there are some who refuse to acknowledge the historical service given by the Brigades to Madrid, Spain, and the entire world. The Brigades sang the Internationale while marching down Gran Vía; 3 years later, the only song that rang through Madrid was that of the infant fascist dictatorship.

The Telefónica skyscraper that served international correspondents, Republican artillery, and Soviet aviators when they wanted to survey the front, housed within its walls before the war a USAmerican multinational: International Telephone and Telegraph Company (now ITT Inc.), and it held lucrative contracts with fascist Germany. In the fall of 1936, one of its owners, Sosthenes Behn, was in Madrid, and he could have watched the front from his office. Instead, he chose to leave Madrid the 7th of November. The skyscraper today still pierces Madrid's sky, although overshadowed by more modern skyscrapers. However, in those short years, it was the only time that skyscraper pointed towards the heavens, through the smoke of artillery and terror bombings. As the shining example of internationalism and democracy entered Madrid, some fascist lackeys left. Others remained, as part of the Fifth Column, perhaps the very same Fifth Column that, in 1939, left the gates of Madrid wide open for the fascist columns. No brigadiers remain alive, only their descendants, fading memories, and incomplete archives. It makes up a very unique sense of loss and confidence for me.

#brigades

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mywingsareonwheels · 9 months

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Here be yet more Fred Thursday musings ;-)

[Long post and spoilers for all of Endeavour here.]

So, I was thinking yet again (for the billionth time ;-) ) about Fred Thursday and the three people we see him kill over the course of Endeavour while trying to save someone else:-

Mrs Coke-Norris

Ludo Talenti

Raymond Kennitt/Peter Williams

The show seems to be pointing us into believing that the third of those is somehow much, much worse than the first two and I... have a problem with this.

I mean, in all three cases Fred was responding to an immediate threat to life (of someone he cared about, and in the second and third cases also Fred himself). In the case of Mrs C-N Fred was officially on duty which gives him some extra legal cover, but I'd say no extra moral cover.

I'm no legal expert, but from what I understand, under English-and-Welsh law, none of the three were murders; you're looking at manslaughter at worst, at best a good case for self/other-defence, which... is a grey area but certainly a decent defence lawyer could have had a good go.

(It is worth noting, of course, that this is the morseverse and this is Fred Thursday; he's made so many enemies both in the criminal justice system and among criminals, mostly through doing actively good things, that his chances of either a fair trial or then surviving prison are basically non-existent. I think we have to weigh all of Morse's decisions in "Exeunt" with that in mind because there's no way Morse isn't aware of it. Sam's chances of surviving prison for drug-dealing I think we can assume would also be remote, again due to the enemies Fred has made. And I think again, we have to weigh both Fred's and Morse's decisions with that in mind.)

So... yeah. I think there are only three things that you might consider as making the killing of Raymond Kennitt worse than that of Ludo Talenti or Mrs Coke-Norris:-

the use of the knife rather than a gun, which makes it theoretically possible that Fred could have found a way to end the fight that didn't involve killing Kennitt. That does strike me as something that's probably easier to see from a backseat than if you're Fred in the middle of what's happening, but still.

we know Kennitt's horrifying backstory (not that Fred does), and so feel huge amounts of compassion for him even though he's obviously awful in the "present", and sympathy for the grief that Jakes would feel if he knew what had happened. That's inevitable I think, but, well. Can we be sure that Mrs C-N and Ludo aren't child abuse survivors too? (We do know that Fred and Charley both are, though not the details.) All in all, I think this is a show that wants us to feel compassion for as many characters as possible, and I don't want to assume that Mrs C-N and Ludo didn't end up Like That for no reason.

the fact that Fred kills Mrs C-N and Ludo in defense of Morse (the protagonist, Fred's protege, and a character we all love) and kills Kennitt in defense of Sam (a more minor character, and Fred's son). I would hope that Morse wouldn't see it like that and that neither does Russell Lewis because obviously that's a dreadful position to hold, but... yeeeah. It would annoy me a lot if that's part of the reasoning of the show, but protagonist-centered morality is a flaw in an awful lot of fiction, and while Endeavour mostly doesn't give into it, I don't think any writers are immune. So I do have a horrible suspicion that this is the bit that makes the actual difference, even though I really think it shouldn't be. If Fred had killed Kennitt to save Morse rather than Sam... would we as an audience feel differently? (I ask that of myself as well as of anyone else who wants to ask it of themselves! And honestly, I probably would feel better about the killing if it was for Morse, even though rationally I know it's no different!)

I'd actually say that in the case of the killing of Kennitt there are a couple of minor mitigating factors that the first two lack:-

Fred is in the worst state mentally we ever see him in "Exeunt", and is completely falling apart; earlier in the day he had some form of heart episode or possibly severe panic attack. At any rate: he's going through hell and he is ill as a result.

I can't actually remember if he has his gun with him during the fight with Kennitt, but he certainly isn't willing to use it given the situation; the knife is Kennitt's not his, and a weapon you aren't intending to use is for practical purposes not here, so he's... taken on an armed man while essentially unarmed. Fucking berserker that he is. Rather than two people with guns going up against each other.

you can see a moment of decision in Roger's face for the killings of both Mrs C-N and Ludo; by Fred's own account to Morse (which I think we can take as honest) he didn't make any conscious decision to kill Kennitt (see above re awful mental state).

Honesty? I think that killing in immediate self-defence and/or defence-of-other is however as close to necessary and justified as killing ever gets, and I'm inclined to be extremely forgiving about all three deaths. I'm not sure Fred had a real choice in any of the three cases.

What Fred does do in the third case that really is different of course is the cover-up, in misleading everyone, in being an absolute arsehole to Morse when he comes to check on him that night. In all of it it's massively, massively understandable (as he's a) ill, b) still trying to protect Sam). Morse's sense of betrayal though is also massively understandable. Ugh. My heart hurts. *shakes fist at Russell Lewis, and also at Roger and Shaun for being so amazing*

Anyway. Do I have an overall point? Probably: Fred Thursday is a complicated character and I love him and I want to hug him and also throw things at him. He has horrible violent tendencies but he isn't a murderer under English-and-Welsh law, and I don't think s9 makes sense unless we interpret him as very mentally unwell by the end of it. Also: Morse and Thursday both need different jobs, holy shit. Also also: I reckon Morse ended up forgiving Thursday and being in touch with him, because he is pretty fair when given time to process things, and he doesn't have Morse-centered morality. Also also also: Russell Lewis is a meanie and I want more fix-it fics. ;-)

#itv endeavour #fred thursday #tw child abuse mention #tw violent death mention

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isawthismeme · 4 months

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resistancekitty · 4 days

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@photoboybg1969 I’m replying publicly to your chicken-shit DMs, in spite of the fact that you blocked me before I could reply to you personally.

First of all, you just gave evidence of why this post is necessary. You don’t seem rational enough to own a firearm to me. If you truly have nothing to hide, why did you block me before I could reply to you? Sort of seems like an ambush to me. And if you’re so morally superior, why are you in my country illegally? Seems contradictory to me.

Secondly, you seem to have failed to realize that in America, people of all different ethnic backgrounds live here legally. The post does not refer to any “race”, just legal and illegal. The fact that you cannot differentiate that point makes me question your ability to reason. You also must have missed my post about the black gentleman with the awesome gun collection. (I probably wouldn’t have posted that if I were really a raging “racist”, now would I?) I am all for any legal citizen owning firearms, regardless of their ethnicity.

Thirdly, if people in this country illegally do not have to follow the same rules as legal citizens, then why do legal citizens have to follow rules? That makes zero sense. You either require certain rules for both groups, or you require none for either. Again, this is nothing to do with “race”, and everything to do with whether the person is here legally or illegally. People who enter the country illegally have already shown their intention to break our laws. Why should they be allowed more opportunity than people living here legally who aren’t already breaking the law?

I have to think you went berserk after seeing one post without consideration for anything else. You clearly do not know anything about me really. You just got triggered and went off the deep end. Which is why your little tirade would be completely laughable if it weren’t that I actually think you might be dangerous because of it.

You are a sad example of a human being—I have no idea what color or ethnicity you are, but I can still see that much regardless. I hope your deportation is quick before you hurt somebody the next time you jump to conclusions.

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ms-boogie-man · 10 months

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As to the Second Amendment and the statement Shall not be infringed; The Second Amendment has to do with a well-armed Militia. The Framers wanted to make that point because it was different times back then. The Interpretation among the Supreme Court was that it was then a right for an individual to possess a gun or guns for self-protection. A forgone conclusion among gun owners. Yes. It is however upon those Courts to decide what our rights are as far as Castle Law or marching around the block with a long gun just to show you have big balls. We do indeed have a right to carry a side arm with a permit. We don't have a right to shoot someone if they are using their First Amendment right to protest. I digress. When reading the Amendments to the Constitution one should not skip the 12th Amendment. I'm guessing that one isn't as important as keeping one's firearms with you Trumpers. The Republican Party claims to be the party of Law Enforcement and the Party that sticks to the Constitution. Oh. Read the 14th Amendment while you're at it. Now that I've made my point here. Have a nice day.

What you just said was one of the most insanely idiotic things I’ve ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul

Nice straw-man… there are no conservatives shooting protesters exercising their 1A right unless maybe those protesters have gone well beyond the point of protest and become violent and threatening of other's safety… and there has been plenty of that from the left over the last 7 years. Too, you ignore lefties who have shot people who exercised their 1A right to free speech and said thingys the left does not agree with… and that is no straw-man, Homey

As for your comment re: what times we are living in…

… we are in exactly the same times our founding father were in before and during the writing of 2A, you just do not know it; hopped up on arrogant virtue as you are

Furthermore, I have read the entirety of our Constitution, as well as the rest of our founding documents, letters and notes between some of the founding fathers, and,

I am fairly well versed in many areas of US law, such as for instance our CFR (Code of Federal Regulation), I have read the width and breadth of EOs signed off on by both President Donald J Trump and 'resident Biden

It is very clear you do not understand our Constitution, the entire uniqueness and advantages of it over what the rest of the world lives under, nor the times people lived in back then, or the times we live in now

Too, bother me again with your soy-poison and I will Block you

*I do not approach the Ask tab, but if I did, it would not be on anon

Angie/Maddie🦇❥🇺🇸

*To my followers, it is starting up… again. These commie a-holes will soon gang up on my blog, flagging it to get it Terminated… again We are planning a mailing list. It will be on a server these mongrels cannot touch. I will pass along the web address shortly

#The tab is labeled Ask… not be a c*nt #2a #1a #solo roba di angie #non solo roba da angie

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chloe-caulfield94 · 6 months

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Certain things are never justified

One of the reasons I am captivated by the Bae vs Bay dillema is that it perfectly exemplifies the difference between "pure" utilitarianism on one hand and rules-based utilitiarianism as well as deontology on the other.

To put it simply, under "purely" utilitarian ethics, actions are judged solely based on their outcome. Ends justify all means.

Under rules-based utilitarianism, actions are generally judged based on their results, but with some exceptions. Some actions, which violate fundamental values and principles, can never be considered justified, even if they would bring about positive results.

And under deontological ethics, actions are judged based not on their outcomes, but rather based on whether they conform to the moral duties resting on the person performing the action.

Do you see the difference? Under "pure" utilitarianism, ANY action can be justified, as long as it produces the result you deem positive. Doesn't matter how vile the action is, it can be justified, as long as the situation is "exceptional" enough.

Under the latter two approaches, certain actions are so reprehensible, that they can never be justified, no matter what outcome they would produce.

Now, you'd think that murder, that is intentionally causing the death of another human being outiside of the context of self-defence, is something so reprehensible that we'd all agree it's never justified. Unfortunately, the Bae vs Bay dillema, the fact that it even is a dillema, proves that some people are able to rationalize even murder, "for the greater good".

And yes, Max intentionally taking Chloe from the safety she enjoys on Friday and thrusting her back in front of a barrel of a gun on Monday, is murder. Bay Max intentionally, as a result of her conscious decision, causes Chloe to die. She willingly causes Chloe's death, which wouldn't happen otherwise. If Max does nothing on Friday, Chloe lives. It's Chloe's death that requires Max's conscious input. It doesn't matter it's Nathan who's pulling the trigger, the same it doesn't matter it's not you behind the steering wheel if you push someone into traffic.

If Bay Max ever stood trial, her action would be classified as murder - she intentionally caused another person's death with her actions. And no, "destiny" is not a valid defence in criminal court. And no, the fact that Chloe was originally in danger and it was Max who saved her life doesn't matter, because it doesn't make Chloe into Max's property that she can freely dispose of. It matters that on Friday, when the final choice is made, the original danger has already been averted and it requires Max's conscious decision and intentional action to recreate that danger and push Chloe into it. And no, nobody can "okay" their own murder. Especially a depressed, abused teenager.

At best Bay Max could try to claim the defense of necessity, arguing that she committed a criminal act in order to stop great harm from occuring. But that defense involves acknowledging that the act the defendant stands accused of was in fact a crime, but due to the unusual circumstances of the case, the accused should not be punished in this specific instance.

In contrast, if Bae Max ever stood trial, she would be acquitted. Because to be held responsible for something, you need to at least be able to predict the consequences of your actions. Max had no intent to destroy the town, which is why she couldn't be found guilty of murder. She couldn't even be found guilty of manslaughter, because on Monday, when she performed the action which brought about the Storm, it was impossible for her to predict that would be the result. You can't retroactively ascribe Max's state of mind from Friday to her action on Monday. To find someone guilty, the action and intent have to exist simultaneously.

Bae Max wouldn't have to argue necessity or any other specific legal defense. Her action (or rather inaction) was simply lawful, as it didn't contain the necessary elements of any crime on the books. You are never under a legal obligation to take a life. So by refusing to take a life, you cannot possibly commit any crime.

To my chagrin, a lot of people are willing to justify murder. To them, utilitarianism excuses even the intentional taking of another person's life, as long as it produces a result which they consider "a greater good" or at least a "lesser evil".

So I'm going to give a different example, which hopefully will illustrate to everyone that "pure" utilitarianism is a flawed ethical system, leading to monstrous, inhuman conclusions. There's one thing that hopefully nobody would ever try to excuse.

TW: sexual assault

Let's consider a hypothetical scenario, in which the terrible crime Max saves Chloe from on Monday is not murder, but rape. It's not a far-fetched scenario, since the "photo sessions" Jefferson and Nathan subjected their unwilling models to were a form of sexual assault. Given Jefferson's ramblings about "taking away the innocence and corrupting" the teenage girls he abducted and how both him and Nathan kept calling their victims "whores" and "sluts", the repulsive sexual undertone of their violence is clear. And who knows what Nathan would've done to Chloe had she not mustered the last bits of her strength to flee from his dorm room?

So in this different scenario, Max has the option to push Chloe from the safety she enjoys on Friday back into danger on Monday. But not to be murdered. To be raped.

I beg of you, please tell me you wouldn't still choose the Bay in that different scenario. Please tell me you at least find rape to be so evil of an act that you would always prevent it, without even considering the results from a utilitarian perspective. Please tell me you would never let someone be raped, not even to stop a tornado with multiple fatalities.

So if we agree that there's at least one act so vile that it can never be justified, no matter how "exceptional" the situation might be, no matter what the consequences of preventing that act might be, don't you think that murder should also be considered an unjustifiable action? It's not appropriate or even possible to compare different types of atrocities, but you could make an arguement that a victim of rape at least has a chance to overcome their trauma and continue their life. A victim of murder has no such chance.

Why is the clash of "pure" utilitarianism with rules-based utilitarianism and deontology so important? I apologize, I know I'm going to fulfil Godwin's law, but I think it's warranted this time.

Some SS and NKVD members were simply sadists, relishing at the opportunity to murder and torment others with impunity. But some were people who bought into the deplorable, false narrative that in exceptional circumstances, like war or revolution, great sacrifices simply had to be made. That some people, whose continued existence was a threat to the nation, had to be removed. Regrettably, they had to be killed. But their murder was justified, as it would produce a greater good for the rest of society.

If you're a "pure" utilitarian, you can be persuaded to commit any atrocity imaginable. If you are willing to intentionally take a human life outside of the context of self-defence, then under right circumstances - war, revolution or some other calamity - you could do anything, as long as a persuasive arguement is made that it's "a lesser evil" or that it will lead to "a greater good" or that it simply "has to be done".

But if you acknowledge that there are some actions, like murder, which are never justified, then you remain immune to such arguements. No matter the circumstances, you would never commit certain acts of evil. You have at least some basic red lines. And that makes you a moral person.

#max caulfield #life is strange #bae vs bay #lis #chloe price #pricefield #nathan prescott #mark jefferson

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