#so I think if women were running the police--not just a handful compared to males but like the whole thing run by women

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

That documentary American Nightmare is crazy. Like imagine being the victims of something like that and everyone from the media to police to the FBI are like, damn, that is crazy. So crazy it didn't happen. You're lying, you killed her--oh...She turned up alive...Uh...She's lying. Wait, uh...oops. Never mind. This other cop who actually bothered to do her job and talked to all the women other cops ignored caught the guy. Um...anyway you're both alive and not in jail so we're just gonna pretend this never happened. I mean it's not like we could have known; there was a movie where the lady set everything up and was lying! How can you expect us to have actually investigated what was reported to us?

At least that one reporter had a conscience. And he actually did forward the emails he got to the police, so, y'know, he at least was doing his job. It's funny how when something like this happens, the people who did the least, all things considered, are the ones to step up and be like, yeah, I fucked up, and the ones who made blunder after blunder from sheer laziness and their own tunnel vision are just like no comment, that didn't happen, and our internal investigation found no wrong-doing on the part of us.

[oliviayamaoka]

The Roseville Murders (Chapter 2)

Hi, just wanted to say I adjusted the plot slightly and will go into more detail with the story next chapter! This was a bit experimental and I wanted to write the growing relationship / rivalry between Y/N and Danny. I also wanted to write Y/N as a girlboss and to be just as witty as Danny!

Anyways, please comment any ideas or suggestions you may wanna see in future chapters! I have this planned out but would love any ideas or stuff I can add into the story! Tysm for reading!

It rained softly outside as you took a seat at your workplace. The desk was a bit cluttered with your art, notes, junk, and your papers regarding your current investigation.

One of the drawings on your desk was a sketch of Ghostface’s mask, attached to it was a few notes regarding the origin of the mask. Did Ghostface care for the history of it, anyways? You already theorized he was a narcissist who took pride in his work. Perhaps, he admired Edward Munch and his infamous “The Scream” artwork? Or maybe he based his persona off of it? You weren’t too sure but you did research the distribution and the company that made the masks. It wasn’t a particular popular company but it only distributed to the USA, Canada, and Brazil.

Ghostface didn’t seem too caring when it came to where he stabbed victims. As long as there was a lot of blood and something only he could perceive as art. And maybe you too. You felt excited, you already had a three year timeline. Maybe, you could get ahold of other states and ask if there’s been similar killings. Maybe even Brazil and Canada? You had to pinpoint a location and see if you could find just one name, any name.

Three years. Three countries. A part of you doubted he was Brazilian. Maybe Canadian? You weren’t so sure, you were pretty sure he was American. Y/N would probably have to go to the library tommorow to do research and use the slowly growing internet. Your research was suddenly halted when you knocked your sketchbook over.

Our slid a page. You kneeled down to pick it up, holding it as you examined the dark sketch. On the paper was a sketch of claws? No, they also looked like tentacles. Ever since the incident, you had dreams of these tentacle claws grabbing you and pulling you away from life as you know it. It must’ve been a sign of trauma or maybe it represented what happened through the nightmares? You slid it back into your sketchbook, deciding not to dwell on it. It would only make your room feel more depressing.

Beside your sketchbook was your leather journal. Y/N wrote everything in there, for mental health reasons. You included the incident and what Jonathan did for you. Your previous therapist said journaling your thoughts helped the healing process. It worked but journaling about how you killed your abuser was hell.

Your thoughts were suddenly interrupted when your phone rang. It was a chunky, black mobile phone you got about a week ago? Y/N reached for it and answered.

“Hello?” You answered, using your other hand to organize your desk.

“Hello?” A voice answered, it was a male by the sound of it.

“Hi, who’s this?” Y/N asked, paying no mind to the phone call as she started to put some of her stuff away. Art supplies.

“Who’s this?” He replied.

“Y/N L/N, am I who you’re trying to reach?” You asked, sitting back down.

“Ah, you’re no fun, detective.” He chuckled as you stopped, furrowing your eyebrows in confusion. Who was this?

“My apologies but, this is my personal phone. Can I ask who gave you this number?” You questioned him.

“Why does it matter, gorgeous? I know it’s you now.” He responded.

“Please don’t call me that. And yes, I am indeed a detective but I’d feel more comfortable discussing anything with you on my work phone.” Y/N said sternly.

“Oh, yeah… Detective L/N, huh? Think you’re some sort of hotshot because you’re new? Where did you come from? Washington? Gonna take more than the feds to catch me.” He said to you.

You listened intently and stopped for a moment. Catch him? Must be a stupid prank. Although, not a funny one since he had your personal phone number. An eyebrow raised as you looked at your notes on Ghostface.

“You still haven’t told me your name. Let’s not be rude, yeah?” You responded, being a little more cocky since you were off-duty.

“Awe, don’t tell me you forgot my name. I’ll give you a hint… I’ve been quite famous lately. In fact, I think you’ve taken quite the interest in me, Y/N.” The man teased. It was 100% Danny.

“I asked for a name, not an alias.” You said.

“Maybe after dinner, hotshot.” Danny said to you as you furrowed your eyebrows.

“I’m not in Roseville to play games. Either verify you are who you claim to be or quit wasting my time.” Y/N spoke with a stern tone.

“My last victim had three stab wounds to the throat. It was going to be two but their scream wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be. And they had a tattoo on their upper thigh. Bella Smith.” He said as you froze for a moment.

It was true. The latest murder victim was a middle-aged woman named Bella Smith who worked at a convenience store. She had multiple stab wounds but it was pretty much impossible to see she had three wounds on her throat just looking at photos of the crime scene.

“Okay and how did you get my number? I imagine the infamous Ghostface doesn’t have access to these types of things. How do I know this isn’t some sort of elaborate prank orchestrated by my coworkers?” You questioned.

“Honey, I am Roseville. Also sounds like you have experience with these kinds of things. You ever get humiliated like that?” Danny asked, grinning widely.

“No, it’s just a very logical conclusion. And why would you be talking to me anyways?” You asked him.

While you spoke to him, you quickly wrote down what he said and what he sounded like. You quickly speculated what his age may be, maybe 25?

“I keep tabs on the cops who are investigating my work and to be honest? They’re all stupid, it’s pathetic. Although, I noticed something about you. You come from one of the big cities, don’t you? You’re actually smart compared to those other pigs.” He said.

“Those pigs you speak of have tried their best in pursuing you. They have families too.” You responded.

“Really, huh? You’ve only been here three weeks? I think you should just trust me on this one because those other officers really don’t know what they’re doing. If you actually find out who I am, are they gonna give you credit? The newbie? A woman?” He asked.

“I don’t understand why gender is an issue. And why would they try to steal credit?” You questioned.

“They’re stuck in this shit hole city and I bet they could just really use a promotion right now. They want so badly to be the hero that arrests me… but first, they’ll let the freshly graduated detective do the work. It’s so easy to overshadow women in this world.” Danny said.

“Well, I don’t care. As long as you’re put behind bars.” Y/N responded.

“The bars at this station? I must say, your desk is quite cute. A bit plain but I like your style… interesting files too.” He mused.

“Huh?” You responded, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Your lil’ office at the station, I like it. This place has always been easy to break into. You noticed it too, didn’t you? Their security sucks and their morgue is just too damn small.” Danny said as you frantically looked around, shoving your shoes on.

“I’m going to call them right now and tell them you’re there. That was a stupid move on your part.” You said, practically yelling.

“So young and naive. I’ll be long gone.” He responded, chuckling as you hung up.

“Fuck, shit!” You said, quickly dialling the number to the police station.

You practically flung your door open, sprinting down the hallway and out through the front doors of the apartment complex after three flights of stairs. Your heart rate increased as you continued running down the sidewalk, feeling more frantic when there was no answer.

“Answer…!” You yelled, calling the emergency number.

“911, how can I help you?” A staticky voice answered as you continued running.

“I’m Detective Y/N L/N! Please inform the police station that there’s an intruder! He might be armed and dangerous! Do not touch anything since there may be forensic evidence!” You instructed.

“Oh—yes, right away, ma’am!” The dispatcher answered as you hung up, continuing to focus on your running towards the station.

Back at your apartment complex, there stood Danny with his own mobile phone. It couldn’t be traced back to him since it was stolen and he didn’t leave any DNA on it. If anything, it had the previous owners. Bella Smith. Your apartment complex had fire escape stairs outside your window. Easy enough, he thought. His outfit was black and had some stuff hanging off it. Strings? Ribbons? Danny was quite quick and extremely quiet when it came to climbing the set of stairs.

He reached your window, pulling it open gently and hoisting himself through, landing gently whilst kneeled down. For precaution, he had his knife gripped in one hand. This was purely for investigation and to see what you truly had on him. His head tilted curiously as he noticed your desk. Your art and notebook. His gloved hand reached out to your sketch of him.

Danny was truly impressed at how detailed and good it was. He read through your sticky notes and theories. Other than the fact he was blown away, he knew you were a threat since you successfully guessed his age range and height. Wait, his height? You did a careful examination of the footage he was in, looking at objects around him and his boots to correctly guess a height.

“What the fuck…?” Danny muttered as he looked at your notes.

The Scream by Edward Munch and a costume company? He skimmed over your notes and the psychological profile you built on him. He felt somewhat panicked since you were indeed no joke. His gaze averted towards your leather notebook. Eagerly, he grabbed it and opened it. Most of it was your thoughts and causes of your stress and anxiety. He stopped flipping through when he saw a darker page. It was dark because of the writing and how crumpled it seemed.

December 23rd, 1992

I was walking down an alleyway two weeks ago. It was cold so I had a jacket over my uniform. I suppose that’s why the man didn’t know I was an officer.

At first, I thought that he was going to try and rob me. It took me a while to realize that my money and belongings wasn’t what he was after. I suppose it would be appropriate to say that I was in shock for a moment. He never finished what he started. Despite being in shock, I was able to feel everything and the adrenaline only helped my rage.

Why? Why did this have to happen to me? After getting him off, I pulled my gun out and he stopped. I still remember the look on his face after I shot him. He was scared and pathetic, as he was in life. I don’t regret killing him. I never will. I just feel utterly violated. Never once have I been touched like that so violently. Is this what this fucked up world has come to? What if I didn’t have my gun and training?

He definitely did this to other women… he deserved to die. And I would do it all over again to him and to other men just like him. Of course, I had to call the police. They were going to charge me with manslaughter but they said that they would push this all under the rug, just as long as I never tell anybody. Did I contribute to corruption in the police force? This getting out would ruin everything. I don’t know but I do know that this was my gift.

Freedom was my gift for killing that man. It felt oddly exhilarating. I hope nobody remembers him, I hope his family know what kind of monster he was. Anyways, I’m being reassigned somewhere. They said they’ll give me my first investigation. In a smaller city.

Danny’s fingers trailed over the page. He felt angry and sad for you. That this happened to you. But, something arose in him when he kept re-reading that paragraph. You… enjoyed it? Behind the mask, he had a soft expression on his face. He imagined your beautiful face full of blood with you and your gun. He smiled gently as he kept the notebook.

He did indeed feel bad for you but he wasn’t satisfied with his limited knowledge of you. Danny decided to use this notebook of incriminating evidence to hold some leverage over you. Not only that but he figured he’d get to know you better if they had something interesting to talk to you about. Danny couldn’t help but grin when he thought about your journal entry and the sketches you made of him. So smart yet so naive.

Danny quickly took a look around your apartment to see all points of entry. He took a peak into your bedroom, it was neat and tidy. He seemed somewhat paranoid so quickly went back to your living room window, making his swift little escape. Not without taking some of your notes on him and your sketchbook.

About two hours later, you rubbed your eyes in frustration as another officer came to talk to you. There was a forensic team still investigating your little office space. Apparently, there was nobody here and your office seemed untouched. For about thirty minutes, you inspected any points of entry and tried to look for out of place shoe marks since it rained outside.

“Detective, are you certain it was the killer who called? We get prank calls a lot.” He said as you nodded.

“Yes, I’m certain. It was him, he knows I’m going to catch him soon.” You said as he nodded a bit.

“Okay, well, we’ll take it from here. Come early tommorow.” He said as you sighed.

“I will but please, don’t miss anything. I’m starting to think he was lying. It was him though.” You said as you turned, walking down the hallway towards the exit.

It seemed to be evening at this point and the rain stopped pouring. It was slightly humid but the city looked oddly beautiful when it was wet? You couldn’t stop thinking about your phone call with Ghostface earlier. Y/N already had some tech professionals try to track the number he called from and all of the information regarding the phone company. You’d have to wait two days at the latest for the results to come back.

As you walked through light puddles, you felt more and more tired. All the running and frantically searching for him was enough to just make you exhausted. It was all last-minute too. Y/N stopped dead in her tracks when she felt her mobile phone ring. You pulled it out of your pocket and answered it.

“Hello?” You asked, tired.

“Hey, gorgeous. Just wanted to apologize for my little deception trick earlier.” He responded as your eyes widened.

“Ghostface…” You responded, shocked that he had the courage to call you again.

“God, hearing that from you…” He said with a slight husk as you took a deep breath quietly to calm yourself.

“You know I’m close, don’t you?” You questioned him as he chuckled.

“Of course, I do… only these hands of mine can do wonders for you.” Danny said to you as you scoffed.

“You’re disgusting.” You say to him.

“Don’t lose your temper now, detective. There’s… things we should discuss.” He cooed.

“Things? Seriously?” You asked him, already tired of his bullshit.

“Yeah! Like, this lil’ notebook of yours! Really deep stuff… Victor Houston, was it? The serial rapist? Must’ve felt real good to put him down, didn’t it? Did it feel as good as you said it did in this thing?” He asked as you froze.

You probably let out a small whimper of shock as your hands trembled. Your heart pumped hard and fast. It was all you can hear as you felt your face heat out of pure embarrassment and shock. He… read your journal? This wasn’t good, this wasn’t good.

“W-What…?” You asked as he cackled.

“God, you’re so hot when you sound scared. Don’t be offended though, babe. You still sound real sexy in your cop tone.” He said as he continued.

“Yeah, I read all about the guy you killed. And how it was all covered up to accommodate you. Are you a star student or something? It’s hard covering up murders… or has it always been easy for you?” He asked.

“I-I, um… how did you get that…?” You asked him, trembling.

“You see, Y/N… we’re the same. You and I are too smart for Roseville. It’s just that I got the upper hand this time. While you rushed to the police station, I took a quick trip into your apartment.” He said as you let out a light gasp.

“Yeah, that’s right! I know where you live, I know where you’re from, and your number. I know who you truly are, Detective Y/N L/N.” Danny said mockingly.

“And what are you going to do with it?” You asked him.

“Always so straight to the point. I might give that annoying little journalist Jed Olsen. You’re trying to work with him, aren’t you? You mentioned in one of these notes… you also think he’s handsome.” He said as you covered your eyes.

You fought tears.

“Why? Why would you do this?” You ask.

“I should be asking you that. I’m a bit jealous you find someone like Olsen… attractive. He’s so boring, so normal, so… ugh, I hate talking about him. Still though, nice to know I have another fan besides him.” He said to you.

“Where are you going with this?!” You snapped as he chuckled darkly.

“I won’t tell anybody. Just as long as you halt your investigation for a while. I still want to have fun in Roseville here and well… get to know you.” He said.

“Go to hell.” You muttered.

“How original… so what’ll it be? I kinda need to know now since I’m also on a bit of a time crunch.” Danny asked you.

“W-What the fuck do you want me to do? Sit back and watch as you kill more innocent people?! I won’t let you.” You said with a venomous tone.

“What are you gonna do? Stop me behind bars?” He asked mockingly.

“Fuck you.” You said.

“I’m sure we will. But first, I just want you to sit back and not do anything stupid. We’ll see each other eventually. I’ll call you from another phone soon.” He said, hanging up.

You held your phone in disbelief and quickly made sure you had your gun. How the hell could you have been so dumb?! It was genius, leading you away from you apartment and finding such leverage against you purely out of luck. Your breath trembled as you walked back to your apartment, having your gun ready in your pocket as you did so.

[midnightmoonkiss]

Painful Stings & Sweet Apologies

Yandere! Izuku Midoriya X Fem! Reader

Summary: Rage fueled by failure, Izuku finds comfort in a bar, only to come home to a broken promise and a furious darling. He didn’t mean for this to happen.

WARNINGS!: blood, violence, alcohol (Izuku under the influence)

Category: Angst, one-sided fluff

Word Count: 9k+

A/N: This is my first yandere fic! I’m nervous as hell, I have no idea if I got this right lol. Though I did spend months perfecting it to the best of my abilities! Hope you enjoy~

Just To Clarify:

You’re both adults

It’s Friday

It’s cold and rainy (naturally--)

Izuku’s bedroom has a walk in closet and a bathroom

the kitchen is off-limits

THIS IS A YANDERE FIC!

Izuku is an obsessive yandere~

Cold, burning liquid rushed down the male’s throat as he gulped at the drink within the short glass.

Whiskey, or more specifically - a Jack Daniels, the honey-brown alcohol that delivered a bitter slap to all those who drank its refreshing nectar. 

It wasn’t his usual drink, and certainly not one he’d ever guzzle like a parched beast.

Hell, who in their right mind would do that? Even with a single sip, it left your chest burning with its heat.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

Or, more of, self-loathing times call for a quick, one-way ticket to Forget-Me Ville and Cringe Island.

The bar he sat at was lively, filled with drunken laughter and slurred speeches of men and women who have been out for far too long.

But it was Friday night, so who cared?

A rainy, cold, sucky, depressing Friday night, one of which his friends tried to make a bit better by taking the pissed off, green-haired hero out for drinks.

They certainly hadn’t expected Izuku, an innocent little guy who couldn’t handle his liquor for shit, to shoot down an entire glass of whiskey.

At first, he ordered a simple beer - a starter drink if you will.

It didn’t take but ten minutes for him to gulp that glass down, and he was onto his next drink - a sangria wine cooler. His typical drink. He always was more of a fruity guy, after all, preferring the sweet tang over the bitter bite.

But as the night raged on, and so did his inner turmoil, he kept ordering stronger and stronger drinks, until he got to the whiskey. You could say he lost his sense of reason a while ago.

He was still seething with rage, not as much as before but the mixture of anger and frustration swirled hotly with the alcohol pumping through his veins and sitting in his belly.

You could say it was keeping him warm in this lifeless atmosphere.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t think of you, his precious little darling. He could barely think straight, mind occupied with too many thoughts to be able to understand any of them. It was all a garbled mess, one he chose to ignore.

Was that a good or a bad thing? He’d find out later.

But for now?

He needed another drink.

In the beginning, this Friday seemed like it was going to be one of the best he’ll ever have.

For months this pro hero has been working alongside detectives with catching a murderous villain known by the name “Ghoul.”

They were sick and twisted, their motives unknown, their trail hard to tract.

He had only one encounter with them, but he was too late to catch them.

That’s the day he was brought in to help aid the case.

But, that day haunted him for weeks. He knew that if he had arrived at the bloody scene sooner, he could have captured that cannibalistic fuck, brought justice to those who had already died by their mangy hands.. and prevented the deaths that would ensue after.

He’d known horrible villains before, but this one was different. Their teeth were sharp, blood permanently stained their clothes, and they gave off a wolfish vibe. Yes, a hunter. One who tore flesh from human bones and munched on it until someone screamed in terror for help.

For months he helped gather intel, piece puzzle pieces together, aid with location predictions and stakeout missions, until finally - they found that bastard.

It was more of a hunch than anything really, that Ghoul would show up to that site.

Ghoul, while hard to track, left a pattern in their wake. They avoided certain areas, thrived where the poor were at their weakest. The murders always seemed to happen at the exact same time behind run-down fast-food restaurants.

It was unclear if the sicko liked a hearty human meal with their victims own stomachs filled with greasy, fattening food, or if it was just convenient to them, either way - the perp was too damn sloppy.

To regular ol’ police personnel, the murders would just always happen there, behind restaurants.

But after Deku’s team began tracking where each and every murder occurred, it was quite easy to tell they were drawing, funnily enough, a circle around the city’s map.

It was stupid, childish, and downright idiotic, but damn if that didn’t lead the team to find the cold-blooded killer.

Adrenaline and pure hatred for the villain fueled Deku’s onslaught of attacks, each seemingly more powerful and less calculated. His mind was muddled.

He was filled with rage, finally being able to see the shitty excuse of a human again, but it affected his movements. He was being hasty, careless, not his usual calculated self.

And that’s what brought him his demise.

His shoulder was harshly bitten, razor-sharp teeth tearing through the fabric of his suit and shredding up the skin on his shoulder. Their quirk pumped through his blood instantly, making him collapse onto his knees, paralyzed. He hissed in pain as the sickeningly warm liquid flowed down his arm, unable to stop himself from face planting onto the dirty gravel of the alleyway.

He had lost, and Ghoul got away.

He still remembers it, after all, it was only hours ago that it happened.

The sun had long since set, the crescent moon hung high in the sky as her stars shimmered around her. His wound was stitched up and healed by doctors, leaving only a bitter scar to remind him of his failure.

He failed not only himself but those who counted on him.

God, he sucked.

And so, he ordered another drink.

He wanted to forget. He didn’t want to feel the failure sting at his fragile heart anymore.

It was too much to take.

What type of hero let the villain get away, knowing full well that they would kill again?

They couldn’t track Ghoul’s trail anymore, for the circle had been completed - and they were left with nothing with the numbing feeling of brutal loss.

Hours blurred together as his mind went hazy. His speech slurred together, dull, green eyes unfocused and mouth blabbering out nonsense to his friends that he couldn’t even really hear. It just- came out. 

Soon enough, he was being dragged out of the bar by his annoyingly sober friends.

The night had gotten colder since they first entered the warm bar, rain pelted down like freezing bullets flying from a machine gun. A dirty old awning kept them dry as they stood still at the front of the bars entrance, the loud music bouncing off the walls inside echoed down the empty streets.

Heavy streams of salty rainwater poured off the edge of the awning, splattering down into a mud puddle that emptied into the sewer grate below.

Who doesnt love the musty stench of rain on asphalt?

Hell, the smell itself, combined with the strong yet savory scent of the Korean barbeque joint across the street was enough to make him nauseous. He had drank far too much, and his stomach was suffering the consequences. He should have eaten more before drinking. How foolish.

 “It’s pretty late, you should head home.” Reasoned his best friend, Todoroki, puffs of condensation leaving his mouth as the warm breath met cold air, pressing a freezing hand to the back of the freckled boy's sweaty neck to jolt his drowsy, drunken self into a more alert state. Nothing but time could sober you up, but damn if that hand didn’t help slap some energy into him.

“Yeaahh, ye-yeahhh.. I gooht you Todooroe.” God, he sounded like someone high on anesthesia after being awoken from a surgery - which he definitely would be able to compare this experience to. Being a hero meant at least a few surgeries a year. Comes with the job.

Plus, this wasn’t the first time he’s been drunk.

He sure as hell hated the aftermath, but some nights it felt as if the hot burn of alcohol was the only thing that could keep him sane.

This was just one of those nights - or perhaps it was multiple nights slammed into one from just how stupidly drunk he was. The world was blurred, and Izuku doubted he could even walk straight at this point.

The half and half hero waved down a stray taxi, street water splashing up onto the sidewalk as the yellow vehicle came to a screeching halt.

“Get home safe.” Todoroki sighed out his nose at seeing his friends out-of-it state, helping the giddy and jelly-like hero into the back seat.

Izuku pouted, grabby hands clinging onto his friend's shirt in protest.

With a half-hearted chuckle, Todoroki pried himself free from his grip, handing the cab driver more than enough yen to get the drunk boy home.

He gave the taxi driver an address, and soon the car was rolling off down the street, Izukus flushed face pressed against the cold, fogging glass and staring with eyes full of tears at his friend.

Though, it seemed as if he had forgotten a promise he made to someone very important to him. Someone who he devoted his entire life to.

Someone who he risked everything for.

You.

His princess who had been locked in a small, dark room all day, wrists tightly cuffed to loose chains on the wall. The only light provided was a rusty oil lamp Izuku had gotten at a yard sale one day. The flame was dull, and left the room covered in shadows.

The tile below was as cold as it had been since the morning when Izuku had forcefully chained you there for misbehaving the night before.

You had deserved this punishment for disobeying him.

That’s what he tried to convince, anyway.

He was only trying to keep you safe! He hated punishing you, hated the way you thrashed and screamed at him in protest - that only meant he had to be rougher with you. You had broken into the most dangerous room in the apartment, afterall.

The kitchen.

There were far too many harmful objects in there!

Knives that could slice your delicate skin to shreds, forks that could jab into your body, hot stoves that could leave you with a nasty burn, and canned food stored too high up on the shelf that could fall and hit your head.. It was for your protection that the kitchen was off-limits to you!

Plus, Izuku, your oh-so kind and sweet boyfriend, had no problem with cooking you meals to eat together. In fact, he loved it!

He felt accomplished whenever you'd hum in approval at his cooking, or even turned on if that slutty mouth of yours just so happened to moan around your utensil. 

Those were the nights dinner was forgotten.

But you had been foolish, entering the kitchen for a midnight snack whilst Izuku was out on patrol. Your sneaky little self thought you were clever, leaving no trace of your betrayal.

Until you were awoken hours later by a green glow, blood running cold as a pair of murderous neon eyes stared into yours.

It had to be one of the scariest sights to date.

His pupils were shrunk, green electricity buzzing around his large body. He hovered over your trembling body, a wrapper in between his two gloved fingers.

He was so close, your noses brushed together.

You swore he could see into your soul, as well as see the fear in your (E/C) eyes.

“What is this, (Y/N)?” He had asked innocently, hurt coating his words.

“I-” you wanted to make an excuse, protest, say it wasn’t yours, but every single letter died on your tongue as his face pressed closer, a sadistic smile overtaking his features.

“You didn’t.. You didn’t go into the kitchen, did you?”

His hot, minty breath blew all over your face as he spoke, and you shriveled back in fear as insanity crossed his expression in that way you were far too familiar with.

The giggles bubbled in his throat as he tried to fight logic with delusion, “It wasn’t you, right? Someone broke in, didn’t they? You wouldn’t break my trust, would you?”

His voice was cracking, fingers digging into the flesh of the bed beneath you as his eye began to twitch.

He stared down at you, curly green hair brushing against the sides of your face, waiting far too long for an answer he would never get. His bottom lip wobbled, feat tears welling up in his eyes and falling onto your pale cheeks as his body shook with anger and sadness.

He was already stressed about the following mornings mission, and to come home to his princess betraying his trust was not something he enjoyed.

And so, you were punished.

But he had promised you wouldnt be locked in there for long, he knew how you feared the dark. He had conditioned you to fear it, after all. It was his greatest accomplishment.

You were always so willing to cuddle into him when the lights were off.

A few hours turned into nearly an entire day, the only indication you had of this was past experiences, skin around your wrists rubbed raw from the metal cuffs, and the unusual sting of your ass and bare legs burning from the freezing tile beneath you.

That was the least of your worries, though.

Worst of all - the flame, which was holding you together and keeping you from crying out for help to those who might hear you in this soundproof room, which would no doubt get you a harsher punishment, was about to die out.

That flame, albeit small, was your only hope of surviving this.

Izuku was typically a very reliable person, it was strange for him to not keep his word to you. He devoted his being to you, worshipped the ground you regrettably walked upon, why would he break his own promise?

The thought of being trapped in the dark, the echo of your chains taunting your delirious mind had you close to tears. You didn’t want to be alone here anymore.

You watched in horror as the flame got smaller and smaller, tears now rolling down your cheeks as you pleaded under your breath for it to last longer.

The air vents around you provided enough oxygen for it to survive, but that damn oil..

Where was he?! 

Suddenly, the door to his apartment flew open, giggles seeping through the house and teasing your ears.

Then, there was no more light.

A screech tore from your throat, a desperate call of his name as you thrashed around, tears pouring from your eyes.

You felt as if you couldnt breathe as your head whipped around the space, desperate for more air and light as your lungs seemed to scream.

You couldnt feel the cold chill of the floor anymore, body numb as adrenaline pumped through your veins.

What was in the dark?

How big was this space again?

Rather, how small was it?

What was that noise?

Did something just touch you?

There was wind, there was wind, no. A cold chill?

Oh god what was that-

Loud, clumsy footsteps made their way closer and closer to the locked metal door. You sobbed as your heard the jingle of keys, metal scraping against metal as he fumbled with inserting them into the lock.

Until finally, you were basked in the honey-dew glow of the bedroom.

You fought to control your breathing as he dropped to his knees, taking far too long for your liking to get the cuffs off.

But at least now you know why he took so god damn long.

You could smell the putrid miasma of alcohol wafting off him the moment he stepped into the darkroom, tainted with the salty effluvium of rainwater as it dripped onto your skin from his damp, messy hair.

Rage bubbled inside you as he giggled once more at your tear-stained cheeks, “D-did yoou miss mee?” He slurred, a giddy smile on his face as the stale stench of what he had been drinking all night circled around your head like a rotten wreath.

Instead of answering, like you knew you should have, you turned your head towards the door, soaking in the light you were previously deprived of. Even if it was just a mere minute.

At your silence, his smile quickly turned into a frown. Big, forestry green eyes welled up with sadness, bottom lip trembling, “(Y-Y/N)?” He couldnt help but reach out, scarred fingers wishing to wipe away those stray tears from your face.

You missed him.

That’s why you were crying, surely.

He wanted to comfort you, say that he was there now and that you could both cuddle until twinkling dawn.

You weren’t alone anymore.

He was all you needed, and he was right beside you.

He’ll always be there for you, and you’ll always be there for him.

Because you love each other.

“D-Don’t cry-”

His cold hand was smacked away, and his usually sturdy body was shoved back so that you could scramble out of the freezing closet.

You needed space.

More room to breath.

To be on flooring that didnt feel like ice cutting into your flesh.

Hell, you were sure the skin that had the unholy misfortune of touching the floor were burned red at this point from how long you had to sit there.

Not to mention your poor wrists, you couldnt even bear the sight of them being so raw. You were pretty sure they would bleed if you even touched them. Your body was screaming in pain, stomach growing for food, mouth parched from not being given water so that you wouldnt make a mess on the floor.

You were weak, shaking, and afraid.

That bastard had the gall to say not to cry, to look concerned when he knew damn well how much you absolutely despised the dark.

At first it was a childish fear, but the moment he snatched you from your regular life, that fear became a reality. There were countless nights you’d be punished by being left alone in the dark.

He didnt want to hurt you, no, and he never has, but damn if he hasnt conditioned you to be afraid. 

Storms were the worst.

What was once a peaceful white noise turned into a terrifying nightmare once the moon rose in the sky.

There were times you were locked in that closet during violent storms, screaming and begging to be let out.

Sometimes you were, other times you werent as lucky.

Though it was only raining right now, each pitter-patter of the droplets against the window or balcony made hairs on your neck stand up. The sound was previously muted in the closet, but now it was hitting you like a freight train on a track that never seemed to end.

You heard him scramble to his feet as you wiped your tears away, the creak of the floorboards as he stumbled towards you.

A subtle bang made you jump, his foot no doubt hitting the chest at the end of your bed. Everso the clumsy one, even in an illuminated room.

Suddenly, he was right behind you, arms wrapping tightly around your middle as his head dropped to your shoulder, nuzzling his cheek against your neck.

Perhaps it would have been pleasant, comforting, even, if he wasnt soaked to the bone. The cold water from his dark grey, long-sleeved sweater was now seeping into your own thin clothes, freezing wet hair sending shivers down your spine and it presses against your heated, sensitive skin. Some drops even went down your back, ripping a gasp from you.

This wasnt comforting at all.

This was suffocating.

You squirmed in his grasp, desperate to get the hell away from him.

You were already pissed, and him wrapping around you and squeezing you tight like a snake to its prey was the cherry on top of your disastrous sundae.

With a grunt, you used the rest of what little strength you had left to rip yourself free from his ‘hug,’ nearly tripping on your own two feet as you rushed away from him.

He pouted at you as you shoved yourself into a corner of the room, finding comfort in being able to see all around you, no surprise attacks from behind, only what was in front of you.

Your breath was heavy as you glared at him, nostrils flaring and jaw clenching.

Truly, you had some nerve.

But it was hard to help it.

He broke a promise.

He never does that, and yet in your time of need- he wasn’t there for you.

For once.

He knew damn well you were locked up, scared shitless, expecting him to return home in a few short hours, yet here he is - looking absolutely clueless as to why you were suddenly so angry at him.

Tears streamed down his drunkenly flushed cheeks, hurt by how you shoved him away again.

All he wanted to do was snuggle you, his body exhausted yet numbed by the alcohol still burning in his tummy.

“Where..” you started, voice low, scratchy, and dripping with venom that reached deaf ears. “Where have you been!”

Just as he was about to open that mouth of his, no doubt about babble nearly incoherently - form logical excuses with evidence to back him up, say he lost track of time which you know damn well he never did, you shut him up.

You hated dealing with him when he was drunk, hell - you hated dealing with his obsessive ass most days.

But drunk? Drunk he got worse. He was clingy, more emotional, and worst of all? He didn’t have a filter.

He always managed to hide those more sinister desires under that sweet mask of his - until alcohol brought it out.

God, the smell of it made you sick to your stomach, but luckily you didn't have any food to throw up.

No thanks to him.

“What the fuck, Midoriya?!” You leered at him, noticing quickly the way his eyes darkened in that way they always did when you referred to him by his family name - the name he hated being called by you of all people.

“I’ve been trapped in that room all goddamn day! You said it’d be a few hours? What the hell happened to that! Look at the fucking time! Nine hours! Nine hours I’ve been stuck in my own personal hell! I can’t feel my fucking legs because of you!”

“I-” he attempted to start, the firm grip he had on his sanity quickly loosening with every shout you threw at him.

You cut him off, again, pent up rage now overtaking your sense of reason and fear, “What the hell happened?! You know what! I don’t even care! Not only did you,” You pointed a trembling finger at his stilled body, “break a promise! Something you swore you would never fucking do, you also had the nerve at laugh at me as I was trembling in fear!”

You looked like a mess, body shaking and bent over itself, one arm clutched around your waist as if to hold yourself together as that accusing finger stayed trained on him. Your hair was messy, frizzy, soaked with sweat and oily as hell from being denied a shower. Your clothes, thin and girly - much to your utter distaste, but to his satisfaction - now damp thanks to his carelessness.

All of this was because of him.

It always was.

Every single thing that went wrong in your life always seemed to be because of him nowadays.

You couldnt believe you let yourself fall for that misleading smile all those years ago, only to end up like this.

A mouse in a lions den.

But hell if that would stop you from squeaking your heart out till his razor-sharp claws ultimately caged you back in.

“Do you see my wrists?!” with a strangled sob, you held up both of your arms to show him the mess he already knew was his fault, “look at them! They hurt so fucking much because you left me in those disgusting handcuffs! This is all your fault!”

Your knees were wobbling so bad you swore your legs would give out at any second, but you’d be damned if you didnt hold your ground to this lunatic.

True, some days he was nice, normal, even. But days like these, or days much worse, you were reminded of just who he really was.

A monster was stretching it. He never intentionally tried to hurt you, your friends, or even your family.

No, he just stole you from your apartment in the dead of night, convinced the reason you were crying was because of the thunderstorm and not because some psycho snatched you from your window like some sort of 1970’s movie trope. That night he cradled your thrashing body to his hard chest with his strong arms, cooing at you and whispering sweet nothings into your ear as you begged to be let go. You were just scared of the storm~ He would keep you safe~ He is the number one hero, afterall~

That was all utter bullshit, straight from the beginning.

And even now he was still wrapped in the delusion that you loved him as much as he loved you.

A fated pair.

Please.

But you still held on to the pathetic hope that one day he’d snap out of it, return to the Izuku you knew from the beginning and not the person who now stood a few feet in front of you, staring with cold, emotionless eyes.

“I’m sorry.” he says impassively, face as blank as a new canvas - unreadable and dangerous in every way imaginable. It was hard not to feel as if he was just waiting to strike, already calculating his next moves like he always seemed to do. It was far easier to deal with an angry Izuku than one where you couldn’t read his already complex emotions, thoughts, anything. He was the definition of expressive, and it truly took a fuckin bullet to the back of his head for him to be like this.

So clearly, you hit a nerve.

Wonderful.

“Oh?” Despite knowing the implications of the situation you found yourself in, it was impossible not to laugh at such a pathetic fucking apology.

Knowing him, he probably was sorry, deep down inside. You knew he didn’t like seeing you hurt, especially if it was because of his doing, and yet- you pressed on. 

Pent up anger was a nasty thing to deal with, especially since it’s been brewing inside you for so long.

“Are you now? You don’t fucking seem sorry! If you were really sorry, you wouldnt have done it! But look where we are! You’re such a fucking-!”

“Shut up.” he growls out borderline maliciously, stumbling slightly as he turns to walk out the door. He was clearly fed up, his strong hands clenched into threatening fists, but so were you. Even if you were undeniably frightened to confront him, you wouldn't let that stop you from pushing yourself off the wall - your safe space - and wobbling after him.

“Look at you! You can’t even walk right! How drunk are you, huh? Washing away your feelings again, are you? What about my feelings! Huh?!”

You were pushing it.

You really were.

The entire house felt it, the air chillingly still as Izuku had to grind his teeth together so as to not lash out at you. 

He didn’t want to.

That was the last thing he wanted to do, but all that stress and self-hatred previously washed away was coming back up to the burning surface that cages his discretion.

Heavy breaths blew out his nostrils as he made his way to the living room, desperate for you to get the hint from his hunched over body that he wanted you to fuck off.

Yeah, he messed up, deep down he knew he did but currently his mind was far too clogged to even begin to comprehend it.

You were like an annoying mosquito, your words morphing into a persistent buzz.

He was ignoring you, and that made you livid.

He always ignored you when your problems were deemed irrelevant, or when he found you were being far too vexatious.

He always did this, always.

You were trapped in a cell with some asshole who didn't even want to listen to you.

Obviously, you had enough.

Typically you’d back off, go fume in another room or punch the wall till the skin around your knuckles tore open and dripped blood everywhere, making him snap out of whatever state he was in just to suffocate you in his toxic love.

Oh how life proved to be full of surprises.

A low growl of your own slithered passed your teeth, eyes practically burning red as if you prayed you had a quirk that could do something against him.

“You’re a selfish bastard! You fucking piss-poor excuse of a hero-!”

SLAP!

A shrill scream tore from your raw throat, the echo of skin burning against skin dizzying you as you were thrown back onto the floor.

Boiling hot tears streamed down your face as you sobbed out of pure fear, body shaking uncontrollably and you shuffled backward, desperate to get yourself as far away from him as you could currently manage.

It had all happened so fast, you didn't even have time to register it as it occurred.

One moment his hands were gripping the back of the couch with such strength you could see his knuckles turn a ghostly white, and the next, crackling, neon-green lightning surrounded his body, illuminating the dim apartment in a slimy glow. Before you even had a chance to register just what happened, he whipped his head around, his eyes, typically blown wide with sickening love and sparkling under delusional illusions, were narrowed and glowing in a way that sent shivers of immense regret down your spine. His arm whipped back with his hand, the very hand that delivered a painfully paralyzing slap.

He always spoke with his hands, and you just happened to be too close to him at that moment.

The reddended skin of your cheek burned, and you swore you could feel more than just tears streaming down it.

You were stuck shaking on the floor, imaginary bile rising in your throat, and all you could do was stare at him with wide, bloodshot and terrified eyes.

He had never laid a hand on you like that before, you didnt know what to think.

He always promised to do you no intentional harm, to never lay a finger on you with intentions of making you cry out in pain.

He had never acted so feral and out of line before.

It.. it scared you in a way you never felt before.

The gap between you grew, you really were just a mouse trembling in a lion's den.

“P-princess-” he shakily called out, voice weak and uneven, quirk diminishing into thin air like it never was there in the first place.

His own eyes were wide and filled with immense regret, tears already pouring down his flushed, freckled face.

He took one step forward, and you scrambled back, hand coming up to touch at your cheek, shock making you feel faint at the sight of blood coating your trembling fingertips.

You felt sick once again, empty stomach feeling as if it was collapsing in on itself to push even the tiniest bit of nonexistent food out.

You didnt know what to do.

Choking on your own sobs, you tried desperately to shuffle away from him, but he only came closer.

You cried out the moment he dove at you, your hands clasped together tightening against your chest as if to hold yourself together as this bear of a man wraps his arms cold, soaked arms protectively around you, his large shoulders violently shaking as he buried his snotty, tear stained face deep into your unruly tresses.

The stench of alcohol burned your nostrils, edging you on to try and push his heavy chest away. You tried, but you failed miserably, resulting in his arms pulling you even closer to his sweaty and damp body. It was disgusting.

“L-let go of me!” you wailed, your own tears stinging your eyes as your vision blurred and you could no longer tell just what you were staring blindly at, the dimness of the living-room paired with the suffocating embrace of your captor swallowing you whole.

You couldnt take it.

You could barely breathe at this point.

“p-p-ple .. plea-s-se..!” your cries intertwined with his own desperate ones as he babbled nearly incoherently on about how sorry he was, how he never meant to do something so horrible.

“I’m not a monster!” he howled out, desperate words seeping with ululation.

He was desperately trying to convince himself of that.

He wasn’t talking to you at all.

He was talking to himself.

He wasn’t a monster.

He wasn’t a monster.

He’s not like him.

He’s not like that piece of filth.

No, he’s so much better.

He’s a good man.

No, no, he’s not a monster.

He’s your hero.

He could never purposely harm you.

No.

It was an accident.

An accident.

You’d understand.

He knew you would!

You always understood him.

You were like two peas in a pod!

You forgave him, surely.

Yes.

Yes!

You did the moment he hugged you, the moment he started comforting you.

He was a good man.

How could you not forgive him?

He loved you so, so, so much.

You knew that-

You knew he would never do such a thing.

His breathing was even, eyes wide and straining as he stared at the floor, a crooked smile on his face as he repeated the words over and over again in his twisted mind.

He never met to hurt you.

No.

He didnt.

“Plea-” you tried once more, biting your wobbling lip as he squeezed you even tighter.

“No, no, no, no, no, no..” he heaved out, hand coming up to gently pet your oily hair as if to calm you. His head shook back and forth in your hair, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m so sorry, honey.”

There was nothing you could do.

You were stuck alone in a mouse trap, the cold, metallic bar snapped down on top of your frail neck.

There was no escape.

There never was.

His form of ‘love’ far too strong for you to even attempt to.

And so, you gave up. 

Just like you always did.

There was no point in resisting him.

Sticky blood trickles down your raw cheek, dripping down onto the chilled bare skin of his neck, still cold from the damp clothes he wore, instantly catching his wondering attention.

“You.. you’re bleeding?” he whispered guiltily, already feeling a new wave of salty tears building up in the corner of his eyes.

His large left hand trailed up the skin of your neck, idly collecting the thin trail of red liquid onto his fingertips and smearing a path up to your jawline, stopping the moment your shivering form flinched.

He frowned at the red mark taking up half your beautifully innocent face, a small cut resting in the middle of it where no doubt the ring he foolishly wore as an accessory swiped.

Guilt made his stomach churn, the familiar burn of acid rising in his throat.

A deep inhale, and he swallowed it down, arm still wrapped around you, languidly rubbing your back as he stared with nothing short of pity at your wrecked state.

Your lips wobbled, holding in a reply as you force yourself to look into the vast abyss of darkness that was the hallway of your apartment instead of his orbs gleaming with concern.

Concern.

Concern for something he caused.

At least he had a heart, but you were still scared shitless and wanted nothing more than to run away. You were still fighting to regulate your breathing.

His thumb suddenly pressed against the slap mark, ripping a yelp from your throat as your head flung back to avoid any more contact. It was then that you noticed a pounding headache echoing inside your skull, yet another reason to aid in the water running down your face. Pain consumed your body, and you wanted nothing more than to escape this shell you were trapped in.

Openly chewing on his lip, both of his arms went back around you, cradling your delicate form to his chest.

Without a word, he stood up, practically forcing you to have to wrap your bare legs around his waist to keep yourself steady, something you were trained to do by him. He loved it when your legs were around his waist whenever he picked you up.

It became a regrettable second nature.

Heavy foot steps brought you back to your bedroom, and then into the bathroom connected to it.

Your fears crept up your spine at the pitch black room you were forced into, remembering how you were in a similar position just a few minutes ago.

When would this cycle end?

Ah. 

It wouldnt, would it?

You were set delicately down atop the cold marble counter as if you were a fragile piece of glass, which, in many ways, you were. The tears had at least stopped, but your body continuously shook like a chihuahua, your breathing still hard to control as fumbled around mindlessly with your fingers to serve as a distraction.

He flipped the light on, momentarily blinding your sensitive gaze with its bright light.

Sniffing, you wiped at your nose, watching as he walked about the bathroom, grabbing a wash cloth just to run it under cool water. The rain was still heavily pouring just outside the wall mixed with the loud splatters of the stream against the white sink. It would have been calming had cold water not splashed up onto your bare thighs, making goosebumps prickle along your skin. Your thighs were nearly numb at this point.

After ringing most of the water out, he held it up to your cheek, staring at you.

Taking the cue, you hesitantly took the cool, wet cloth from his grasp and gingerly pressed it to the swelling skin on your face. You hiss out in pain, dry sobs wracking your body at the stinging pain and the fact that he was still far too close for you to currently handle.

The pain on your cheek paired with the numbing cold was a good distraction.

You chewed on your lip as you squeezed your eyes shut, freehand gripping tightly at the hem of your shirt as you listen to him fumble around in the cabinet hanging over to the left.

You jumped the moment you felt his larger fingers ghost over the ones holding the cloth to your cheek, cautious (E/C) eyes opening ever so slightly as you looked over at him.

You couldnt help but feel idiotic as you suddenly felt flustered at the intense gaze he was giving you, eyes now gleaming viridescent in the white light of the bathroom almost staring right into your soul.

It was like he was reading you, pulling words off your own frail pages just so he could recite them to you.

He did this often.

Keeping silent, staring for long periods of times as he tried out scenarios in his head of the words he was going to say.

It gave you chills, but yet, it made you feel like you were the center of his drifting attention.

The sun his planets revolve tirelessly around, repeating the same cycles like a record forever skipping on repeat.

In these moments, though, he became an enigma.

Not exactly something your fragile state of mind entirely needed right now.

You shivered when his palm came to cup your soft jawline, thumb absentmindedly tracing over your parted lips.

His mouth opened, ready to say something, but he stayed quiet.

Mouth shutting, he leaned forward, tentatively bringing you into another hug.

“I’m sorry.” he repeated, the words nearly as quiet as your stilled breath, but you had nothing to say to it. And he knew it.

He was used to you staying silent.

He would prefer it most of the time.

So he could sink into his fantasies, the deluded fantasies that you loved him wholeheartedly, that you chose to stay silent as to not hurt his feelings, and always forgave him no matter what.

That you would forever and always be his.

He wouldnt give you the choice not to be.

He wouldnt let you leave when you’re his favorite person in the whole wide world.

The only one he needed.

And he was the only one you needed.

Yes.

Of course.

You didn’t need anyone else but him.

And he didn’t need anyone else but you.

So what if a few more people died because of his mistake, he would capture Ghoul eventually. Regardless, he would always come home to you.

Always.

And that’s all he needed.

He chucked against your neck, having buried it in the crook as his mind slipped through his shaky fingertips.

The Big Bad Wolf and his Little Red Riding Hood.

God how he loved the comparison.

Perhaps he was addicted.

Addicted to you.

Even now, as he inhaled your sugary sweet, natural scent stained with the metallic smell of dried blood.

Pulling back, he gazed into your hesitant eyes, delicately resting his forehead against yours.

His hair, now dry and no longer dripping with salty rain, tickled your skin, making you involuntarily take in a deep breath.

Closing his eyes once more, he soaks in the moment of your warm body in his frigid embrace, nothing else mattered to him.

Just you.

Only you.

“L-let me see your cheek,” he asks softly, words not as wobbly as before,  afraid that if he spoke too loudly in such a thin atmosphere, everything would shatter abruptly like glass.

Your body moved on instinct as if you were used to doing as he asked immediately no matter what, pulling the cool cloth away from your burning cheek.

Resisting the urge to sniffle and flinch away, you allow him to rewet the cloth, holding still as he dabs lightly at the small wound.

“I know it hurts,” he breathes out, “shh, shh, it’s okay.” it was always so strange how his voice still managed to calm your nerves even after all you’ve been through.

Deep down, you knew he was still that loving and energetic boy you met back at that coffee shop.

If only you knew how sinister and twisted he could really be.

Perhaps.. perhaps you wouldn’t be in such a situation now.

But there was never any point in pondering the what-ifs.

All you could do was fight your mind from seeking normalities in such a relationship as this, if you could even call it that.

You wouldn’t succumb to his desires like you always did.

You wouldnt lose yourself.

No.

You couldn’t let that happen.

Or was it too late already?

You hissed when you felt the stinging seer of rubbing alcohol dotted onto your cut, cleaning the wound.

“It’s okay.” he repeats, cooing to you with a reassuring smile that should have made you feel sick all over again.

You let him apply antibiotic ointment and a small cheek bandage, his hands shaky yet careful. You could say he has experience in applying bandages.

It was uncomfortable as it sat on your raw skin, but it’s not like you were going to go and rip it off. That would feel like ripping off a wax strip on a sunburn.

Humming, he gingerly wipes away the dried blood on your neck with the same washcloth, not minding how blood-stained the innocently white fabric became. 

Next came your still aching wrists. There wasn’t much he could do for your legs, but at least he had roll-on bandages on standby.

Turning the cold tap on, he lets you run them under cool water before gently dabbing the stray droplets away, careful not to press too hard.

He really needed to invest in softer handcuffs, it’s just- those were the only ones he had, and he didn’t use them often. Besides, it never got this bad before. But that wasn’t a good excuse.

He’d have to order some online tomorrow..

Applying more ointment around the area, the kind that offers instant relief, he wraps your smaller wrists up as best he could, cringing himself whenever you’d flinch.

He’d make it up to you.. Pancakes in the morning, perhaps?

Izuku then begins to sluggishly put away everything he brought out of the cabinet, tossing what needed to be tossed into the trashcan.

He was slow, almost as if he was trying to keep his balance, which he no doubt was. 

Standing in front of you once again, he wrapped his arms around you, whispering “up” in your ear.

It was something he would always say when he wanted you to wrap your arms and legs around him so he could carry you like a baby.

But who were you to refuse?

It wasn’t as if he couldnt pick you up without your limbs wrapped around him, it was more for your comfort rather than his convenience.

So, tentatively, you wrapped your still shaking arms around his neck, doing the same with your legs around his bent waist.

“Good girl.” he praised as he began walking back into the bedroom, stopping just at your side of the bed to place you down at the edge.

Numbly, you let him remove your rain-soaked clothes from all the hugging, sitting on the bed in just your panties as you watched him toss the clothes in the hamper by the door

It wasn’t the first time he insisted on treating you like a child who needed help changing, but at least you didn’t have to walk.

It was hard to remember if it was a good or a bad thing that you didn’t care about being nude in front of him anymore, not even bothering to hide your chest as he came back over with a fresh set of clothes - the strawberry patterned pajamas he always seemed to adore you wearing.

You always looked so innocent in them. The shirt is far too large for your frame, the sleeves hanging off your hands and the large v-neck exposing your collar bones and parts of your shoulders. The bottoms were the regular run of the mill pajama pants, soft as cotton and comfy as hell.

The top truly was the part of the look that tied it all together.

He couldn’t help but smile as your arms immediately raised as he pulled the shirt out of the pile, making quick work of slipping it over your cute head and helping your arms into the sleeves.

He liked to take care of you.

You needed him to, after all.

You were his innocent, helpless little darling, after all.

Pulling your pants up, he guided your body down into a resting position, dragging the thick, grey, and black patterned comforter over your stilled body.

Such a good girl.

He tucks loose strands of messy (H/C) hair that fell across your face behind your ear, being mindful of the wound.

He stares at it for a moment, his expression holding that of worry and regret.

Pushing off the bed, he stumbles his way to the kitchen in the dark, having turned off the light as he went, the layout of the apartment burned to memory so he could easily avoid furniture.

In the kitchen, he opened the freezer and grabbed an ice pack, one he would commonly use on his own sore muscles and bruises. It hurt his heart knowing he was the reason you had to use it for the first time.

After wrapping it in some paper towels, he trudges his way back into the dark bedroom, eyes wracking over your balled up form, covers bunched over you like a shell.

“Put this on your cheek..” he whispered, placing the pack just in front of your face.

He would love to be the one to hold it to your cheek, but his mind was still hazy, and his words were still slurred. Events could sure as hell sober you up a bit, but damn did that nausea always come back crashing in through the brittle window full force when you’d least expect it.

Rummaging through the drawers once more, he picked up some of his own fresh clothes and made his way into the bathroom again.

All he wants is to sleep, but he also didnt want you to smell dried sweat and rain on his being throughout the night.

He knew you missed him, him and his warmth, you always did, right? No question about it. You must be longing for him even now. 

Wanting him to hold and comfort you just like always.

Numbed adrenaline pumped in his veins as he stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash away his filth and regrets.

God, it felt so good to be able to somewhere warm for once.

The entire night he’s felt nothing but cold.

Not even the fire in his belly or the breath stolen from his lungs could’ve warmed him up.

He was mad at himself. Mad that he lost control and hurt the one thing that mattered the most to him.

Mad that he let himself get disgustingly drunk.

Mad that he walked in the rain like a dumbass just to soak your clothes and make you feel as cold as him.

But at the moment, too many thoughts were flying in his mind for him to properly think, no, he couldnt really even say he was thinking at all.

He was just letting the water splatter on the back of his neck, forehead resting on the cold shower tiles and he watched as water swirled down the drain like a whirlpool. His hair stuck to his cheeks like glue, but he couldn’t find himself caring.

Absentmindedly, his fingers brush across the fresh scar on his broad shoulder.

He swore the longer he stood there, watching the clear flow of water, the looser his grip on himself became.

He couldnt really say he felt anything at all anymore.

When did he lose himself?

Was he ever even really found?

Ah.

With you.

You were the missing piece in his complicated and skull biting puzzle, the one who made him whole and lit up his dull life. You were the reason he felt things anymore, you were the reason he still managed to get up and save people with a clear conscious.

You always had such a positive impact on his life, and he knew he had just as good a one on yours.

A wobbly smile tore his flushed face in two, you both really did need eachother.

He was so happy to have you in his life.

Knowing you’d never leave him.

Turning the boiling hot water off, he stepped out, the plushness of the bath-mat embracing his wet feet as water continued to pour down his nude body.

It felt, it felt so hot suddenly.

His breath came out in exaggerated pants, hands sweeping his hair from his face as the burn of bile rose in his throat.

Lunging for the toilet, he emptied his stomach into the glistening white bowl.

Gasping for air, Izuku whipped his mouth on the back of his hand, still trying to catch his breath as he fumbled to flush.

God, he needed to sit down.

Shakily turning the bathroom faucet on, he washed his hand, making quick work of brushing his teeth before lazily drying himself off.

Ignoring the other clothes he brought in, the toned hero simply pulled on a pair of black boxers before walking out of the bathroom.

Green eyes immediately looked at your form, just to see the soft rise and fall of your chest as you soundly slept, the ice pack sitting comfortably on your cheek.

You looked so adorable.

You always did.

Smiling once more, he walked over to the bed, pulling back the sheets just to slide his larger, warm body in and next to your own.

He sighs blissfully the moment he tugs you into his embrace, relishing in the feeling of your soft body against him.

Removing the icepack from your cheek, not wanting you to awake to a cheek burning from the cold, he places it on the nightstand before snuggling closer to you.

You always fit so perfectly in his big arms.

You were meant to be by his side.

And you loved it, didn’t you?

Eventually, he fell asleep, soft snores echoing around the quiet room filled with the downpour of rain still pouring down outside the large glass windows,

But you were still wide awake.

It was hard to remember the last time you got a good night’s rest, especially when the room was spine-chillingly dark..

Hard to remember what life was like before you even met your own personal nightmare.

You were used to the exhaustion, the dark circles kissing at the skin under your eyes becoming normal the day you were brought here.

Oh, how foolish you were.

You should have locked your window that fateful night.

But heroes are quite stealthy, aren’t they?

Was this even reality at this point? Or all just a figment of your imagination, protecting you from the true horrors before your very eyes.

Either answer wasnt one you wanted.

But you never had a choice.

Tears slipping from your eyes like they always seemed to do, you stared longingly off into the distance, the warmth pressed against your back pulling you further into your own bubbling madness.

All it took was a signal thought for this to all become normal.

For the pain to wash away with your tears.

‘Maybe this is ok.’

[anightflower]

Come and Find Me Chapter 4: The Andrew Curtis Case

Guys I am so sorry this took so long. On top of school kicking my ass, I had to rewrite and reedit this chapter several times until I got to one that I deemed worthy. I am going to try and post Chapter Five early for you guys if I can. 

Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Rape, Abuse

Masterlist 

Spencer glanced around the room at all the police officers assembled. He cleared his throat. 

“The Unsub is a white male in his late 20s to mid-30s. He is a man with an average build and a friendly face, someone who women would not pose as a threat.”

“Since there were no signs of forced entry, we believe he’s posing as someone who women would let into their house. Classic cases of this include maintenance men there to check up on things, someone who needs help after their car broke down, or a similar case like that.” Emily explained. “This is a man who fakes confidence, but in reality views himself as inadequate in some way, he knows he can’t fight off another man, so he chooses women who live alone and are essentially defenseless.” 

“Yet, he hates that they are successful enough to support themselves or that they have any sort of power.” Morgan chimed in.

“He clearly was cheated on or had some sort of marital issue that caused him to spiral into this spree. He is a sexual sadist projecting his partner onto the women he attacks, that’s why he chokes them, watching the life drain from their eyes sparks something in him and gives him a sense of power. That is also why he rapes his victims, he loves the idea that he is all powerful and they are helpless.” Hotch explained. 

Spencer swallowed, “Comparing his last four victims it seems his type is 20-30 year old females with (Y/C/H) and (Y/C/E).” 

Which coincidentally looks like the love of my life. Spencer thought, repressing a shudder.

________________________________________________________________

Spencer starred in shock at the scene around him. He was just finishing up the geographical profile, when they had received a call about yet another body. 

Her empty bulking eyes stared up at the ceiling, her body was beaten, cut, and bruised. 

“Strangulation marks on her neck, multiple stab wounds and injuries, this looks like our unsub.” Emily resisted the urge to shudder. 

“Man, whoever cheated on this guy, must have really broken him.” Morgan mused, looking around at the bloody scribblings on the wall. 

Spencer knew that if they tested the blood on the wall, it would match the victims. He looked at the frames on the wall, trying to ignore the blood that seemed to coat everything. The victim had her diploma hung up and multiple pictures of her smiling with family or friends. Spencer stared hard at the name on the diploma; Adria Winston.

It scared Spencer how easily he could see you in this woman’s place. Injured, dying, pleading for him, for anyone to save you-

“Reid. Reid, are you alright?” Morgan clapped a hand on Spencer's shoulder, drawing him back to the present. 

Spencer shook himself out of his dazed state. “Yeah, uh I just need to step out for a second.” He said, pushing past Morgan and making his way outside Adria’s house. He pulled out his phone and dialed your number, it was late, so you would most likely be asleep, but-

You picked up on the third ring. “Hi baby, are you alright?” Spencer bit back a smile at the sleepiness in your voice.

“Not really, but I just really needed to hear your voice. How is Ohio?” Spencer asked, trying to distract himself from what he just saw. You could tell, but you played along with it. 

“Not too bad, whoever designed the Google lounge has nothing on me.” You joked. 

“Well, we already knew that.” Spencer smiled. 

“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe some of the cool stuff I found, I’m telling you if the employees complain about these amazing comfy chairs I got for their break room, I am totally coming back and stealing all 22 of them for my apartment.” You said enthusiastically. “They're perfect for reading in Spence, I’m telling you, you would love them.” 

Spencer let out a little laugh, “I’m sure they are. We will have to see if we can find some, but I don’t think 22 will fit in either of our apartments.” 

“I suppose you’re right” You sighed dramatically, but then took a more serious tone of voice. “Are you alright baby?” 

Spencer’s chest tightened at your worried tone of voice. “There’s a sick selfish part of me that is so glad that you aren’t here (Y/N). All of these girls look so much like you-” Spencer paused, swallowing back tears. “I just am so glad you are safe, I don’t think I could focus as well on this case if I knew you could possibly be in danger.” 

“Aw Spencer, I am so sorry baby. You aren’t sick or selfish for wanting me to be safe, everyone focuses on the safety of those they love, it’s only human. I know you are going to catch this guy, you are the most brilliant man and agent I have ever met. Just don’t tell your team I said that, I don’t want a bad reputation before they even meet me.” You teased, trying to lighten his dark mood. 

Spencer let out a small laugh and sniffled. “Trust me the team is going to love you. We will have to figure out when you can meet them, but I definitely want to wait until things settle down a bit here.” 

There was silence on your end for a second. “Listen Spence, I can stay here a bit longer if it will help you focus, but when I come home I am taking self-defense classes and such. I want you to have a sane mind knowing that your girlfriend actually can handle herself. I honestly think it will help me keep sane too, after hearing everything about this case.” 

Spencer heart skipped a beat, as much as he wanted you safe and sound, he also needed to hold you in his arms to keep his sanity. But ultimately you were the one who should lead your life, not Spencer.  “I appreciate you considering me, but I want the ultimate decision to be made by you Princess, I trust your judgement and I don’t want you living your life based on my fear.” 

You breath caught in your throat at the sentiment. “I love you Spencer Reid.” 

Spencer could have sworn his heart stopped. The two of you hadn’t said I love you yet. Part of him wished it was in person, but just hearing you say it, meant the world to him. “I love you more (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

So help him god, Spencer would catch whoever this unsub was and put him away, so you could come home to a safer city. 

________________________________________________________________

“You know what strikes me as funny?” Emily asked, looking at the crime scene photos. 

The room was silent, waiting to hear what she had to say. 

“Each of these unsubs reported strange gifts and letters being sent to their home. The police had thought it was nothing, but now I am thinking that maybe this could be a connection. I mean think about it, didn’t you guys notice that each victim received a gift box wrapped the exact same way?” 

Morgan nodded. “Yeah they had the white box with the red bow-”

Spencer chimed in, “Red typically symbolizes love and infatuation, but in this case it was the unsub’s warning, red meant war or violence was about to come upon this victim.” 

“Reid and JJ I want you to talk to the officers and get the reports these women filed for harassment, I think we are missing a connection.” Hotch ordered. 

An hour or so later they had that connection.  

“All of the victims received their gifts from a delivery service called ‘Special Delivery.’” JJ explained to everyone. 

“Well it seems we have to pay them a visit.” Hotch said. 

________________________________________________________________

Special Delivery was a small Ma and Pa store, located just a couple blocks from Ava’s coffee shop. Spencer debated on stopping in to check in with her and maybe grab the team coffee. 

Spencer had quickly taken a liking to Ava, not only because he had called him your “sexy superhero boyfriend,” but because she was a reliable friend to you, one who always managed to bring a smile to your face. She reminded Spencer of a more wild Emily, in the best way possible.

Emily stopped outside the storefront window, glancing at the display of chocolates, gift baskets, and jewelry. “Why is it always the cute small places that get ruined? Can’t it be one of those big corporate offices that fuck over their employees instead?” 

Spencer huffed a laugh. 

As they entered the store, the bell let out a delicate twinkle. Causing a silver-streaked brunette to pop out from the back of the store. Her round face held a warm smile as she approached them. 

“Hello dears! What can I do for you?” She asked as she excitedly clasped her hands together.

“Hello Mrs. Ellison, my name is SSA Prentiss and this is Dr. Reid, we had a few questions for you.” Emily said gently, flashing her badge to the woman. 

The woman's smile dimmed a bit, “Oh, uh of course, is everything alright?” 

“Mrs. Ellison I am sure you’ve heard of the recent tragedies-” Emily began, 

“Oh yes, I’ve been keeping up with the news, it’s just dreadful that something so horrible could happen so close to home. You see these things in movies or in other places, but you just never expect them to happen right near you.” Mrs. Ellison said sorrowfully, wrapping her arms around herself. 

“Mrs. Ellison, I am afraid everyone of these victims received several deliveries from your shop. Each was wrapped exactly the same, white box, red bow, does this ring any bells for you?” Spencer asked, cutting to the chase. 

“Well dear, it is Valentine season, red, pink, and white are the typical go to colors.” She shrugged. 

“Do you have any regulars? He would have each gift he bought wrapped the exact same way? He would seem friendly, but would be on the quieter side?” Emily asked, attempting to prod the older woman’s memory. 

“I’m afraid none of that is ringing any bells dear, I am so sorry.” Mrs. Ellison said apologetically. 

“Do you have any other employees? Or do you run this place all by yourself?” Spencer asked. 

Mrs. Ellison, let out a small laugh, “Oh goodness me, no. I get so many orders, I could never do it by myself. I previously had three employees, Jess, Remy, and Andrew, but I had to fire Andrew when I found him stealing from our stock. It was a shame too, he was a hardworking boy, but I’m afraid he just fell apart after his wife left him.”

Emily and Spencer exchanged a quick glance. “Do you happen to know why his wife left him?” Spencer asked, his heart picking up speed. 

“Oh it's not my business to share-” Mrs. Ellison hesitated. 

“Please Mrs. Ellison, this could be crucial information.” Emily urged her. 

Mrs. Ellison let out a sigh. “That horrible girl cheated on him. I just couldn’t understand it either, Drew was such a doting gentleman to her, it simply didn’t make sense.” 

“Do you still have his contact information? His address?” 

“Why of course, but you couldn’t possibly think he has anything to do with this-” Mrs. Ellison began, making her way to behind the counter to grab a binder. She looked up worried when Spencer and Emily didn’t answer right away. “Do you?” She urged. 

“It’s quite possible he had nothing to do with it, we just need to follow through with every angle.” Emily quickly explained. 

“Of course.” Mrs. Ellison said, but her hands slightly shook as she opened up her binder to get Andrew’s address. 

________________________________________________________________

“Andrew Curtis, this is the FBI, open up.” Hotch hollered from outside the door. There was no response. Hotch looked to his team to make sure they were ready, then kicked in the door. 

As the team checked different rooms, several calls of “Clear!” echoed throughout the house. Curtis was not there. 

Morgan made his way to the basement and swallowed back a gag. “Hotch! You better come see this.” 

Guns at the ready, Spencer, Hotch, Rossi, and Emily, made their way down to Morgan. 

“What the hell.” Emily huffed as they all beheld the horrific sight before them. 

It was a girl, for sure. She had the same mutilated marks as far as they could tell, but her body was decently decayed. 

“He’s displaying her like a trophy.” Spencer observed. “He props her up naked and makes sure her wounds are fully on display to remind him what he did.”

“There’s more trophies over here.” Rossi said in disgust, gesturing to a shelf full of different valuables. 

“He’s sick.” Morgan hissed. 

“We need a med team down here to remove a body. As soon as it’s IDed we need to know and alert any next of kin.” Hotch ordered into his earpiece. 

Rossi put on a glove and began to go through the other trophies for evidence. “I’ll talk to the victims families and see if any of them recognize these items.” 

Morgan dialed up Garcia. 

“Speak and be heard, the all-knowing goddess listens.” 

“Hey baby girl, I need you to look up any missing person’s reports from around this area. The victim has (y/c/h) and (y/c/e). She fits our victimology to a t, but we need to figure out who she is.”

“I’m on it.” Garcia said. 

“And Garcia,” Hotch said, stopping her before she hung up. “I need you to find a license plate for Andrew Curtis. Also check to see if he rents or owns any other property, he’s currently not at his home and it is too close to other buildings for his victims to not be heard.” 

“You got it. Talk soon.” She said, hanging up. 

About half an hour later Garcia got back to them. “Curtis drives a 2003 silver sedan with the license plate 637-IRT. I also found that he rents a small storage unit that’s a 20 minute drive in a more secluded part of town. I am sending the address to you guys now.” 

“Thanks Garcia.” Hotch said. He turned to JJ “I need you to get an APB on Curtis. I want you to warn the public to keep an eye out for him.” 

JJ nodded and rushed off with her phone. Hotch looked to the rest of the team. “Everyone else, vests on, we are heading to that storage unit.”

________________________________________________________________

“Fuck Drew, what are we going to do?” The boy asked as he looked at the screen projecting a news report on Andrew Curtis.

“Well, it might be the end for me, little brother, but I have you as my legacy. They don’t have a clue that you are even involved, so I need you to get out of here.”

“No, no, no. I am not going to leave you!” The Boy cried, tears streaming down his face. 

Drew huffed a laugh. “Now, now, little bro. It isn’t the time for tears. I’ve taught you everything you need to know. You need to get your girl from that Doctor remember?”

“How am I supposed to do this without you?” The Boy asked, fear filled his voice. 

“Your time will come. You have to be a man about this. You have the skills now and you have our little videos to watch. Your own little tutorial to pluck that girl right out of Dr. Reid’s hands. You need to hide those and hide them well. Promise me you won’t fuck up your chance.” Drew growled. 

The Boy whimpered and Drew smacked him. “Promise me!” He yelled. 

“I promise.” The Boy sobbed, grabbing at his pained cheek.

Drew’s face softened and he gave the boy a smile. “Good, now get out of here legacy and make me proud. I expect to see you on the news someday.” He winked. “You remember our code right?” 

The boy nodded. 

“Then this isn’t the last time we will speak to each other. Now get the fuck out of here, I already fucked with the security footage, so they won’t even know you were here.” Drew explained, pushing the boy out towards the parking lot. 

The Boy’s heart broke as he rushed from his mentor, not only because he knew he would never be able to see Drew in person after this, but because he knew that he would never be able to ruin the 6th victim. The sixth whore that was tied up in the trunk of Drew’s car. 

________________________________________________________________

The girl sobs were muffled by her gag. Drew pulled on her hair harder as he dragged her to the storage unit. He knew he didn’t have much time left, so he might as well let every moment count huh?

The girl’s sobs turned into terrified screams as she beheld the bloodied storage room and the various knives and devices within it. 

“Shut up you stupid bitch.” He growled in her ear.

The girl whimpered something and Drew ripped away her gag. 

“Please.” She begged and Drew simply laughed as he lugged her limp body towards the table in the center of the room.

“Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I promise. I have a family who cares about me-” She pleaded. 

“Whores don’t have families. Whores have nothing. They just cheat and lie and move onto the next guy. Huh Madelyn?” He growled as he threw her up onto the table.

“My name isn’t Madelyn, please it’s Emily-” The girl sobbed.

“Enough of your lies Madelyn. You stupid slut. You couldn’t stay loyal could you?” Drew snarled, hitting the girl’s head hard against the table.

She sobbed harder. “My name is Emily, my name isn’t Madelyn, please it’s Emily.” She babbled.

“SHUT UP.” He said, hitting her again.

Suddenly a shout rose up from outside the storage unit door. “Andrew Curtis, this is the FBI, come out with your hands raised.” 

The smile that crept across Drew’s face was wicked. He grabbed a knife and pulled Emily against him. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?” He whispered in her ear. 

“Andrew Curtis, this is your last warning. We will come in armed and ready.” Hotch’s voice shouted again. 

Drew remained where he was, the sick smile on his face, as tears streamed down Emily’s face. 

When the door burst open and several agents poured in, he did not flinch or cower away. 

“Drop the weapon.” Hotch boomed, his voice echoing in the space.

“Now, now, now, where would the fun be in that?” Drew mocked. 

“Put down the weapon, Curtis and let the girl go.” Rossi ordered. 

Drew’s eyes looked past all of them and fell on Spencer, he bit back a smile.

“Come any closer and I’ll slice her throat.” Drew threatened, pressing the knife harder to Emily’s throat, a few drops of crimson blossomed and crept down her neck.

“If you don’t let Miss Bloise go, then we will be forced to take action Mr. Curtis.” Rossi explained.

Drew’s hand shook, god he wanted them to come at him, but then he thought of his mentee, how lost he would be without him. 

He lowered the knife and let the girl go. She ran towards one of the agents, tears mixing with the blood that ran down her neck. JJ wrapped an arm around the girl and guided her out. 

Morgan rushed to Curtis, pinning him down against the floor and putting cuffs around his wrists. 

Though they had caught him, Hotch felt uneasy. Curtis had given in too quickly. The greasy smile across Curtis’s face as Morgan led him away only heightened his suspicions. 

________________________________________________________________

The team sat outside the interrogation room, watching as Hotch tried to get a rise out of Andrew Curtis. He and JJ had gone in; Hotch to be the intimidator, JJ to be the trigger as she looked a bit similar to the victims. So far the man had just sat in the chair, his arms crossed, silent and smirking. It had been almost an hour and they had gotten nothing out of him.

Spencer felt as though Curtis could see him through the two-way mirror. 

“You know Agent,” Curtis began. “I know you’re trying to be the big bad wolf, but it’s not going to work, I’ve dealt with worse than you.”

Morgan looked about ready to kick in the door and beat the confession out of Andrew. 

“Send me in, I’ll get an answer out of him” Morgan growled, cracking his knuckles.

“Unfortunately, the confession won’t stand up in court if they found out you beat the shit out of Curtis to get it” Emily smirked, trying to lighten the mood.

“The Court doesn’t have to know” Morgan argued, making Emily scoff. 

“Focus kids.” Rossi ordered sternly, but Spencer could tell he was fighting back a small smile. 

Hotch and JJ came out of the room. Hotch looked to Spencer, his expression grim. “He wants to talk with you.”

Spencer looked at Hotch confused, “Why me?”

“He’s ‘fascinated by you’” Hotch explained. “I know it’s not ideal and you don’t have to go in their Reid, but-”

“But, we could get the confession out of him. We have the charges for Miss Bloise, but we want to pin him for the other girls he attacked. I understand and I will do it.” Spencer said. 

“I’ll stick with you Spence” JJ reassured, putting a hand on his arm. “You won’t be alone.”

Spencer nodded, sending a grateful look JJ’s way as they made their way into the interrogation room.

“Ah the elusive doctor. So glad you could join us.” Drew purred.

Spencer said nothing as he moved to sit down across from Curtis.

“-your wife left you Mr. Curtis, is that correct?” JJ asked.

“Please doll, a pretty thing like you can call me Drew” Drew said, looking JJ up and down. 

Spencer’s fists clenched in anger as he felt JJ tense next to him.

“The file says she left you after she cheated on you. Did you have medical issues Mr. Curtis?” Reid asked, drawing Curtis’s attention to him. “Did you struggle to please your own wife?”

Curtis growled. “That stupid whore has nothing to do with this.” 

“Ah so you couldn’t and when she left you for a man that could, you projected your anger for her onto these women. You were angry at them for being confident and independent, much like your wife who knew what she wanted.” Spencer said, sitting back in his chair with a faint smirk. 

“These women were nothing but whores, willing to let men in like me. They wanted someone so badly they let a stranger into their house.” Curtis hissed.

“Mr. Curtis, you were a delivery man. They didn’t let you in, you forced your way into their homes didn’t you?”

“If a man needs a glass of water, can’t he let himself in?” Curtis purred. “They turned their backs on a predator and got what was coming to them.” 

“Did you attack them in their homes?” JJ asked. 

“Only to make them quiet, couldn’t have the neighbors hear them scream.” Curtis laughed and Spencer resisted the urge to choke out the man across from him. 

They placed images of all of his supposed victim’s before him. “Do you recognize these women?” JJ asked, her voice harsh and cold. 

Curtis looked over all of them, silent for a couple minutes. Spencer’s patience thinned. “Well?” 

Curtis pointed to an image of Lila Jennings, the third victim of this case. “She screamed the loudest.” He pointed to another image. “She was a hot piece of ass, it was fun breaking her.” 

“Enough.” Spencer hissed. 

“In short Doctor, yes I do recognize these women. Every single one of them and no I do not regret a single one.”

Without saying another word, JJ and Spencer got up, taking the files with them. Curtis’s laughter rang out behind them as they shut the door.

________________________________________________________________

TAGLIST

@andiebeaword @haylaansmi @parkastoria @possessedjoker @amronsparty @generaltheoristexpert @sierraraeck @coniumalces @tamedbyafox @anotherr-fine-mess @adoregin @rainsong01 @canyonnmoonn  @mggshoe @boxofsparklingmuses @richardpapensmuse @deanlenaz​ @rainsong01 @goldentournesol @annesauriol @itsametaphorbriansblog @secretpickleprofessordean @shameleswhorehourstm @stepsofthefbi​ @iifloweringnightsii @mggsprettygirl​ @bravegirl221​ @messyhairday-me​ @n1ghtsh4d3-67​ @abbeypaw7​ @findmedontlooseme @hiiwouldlikesomesleepplease @sarcasticsagittarius1998

[rametarin]

And further thoughts about the yaoi paddles.

If you’re under 20, and just now learning that fandom seniors in their late 20s, 30s, 40s, even low 50s, used to run around slapping eachother on the ass with yaoi paddles in anime and comic conventions after anime became a household media staple, you probably have.. questions.

You’re probably thinking, “Wow!! It was really lawless and anarchistic back then, wasn’t it! They never heard about personal space or sexual harassment laws! SOCIETY must have been SO different, back then!”

NO. I cannot stress enough, the Yaoi Paddle phenomenon was borne PURELY because the demographic MOST LIKELY to protest and be wet blankets about everything fun and sexual and admittedly VERY SKETCHY sometimes in fiction, and ALWAYS bad in reality.. turned off and said virtually nothing. Wokesters that’d protest about the environment and sexual assault against women would take off their Problem Glasses by night and act like paddling was harmless, contextually acceptable behavior.

Yaoi Paddle shit appeared because something absolutely magical happened in scifi and fantasy fandoms. It survived purely because boys didn’t complain, or their complaints were not taken seriously. I promise you, I assure you, if you grew up in the late 80s, your night time TV was INUNDATED with heavy handed messages about how sexual harassment (always male-on-woman flavored) was wrong, even proxy or indirect violence to women (tossing rubber gloves in their lap) was wrong, and to never, ever, ever do that thing or they’d rub your nose in it and consider you mentally diseased until the day you died.

Fandom was always niche, with sci-fi and fantasy stuff being off in its own little corner. Conventions, before the internet was king, was one of few places where more rural, disparate suburban and city-definition isolated geeks, nerds and dreamers could get together and just cut loose. Comic books, novels, video games. All that GOOD shit. But if you knew a girl in the 80s and 90s, you knew a girl that knew a girl that was getting them to be less tolerant and “more conscious and aware” (80s and 90s parlance for Woke) and when that happened, a new persona was created. A new bunch of dialogue options, created.

Suddenly they didn’t say stuff like, “Ew. Why is this character dressed like a SLUT? Typical male writers. Like we’d ever draw ourselves in this or put ourselves in this.” Because that’d be a personal, subjective opinion. Instead, the option to say, “It’s endemic in our western culture that male chauvinist authors and writers in a patriarchal system exploit femininity in media and reproduce misogynistic culture.”

And so assured this was true by mob mentality AND the idea that learned, educated, acredited and tenured academics had this opinion, they were scientists, and so they were right, permeated. Suddenly girl-fans had outlets to have justified apprehension for everything they saw and didn’t like or, if they actually liked it, STILL interpreted it through their lenses to be on, “the right side of history.”

It made fandom miserable and a sausage fest for a while, if only out of fear of driving away female friends. You couldn’t share that shit unless you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that your female peers and friends wouldn’t disregard you like a “typical misogynistic western male” for enjoying that stuff.

Sentiments and peer pressure thoughts emerged. Like, “The comic industry is hostile and cruel to women that try and enter it, and they exploit the image of women for cheap dollars.” So they simply weren’t interested in comics- mostly- unless the comics were written by women and sold with that virtue in mind. In which case, you had boys glowingly mentioning just how much they liked this authentically written adventure by this female comic author. Isn’t that just so special? Not like those horrid anti-woman cigar smoking old man stories, right?

There was always something to nag and get vitriolic about with the media. That’s part of why the Whedon brand of feminist writing got so popular in the 90s. it was low hanging fruit of peppy “sassy” girl characters doing girly things. They weren’t like “other” girls written in comics and cartoons. They were actually girly. Not idealized infantalized children, like those horrible white men write, you know.

Well. Things were looking really bleak for the forseeable future. Lots of boys just felt like comics and cartoons were lost to girls that weren’t specifically into them, and that meant more sausage fest conventions or hobbies, and signing off hope on those things being respected and accepted on the merits of what they are and were. The girls had embraced serials-filed-off radfem rhetoric and lenses, sometimes without even knowing the origins of where those truisms like the Male Gaze even came from, just assuming it was true and indisputable. And it complimented their insecurities, so they’d embrace that shit until they couldn’t anymore.

And then.. something absolutely miraculous and amazing happened that blindsided this whole vitriolic culture.

Anime.

And amazingly, every complaint that a lot of nerdy girls had about the very much sanitized, policed and made PG writing and characterization of characters in western comics and cartoons, just... fucking up and vanished. Seemingly within a fucking YEAR, the entire social culture of Problem Finders, finding everything wrong about these stories, the characters, the writer and the company that produced them being misogynistic male chauvinism, dried up. Those voices quieted, or were shut out of the groups.

Media from Japan was some of the most infantilizing, sexist, tittelating shit compared to mainstream American comics and cartoons and video games, and girls fluttered to it like flies to shit. We had Buffy basically subverting boogymen that a bunch of girls had been taught were still relevant after the 1950s by fighting crime in melee combat with men, and winning, while wearing jogging pants and cracking sassy, like Lola Bunny being a “tough girl.”

Japan had doe eyed, waif bodied ballet dancers that basically farted iridescent glitter, hearts and all the symbols and shapes of the Lucky Charms, riding unicorns and fighting evil in cute outfits. Being childish and not at all mature or professional to show how womanly and competent they were, basically being overgrown 11 year old girls fresh off the playground swing set.

And the fangirls loved it. Those nagging voices that would speak up and remind them about misogynistic, male chauvinistic “societies” and culture? Just.. they fucking VANISHED from the mind for AN ENTIRE GENERATION. I’m not exaggerating. Tolerance and fun and innocence was back again. The problem-glasses felt too ostracized and alienated, or didn’t even want to wear them anymore for personal reasons, and the Radfem Baby Wokes just seemed to grow out of that collective hysteria and pretend it never happened and never existed.

That’s why the very EXISTENCE of Yaoi Paddles at conventions was just so fucking bizarre to those of us that lived up to that point. After, “Stay in your own personal space, boy. DON’T even TOUCH a GIRL unless she VERBALLY AND PUBLICLY CONSENTS or it’s proof you’re just living up to this misogynistic, objectifying society’s evil history!” was drilled into us, day on the playground by day on the playground, by women with axes to grind and good-boy sycophants performing sharing those sentiments for brownie points, it was so fucking surreal to IMAGINE girls just running around sexually assaulting and physically assaulting random strangers because they thought they looked like cute, gay men.

It wasn’t that they didn’t know any better beforehand, it’s that they COMPLETELY put those sentiments away and up and decided, as girls, it was okay to violate male autonomy because they weren’t women, and “it’s okay to paddle a yaoi boy ^.^!” With NO self-awareness whatsoever.

The very fact it existed is testament to how attention starved boys were for girls approving gaze and playful interaction, that they’d tolerate some pocky fingered little cow stranger smacking them on the ass with a plank of wood because it was a socially acceptable way to just interact with girls in their lonely assed fandom and interest. It was an acceptable way to meet girls and positively interact. That’s the degrading bullshit boys said virtually nothing about at the hayday of yaoi paddles, purely to be welcoming to girls in anime and hentai approving spaces.

WE GREW UP hearing and watching horror stories and boogymen stories about true crime and sitcoms and crime shows about evil evil men violating the personal space of women for lewd and lecherous reasons. We had it drilled into our heads that the tolerance for boys and men doing that was negatives, and the general sentiment was men caught doing that (to women, or children of any sex) were effectively free game for any violence you personally felt like unloading on them, confident that in such outraged rape and sexual assault hating times, juries would excuse that passion as a defense.

So if you look back on the era of Yaoi Paddles and think. “WOW. That must be like driving cars before they invented seat belts and cough medicine before they invented the drug safety and scheduling legal system!”.. NO.

It was not like the 50s-70s, where many of the rules hadn’t been written yet so it was anarchy and chaos. Yaoi Paddles existed almost PURELY because girls HAD no rules if they didn’t want to respect them. The Yaoi Paddle phenomenon flew in direct opposition to how interactions were supposed to go, and ABSOLUTELY NO ONE would tolerate the reverse; no cis straight man could walk around randomly smacking women on the ass with a plank of even foam in pantomime, or ‘floating hand’ pretending to be a perverted character. The double standard was GLARING. The Double Standard was a fucking bugbear that had grown from a tiny screaming goblin and was now hanging upside down from the ceiling, roaring.

But because it was GIRLS inflicting it on BOYS, absolutely no party cared enough to raise a stink about it. The Radfems kept their mouths shut, because boys were the recipients. The Radfem Sympathizers really wanted to spank boys, so suddenly they couldn’t find their problem glasses and instead put on their neko ears. The boys were either stoic and amused by it or really wanted to be seen as cool and not buzzkills, so they tolerated to reveled in it.

Many times when you hear about things that happened either when you were a child just too young to really personally experience a thing, or before you were born, we’re quick to assume it’s a medieval place and the people were so uncultured as to have never pondered the social problems of spanking one another on the ass unprovoked. Violation of personal space, personal sovereignty- all that. That was NOT okay at the time. It happened because fujoshi decided it was okay and nobody argued with them to not do hat, or they were told to stop and did it anyway.

And as I’ve laid it out, that is the most bizarre and surreal element to the whole thing. They DID know better, but felt it didn’t apply to THEM because they were girls, and a girl slapping a boy on the ass “as a joke” didn’t mean anything- because it wasn’t happening TO them, FROM a man.

And irony of ironies, it was NEVER okay, EVER, throughout that entire era, for the reverse to be a thing. It was very specifically and exclusively not. As a man if you ran around slapping cute looking girls with the Yuri Paddle, you goin’ to either juvy hall, or prison, boi. Both sexes knew it. And yet, yaoi paddles STILL became a thing.

[the-sara-voe]

Chapter 4: A Familiar Face

Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of bodily trauma and dead bodies.

Masterlist

"Look, I love Kobe, what a legend, but Dwight Howard-"

"Stop", Alvez orders, gesturing to Sena, "You can't compare Kobe to Howard, it's like comparing an apple to a carrot".

"No! Hear me ou-"

"No".

Tusa struts into the conference room, pursing her lips and furring her brows at the debate, "What are you two doing"?

"She is trying to compare Bryant to Howard", Alvez stated, "Which you can't. They don't even play the same position. And they had a long-standing feud".

Sena's voice becomes full of defense, "First of all, yes they did not play the same position. Second, it was not a feud, it was more of a sibling rivalry. But what I am saying is Howard had and still has the potential to be as good as Kobe. If Howard just got on a team that kept him long enough for him to get comfortable he would be great".

The two of them kept bickering, while Tusa says under her breath, "I don't get basketball".

"What was that about basketball"? Reid said, taking his seat at the table.

Luke and Sena told Reid their stances, prompting him to say, "Actually Luke, I think I agree with Sena. Howard has been traded or drafted to several teams, probably making him lose a sense of self-control. Loss of self-control correlates to ego deprivation, which decreases performance and impacts response to other motivational conflicts, like disputes with teammates. Couple that with most professional sports players being alpha male personalities, and that testosterone increases during physical activity, disagreement is bound to happen".

Luke and Sena stare at Reid, watching as he takes a sip from his water bottle, "Also, Howard's efficiency score is only about one-point-zero-seven points lower than Kobe Bryant's, and he may still have some time to raise it. If Howard can gain more self-control and get longer contracts, he would probably be just as successful as Kobe".

Byun glances at a frustrated Luke, proceeding to taunt him. Tusa shakes her head while she pours herself some coffee. She felt a tap on her elbow, turning to see Reid leaning back in his seat, looking at her.

"What does the case look like"? Spencer asked, flicking his pen between his fingers.  His hair is tightly woven around itself, and pokes up in various directions.

"Unnerving, as usual", she said, shooting him a bemused glance. She asks "You forget to brush your hair this morning"?

Reid adjusts his position, nervously running his fingers through it to subdue its appearance. He turns back and asks, “Is it better”?

"I’m giving you a crap Reid you look fine", she answered, chuckling, “Get some more sleep though, yeah”?

He nods as Rossi and Prentiss walk into the room with Simmons, prompting everyone to settle in. As Rossi pulls out his chair, Prentiss goes to speak.

"I have an announcement to make before we get to the case", Emily started, fiddling with her fingernails, jagged from being bitten. She looks around the room at her teammates, who have become family to her. Despite the heaviness in her chest, she has a lightness in her eyes. She is ready.

"I am resigning; soon".

The air in the room fills with multiple emotions. Some joyful, some upset, some anxious. But the most overwhelming of all is confusion.

"Why"? Byun posed, a bit glum.

"Because I was offered an amazing position", Prentiss admitted, sharing a heartfelt smile with Sena.

Prentiss shrugs before saying, "I have been offered to be the Director of the FBI", she pauses, finalizing in a sigh, "Please don't take it personally, I love you all so much".

"Emily this is incredible" Simmons announced, opening his arms in celebration, "Don't apologize, we're proud of you"!

The whole group stands from the table, heading toward Emily to embrace her in a hug, until she spouts, "No, no. We can do the 'goodbye' at Rossi's at the end of the month. I am still here for a few weeks. No sad faces, especially for your new Chief".

"Wait they're here"? Reid quizzed, his hands finding the pockets of his pants.

"Yes, and something tells me you'll like them", Emily said, glancing toward the hallway opening behind her.

The heaviness of the steps increases the team's anticipation. Everyone stares at the doorway, the clunking becoming louder. As the heels stall, the guest's figure fills the door frame. The man wore a black suit and a striped tie, well-tailored and ironed. Their hair is longer than some of them remember, but the smile they wore remains familiar.

"Hotch"! Reid announced, gleefully darting to Aaron Hotchner and embracing him in a hug.

Rossi and Prentiss chuckle, grinning at Spencer's reaction. However, the four of them are enjoying the reunion so much, they forget there are two faces that don't recognize Aaron.

"Hotch, this is our Tech Analyst, Tusajigwe Selemani", Rossi states, as Tusa and Aaron shake hands.

"Call me Tusa, sir".

"I have heard about you through colleagues of mine at the DA", Hotcher informs, releasing his hand from hers.

"You have"? She replied, with a tinge of wariness.

Aaron releases a nervous laugh before saying, "Yes. Only good things, you make quite a first impression, apparently".

Tusa relaxes into the atmosphere of the room. Hotchner, Simmons, and Alvez greet each other again, the last time seeing each other being Gracia's goodbye party. After some catch-up, Byun clears her throat, clearly a bit apprehensive.

Emily notices Sena's discomfort and says, "Oh, Hotch this is SSA Sena Byun. She specializes in crime scene analysis".

"You were a CSI"? Aaron posed.

Sena adjusts her forearms, leaning them on the round table, stating, "In Houston, yeah".

"Did you work on the Ackles Case"?

"I took 'em down".

Aaron cocks his head and furrows his brows, reminding her, "CSI's don't arrest suspects, usually".

Sena looks up at the man, nodding her head with pride. "Yes", she said.

Hotchner gave Prentiss an inquisitive look, suspecting that she hired Byun. Sena has the same ridiculous ambition as Emily.

"Alright, I don't want to rush us, but we do have a new case", Tusa announces, taking the front of the room.

After a few clicks of the remote, images appear on the monitor. Wrists and ankles have lines of navy and a band of blue spans across the stomaches of these two women. The fabric had grasped so much blood, their shirts and the sleep bags they rest in were indiscernible. Perhaps most frightening, however, lies under the stained fabric. Though the details are thin, it is not hard to decipher the cause of death. Hidden under the shirts, no more than a centimeter thick, are gaping holes in the stomach of the victims.

Tusa, clears her throat before speaking, "These two women are Romana Marckus, age 23, and Daniella Cortez, age 25. Romana was found four days ago, and Daniella just two days ago. Both of them were found in alleyways in Houston. It appears that the girls experienced blunt force trauma to the head, were bound, and inevitably...stabbed to death".

Sena scrolls through her tablet, a wise whistle leaving her lips, "Hometown, you once again do not disappoint".

"They were dumped in sleeping bags"? Rossi asked, scrolling through the photos on his tablet.

"Yes sir, they were. Local police believe that the bodies sat in the alleyways for about a week", Tusa recounted.

Reid stared up at the screen, saying, "The public may have just assumed that the bodies were homeless people".

"Oh how delicious", Byun stated, jerking her face away from her tablet, and sliding it across the table.

"Are the women connected in another way aside from that they're both brunettes"? Simmons asked.

"No, not really. Houston PD determined that they were both going to college. Marckus at the University of Texas , but Daniella was a student at Berkeley".

"That's quite a distance for her", Luke stated.

"Her trip was planned, someone knows about her whereabouts before she died. Have next of kin been contacted"? Hotchner asked, earning an overseeing gaze from Sena.

"Yes, they are flying down today", Tusa finalized.

"Aaron join us on this if you don't mind", Prentiss informs, "Let's get down there, wheels up in twenty".

[feminetflix]

De atracos y ab*rtos - Of heists and ab*rtions or How women are being robbed.

⚠️ this contains major spoilers for LA CASA DE PAPEL / MONEY HEIST season 1, specifically episode 3!

Personally, I have experienced the series la casa de papel (original title) or money heist as progressive, realistic and not afraid to deal with certain topics like domestic violence which I will be commenting on in posts yet to be published, female trans representation and occasionally peppered with numerous feminist parentheses (see characters like Nairobi and dialogues around/involving her opinion).

However, there are certain aspects I did not enjoy to watch / do not support. That is normal and every show has its flaws, those resulting all the more dangerous however, as money heist is not just any show. The series is thanks to its popularity by now a relevant aspect of people’s opinion-forming and plays into the perception of many people all around the world, coming from different cultures and having experienced all kinds of upbringing. The target audience is not specified, yet crime drama (the genre) is estimated to target both females and males aged 15-40 years old. Means, also targeting minors and adolescents. Again, all cultures / religions / races / classes etc etc included.

I am fully aware that this kind of range was not expected and therefore not taken into account by producers, talking about the first two seasons that were solely meant for a Spanish audience, not an international one. (The series was initially intended as a limited series to be told in two parts. It had its original run of 15 episodes on Spanish network Antena 3 from 2 May 2017 through 23 November 2017. Netflix acquired global streaming rights in late 2017). The analysed / discussed scene is indeed part of this maybe not so carefully crafted content. Cough.

Let’s get right into it.

Characters interacting: Mónica Gaztambide (Esther Acebo), one of the hostages who was also Arturo Román's secretary and introduced as his mistress and “Denver” (Jaime Lorente), one of the robbers participating in the heist [Denver is an alias, all robbers being referred to with city names]

Context: Mónica has an affair with Arturo Román (Enrique Arce) -hostage and former Director of the Royal Mint of Spain- which leads to an unwanted pregnancy. Numerous factors influence her (for now) final decision: she doesn’t want the child. Shortly after, the robbery unfolds and she’s taken hostage among other people. She then requests an ab*rtion pill, which at some point arrives in the mint alongside other medical supplies. The scene analysed: one of the robbers (Denver) is supposed to hand her mentioned ab*rtion pill. Before that he holds an emotional speech on the subject, morally risen forefinger, accusations and tears included.

Here the dialogue without comments:

————Now my opinion / the actual post:

“You need money, right?” One might think that the amount of money seen in this frame (20.000,-€ approx. $21.701,50 according to Denver) is an exaggerated, way too generous gesture. Let me tell you, it is not.

According to a 2017 report from the U.S. Department of Agriculture, the average cost of raising a child from birth [to] age 17 is $233,610. If that made your heart skip a beat, take a deep breath before you read on. Incorporating inflation costs, it will be more like $284,570. Since that’s based on 2015 numbers, we can expect the cost will be even higher, babies born since then.

[…] This average includes everything from housing, food and transportation to healthcare, education and childcare to clothing, personal care items and entertainment.

Let me now remind you that Mónica is a secretary, so she likely earns (barely) enough money to be financially independent herself (taking into account that she lives near or maybe even in Madrid, her workplace, the Royal Mint situated there, so housing alone is hella expensive) and can’t really expect reliable support coming from the potential child’s father, Arturo Román, either, who initially denied support himself, their relationship a secret to the family and wife he already has. Phew.

Btw: A University of California at San Francisco study found that women who were turned away from ab*rtion clinics […] were three times more likely to be below the poverty level two years later than women who were able to obtain ab*rtions. 76% of the "turnaways" ended up on unemployment benefits, compared with 44% of the women who had ab*rtions.

“Enough to get the kid diapers until he graduates.” The problem or let’s say points raised above are now also being ridiculed or not taken seriously to say the least.

She takes the money, sticking to her decision however. “So, what’s the problem?” Or “Then, what is it?” A million additional things, Denver, believe it or not a potential child is a big deal. That and none of your business.

Also, see the reaction? How he stares at her in disbelief (and possibly even disgust, see the risen corner of his lips?). How he looks at her as if she were heartless, selfish, a monster – the picture often painted in this debate when it comes to women who decide to terminate a pregnancy. How he doesn’t respect her “no, thanks” and continues. Continues influencing her, later on even starts to mansplain his way into her stone cold heart. Okay, then let me continue as well.

“That he’ll f*ck up your life? […] Your son. Better to have your life f*cked up by your son than any of these sons of b*tches. Or me.” Call it ‘f*ck up’ or not – that is entirely her perception, her decision and I’d dare to say…she knows best.

First, because regardless of the fact that she is a woman and you are not – well it is indeed her life and, uhm, excuse me Denver, you’re no sibling, no friend, no acquaintance, quite the contrary, you have known her for what? Three minutes and already jump to conclusions?

Take the privilege of explaining her how a child would f*ck or not f*ck up her life?!!

Secondly, what makes him assume the gender of this cluster of cells, this potential future life, this basis for a potential life that may later on develop into a life (it is not a walking talking baby boy already, my friend!).

Personhood begins after a fetus becomes “viable” (able to survive outside the womb) or after birth, not at conception.

Does it provide a smooth transition for that awfully funny and figurative “son” – “sons of b*tches” (org. Hijo – hijos de p*ta) line or is it literal propaganda?

Why does he say “your son”, although he cannot possibly know? I’ll tell you. In order to distract the audience from the fact that he is referring to a pea-sized basis for a potential life by painting the picture of an already existing male human being. Mónica, do you really want to murder your son? Mónica, does that cute little doe eyed baby boy really f*ck up your life? Yeah, propaganda at its best.

Also, another example for ridiculing the point “a child would destroy my life” by comparing an unwanted pregnancy to a literal robbery at gun point. Great one.

“This f*cks your life up. A kid doesn’t.” Do you see that raised gun, that is quite literally an extension of a raised index finger? Wow, the drama. On a different note, did you notice the symbolism? A weapon stands for death, murder and guess what is also often equated with murder.

“How do you know what f*cks up my life? What do you know?” Finally. Exactly. He doesn’t know her, like at all. He doesn’t know her situation and no, he’s also not the pregnant one or anyone who would have to worry about that.

What do you answer to that, hmm? Let’s make this whole dispute even more emotional and dramatic. That ‘a cute little son isn’t as bad as a robbery’ didn’t convince her?

Let’s try with an extraordinary f*cked up and tragic life story, nobody asked for. Its goal? Showing the oblivious, naive, little secretary what real ‘f*ck up’ means, despite the evident lack of any sort of knowledge when it comes to her life (story). Again, conclusion-jumping and wallowing in prejudice at its best.

Have a look at his expression while ‘lecturing’ her. How disrespectful, how belittling. ‘Oh please, what do you know about life?’. On a wider scale: ‘How could we possibly trust women to rationally and with a clear conscience decide such things for themselves – concerning life and death, if they have not the slightest idea, living in their bubble of security and stability and no real problems’ etc. This is everything but taking women and their reasoning abilities, their judgement seriously.

“My mother was going to ab*rt me.” Now the audience doesn’t only have the mental image of a potential cute little son, it is furthermore provided with the image of a living, breathing human being standing right in front of them. Just look at him and his pleading puppy dog eyes. No actual child actor could have done it better.

Thank god she did not go through with the ab*rtion, right? Oh thank god she was not allowed to.

Taking advantage of this frame to remind you of the fact that we are still talking about a POTENTIAL future life, not an existing one that is nevertheless put above the mother’s already existing life in this impudent, low and unfair debate.

“But first…she inhaled the heroin she had to sell to be able to pay for the ab*rtion. Then she was caught by the police. Between jail, drugs and the police, I was born. What do you know?”

1)Adding even more emotions, subtle accusations and drama to that oh so rational dispute? Check. Making his situation seem two thousand times worse than hers (which he, again, has no clue about)? Check. Subconsciously painting the picture of reckless, irresponsible drug addicts/ “lowlifes” or generally female members of “society’s margins” usually being the ones to abort and make it seem like the state’s or whoever’s responsibility to prevent them from deciding for themselves? Check.

2) Then he even tears her valid ‘what do you know (about my life)’ out of the initial context of being confronted with endless assumptions and prejudice and blows it way out of proportion in order to demonstrate the insignificance of … everything concerning her? Her background, her life, her reasons. Everything.

And FINALLY *drum rolls* the wild theories and hypotheses and presumptions she was dying to hear because since he, I repeat for the twelfth time, has no actual clue about her life, let’s make up one.

“Because it seems that you don’t have a very exciting job. And maybe outside of work your life is not that great either. Or what is it that you do? ‘Kilates’? And Friday night drinks, right? What a f*cking drag. Another plan ruined by the kid[…]” That and the entire following paragraph. Wow. All accusations thrown at women who decide to abort in one.

Because OF COURSE a middle aged, down to earth, intelligent, responsible woman like Mónica Gaztambide has no other reason for terminating a pregnancy than not being able to drink alcoholic beverages or party anymore. Because OF COURSE it is valid to assume a woman or any person for that matter one has known for half an hour and interacted with for literal five minutes has a boring enough life that would not be affected in any way by a pregnancy, birth and ultimately being forced to raise an unwanted child. Because OF COURSE Denver would know how much a pregnancy can affect somebody, especially one that is forced upon a person. Quite frankly he has no idea and no right. The audacity.

“Do [your friends who are also mothers] seem f*cked up? / Do their lives look f*cked up? No, right?” Because you know best. Not only regarding her life but on top of that also that of her friends. Because those pregnancies or motherhood in general did under no circumstances end a career or prevent them from pursuing one in the first place or cause the end of a relationship or force them to stay in a toxic or even abusive relationship or change their financial situation completely or rob them of their fragile financial independence and/or free time altogether or cause any (mental) health complications or … you get the point. Oh, and because their situations are completely identical to Mónica’s situation, that is additionally not half as dramatic as your life story. Of course, Denver.

Seeing the ‘rational’ argument doesn’t really work, let’s add yet another dramatic, emotional rhetorical question. As a precaution.

“Do you know how much a child can love you?”

How could she, being the heartless, cruel, selfish, irresponsible, ridiculous and impulsive murderess you’re ‘exposing’ her as?

⚠️ Another spoiler warning for seasons 3 and 4 and still 1.

Would Cincinnati - that’s her sons actual name, not alias – really love her like he does now?

Friendly reminder: his biological father (Arturo Román) let her know - right from the start - that he wouldn’t take on any responsibility whatsoever, regardless of his later statements about doing so. Why those statements don’t matter? Despite his awareness of her state, despite knowing she was pregnant he shortly after urges her on to steal the cellphone she is caught with right after the analysed scene, ready to risk her life and the potential life of his unborn child. Literally, because as soon as she is caught with it, Berlín orders Denver to execute her.

So to those of you who will now say “but- but Cincinnati is okay and has an amazing life and does love her” etc etc, first think certain things through. If Denver wouldn’t have spared her, if she didn’t just happen to get together with him and if the heist didn’t just happen to work out like that, what then?

Cincinnati would have a different name. What else? Well for one, he wouldn’t have a father (that is now Denver) like at all, resulting in possible daddy issues / issues in general. How I know Arturo, the biological father, wouldn’t be there for them, wouldn’t fulfill all his empty promises?

Did he canonically care about his son? Was he devastated that he was not given the possibility to see him or did he instead focus on that random book of his and his speeches about heroism and honour and so on? If he wouldn’t have called his wife by his mistress’s name and through that expose himself, if his family wouldn’t have left him all alone, don’t you think he would stick to them? Just to paint a picture of who the father is and how he behaves and what we can assume from that behaviour. So the probability was high she would’ve been left alone with I quote “all the love” and of course all the responsibility. It’s a thing, Denver.

Secondly, if she didn’t just happen to turn into a millionaire thanks to the heist working out, would she really be able to provide a life for Cincinnati? Would she really be able to remain financially independent? Would her life at her son’s side really be all peace and harmony if she wouldn’t just so happen to be able to live from heist money?

So many coincidences, so many risks and no security. Can we really blame her? Do we have the right?

With these questions I will end this seemingly endless post and leave you to think about it, reflect certain things and – if you want to – share your opinion(s) with me. Please don’t hesitate to do so, as long as those contain rational arguments and most importantly respect. Thank you for reading!

(Also: sorry for the extensive censoring, I had to, otherwise it wouldn��t appear in the tags.)

[sugar-petals]

; sublime (m) ║ reader ✕ merman!jjk

↳ summary: only you can save him.

8k words | smut, action, fantasy

⚠️ angst, themes of persecution & violence, unprotected sex, graphic.

a/n | Needed to reupload, it’s been in an ask format. Second chapter included. request: “Would u be willing to do a merman jk x reader smut?” (rosewell-love​)

There’s a dead body on your private beach.

Or so you think. You’ve spotted it going out for your early morning walk with a bottle of water and light trainers. Busan’s late summer has been merciful with the weather so far, so you wanted to tick your two-mile goal on the schedule again. 

From afar you already knew that whatever laid there in the silt was nothing of the regular. The colors that struck you against the mellow rising sun seemed blueish, strangely vivid. If it was a water corpse, sure it could be decaying like this. You dare to tread closer, crossing into muddier seafloor now. 

Normally, you preferred to stay where the sand was dry and solid to walk on. There is no foul smell as you approach, or scraps of cloth, anything like that. Just algae all around. A few feet away, you begin to understand: This is not a human body. 

You’ve heard about sightings of stranded mermen in the news. Authorities were quick to dismiss rumors of violent interventions. They assured that the police would take care of the situation professionally without citizen being able to watch. 

The senior locals thought of merpeople as threats or oddities of nature, too peculiar to interact with. There were stories about women who interacted closely getting abducted, bitten, or strangled to death by such creatures. It was treated like a myth while the tabloids and fisherman’s accounts said otherwise.

Mermen were usually described with distorted complexions, crooked bones, and blood-shot eyes. They stink abominably, one reporter said. The universal instruction by the mayor had been equally hideous: Kill, or run. The latter being less preferred because they had to be chased, exploited, and wiped out collectively when you read between the lines. 

Last year, there had been gossip about a group of men - designated hunters - sawing off a living merman’s tail and selling it on the black market. Any chopped off hair would bring half a million, too. A million with the scalp attached. The mayor propagated the extermination of these “slimy beasts” when an issue surfaced, all while keeping a trophy fin in his living room, that you were sure of.  

But the motionless boy right below you does not appear monstrous at all. His features are almost resemblant to what can be considered human despite that he came from the sea. The upper body, at least. Who knows what kind of world is out there. The contrived stories made you mad, they had been all lies. 

Even if your trainers are now completely sunk in, you close the distance entirely.

You look at him with concern. Why is he here, like this, so close to the coast? Your eyes roam up and down, up and down. The cerulean little scales splattered all over his large tail, the sapphire beads around his neck, next to coral lobster claws. 

His beauty erases everything in your mind. The teal and silver mane that falls in soft waves and purple braids. They are really, really long and gleaming with an enigma that you fail to grasp. How could anyone be cruel enough to maim him. Everything about this boy had to stay wherever it was. 

You inspect his body closer to look for injuries, but there are none. He plainly seems drained, but impossibly beautiful at the same time. His chest is still moving, but both eyes remained closed. You don’t know if mermen can get unconscious. 

Perhaps he is just asleep. So ethereal. It all proved the envious locals very dirty liars. They’re conspiring because they know very well how alluring they look like. Since only mermen have been spotted, all efforts to deter every woman in town from getting just one glimpse were rampant. 

No human male could quite compare. Except maybe your gay friend and neighbor Taehyung who might just drop dead if he were here. If your female friends saw this boy, the ones who were married would file for divorce. The truly despicable vermin were the conservative men of this town. 

Certainly, there are different rules of anatomy and physics that apply to mermen that nobody has ever talked about on shore. You only see that the gills at the sides of his torso flutter hectically. It takes some time until you put two and two together. The falling tide that’s now miles away, it must have left him here. Maybe he lost a sense of direction and got caught by surprise. What an odyssey. 

He needs water, desperately. Of course he looks drained, and that’s more urgent than you assumed. You have to hurry up and do something not to see him fade away in front of your eyes. But, where to get it. It would have been straightforward if you hadn’t forgotten carrying a water bottle all along. 

You’re hesitant to touch him, but eventually get yourself to rub the sides of his torso, pouring water bit by bit. His skin is so delicate that you don’t dare to apply pressure. His eyes flutter once, and you think he can see what you are doing. 

But you did not bring enough water to sustain this moment. At least you know there’s still a chance.

There’s no other option, then. You sprint back to your house, pulse working overtime until you find the long-ignored supply closet key. 

An old plastic cover splattered with color comes into sight. It has been formerly used by Taehyung who asked to depict the scenery at your beach. He’s a painter, but too much of a literal fine artist to leave anything sturdy at your house. You keep searching. 

At the back, there’s a soiled, but still functional sailcloth with rope running through its eyelets. Hauling that to the beach would not be possible if you weren’t pumped with adrenaline and sheer panic. It has been a huge risk having him left alone out there. This all takes too damn long.

The relief finding him untouched gives you more assurance. The sail sticks to the ground in no time spreading it out next to him. An attempt to roll him onto there using a shove of two hands fails. Only a rope tied around his waist gives everything a decent impetus. Once he’s in place, you pull the canvas tight with the rope and start dragging. But oh my, is he heavy. It’s the colossal tail that probably weighs the most, gravity has no mercy on your arms today. 

It takes a few painstaking feet until the cloth starts to run smoothly on the wet ground. Through the dewy lawn of your property, it works much better until your trainers go on a strike. Next time you’ll go to the beach with heavy boots. It’s better with bare feet then, though you encounter another problem. The grass isn’t particularly even, so you have to maneuver around a bump or two. The 10 x 20 feet swimming pool comes into sight quite tardily.

He slumps into the water with a dull splash. You made it by the skin of your teeth and everything hurts. It’s a miracle. The water is uncomfortably icy as you enter, grabbing hold of his shoulders. You have to remind yourself to be careful, washing away all remnants of sand and dirt. The filtration system will take care of it. Again you note how silky the texture of his skin and scales is, clearly not made for life ashore. Before the water starts to paralyze you more with its frostiness, you decide to submerge him completely at the bottom of the pool. Different laws of physics, you remind yourself. For a human, air would basically be like water for him. His own weight sustains him down there well as of now. Begrudgingly, you leave to change clothes.

It’s good that your backyard is surrounded by copious palisades. You do hope nobody observed anything, thinking you transported some carcass or worse, and check back just three minutes later. The garden gate is firmly locked already but doesn’t do much to pacify your feelings of imminent paranoia. So the balcony is a good place to stay where you can sit with your laptop to catch up with pressing work. Any concentration is still out the window though, and any noise snaps you out of typing in emails. 

The pool water rouses after the nearby church bell strikes 11 am. You return to the gazebo next to the pool to look if you’re not hallucinating, met with huge, dark eyes. They’re Prussian blue and almost doe-like. He’s leaning at the edge, two arms propped up.

“Thank you, madam. You didn’t have to do this,” he dabbles quite gently, stirring the water with his tail to cause ripples. His voice is very pleasant and friendly, youthful. Never did you think he would be able to speak your language. Everything comes unexpected today.

“Nevermind,” you respond, trying not to show both incredulousness and unease. There is no way in making this sound like a proper conversation, but you try. He called you madam, after all. 

”I came to pry for shells and lost my sense of time. It’s my bad.”

You squat down at the edge of the pool at some distance. This seems all too much at once. Yet you have to gather words to let him know.

“Don’t, don’t say that. I can’t let you die out there. To see you become food in a tin can if a hunter or the police come along.”

It strikes a chord with him, and you instantly regret saying it.

“I know who they are. Their prejudice has killed one of my brothers not long ago.” He’s downcast now, impossibly sad. You know who this brother was. A little glistening tear makes its way down his cheek, he picks it up with thumb and index finger. It has turned into a small pearl. “You’re not like them. I can be glad you picked me up without fear or reporting it.” 

You enclose the shiny gift with two palms as he passes over the bead. When you tuck it away, it rests in the breast pocket of your blouse. The merman looks very relieved to see you accept it.

“It’s not over yet. But I guess I did the right things so far. You’re alive. I hope I can drag you back at high tide. Or do you need more time?”

“My body regenerated. But my mind, I feel very strange and dizzy, still. Tomorrow.”

“Shit… it’s the chlorine in the water. I don’t think that’s good for you.”

“Chlorine?”

You wonder why he speaks your language perfectly but doesn’t know this.

“To disinfect bacteria dangerous to humans. For you, it might just be nauseating. Maybe because you’re not used to it, or sensitive. Wait, I’ll use the pool filter. I have one.” 

While you take care of the pump and also clean away some debris, the curious merman lingers closely. 

“Did I tell you my name yet? I’m Jungkook. I have a question, actually. It might sound weird.”

You look up from your task. Jungkook. It’s fitting.

“Just go ahead. I’m Y/N.”

“Why do you have a pool next to the sea?”

He’s a bright guy. You understand where the query is coming from, too.

“I do love the sea like you. But the waves are too high. It’s dangerous to bathe there without a vigilant eye. You’ve seen what happened. I prefer to swim here, especially when it’s warmer.”

“Oh, I forgot,” he marvels at you, “humans can’t swim that well in the cold.”

“It’s true. We have trouble moving around mermen as well,” you chuckle, glad your work at the pump is completed. You stand up to return to Jungkook. His presence is soothing, almost familiar. 

In that very moment, hasty knocks and rattles resound from the garden gate.

Jungkook immerses himself in water within a split second. He’s diving down faster than you can say anything, in fact. The pool’s surrounding bushes have saved you from being seen with him, thankfully, but your feeling tells you to hurry to the gate as soon as you can. But you have to stop yourself from being in a rush not to be suspicious. It’s painfully obvious who it is from a distance already. You’re in trouble. 

It’s Taehyung.

“Oh hey, hey! I rang the doorbell — nobody responded. Figured you’re here! How ya doin’?”

A hurricane as usual. You keep the gate locked. He’s looking at you through the metal bars with inquisitive eyes.

“What do you want, Kim… I’m busy.”

“Sorry, just looking for my painting cover. Do you still have it? Am gone in a minute.”

“Sure.” 

You spin around and race inside without further ado. Taehyung must think you have gone completely mad now, but knowing Jungkook is likely having a heart attack down there you would waste no second. You return breathless, red blotches all over the face. He rolls his eyes.

“Slow down, slow down, Noona. It’s Sunday. God, heterosexual people. Always caught in such a fuss.”

“They are. Now, here. Take it. Just, buzz off now, Kim. Got things to do.” 

And again, you spin around on your heel and hear him trot away sulking, but clenching his long-lost cover tight. He said he’s gone in a minute, then he has to deal with it. You’ll have to come up with something very intricate to appease him next time when he mocks you for it. And you are sure he will, because Taehyung notices when something’s off. Telling him the truth would be like being Taylor Swift’s boyfriend, he would just broadcast everything.

You dash back and lean over the pool for Jungkook to recognize you. But nothing moves. He’s right about staying where he is. If the police coerced you to be their decoy, luring him out, he’d be dead. Jungkook, that is indisputable to you, continues to prove being very sharp save being aware of tides. The media never talked about merpeople being this people-conscious and easily intimidated. They’re just drawing them as evil to get hunting permission. Vicious pigs. 

You want to make them fall. 

There’s something else that strikes you, watching for activity in the pool. There must be a way that merpeople gather excessive knowledge about humans. Or it might be a contact person. But you don’t want to know, it might be a way to trace them back. Such a secret must never be revealed, you know you’ll take all this to your grave to protect him. It would be good to tell your story to everyone so they would change their mind. But the police was hawk-eyed and knew how to press for information. 

They’d be hellbent and relentless to slit his throat as soon as they could. Officials and hunters had methods to find him if it was not too far out in the ocean. Or they would just wait until he came back to you sooner or later. You are sure that he will. He’s feeling indebted. And attached. You’re too. You dread the day, and tomorrow’s goodbye if it actually comes. 

You have to admit it: This propelled you into a gigantic mess. You already felt your heart burst when Taehyung knocked. You have to guard Jungkook from a greater fuck-up, come what may. 

With the entire government of Busan or even Seoul against you when your secret ever goes public. Because they want to keep it on the low, too, and would stop at nothing. You did not go against the law but social customs and conservative morale, and those are by far more powerful. 

You rip off your blouse and pants and toss them on the balcony. Your tank top is hardly suitable for the temperature, but the pool water is slightly warmer as you get in slowly. The chlorine has faded. The first good news for today.

Diving down, Jungkook appears curled up in the deepest, darkest corner, holding his hair together so it won’t float up and betray him. Most of the fright on his face dissolves when you give an intent thumbs up. These mermen understand so much about your culture. You cannot let go of this thought. How could he know?

Swimming closer, you seize him by the hands, nodding your head toward the surface. He pulls you up with ease, fast and agile. Emerging, you have to draw several breaths. He looks around frantically. You hope this didn’t traumatize him.  

“It was my neighbour friend asking for art supplies. He left and didn’t see anything. Nobody else around. We’re good. Jungkook, it’s alright. It was just a friend.”

It’s Sunday, thankfully.

“I was so afraid… There was a vision, I was bleeding!”

“It’s okay now. There’s no blood. I protect you, nothing will happen.”

It’s of no use. He can’t stop looking around. Jungkook needs something to ground him. 

A little kiss on the forehead. 

It makes his cheeks turn cobalt blue. You feel how his tail sways back and forth a bit quicker. You part your legs wider so they won’t crush his fin in between. 

“I will handle it. If I can pull you out of the mud, then I can subdue them when they ever show up. You just have to hide. Jungkook.”

It’s self-persuasion and hoping for a self-fulfilling prophecy. But you’re beaming at him, and his smile grows just as large.

“Y/N, you’re very strong. I wouldn’t know where I’d be without your help. You hardly knew me, just my kin.” 

“So did you. But you didn’t freak out when you were awake.”

He nods emphatically.

“I felt your hands on my gills. It was very nice. Like waves. I knew you were benevolent, you resemble the sea when you move. No bad person does this. Can you… again? Only if you want, I—”

What he said stuns you for seconds. Your hands move to his upper body on autopilot. 

“Like, like this?”

Jungkook sighs a mellowed yes when you start to stimulate his sides. His gills are much more relaxed than at the beach. After some strokes, you’re leaning in so much that his arms virtually just have to close an inch around you for an embrace. 

He clings to you in a tight hug, your lips coming up to meet his. Whatever magic or trick he is using, they feel curiously sparkling and slightly saline after a while. It’s magnificent. Meanwhile, your breasts are squeezed flat against his chest, feeling how Jungkook’s heartbeat accelerates. Much like his fin that’s bringing more of his tail between your legs. You pull them upwards a bit, but inevitably he brushes against your pubes. You thought it would be awkward. But something about his body infatuates your skin like an ancient charm. 

“Apologies Y/N, I didn’t mean to!”

“Don’t be sorry. Just, fuck… do it again. Feels awesome. You can be yourself with me.”

He understands, bringing his tail stark forward this time. Shit. Your clit says yes to that. So does your face judging by how he reacts, a lot keener than before.  

“Jungkook, I have a weird question, too,” you brush back against him, “Is it possible, I mean. Can you penetrate me somehow, or…?”

He’s blushing a second time.

“I can peel the scales apart at the front.”

And he does it. 

Oh wow.

He has the most gorgeous shaft you’ve ever seen. Clad in lustrous, thin scales sprouts forth a splendid length tinted in jade. It sojourns hard and upright, poking heavy at your clit and entrance only separated by your underwear. 

“You can’t impregnate me, right?”

“I can’t. Human egg cells are too small and not receptive.”

That has you wondering, and quite amused how he said that. It means something big is coming. Sounds like fun.

“Can I ride you then?”

“You can do anything, really.”

It can’t get any hotter. Thankfully, you’re half undressed already. The panties you had left on soon float elsewhere just below the surface, and you’re shoving up the hem of your tank top. His chest feels ten times as invigorating when you’re naked against it. There’s hesitation when you reach for his cock. You don’t want to do anything wrong to hurt him. But Jungkook is encouraging the initiative. And the way he’s dipping at you flicks a plethora of switches. So it’s easy. You slip him in and start to move your hips. Soon you realize it’s a bit difficult to go down further.

“Can I use a spell? It helps.” he exhales. You knew it, he has those abilities.

“Mh, love to see it.”

There he goes. You catch Jungkook whispering a convoluted spell to himself before your walls pop open without further trial. He’s dipping in first, then going half the way already. That’s not normal at all. He knows what he’s doing, though. It’s so, so damn good. 

Jungkook is completely ecstatic. 

Your experience so far has been that sex in water generally… doesn’t go well. No lubrication, no fucking. But no, this has to be the best exception. The practically seamless scales, they’re really doing the trick. The plunge is slick and exciting, going in clean with every bounce. And there’s a quite a stunning lot to slide up and down on, that you get to welcome soon. He’s getting confident to echo the thrust with eyes fixated on yours. 

“Give me more of that,” you insist, leaving both legs wrapped around his wavering tail. It’s almost too slippery to hold on to. But good to sink down smoothly while squeezing deeper inside. You’re pushed upwards the more he fucks into you. His tip is broad enough to anchor you, not letting you glide off easily. But you’re dangerous close to it. So you’re letting yourself drop down on him with more momentum which he has to cushion first, causing your belly to bulge out considerably. You’re obsessed. 

“Lift my legs more, Jungkook!”

Like that, the insides of your thighs graze at his gills, abrasive and brisk. To your surprise, it eventuates in sharper thrusts going for your sweetest spots. The depth that he pursues now starts to stretch you hard and wide on the glossy scales. Jungkook keeps murmuring spells. If this goes on for any longer, that’s a cock riding that would send not only you but Taehyung and the entire neighborhood to the gates of heaven and higher. 

You keep shoving him straight up to dent out your abdomen, and he’s making it so salacious with his little moans. When you’re grabbing for hold at his shoulders, Jungkook warns you about his precum. Indeed it’s not to underestimate when you feel it, making everything two times as sleek. You slump down completely now, surprised not to feel any trace of balls against your ass. 

Different anatomy. 

Normal men need cooling for their sperm outside of their body, otherwise they would not survive. Jungkook? He’s got something else going on. Busan’s sea is not notoriously warm.

“Intertwine your fingers in my hair, Y/N—”

“What? Can I really do that?”

It sounds like heresy to your ears. 

“It’ll stimulate you, do it quickly,” he persists, and your fingers seek a place in his silky mane. And Christ, he’s right. There’s a rapid sedation of the anxious thoughts at the back of your mind. Instead, you’re feeling an immense euphoria descend from your spine down to your loins. Jungkook whimpers while you’re drilling him deeper with all your power. Slowly but surely, you lose yourself in his dazzling ocean hair. You’re so happy now. Nothing matters. Just you together within the blur of everything else. 

Fuck society. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. 

Jungkook’s moans have grown incomprehensible. Both of your hands soak up more of the sky blue energy. And once you grab the strands tighter, an overwhelming current verberates in your back until you’re ready and cumming. The world is so elated, nothing can bring your hands away from his hair. It’s pushing you to the limit incessantly. Better than any drug trip, better than the feeling after you ran your second marathon. You’re climaxing so vigorously on him that twenty seconds in, something effervescent and tingly begins to pour into your womb like a bursting well. His unearthly groaning gives you an idea of how much it shatters and empties him. You get filled to the brim and it won’t stop. Of course, he’s significantly larger than the average human — much semen to store then, by your logic at least. You do get a glimpse of the proportions as Jungkook keeps cramming loads and loads past your cervix while your orgasm keeps electrifying even the last corner of your body.  

The well won’t cease. He keeps moving until you’re entirely pumped full with an all creamy, tickling substance. You try to keep everything in not to leak it into the water. But it’s too much. With each of his last thrusts, the bulk of it just comes spilling out. A shimmering, dark cyan liquid rises to the surface in gradient plumes, mixed with streaks of your cum. It looks like fluid shapes of orchids showing as a supple iridescent foam. 

And it turns golden.

The scent gives you a feeling of the hours after rain in spring. Jungkook picks up a decent bit of the foam with two fingers, slipping them into his mouth. He leans in to kiss you again as you reach the aftermath of your peak that threatens to leave you bland. But what happens now makes you tighten around his dick once again, seizing out more to splutter inside.   

On your tongue unfold an explosion of jasmine blended with peppermint, thyme, fresh raspberries, wild honey, and even something like caramel. There was no way you would have been prepared for this. You had expected something like a sea breeze, but this beats all that you could imagine. Because beyond approximation, you can’t really describe what it is like. 

You swallow fast and retreat one hand from his hair to pick up something yourself. This is the best thing you’ve ever tasted. It can’t be called an actual thing, in fact, it’s more than that. It has to be an artifact. A magic potion that you want to bottle up and drink all day, sweet and glowing. 

It’s like alchemy. 

And you’re so deliciously stuffed with that now.  

Before you pull him out, all the negative pressure culminates. Then, the rest of his seed bubbles up placidly. The gaping feels like you just jammed a baseball bat inside of yourself, reckless abandon with a Himalaya of premium coke up your nose. Complete inebriation. 

Water streams in and flushes out the final strands of cyan when his following spells seal you tight. Jungkook holds you firm until you detangle his hair with your remaining hand, then place it on his cheek. If there were mermaids out there, they’d be the luckiest women on the entire planet. 

“Kook”, you whisper with an unwinding tremble, “you’re amazing.”

Anchoring an old khaki tent next to the pool takes some time, but you remember something about the manual. This goes here, that goes there, and this is how you zip up a sleeping bag. Jungkook giggles along. You can’t afford to sleep inside tonight. You only move your blouse to the safety of your wardrobe and get a snack, switch on the lights of the balcony to illuminate the garden for the rest of the evening. He’s singing for you.

The next day is grueling because you have to go to work. But before leaving, you relocate Jungkook to the bathtub as fast as possible, leaving him your phone with a short explanation so he can call you and vice versa. The anxiety comes back.  

He gets lighthearted leisure magazines and books to spend the time, and devours them. History, art, fashion, beauty, celebrities, health, sports, food, philosophy, fantasy, comedy. He also asks for a globe and celestial map, saying his uncle vaguely told him about it. Maybe it’s good that he knows a bit more about the mainland when he returns. You don’t want to let him go with the same ideas he had before, give him a bit of faith in the good things you had here. The other side of the coin, even if it was just a glimpse of hope. 

Though you didn’t expect him to return to your mansion in any way. Humanity is already terrifying enough. Especially after his loss. This should not happen again. You decide to leave him your trusted chef knife and a word of caution. He doesn’t know how to use it so you teach him the technique. He says he wouldn’t be any better than his attackers if there were some. You try to clarify that it’s the way humans act sometimes. Tit for tat. And he has all the right and responsibility to defend himself under threat, otherwise, he would never be able to see the stars again. 

At 10 am you give him a short call. He’s fine, quite mesmerized how the phone works, and just a bit hungry. You decide not to spend lunchtime in the city, but speed your car to a local supermarket and deli, looking for seaweed. Returning home Jungkook is still in his place, having managed to drop Terry Pratchett and J. K. Rowling into the water. But all else is as before. In the afternoon, you call him twice. He talks about the invention of the lightbulb, pasta salad, Kant, and how nicely Tolkien writes about Hobbits. Work passes torturously slow, the keyboard in front of you blurs each time your mind drifts away. You go home early, leaving your subordinates Jimin and Seokjin a bit puzzled at a shallow excuse. If only they knew.

It’s way after dawn when you move him out of the bathroom. Jungkook gets the idea that you could just use a wheelbarrow this time, knowing you own one after having had enough hours to glance around your garden already. You fill a bit of water into it and pick boots with a sturdy profile. And it works, the leverage is much better on the arms. You arrive at the beach laughing and joking together how silly of a duo you must look like. Jungkook has already given his word to come back in two days around the same time. 

The tide is close enough for you to take him to the water. He parts reluctantly with five, six, seven sublime kisses. You hope he wasn’t missed by his family. Busan’s nocturnal skyline radiates from afar when you watch him swim east ever so elegantly.  

It’s hard to find any sleep later. Your arms still ache like hell from dragging him. And so many things are going through your head. You end up outside in the tent after taking a quick shower, pretending he’s still there. Jungkook has last started a chapter from the Chronicles of Narnia, and you put yourself in a tired daze finishing it. Work tomorrow is going to be so hard.

Jimin asks if you’re okay while he organizes some files, but doesn’t comment anything further. You resume typing with the feeling that you are now leading a double life. Taehyung’s words come back: Slow down, slow down. And you do. Wednesday you will see him at the bay, everything is alright. Who knows what you will do afterwards, how often you will meet. Maybe it’s good not to make him cross into dangerous territory regularly, or at least you should look for more hidden places. You’ll make it.

Two days after, you receive an early mail. You’re drowsy but startled, Taehyung and Jin haven’t sent anything for months. It has to be one of them.

It’s only a red envelope and some strangely filled paper bag. You peel open the red letter first.

It was made with a typewriter. 

“A million and you get the fish back whole. He has a nice buzzcut already. Friday 1 pm, quay. Pull up with the money or you’ll see him on the news. Tell anybody and we will do the same to you.”

Below, the paper is embossed with a saw and hook symbol. 

You drop the bag as soon as you open it. 

There are hundreds of tiny pearls on the floor. 

chapter two ║ i’m no angel (m)

↳ summary | who do you have to become to get him back?

⚠️ graphic violence, threat of drowning, car accident, aftermath of torture.

There’s an old cage.

Bars bent and crooked.

Not abandoned, just empty since this very day. You know he must have been inside, nothing else makes sense. The lingering smell around here, it belongs to him. The air is spiked with thyme, the scent of grass after it rained. It’s familiar. It’s so painful. You go on searching every corner of the hangar in a fever. It looks like a warehouse from the inside, stuffed with tools and other miscellaneous equipment.

Some wood, nails. Discarded tires. You’ve seen some of them on the SUV you followed to Busan city limits. You try to memorize the letters and numbers on them. AZ1-5986. Whatever that means. It could be of help later since you don’t know the SUV’s license plate.

As you remember that it’d be straightforward to just photograph the tires with your phone, a faint knocking sets your world on fire. It keeps repeating, they are fast and erratic knocks. Not mechanical ones. Not calm ones.

You hurry into the direction where you suspect they are coming from. There’s no doubt in your mind that you should not go. It’s the only sign of life, or whatever it is in this building. Somewhere, somewhere at the back behind two parked up seaplanes, timeworn and half deconstructed, there you locate it. A moss-covered fish tank is jammed between a humongous workbench and a freezer. A tail rests and winds grazing tight against the glass inside. Oh my god.

Yes, it’s him. You unbolt the lid, bring it down crashing on the freezer. Jungkook spins around inside the tank until his face comes to the surface. Pale grey eyes. Charcoal hair, cropped short. Pursed lips and a tapered chin. An Ingenue look. He’s agitated.

“I’ve heard you calling for him, you’re the one Jungkook’s talked about!”

No. It’s not Jungkook. Not his voice, not his face. Too lean, not sturdy at all. It’s definitely not him. His scent is much different, too. Sweet chestnuts, basil. It’s not familiar.

“Who are you, where is he?”

“Yoongi,” the merman blinks, “I’m his friend. They got us both at once at the beach.”

That’s what you feared. Jungkook’s friends and family getting dragged into this. You wish you had just sent him out as far away as possible where the hunters wouldn’t get him.

“I’m his—”

You don’t know what you are to him. A girlfriend? Hardly. An affair? More than that. It sounds weird anyway. Affairs are not that serious.

“He loves you.”

There it is. Jungkook told him. Lovers might be what describes you best.

“Where is he?”

“They’ve taken him to another place from here this morning. This is just the decoy. They told you to follow the car and fetch him here after paying.”

“They did. And now?”

“These are not the headquarters,” Yoongi props himself up at the edge of the tank. “The shipyard is. You have to go there!”

Of course. This hangar is as good as useless for a permanent stay. It’s just for the dirty work.

“And what happens with you? I won’t leave you here like that. But I can’t transport you in my car, there’s nothing like this tank.”

“It takes half an hour until I can’t go without any water. If you drop me at the sea it’s fine.”

“So I can take you with me?”

“I’ll be grateful forever. Jungkook didn’t lie about how you treat us.”

You steer your car into the hangar backwards, get out again with the engine on, rip the trunk open. The size has to be enough.

The high walls of the fish tank don’t permit you to lift Yoongi out of it. He tries to push himself up with the help of his fin several times, but he’s too large, the glass to slippery, and the tank too narrow. As a last resort, you grab a sledgehammer from the workbench to impact and shatter the glass. The handle is long, maybe 17 or 18 inches, allowing you to step back and lunge quite far. The glass doesn’t break right away. You are not used to wielding something like this. It takes three more strikes until you demolish the front wall. You have to be careful not to hit where Yoongi’s tail squeezes against the glass.

The gush of water Yoongi pushes you back, everything goes into splinters with fragments of glass bursting to the sides, then floating everywhere on the ground. Yoongi cuts himself several times at the arms and lower back before you can pick him up. His chest is flat and cold against yours, his body heavy and close to glide far from your grasp. Less so than Jungkook, but still it feels like the weight is tearing off your arms. His skin is like you’re touching soap.

There’s no sailing cloth or Taehyung’s art supplies this time. You try to heave him up as much as possible so his fin won’t touch the ground, glass cracking under your boots until you reach the car. Yoongi howls with pain when you try to tuck him in. His wounds scratch hard at the trunk’s plastic inlet. You show him how to open and close the tailgate from the inside, then shut it and set off.

It takes ten minutes to the bay.

The boatyard towers over the cranes and docks of the harbor. You speed in order to drive around. And there it is. AZ1-5986. They didn’t park the car inside, no. It stands blazen at the rear entrance. And they met you at 1 PM in the middle of the day. You’ve been tricked by absolute amateurs.

Or not.

There’s a scream coming from the inside. Sharp, heartbreaking.

No time to bring Yoongi to the sea.

You seize the sledgehammer from the passenger seat. And go.

You recognize them at one glance. It’s the small man and red-head woman you saw driving the SUV, the woman being the one you gave the ransom to. She gave cold instructions. The man is currently wearing large gloves, dripping with water. To your surprise, they seem to be alone. The vast silence of the dockyard seems too large to house them here. The woman sneers at you, patting the front of her black leather jacket.

“Your envelope’s still right here, Miss.”

“It will be here soon,” you point towards your own jeans pocket at the front.

She only tugs at her necklace in return. It’s made of colorful hair. Gold, turquoise. Teal and silver. You realized something. Only one thing drives them: cash. And since the government still wants the monopoly in the equation, that will be their eternal aim. Hunters are only tolerated for doing the messy jobs. The profiteer is elsewhere. And with the sums that they trade the mermen, your ransom money is only a temporary achievement, gone tomorrow. It’s not what Jungkook is worth to you anyways. Money can’t measure Jungkook. If only you could hold him.

What your instinct tells you at the sight of the hair is: Killing. No matter if it would alert authorities sooner or later, or bring a gang to your garden. But Jungkook’s words are still at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’d be ready to be just as bad as they are. Maybe you’re no angel in all of this. You’ve infringed on the circle of life the minute you decided to pour water on Jungkook’s body at the beach. But there’s no way back. You have to be as bad, even worse. For him.

Because there he lies, in a giant tank with another merman with orange tail and skin. It’s close enough to see what’s inside. Pearls are piling up at the ground, and well from his eyes when they lock on you. His hair looks auburn, the long vivid strands are gone. They picked a lot of scales off his tail, too, leaving bloody spots. All the jewelry is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a heavy chain is wound secure around him several times, weighing his body to the ground. The other merman doesn’t have a chain. His scales and hair are removed entirely. They sawed one of his arms off, too. If you can judge by his face, the decaying process has already started. He’s been here for longer.

Your anger is boiling up. The woman’s shallow smile pushes you over the edge at last. She pulls out a soiled drop point knife. You hate her so much. This place has to be wiped out. Erased, cauterized. The entire gang if you have to. You charge gripping the hammer at the top with the right hand, at the bottom with your heft. Before you reach her, the man is wrapping his hands around your neck from behind, pulling you back from her.

One foot, two feet, three. You can’t breathe, panic. The feeling of his gloves is terrifying on your skin, in your mind. But the thought of Jungkook burns inside. Again you focus all energy in your arms. Finally. He takes your elbow to the stomach, cries out, and topples down. Before the man catches himself, you follow your impulse. It’s good that he dragged you away. This is the only chance. You withdraw your right hand from the handle and take a long swing back with all the might in your left arm. You hurl the hammer forward and send it flying towards her legs. The spin knocks her over right away. This tree got cut down. If you could, you’d make wood briquettes. But not now.

He’s coming at you again. Now that she’s unconscious, your job is easy even if your hammer is gone. Men have more frontal weak spots to hit.

He has his gloved fists up. Going towards you slowly. First he tries to suffocate you, now he’s playing fair, doesn’t he. You’ll floor him faster than her. Suits him, he’s the minion. The prick probably sawed apart Jungkook’s brother.

You wait until he comes close enough, put your fists up in return. Shit, shit, shit. Your arms hurt so much. You play the game despite the ache, dancing from foot to foot as he comes in. Then boot nasty fucker in the groin aimed from below, explosive and direct. He stumbles backward with a yell, falling agonized and twitching. You dive after him, leg extended to land a second kick under his chin. His head snaps back. That beats him senseless for once.

But you worry about Yoongi. The trunk. He’s still in there. Since twenty minutes or more. And even if he knows how to get out of there, it’s of no use. He can’t go anywhere. This has to be fast. At the other end of the scene, you pull the envelope from the woman’s jacket, along with a metal key and her necklace. She doesn’t deserve it.

You hurry to Jungkook, hammer all too heavy in your hands again. At one point, your arms are going to fall off your torso. But now you know better. You dash the tank to pieces in one final hurl towards the right spot, entirely graceless but effective. The water swipes you off your feet in a large outpour. Exhaustion is coming.

The splinters are much larger this time and the float glass appears to almost detonate under the pressure released. Jungkook is too heavy to get carried off by the surge. He lands just feet away next to you crying, repeating your name until you manage to stand up leaving the hammer behind.

“I missed you, Jungkook, what—”

“You, you came,” he winces, “are you fine?”

“Don’t ask about me,” you fumble at the lock of his chain, “we’ll get this off, talk is for later.”

“It hurts.”

He’s looking at you from dulled eyes. They might have put him into water, but the life is still drained out of him. You don’t want to imagine what happened. They bound the chain around him so tight that it left purple traces. After it’s off, you already know what to do with it. Jungkook picks an orange scale from his dead friend in the debris, whispering a last goodbye.

The thirty minutes are long over. The trunk is closed when you come out of the backdoor with Jungkook.

You open to a smiling Yoongi the second he sees you and Jungkook in your arms.

“Yoongi, you okay? Left you waiting.”

“Sure, but you?” he ruffles his hair a bit. You blink twice, seeing that it has grown a bit longer and darker since you saw it in the hangar. You noticed that with Jungkook as well, but didn’t put two and two together, or actually believed your own eyes. It must be magic at work. Or different physics.

At a second glance, there’s a decent layer of water in the trunk.

“Yes, they’re in chains. Where does the water come from?”

“You had several bottles of sparkling water in the corner. I like how it tingles, we don’t have that out there. My wounds... it seems they regenerate.”

Of course! The water. You bought it when getting groceries for Jungkook.

“And what do we do with the two?”

“We could take them out with us. But they’re affiliates, they all know about each other.”

“I’ll decide later by myself,” you guide Jungkook onto the rear bench seat. “We need to go...”

You kickstart the car, turn to head for the one-way lane to the docks. As close as your car permits, you maneuver toward the edge where water towers high. The tide is in favor. But there’s commotion at the end of the street where you came from. It’s a truck.

“Hurry!” Jungkook cries, “That’s the rest of them!”

You can’t drive away with them now. If you’re able to drop both off, then you’re already lucky. You drive closer to the water, preparing to unlock the car with your electric key so Yoongi gets the sign to open the trunk. But you soon feel that the car gets out of balance. You look into the rear-view mirror, estimating how much you could still drive backward, or forward. But it’s futile.

The weight in the back drags the car over the edge. You’re screaming. Jungkook tries to counterbalance. The car tips over anyways. It enters the water.

The door won’t open. Water keeps rising. The signal of the keys won’t unlock the car no matter how many times you press the button. Jungkook can’t manage to open the doors either, his strength has faded. The water level has almost reached the ceiling when he stops trying. You’re so far down and out of air, even if you managed to escape now diving upward would make you run out of air already. Maybe a few seconds left and you can say goodbye to this life. You can’t tell Jungkook how much you love him. It’s all too late. Everything, absolutely everything went wrong. Only failure remains. Fucked up from start to finish. Four lives ruined, two dead. You feel a thumping at the back of your head.

Jungkook intertwines his fingers with your hair from behind, whispering something between bubbles before you can’t hear anymore. An immense heat glues your legs together in an instant, melting the fabric of your jeans. A rousing bolt darts through your scalp, your feet stop moving. It feels like your body is bloating everywhere, soaking up water. Webbing springs forth between your fingers, fiery scales around your hips. Your hair starts growing out scarlet and thick, curling large before your eyes. The sides of your upper body start to open up wide, then close again. A burst of air expands in your lungs.

Now you know why Jungkook knew so much about civilized life.

Merpeople used to be human.

⁕ sequel: dauntless (m) | m.list in bio

Do not repost, modify, or translate my work. © 2017-2019. submissive-bangtan. All rights reserved.

[thevividgreenmoss]

Let’s remember what the left critique of Obama’s administration is. Leftists argue, roughly, that while Obama came in with lofty promises of “hope” and “change,” the change was largely symbolic rather than substantive, and he failed to stand up for progressive values or fight for serious shifts in U.S. policy. He deported staggering numbers of immigrants, let Wall Street criminals off the hook, failed to take on (and now proudly boasts of his support for) the fossil fuel industry, sold over $100 billion in arms to the brutal Saudi government, killed American citizens with drones (and then made sickening jokes about it), killed lots more non-American citizens with drones (including Yemenis going to a wedding) and then misled the public about it, promised “the most transparent administration ever” and then was “worse than Nixon” in his paranoia about leakers, pushed a market-friendly healthcare plan based on conservative premises instead of aiming for single-payer, and showered Israel with both public support and military aid even as it systematically violated the human rights of Palestinians (Here, for example, is Haaretz: “Unlike [George W.] Bush, who gave Israel’s Iron Dome system a frosty response, Obama has led the way in funding and supporting the research, development and production of the Iron Dome”). Obama’s defenders responded to every single criticism by insisting that Obama had his hands tied by a Republican congress, but many of the things Obama did were freely chosen. In education policy, he hired charterization advocate Arne Duncan and pushed a horrible “dog-eat-dog” funding system called “Race To The Top.” Nobody forced him to hire Friedmanite economists like Larry Summers, or actual Republicans like Robert Gates, or to select middle-of-the-road judicial appointees like Elena Kagan and Merrick Garland. Who on Earth picks Rahm Emanuel, out of every person in the world, to be their chief of staff?

Centrism and compromise were central to Obama’s personal philosophy from the start. The speech that put him on the map in 2004 was famous for its declaration that there was no such thing as “blue” and “red” America, just the United States of America. A 2007 New Yorker profile said that “in his skepticism that the world can be changed any way but very, very slowly, Obama is deeply conservative.” Obama spoke of being “postpartisan,” praised Ronald Reagan, gave culturally conservative lectures about how Black people supposedly needed to stop wearing gold chains and feeding their children fried chicken for breakfast. From his first days in office, there simply didn’t seem to be much of a “fighting” spirit in Obama. Whenever he said something daring and controversial (and correct), he would fail to stand by it. For example, when he publicly noted that the Cambridge police force acted “stupidly” in arresting Henry Louis Gates Jr. for trying to break into his own home, he followed up by inviting the police officer and Gates to sit down and talk things out over a beer. A disgusted Van Jones has characterized this as the “low point” of the Obama presidency, but the desire to be “all things to all people” had always been central to the Obama image. Matt Taibbi described him during his first campaign as:

…an ingeniously crafted human cipher… a sort of ideological Universalist… who spends a great deal of rhetorical energy showing that he recognizes the validity of all points of view, and conversely emphasizes that when he does take hard positions on issues, he often does so reluctantly… You can’t run against him on issues because you can’t even find him on the ideological spectrum.

Adolph Reed, Jr., who as early as 1996 had described the politics of “form over substance” being practiced by a certain “smooth Harvard lawyer with impeccable do-good credentials and vacuous-to-repressive neoliberal politics,” warned in 2008 that “Obama’s empty claims to being a candidate of progressive change and to embodying a ‘movement’ that exists only as a brand will dissolve into disillusionment,” and his presidency would “continue the politics he’s practiced his entire career.” Reed saw the devotion Obama inspired as a kind of “faddish, utterly uninformed exuberance” and said that Obama’s “miraculous ability to inspire and engage the young replaced specific content in his patter of Hope and Change.” (When Obama did get specific, Reed said, he often “relies on nasty, victim-blaming stereotypes about black poor people to convey tough-minded honesty about race and poverty,” talking frequently about “alleged behavioral pathologies in poor black communities.”)

Obama supporters think all of this is deeply cynical and unfair. But those who want to argue that Obama was the proponent of a genuinely transformational progressive politics, his ambitions tragically stifled by the ideological hostility of reactionaries, have to contend with a few damning pieces of evidence: the books of Pfeiffer, Rhodes, and Litt.

Granted, these men are all devoted admirers of Obama who set out to defend his legacy. But in telling stories intended to make Obama and his staff look good, they end up affirming that the left’s cynicism was fully warranted. Litt, for instance, seems to have been a man with almost no actual political beliefs. Recently graduated from Yale when he joined the campaign, he was never much of an “activist.” Litt was drawn to Obama not because he felt that Obama would actually bring particular changes that he wanted to see happen, but because he developed an emotional obsession with Barack Obama as an individual person. Pfeiffer feels similarly—he fell in “platonic political love.” Litt’s book begins:

On January 3, 2008, I pledged my heart and soul to Barack Obama… My transformation was immediate and all-consuming. One moment I was a typical college senior, barely interested in politics. The next moment I would have done anything, literally anything, for a freshman senator from Illinois.

He describes the beginning of his brainless infatuation: “[Obama] spoke like presidents in movies. He looked younger than my dad. I didn’t have time for a second thought, or even a first one. I simply believed.”

Litt’s memoir is remarkable for its lack of interest in actual policy. He mentions climate change in one or two sentences (p. 111), but seems to have spent most of his White House years preparing jokes for various black tie events like the Alfalfa Club Dinner and the Al Smith Dinner. (Litt’s rule for writing speeches for dinners of rich donors: “Jokes about money are acceptable… Jokes about power are not.”) Litt helped the president record videos for BuzzFeed (to get in touch with millennials), and Between Two Ferns (to plug the floundering healthcare.gov website), and to tape a birthday message for Betty White. But he was particularly in his element in preparing Obama’s annual comedy monologue for the White House Correspondents’ Dinner (WHCD). The WHCD, now thankfully gutted of its significance, was mocked outside Washington for the icky chumminess shown between political elites and the press corps. But Litt obsessed over it, and anecdotes about it take up page after page of his book. (An incident in which one of the president’s comedy PowerPoint slides failed to display correctly is told with dramatic flair over two full pages.)

This is the Washington of the Turkey Pardon and the Easter Egg Roll, where photo ops and symbolic gestures matter far more than such comparative trivialities as “what the actual policies of the administration are.” In fact, Litt even says that during the second term, he felt as if he was being given “the political equivalent of a vegan cookie” because the speeches he was writing focused on things that were “all nutrition, no taste” like “help[ing] more students pay off loans” and “insur[ing] more people.” He wanted to make jokes about Republicans, not try to talk to the American public about housing policy. In fact, Litt, Rhodes, and Pfeiffer all subscribe to a politics of gesture, where if you want to address some crisis you give a grand speech about it. One of Rhodes’ proudest moments is writing “the Middle East speech,” and describing a moment of political difficulty, Litt writes: “We needed something to break through. That something was a speech.” These three men are speechwriters, so we can forgive them for being preoccupied with descriptions of things rather than the things themselves. But this tendency to prioritize “getting the words right” over the actual experiences of human beings ran through the whole Obama presidency. Ordinary people were a kind of alien species—Litt says they referred to them as “real people (RPs)” and tried to litter speeches with “RP stories” to make them relatable. “In Washington you never stop hearing about the details of policy but you rarely see its effects.” This is only true if you rarely bother to examine the effects.

There may not have been much Change, but there were plenty of speeches about it. The economic situation of the average Black family may have been catastrophic under Obama, but he did give “the historic race speech.” The United States may have bombed an Afghan hospital, burning dozens of patients alive in their beds (their families each received $6,000 in compensation), but Obama gave a very powerful Nobel Peace Prize speech about how the pacifism of Martin Luther King needed to be balanced with a recognition that using force can be morally necessary.

…My colleague Luke Savage has analyzed how pernicious the influence of The West Wing was on a generation of young Democratic politicos, and sure enough Litt says that “like nearly every Democrat under the age of thirty-five, I was raised, in part, by Aaron Sorkin.” (More accurately, of course, is “nearly every wealthy white male Democrat who worked in Washington.” The near total absence of women and people of color in top positions on The West Wing may give more viewing pleasure to a certain audience demographic over others.) Litt says in college he “watched West WingDVDs on an endless loop,” and Pfeiffer too describes “watching The West Wing on a loop.”

Luke describes the kind of mentality this leads to: a belief that “doing politics” means that smart, virtuous people in charge make good decisions for the people, who themselves are rarely seen. Social movements don’t exist, even voters don’t exist. Instead, the political ideal is a PhD economist president (Jed Bartlet) consulting with a crack team of Ivy League underlings and challenging the ill-informed (but well-intended) Republicans with superior logic and wit. During the West Wing’s seven seasons, the Bartlet administration has very few substantive political accomplishments, though as Luke points out it “warmly embraces the military-industrial complex, cuts Social Security, and puts a hard-right justice on the Supreme Court in the interests of bipartisan ‘balance.’” It has always struck me as funny that Sorkin’s signature West Wing shot is the “walk and talk,” in which characters strut down hallways having intense conversations but do not actually appear to be going anywhere. What better metaphor could there be for a politics that consists of looking knowledgeable and committed without any sense of what you’re aiming at or how to get there? Litt says of Obama that “he spoke like presidents in movies.” Surely we can all see the problem here: Presidents in movies do not pass and implement single-payer healthcare. (They mostly bomb nameless Middle Eastern countries.)

Their West Wing-ism meant that the Obama staffers completely lacked an understanding of how political interests operate, and were blindsided when it turned out Republicans wanted to destroy them rather than collaborate to enact Reasonable Bipartisan Compromises. Jim Messina, Obama’s deputy chief of staff and reelection campaign manager, spoke to a key Republican staffer after the 2008 election and was shocked when she told him: “We’re not going to compromise with you on anything. We’re going to fight Obama on everything.” Messina replied “That’s not what we did for Bush.” Said the Republican: “We don’t care.” Rhodes and Pfeiffer, in particular, are shocked and appalled when Republicans turn out to be more interested in their own political standing than advancing the objective well-being of the country. Rhodes nearly has a breakdown when he is dragged through the conservative press over some Benghazi nonsense. He found himself in “an alternate reality that was insane,” and can’t believe Mitch McConnell turns out to be so “staggeringly partisan and unpatriotic” that he doesn’t care about Russian hacking.

The Obama Democrats, guided by the “let’s just all sit down in a room together and work out our differences” temperament of Obama himself, seemed desperate for Republican approval and shocked when the right proved unreasonable. In 2012, long after Messina had been told explicitly that Republicans were not going to be friendly under any circumstances, Obama invited congressional Republicans to the White House for a screening of Spielberg’s Lincoln, in order to show how political adversaries can cooperate for the common good. “Not one of them came,” Rhodes laments. Obama held out hope that a party willing to destroy the entire planet in order to preserve the privileges of the super-wealthy would come to his movie nights and work things out amicably.

The Obama administration bent over backwards to show that it was pragmatic and moderate and sensible, even inflicting cruel harm on families to show their toughness. Here is Tyler Moran, who was a deputy immigration policy director on Obama’s White House policy council:

There was a feeling that [the White House] needed to show the American public that you believed in enforcement, and that [we weren’t pushing for] open borders. But in hindsight I was like, what did we get for that? We deported more people than ever before. All these families separated, and Republicans didn’t give him one ounce of credit. There may as well have been open borders for five years.

We deported tons of people and separated families, and Republicans wouldn’t praise us!

This same bizarre naivete is evident in Obama’s dealings with Benjamin Netanyahu, as recounted by Ben Rhodes. Rhodes says it was obvious that “Netanyahu wasn’t going to negotiate seriously” about a just resolution to the Israel-Palestine conflict, and that Netanyahu “rejected any effort at peace.” Israeli settlements continued to be constructed in brazen violation of international law. Yet, Rhodes says, “despite Netanyahu’s intransigence, [Obama] would always side with Israel when push came to shove.” In 2011, the Obama administration vetoed a UN Security Council resolution declaring the settlements illegal, even though they plainly were and Obama himself had previously acknowledged as much.** Rhodes says the Palestinians were finding “little more than rhetorical support from us.” They barely received even that. Rhodes relates a stunning anecdote in which Obama meets with a group of Palestinian youth. One nervous boy summons the courage to tell the president that his people are being treated as Black Americans were once treated. Obama does not know what to say in reply. Incapable of directly criticizing Israel, he mutters something about how he believes in opportunity for all. But moved by the boy’s testimony, he decides later to act. What does he do? He adds a line to a speech he gives to Israelis, in which he tells them that Palestinian families love their children just as much as Israelis love theirs. Does he condemn the racist Israeli state? He does not. Does he actually do anything for the boy? Of course not.

Rhodes and Obama are frustrated, then, at criticism “for not being sufficiently pro-Israel, which ignored the fact that he wasn’t doing anything tangible for the Palestinians.” They gave Israel billions of dollars in military equipment, they refrained from tangibly aiding the people Israel oppresses, and Obama went before AIPAC in 2012 to say absolutely nothing in support of Palestinian rights and instead declare:

In the United States, our support for Israel is bipartisan, and that is how it should stay…. I have kept my commitments to the state of Israel. At every crucial juncture – at every fork in the road – we have been there for Israel. Every single time. … Despite a tough budget environment, our security assistance has increased every single year… We’re providing Israel with more advanced technology – the types of products and systems that only go to our closest friends and allies. And make no mistake: We will do what it takes to preserve Israel’s qualitative military edge – because Israel must always have the ability to defend itself, by itself, against any threat… No American president has made such a clear statement about our support for Israel at the United Nations.

Obama swore to AIPAC that he will always fund Israeli missiles before the Detroit school system (if this isn’t “declaring allegiance to Israel”—which Ilhan Omar has been called anti-Semitic for talking about—then pray tell, what would be?) As with the Republicans, Rhodes cannot understand how Democrats can give in on everything and yet still be rejected. How do they not understand? They’re being played for suckers. Of course they’ll still call you anti-Semitic even if you would give the lives of your children to protect Israel’s right to an apartheid state. Of coursethey’re not going to stop building settlements just because you have declined to challenge them on anything. That’s how political power works: If the other party senses you’re weak and won’t do anything to pressure them, they’ll walk all over you! Throughout the Obama staffers’ books, you can hear them crying: But it’s not FAIR! We played nice and they took advantage of it! Gentlemen, that’s how this game works!

…The left can learn a few important lessons from examining Pfeiffer, Rhodes, and Litt. First, these are not the sort of people you want in government. You need people who (1) have clear moral vision (2) have thick skins and (3) do not care about the goddamn White House Correspondents’ Dinner. You need people who understand that politics is about gaining power and then using it to make people’s lives better, not about giving uplifting but empty speeches and walking with purpose down Washington hallways. They also need to avoid accepting political reality as “fixed.” The people who defend Obama suggest that his hands were tied—power was arranged in such a way that he could not act. But the question is: How are you going to change that arrangement of power? If it’s true that “X bill will never pass this Congress,” then how are we going to get a different Congress? The Obama administration was reactive. They played the hand they were given, they had a very narrow sense of the boundaries of the “possible.” They did not understand that being uncompromisingly radical is actually more pragmatic.It’s essential to stop fetishizing credentials. Obama wanted to “hire the best qualified people no matter their politics, and send a message of unity.” That led to him hiring actual Republicans. Unless you’re a Republican, don’t do this. “No matter their politics”? No, politics matter. Your politics are the sum of your vision of what ought to be done. If a president wants to get something done, they need a team of people who also want to get that thing done. That should be elementary, but there just wasn’t that much politics to the Obama movement. Everything was about a guy.And I suppose that’s the final lesson here: Cults of personality are bad. Movements need to be about the people, not a person. The West Wing view of politics is that you just need to get the smartest, most competent, most qualified, most virtuous people into government. But that means nothing without a substantive vision for change and an understanding of how you mobilize an authentic popular movement to make it happen.

[phroyd]

KABUL, Afghanistan — When Rahima Jami heard that the Americans and the Taliban were close to a peace deal, she thought about her feet.

Ms. Jami is now a lawmaker in the Afghan Parliament, but back in 1996, when Taliban insurgents took power, she was a headmistress — until she was forced out of her job and told she could leave her home only in an ankle-length burqa.

One hot day at the market, her feet were showing, so the religious police beat them with a horse whip until she could barely stand.

Horror stories at the hands of enforcers from the Taliban’s Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice are a staple for any educated Afghan woman over age 25 or so. Now those women have a new horror story: the possibility that American troops will leave Afghanistan as part of a peace deal with the Taliban.

Six days of talks ended Saturday with a promise they would soon resume, bringing the parties closer to a deal than at any time in the 17 years since the Taliban were ousted from power. The mere possibility of concrete progress on peace inspired a wave of enthusiasm and hope among many Afghans on all sides that four decades of nearly continuous war could actually end.

Among many women, though, the hopes raised by a possible end to the fighting are mixed with an undeniable feeling of dread.

“We don’t want a peace that will make the situation worse for women’s rights compared to now,” Robina Hamdard, head of the legal department for the Afghan Women’s Network, said. The organization is a foreign-funded coalition of prominent women’s organizations.

No one needs to sell Afghan women on the need to bring an end to the bloodshed. They have buried far too many husbands and sons and brothers. But they fear that a peace that empowers the Taliban may herald a new war on women, and they want negotiators not to forget them.

“Afghan women want peace too,” Ms. Jami said. “But not at any cost.”

When she thinks of that time she was beaten, she said, “I remember it and I actually feel faint.”

And like many women, Ms. Jami is convinced that any peace deal that gives the Taliban a share of power will come at the expense of freedom for Afghan women. “Come that time, they will complete their incomplete dreams and they will be crueler than in the past,” Ms. Jami said.

Afghan women praying at a shrine where s female islamic scholar was beaten to death in 2015.CreditLynsey Addario for The New York Times

Compounding that concern is a fear among women that they have been sidelined in the peace process, and that when Afghans finally sit down at a peace table together, there will be no women present.

“We don’t want to be the victims of the peace process with the Taliban,” said Laila Haidari, a businesswoman who also works with drug addicts.

Ms. Haidari’s work would not have been allowed under the Taliban regime, when she lived in exile in Iran. “But the Afghan government totally ignores Afghan women on the peace process,” she said.

Shukria Paykan, another woman member of Parliament, recalls spending the Taliban years “forced to be inside a dark cage when out of our houses — I mean the burqa.”

Ms. Paykan was forced from her university professorship and her daughter’s school was closed, like all girls’ schools under the Taliban. She opened a clandestine school at home, pretending to teach girls the Quran and dressmaking, among the only subjects allowed for them. The only women allowed to work then were doctors, and even they had to have a close male relative as a chaperone at work.

Ms. Paykan, who is from Kundiz, said she felt shut out of the Afghan peace process.

“I have been an M.P. twice and a university professor, but no one has ever asked me about peace talks with the Taliban, or even told me that my rights will be secure,” she said. “We have had 40 years of war and everybody is tired of fighting, but that peace should not be at the price of losing our rights and freedom as women.”

Raising concerns about the lack of transparent negotiations, doesn’t make anyone war monger, continuing war or negotiations for exit are not mutually exclusive. If US wants to exit, they can do that gracefully like they did in 89 instead of rushing an imposed settlement

It is still early days in this stage of the peace process, and last week’s talks in Doha, Qatar, did not include any Afghan government officials, men or women.

American officials hope to persuade the Taliban at a later stage to sit down with Afghan officials, which they have so far refused to do, and issues like the Constitution, which guarantees women’s rights, would be on the table then.

Some women in government expressed satisfaction that talks had at least begun.

“Women need to raise their voices so they are not forgotten,” said Habiba Sarabi, the deputy of the High Peace Council in Kabul, and one of 15 women on the 75-member council, which is appointed by the government. “Without women it will be a broken peace. But we are optimistic about the peace talks.”

Saira Sharif, an Afghan poet and politician from Khost, said that previous efforts at talks between the government and the Taliban had excluded women.

“The Afghan government has assured women many times that women’s rights will not be affected negatively after a peace deal with the Taliban,” she said, “but women were not involved in the previous talks with the Taliban, and we need a place in future ones. We came a long way to achieve the rights we have now, just to lose them after a peace deal.”

Members of the women’s soccer team training in Kabul in 2016.CreditAdam Ferguson for The New York Times

Everyone involved in peace negotiations agrees that the war could end only with a power-sharing deal. That might mean sharing government ministries or territory around the country, or some combination of the two. It might even mean Taliban officials standing for national office — and possibly winning.

“We want the Taliban to accept women’s rights and publish a statement where they guarantee women’s rights,” said Ms. Paykan. So far, though, no one is even talking about that, she said.

Ryan Crocker, a former American ambassador to Afghanistan, was a key diplomat in Kabul in January 2002 and helped establish the first post-Taliban government. “We put a big premium on women right from the beginning,” he said. “One of the very first things we did was to get girls schools up and running.”

Mr. Crocker said he was worried that the withdrawal of American troops would have consequences beyond whatever future role the Taliban have.

“What really bothers me is, what is going to happen to Afghan women and girls?” he said. “Acute misogyny in Afghanistan goes way beyond the Taliban. Without a strong U.S. hand there, it is not looking very good for Afghan women. They can do as they like to them after we leave.”

Indeed, many Afghan women have a hard enough time without the Taliban around. The president of the national soccer federation, and three other top officials of the organization, are under suspension over accusations that female players were sexually and physically abused; an investigation has been underway for nearly two months, with no arrests so far.

Women are still reeling from the 2015 murder of a female Islamic scholar, Farkhunda, by a mob of men as police officers stood by idly. Shelters set up to protect women from abusive husbands and families have been under growing pressure from government and society.

[Read The Times’s 2016 Pulitzer Prize-winning reports on Afghan women.]

Ms. Haidari’s restaurant in Kabul, Taj-Begum, has been raided by the police repeatedly. S he said was being harassed because she allows men and women to dine together, doesn’t always wear a head scarf, and is a woman in business.

Her drug rehabilitation center was closed down, too, amid unfounded accusations that it was a front for prostitution. “It is a democratic government, but still women face many problems in this country,” Ms. Haidari said.

Qadria Azarnoosh is a Hazara dancer, whose traditional art has been suppressed by cultural conservatives in recent years — or as she puts it, by “Taliban mentality people who are not Taliban members.”

Last week she and a group of female friends staged a public performance of the colorful dance, knowing many of their parents would disapprove and possibly confine them to their homes afterward. That same day came news of the peace talks in Doha.

“When we heard that U.S. troops will leave Afghanistan in 18 months, we girls were asking each other, ‘Now what will become of us?’” Ms. Azarnoosh said. “People already think we are bad girls for dancing. What will happen to us if the Taliban become part of the government?”

Follow Rod Nordland, Fatima Faizi and Fahim Abed on Twitter: @rodnordland, @FatmaFaizi and @fahimabed . Taimoor Shah contributed reporting from Kandahar.

Phroyd

[d2kvirus]

Dickheads of the Month: June 2019

As it seems that there are people who say or do things that are remarkably dickheaded yet somehow people try to make excuses for them or pretend it never happened, here is a collection of some of the dickheaded actions we saw in the month of June 2019 to make sure that they are never forgotten.

You’d think the Orange Overlord’s visit would’ve been the biggest farce in British politics that week, but then The Independent Hashtag Change Hashtag Now Group Ltd saw six of their eleven MPs jump ship - including lead egotist Chuka Umunna as well as company secretary Gavin Shuker

Of course it was a matter of hours before Chuka Umunna started another new political movement promising the usual yadda-yaddas about how politics was broken and he’s the one person on earth who can fix it...sort of like he did a few months earlier with his previous project that he flounced out of at the first sign of failure - and a few days later he fucked off to join the Lib Dems, meaning the constituency of Streatham has been under control of two political parties (and one limited company) in 2019 all because their sitting MP keeps party-hopping and refusing to call a by-election

While none of the runners and riders in the Tory Leadership Drug Off covered themselves in glory, particular mention has to be reserved for Michael Gove for his admitting to taking cocaine while angling for the Tory leadership job and the Premiership that comes with it considering that, as Education Secretary, he introduced legislation saying any teacher who was caught using cocaine would be fired immediately, which sounds uncannily like he believed there should be one rule for him and another for the plebs

Perhaps the buffoon act Boris Johnson has spent over a decade performing isn’t a complete act, not when he has Priti Patel running around telling everyone about how much integrity he has while he hides in his safe space in case anyone might actually want to ask him a pertinent question - yet somehow he surpassed this when convicted fraudster Conrad Black was happy to vouch for Johnson’s credibility while slagging off any journalist who dared question him

On the subject of Boris Johnson and integrity, did Alan Sugar really believe nobody would notice him go from saying Johnson should be jailed for his lies during the EU referendum to saying he should become Prime Minister in the space of six months - a 180 that had nothing whatsoever to do with him saying he’d relax the tax rate that Alan Sugar just so happens to reside in?

Almost as soon as Pride Week began we had Anne Widdecombe volunteering her ignorant waffle about a “gay cure” - which also happens to be as close to a policy announcement as we’ve heard from The Nigel Farage Ego Project - and, naturally, it didn’t take long before sentient testicle Toby Young chipped in with the usual “it's so haaaaaard being a straight white male these days” bollocks

Another month passes and the BBC once again demonstrate their inability to cover an election result properly, this time giving so much airtime to Nigel Farage after the Peterborough by-election even though not only did his candidate come second, but when he realised that Labour candidate Lisa Forbes had won Farage literally ran and hid in the toilet, all of which makes it look as if the BBC had planned for their coverage to be a victory lap for Farage and didn’t bother to change their plans even when Farage didn’t win

Of course, this has led to the Faragists claiming conspiracy with some blather about postal votes and the local South Asian community, aided by Ross Kempsell falsely claiming that 69.4% of the vote was postal votes as opposed to 69.4% of those with postal votes used their vote (which is actually a decrease on the 85.1% average postal vote turnout from the 2017 election) all of which is little more than them begging to be told “You lost, get over it” - which, of course, soon led to Rod Liddell penning yet another of his “I know this might sound racist, but...” articles that never sound racist, they just are

Add to that how there was something sad about Nigel Farage marching to Downing Street (when nobody was there) to deliver a letter demanding he be part of negotiations with the EU - which would have carried some weight had he won in Peterborough, but having lost it made him look like a tragic figure in complete denial of what had happened

Don’t you dare interrupt a black tie dinner when Mark Field is there, as he will respond by getting out of his seat, grabbing you by the throat and shoving you into the nearest pillar to make you shut up and know your place - which was followed by Peter Bottomley congratulating him for assaulting somebody and Nadine Dorries prattling some nonsense about Jo Cox, while of course Julia Halfwit Hartley-Brewer was saying how more people should feel this way about climate protests...a few weeks after howling that throwing a milkshake at Nigel Farage is a crime, and Laura Kuenssberg somehow found a way to use the story to take potshots at Labour

Yet somehow Field wasn’t the only Tory involved in deeply unsavoury incidents with women within those 24 hours, as Boris Johnson was involved in a spat with partner Carried Symonds which saw the police being called, but that’s not the end of it: first the Metropolitan Police attempted to deny they were called, and it was only because The Guardian did a journalism and were able to cite the incident number that caused the police to admit they were there, but also those looking for any defence be it sentient testicle Toby Young comparing the neighbours to the Stasi while Alison Pearson posted a tweet that was outright inviting somebody dox the neighbours who reported the story while inviting harassment against them, while James Cleverly gave the downright dangerous advice that people shouldn’t call the police if they hear their neighbours in a furious row where things are getting smashed

There appears to be a humanitarian crisis in the Slovenian education system judging by how Damir Skomina can’t tell an armpit from an elbow, let alone the complexities of the differences between a deliberate handball and ball-to-hand, judging by his giving Liverpool a penalty for no logical reason within thirty seconds of the Champions League final kicking off - and it was hardly an isolated derp, either, as Son Heung-min was also penalised for “handball” when the ball his his shoulder in the second half

Although it does say it all that West Ham United were quick to take to Twitter thinking it would be a smart idea to try and rub Spurs fans’ noses in their being fucked over by Skomina, which only made them look like a bunch of insecure children

Yet somehow this wasn’t the worst tweet about the Champions League final, as that honour went to George Galloway for his utterly bizarre claim that there won’t be any Israeli flags on the Champions League trophy, because apparently Tottenham Hotspur and Hapoel Tel Aviv are the same club - so of course Tracy Ann Oberman was quickly rushing to Twitter to declare herself a Spurs fan, because after the farces with both Peter Herbert and David Baddiel using the club’s reputation as a testing bed for weaponising antisemitism, having one of the people who apparently makes a living out of weaponising antisemitism declare loyalty to the club is just what they want to hear...

It wasn’t long after Trump stated the NHS was on the table for any negotiations before Richard Tice casually gaslighted the British public with completely fabricated claims about pharma companies ripping off the NHS that would be solved by carving it up a la the American system - rather than the reality that the NHS significantly drives down the prices of medications compared to the American system, which Big Pharma hates

Similarly on the gaslighting trail was John Humphreys when he attempted to deny that Donald Trump had said that the NHS was on the negotiating table for any UK/US trade deal - which Labour MP Andy McDonald did not take lying down, calling out Humphrys for outright lying and reducing him to a gibbering wreck on his own show

Guido blog gobshite Paul Staines obviously had a quota to fill when he posted an article claiming that Jeremy Corbyn stated that Britain should have rolled over if the Nazis arrived on British shores, which took a remarkable amount of editing on Staines’ behalf to get the quote to say that - and, of course, this was rapidly regurgitated all over Twitter by Rachel Riley and Tracy Ann Oberman because they’re so far down David Collier’s rabbit hole they’re the best advertising Guido blog doesn’t have to pay for

At last the BBC finally said they were doing something about the vetting process for their political programming...unfortunately this didn’t mean they were going to stop Tory councillors posing as members of the public in the Question Time audience nor would they stop hiring actresses to pose as Anglican vicars on Newsnight, instead they didn’t like it when a member of the public kept asking Boris Johnson difficult questions about him being an ignorant pig when it comes to race relations so are making sure that only people who follow the script are allowed within fifty feet of a microphone whenever Johnson is interviewed

It’s almost fitting that England fans decided to celebrate the 75th anniversary of D-Day by hurling bottles at Portuguese fans and scuffling with the local police - yet somehow they didn’t even end up being the scummiest involved in these incidents, as that honour went to Tommy Robinson after he posted a video demonstrating his hardman credentials by sneaking up behind one of them and punching them in the back of the head while flanked by his heavies

It appears that Suzanne Moore was a little too keen to push her narrative in the latest Guardian piece on how terrible it is that Jess Phillips isn’t leading the Labour Party, considering she not only tried to claim that Jeremy Corbyn doesn’t have any female MPs in his inner circle - which must be news to Diane Abbott, Angela Rayner, Rebecca Long-Bailey and Dawn Butler (among others) - but when she deigned to acknowledge the shadow cabinet isn’t a sausage fest she used the highly demeaning phrase "a suitable female pet has to be groomed or the revolution may stall" to describe their status within the shadow cabinet while dismissing any and all contributions they have

Rather than criticise the US women’s football team for their overly elaborate goal celebrations even when they were putting the eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth goal past the Thailand goalkeeper, instead I’m going to criticise them for their response of “You wouldn’t criticise the men for doing it!” which not only showed how quickly they were willing to play the victim as soon as they were being criticised, but it was downright insulting to even use that as a defence considering that men tend to stop celebrating goals when it’s starting to become a drubbing, most notably the German players didn't celebrate the fifth, sixth or seventh goal they put past Brazil in the 2014 World Cup semi final

On the one hand Bethesda thinking that it wouldn’t look ridiculous to announce Fallout 76 would have NPCs and questlines during their E3 conference is dickheaded enough considering those are things in most Fallout games at launch rather than nine months later - but this dickheadedness was drowned out by the bloke who runs The Elder Memes for his remarkably YEAH! irritating habit of YEAH! yelling YEAH! like an obnoxious YEAH! jackass YEAH! during YEAH! the YEAH! entire YEAH! conference YEAH!

According to EA lootboxes aren’t gambling mechanics at all, they’re “surprise mechanics” so there is no justifiable reason to make them the subject of any gambling laws in any country

It was inevitable that, in the wake of the plaudits headed HBO’s way for Chernobyl, others would attempt to get a piece of that remarkably radioactive pie - although nobody could have guessed Russian state broadcaster NTV would put a series into production claiming the entire thing was due to sabotage by the CIA and nothing to do with poor design, unsafe working practices and gross incompetence 

Noted Dubai resident Jim Davidson wittered about how Sadiq Khan being Mayor of London has caused him to leave his beloved city...even though he’s lived in Dubai since 2004

And last but by no means least, failing to understand that the moon and Mars are distinct celestial bodies (let alone the difference between Wales and whales...) is Donald Trump and his attempts to deny he called Meghan Markle “nasty” before spending the remainder of the month saying he couldn’t have raped somebody as she wasn’t his type, blaming the Democrats for migrant deaths at the border, and retweeting a failed gameshow contestant who is banned from South African for spreading racial hatred

[maealbert]

The Liaison // Birth

AU Characters: Team x OC (Lucy De Luca) A/N: Love ya’ll! Hope you enjoy! :) Master List The Liaison

tag list: @idkbutspencer @literallyprentissstwin @remember-me-forever-silent-angel @cynbx @tenaciousarcadeexpert @rawritsmolly @dontshootmespence @princesswagger15 @drspencerreider @illegalcerebral @marvelfanlife @rt8815 @punkpenguin2019 @extremeobsessions101

Today started like any normal day. Alarm clock went off at seven o’clock, everyone took showers and got dressed with either work or school. Spencer packed the lunches for the girls while Lucy got their go bags ready in case another case came through. The sun was just rising as they left the apartment to drop the girls off at school. Kisses goodbye before Julianne walked Vivien to her class and went off to her homeroom. They flashed their badges at the guards who let them into the parking garage. It was a quiet ride up to their floor, Lucy’s head resting on Spencer’s shoulder. Once the elevators came up to their floor, they went their separate ways. Lucy to her office and Spencer to the bullpen.

Everything still seemed normal.

Reaching her desk, she sets her bag down on the floor. She brought it knowing real well that Emily wanted her to stay here in case she went into labor. Right as she sat down, a knock came on her door. Garcia peered her head in. “Hey pretty mama.”

Lucy scoffs rolling her eyes. “I don’t feel so pretty.”

“Do we have a case today?”

“I haven’t finished going through these files yet to determine where we go next.”

“Please somewhere sunny.”

“Sorry boo,” Lucy says shaking her head. “Not this time. We either have Alaska or Connecticut. Not that you would mind either way, you get to stay here in your warm office.”

“True, true. I was just hoping for you guys. Do you need me to get your anything?”

“No, I’m good right now. I’ll probably make Spencer go get food on our lunch break.”

“Well holler if you need anything.” She says before leaving the office.

Still.. Everything was normal.

Finishing her case files, she grabs her phone and shoots a text to the team to be ready in the briefing room. Picking up the stack of files, she leaves her office and heads to the briefing room. She turned on the tv and pulled everything up. Seeing one of the photos come up of a woman, she held her stomach. Taking in a deep breath, she turns away from the screen and starts to place the files around the table at the different spots before taking a seat in her own chair. One by one the team filed into the room and taking their seats at the table.

“Oooo Connecticut.” Rossi says opening his file. “Beautiful place, but not beautiful pictures.”

“So far three women were reported missing since October,” Lucy started to explain the case. “Two turned up dead in different alleyways around the town square. The third, who was the last to go missing in October, turned up alive at the police department. She was bruised pretty badly around her face and she has bruises on her wrists.”

“The same as the first two victims.” Emily pointed out.

“They were pregnant?” Luke says.

Lucy nods her head. “All three were at least seven months pregnant when they went missing.”

“And the babies?” JJ questions. “What happened to them?”

Lucy shrugged her shoulders. “No babies were dropped off at the church, fire department, or the hospital.”

“The unsub could be keeping them,” Spencer speaks up. “It’s kind of like that one case we had years ago when girls were kidnapped, impregnated and killed after giving birth. The boys were kept but the girls were dropped off churches or hospitals.”

“But none showed up at either place,” Lucy says. “I checked with all three places and none reported anyone dropping off newborns.”

“They could have gone out of state.” Matt says. “If they don’t want the child to be found, it’s easier to drop them off over the border than to keep them in town.”

Lucy’s phone vibrated on the table and she lifted it to see a text from the lead Detective on the case from Hartford. “Well.. Another woman went missing. She’s nine months pregnant and due any day. Husband reported her missing when she didn’t come home last night. He said he thought she would be home when he was already asleep but when he woke up this morning, he found the bed empty beside him. No sign of her anywhere in the house, the car was found still at the doctor’s office just like the other three women.”

“Abducting women in broad daylight,” Emily says nodding her head. “That’s very risky.”

“I’m still waiting on the security footage to be pulled from the doctor’s office to see if we can try to identify who abducted killed this women.”

“Good, stay on top of that. When it comes through, I want files sent to both Garcia’s computer and to mine. She narrow down the height to help us narrow down our list and we’ll be able to profile the unsub from Connecticut. When we land, I want JJ, Rossi, and Tara to go speak with the husband of our fourth victim. Reid, you’ll go with Luke to scope out the crime scenes and see what you can gather with location, view of the alleyways from around the town and see if our unsub could have been spotted on traffic cameras of security cameras from other shops. Matt, you’ll be with me setting up at the station and speaking with the Detective. And Lucy--”

“I’m staying here, I know.” Lucy says as she gets up from her chair.

“Yay! You get to hang out with me.” Garcia says as she hugs Lucy.

‘Good luck.’ JJ mouths holding up her thumbs before leaving the briefing room behind the others.

___________________

Lucy turned side to side in one of Garcia’s spinny chairs as she watched Garcia type quickly on her keyboard. Suddenly a video chat popped up revealing the other team members. “Hey all, I was able to figure out the height of our unsub. About five feet, six inches.” She says pulling height measurements.

“We can’t tell if it’s a male or female.” Luke says. “Do either of you see something that we missed?”

Lucy leaned forward in her chair as she looked closer at the security footage. This video was filmed right outside of the doctor’s office. She took the mouse out of Garcia’s hand and pulled up the other footages from various shops that had the alleyways in their view. “I stopped all the videos when our unsub appeared to see if it were the same person, because you know how our luck is….” Her voice trails off as she notices something in all three video feeds. “Wait..”

“What did you find?” Emily asks.

“Either our unsub is a virgin or their married.” Lucy says. “But that’s not all.”

“What else are you finding, Luce?” Spencer says.

“I see hair.” She says. “You can’t see it in the footage from the doctor’s office but you can see enough of it in the others to know it’s a female.”

“Damn she’s good.” Luke says.

“I play a lot of hidden objects games. It’s easy for me to spot things out of the ordinary.” Lucy says. “She must have a purple ombre because you can see some of her black hair underneath her hoodie.” Lucy forward all four videos until she got the unsub’s face shown. “Garcia, do you think you can try to get a photo recognition from these?”

“I can try.”

“Thanks Lucy, Garcia send us what you find.” Emily says before she logs out of the video chat. Leaning back in the chair, Lucy begins rubbing her stomach as she feels a contraction hit. Keeping a straight face she continues rubbing her stomach until the pain subsides.

Back in Washington, Connecticut; the team starts going over all of the information that they had so far. “So we now know we’re looking for a female with a purple ombre,” JJ speaks up. “How easy could that be?”

“Not so easy.” Luke says. “If we go out looking for her, she could just hide.”

“Guys guys guys!” Garcia exclaims as the video chat pops back up.

“That was quick.” Matt says as he turns his attention to the laptop.

“Did you get an ID?” Emily asks.

“And more!” Garcia exclaims again. “Thanks to our keen eye over here,” She says pointing at Lucy. “I ran recognition through every day data base known to man and BINGO! Our unsub pops up. Although the photo that came up is from her time in juvie. But I did some photoshop and changed her hair to what it looks like now and BAM!” She shoots the photo over. “I give you twenty-one year old, Marie Gilmore. Such a sweet girl who got mixed up in the wrong crowd. Drugs, illegal drinking, vandalism, trespassing, and the gig that landed her in juvie is assault and battery. She was in there for two years before being released at eighteen. Still a druggie though.”

“Whoa whoa, bring up the photo of the girl she beat up in high school.” When Garcia pulled up the photo of the girl, Lucy compared the photo to all four women. “Guys, do you see what I see?”

“The patterns are the same.” JJ says.

“Look at their wrists.” Rossi says pointing between all four photos.

“Do you think that she did the same thing to these women like the girl in high school?”

“It’s a possibility,” Emily says. “We can’t rule it out.”

A knock comes on Garcia’s office door. “Come in!” Garcia calls.

“Hey Garcia, I was wondering if you had any--Oh, I didn’t realize you were in the middle of a conversation.” Hotch says.

“No you’re fine! What brings you by?”

“I need tape.” He says.

Lucy chuckles as she rubs her stomach again. “You came all this way for some tape?”

“No, I was already here.” He says as Garcia hands him her tape dispenser.

“Oh yeah! You start today!”

“Wait, what?” Lucy says looking between the two.

“Yeah I’m your fill-in when you go on maternity leave.”

“But I’m not even on maternity leave yet.”

“I know, I’m just helping you with some paperwork right now. Don’t worry, I know you have a system. Emily explained to me how you do it.”

“Well…” Lucy says turning back around. “Good. Because I think I’m in labor.”

“What?!” Garcia and Hotch exclaimed followed by the team over the video chat.

Soon Spencer rushed out of the room. “Spence!” JJ calls running after him.

“My wife is in labor!”

“You forgot the keys!” She says tossing him the car keys to one of the SUVs outside. “Good luck!”

________________________

“No, I can’t do this.” Lucy says shaking her head. Garcia was trying to keep her calm and not to stress herself out. “I need Spencer. Spencer needs to be here. I can’t do this without.”

“Relax, everything is going to be okay.”

“Garcia, he can’t miss the birth of our baby--Oh my gosh, the girls! Someone has to pick them up from school!”

“Don’t worry about them. I sent Hotch to go pick them up.”

A knock comes on the door before a few nurses walk in followed by the doctor. “I’ve been informed that you’re dilated enough to start pushing.”

“No, no, no.” Lucy says shaking her head. “Can’t we wait until my fiance gets here? He can’t miss this.. Please, I need him.” Lucy says, her eyes watering over.

“We can’t wait, Lucy.” The doctor says. “Now when I tell you to, I need you to push.” The doctor says as she positions her on her stool. “And push!” Lucy’s screams filled the room as she gave her all.

Her screams filled the room as pain coursed through her body. Marie hovered over the woman as she kept pushing. “One more!” The doctor says as she looks up at Lucy. “He’s almost here.” Marie says as her smile grows bigger. “He’s here!” The doctor exclaims holding up a baby boy for Lucy see.

“Can I see him?” The woman says as she lifts her head from the pillow. “Can I see my baby?” Marie ignores the woman as she wraps the baby up in a blanket and leaves the room. The woman yelled after her and crying for her baby.

“You did it.” Garcia says as the nurse places the baby boy on Lucy’s chest. “He’s gorgeous.”

Marie heads for the nursery when she hears a click of a gun behind her. Stopping her tracks, she keeps her back faced to JJ. “Slowly turn around.” She growls. JJ wasn’t the type to take kindly to an abductor. Especially ones who kidnapped children. Marie slowly turned on her heels and looked up at JJ. Keeping her gun train on Marie, she loops her other arm around the baby and bringing him into her chest careful not to wake him. Emily walks around them and handcuffs Marie’s hands behind her back.

“Marie Gilmore, you’re under arrest for the four abductions, three murders, and four kidnappings. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney, if you can’t afford one, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand your rights?”

“Yes..” Marie muttered as she still stared at the baby.

Lucy couldn’t take her eyes off of her son. Though he only had a little bit of dark hair on his head, she had a feeling it would grow out to be like his father’s. A knock came on the door and Hotch peered his head in. “How are you feeling?” He asks walking over to the bed.

“Just really tired,” Lucy says smiling down at her baby. “It happened so quickly.”

“I was surprised.” Hotch says chuckling. “Have you picked out a name yet?”

Lucy nods her head. “Isaiah Derek Reid.”

“Oh Derek is going to love his name.” Garcia says as she snaps a photo of Lucy and Isaiah and sending it to the team. Lucy’s phone buzzed on the table beside the bed.

“Hello?” Lucy answers once Garcia handed her her phone.

“Hey baby, how are you feeling?”

“Tired..”

“I bet. I took a red A and I should be there in about an hour. Get as rest as you can, alright? I love you.”

“I love you too.”

_______________________

“How did the case go?” Lucy asks the team.

“Deja vu, I swear.” Rossi says rubbing his forehead. “Kathleen gave birth at the same time you did. A baby boy.”

“And Marie? How did it end for her?”

“I think once she got a look at JJ, she didn’t think twice about wanting to fight her off.” Emily laughs. “If looks could kill…”

JJ rolls her eyes as she smiles. “Don’t mess with her.” Luke jokes playfully pushing JJ.

“Well I’m glad you guys came,” Lucy says. “But I really want to thank Garcia. She is a trooper!” Lucy adds with a laugh.

“I did not pass out,” Garcia says nodding her head. “I am quite proud of myself.”

“I’m sorry, can I hold him again?” Emily asks. “He’s just so darn tiny!”

If you enjoyed this than please be sure to leave it some love!

Btw, did this remind of when JJ went into labor?

[sugar-petals]

Hi , would you be willing to do a merman jungkook x reader smut ?

Sublime (M)

summary | only you can save him.length | 5.4k | smut, angst, actionexpansion from | BTS as mermen AU drabblewarnings | themes of persecution, unprotected sex, graphic.

PART TWO | PART THREE | masterlist

There’s a dead body on your private beach.

Or so you think. You’ve spotted it going out for your early morning walk with a bottle of water and light trainers. Busan’s late summer has been merciful with the weather so far, so you wanted to tick your two-mile goal on the schedule again. 

From afar you already knew that whatever laid there in the silt was nothing of the regular. The colors that struck you against the mellow rising sun seemed blueish, strangely vivid. If it was a water corpse, sure it could be decaying like this. You dare to tread closer, crossing into muddier seafloor now. 

Normally, you preferred to stay where the sand was dry and solid to walk on. There is no foul smell as you approach, or scraps of cloth, anything like that. Just algae all around. A few feet away, you begin to understand: This is not a human body. 

You’ve heard about sightings of stranded mermen in the news. Authorities were quick to dismiss rumors of violent interventions. They assured that the police would take care of the situation professionally without citizen being able to watch. 

The senior locals thought of merpeople as threats or oddities of nature, too peculiar to interact with. There were stories about women who interacted closely getting abducted, bitten, or strangled to death by such creatures. It was treated like a myth while the tabloids and fisherman’s accounts said otherwise.

Mermen were usually described with distorted complexions, crooked bones, and blood-shot eyes. They stink abominably, one reporter said. The universal instruction by the mayor had been equally hideous: Kill, or run. The latter being less preferred because they had to be chased, exploited, and wiped out collectively when you read between the lines. 

Last year, there had been gossip about a group of men - designated hunters - sawing off a living merman’s tail and selling it on the black market. Any chopped off hair would bring half a million, too. A million with the scalp attached. The mayor propagated the extermination of these “slimy beasts” when an issue surfaced, all while keeping a trophy fin in his living room, that you were sure of.  

But the motionless boy right below you does not appear monstrous at all. His features are almost resemblant to what can be considered human despite that he came from the sea. The upper body, at least. Who knows what kind of world is out there. The contrived stories made you mad, they had been all lies. 

Even if your trainers are now completely sunk in, you close the distance entirely.

You look at him with concern. Why is he here, like this, so close to the coast? Your eyes roam up and down, up and down. The cerulean little scales splattered all over his large tail, the sapphire beads around his neck, next to coral lobster claws. 

His beauty erases everything in your mind. The teal and silver mane that falls in soft waves and purple braids. They are really, really long and gleaming with an enigma that you fail to grasp. How could anyone be cruel enough to maim him. Everything about this boy had to stay wherever it was. 

You inspect his body closer to look for injuries, but there are none. He plainly seems drained, but impossibly beautiful at the same time. His chest is still moving, but both eyes remained closed. You don’t know if mermen can get unconscious. 

Perhaps he is just asleep. So ethereal. It all proved the envious locals very dirty liars. They’re conspiring because they know very well how alluring they look like. Since only mermen have been spotted, all efforts to deter every woman in town from getting just one glimpse were rampant. 

No human male could quite compare. Except maybe your gay friend and neighbor Taehyung who might just drop dead if he were here. If your female friends saw this boy, the ones who were married would file for divorce. The truly despicable vermin were the conservative men of this town. 

Certainly, there are different rules of anatomy and physics that apply to mermen that nobody has ever talked about on shore. You only see that the gills at the sides of his torso flutter hectically. It takes some time until you put two and two together. The falling tide that’s now miles away, it must have left him here. Maybe he lost a sense of direction and got caught by surprise. What an odyssey. 

He needs water, desperately. Of course he looks drained, and that’s more urgent than you assumed. You have to hurry up and do something not to see him fade away in front of your eyes. But, where to get it. It would have been straightforward if you hadn’t forgotten carrying a water bottle all along. 

You’re hesitant to touch him, but eventually get yourself to rub the sides of his torso, pouring water bit by bit. His skin is so delicate that you don’t dare to apply pressure. His eyes flutter once, and you think he can see what you are doing. 

But you did not bring enough water to sustain this moment. At least you know there’s still a chance.

There’s no other option, then. You sprint back to your house, pulse working overtime until you find the long-ignored supply closet key. 

An old plastic cover splattered with color comes into sight. It has been formerly used by Taehyung who asked to depict the scenery at your beach. He’s a painter, but too much of a literal fine artist to leave anything sturdy at your house. You keep searching. 

At the back, there’s a soiled, but still functional sailcloth with rope running through its eyelets. Hauling that to the beach would not be possible if you weren’t pumped with adrenaline and sheer panic. It has been a huge risk having him left alone out there. This all takes too damn long.

The relief finding him untouched gives you more assurance. The sail sticks to the ground in no time spreading it out next to him. An attempt to roll him onto there using a shove of two hands fails. Only a rope tied around his waist gives everything a decent impetus. Once he’s in place, you pull the canvas tight with the rope and start dragging. But oh my, is he heavy. It’s the colossal tail that probably weighs the most, gravity has no mercy on your arms today. 

It takes a few painstaking feet until the cloth starts to run smoothly on the wet ground. Through the dewy lawn of your property, it works much better until your trainers go on a strike. Next time you’ll go to the beach with heavy boots. It’s better with bare feet then, though you encounter another problem. The grass isn’t particularly even, so you have to maneuver around a bump or two. The 10 x 20 feet swimming pool comes into sight quite tardily.

He slumps into the water with a dull splash. You made it by the skin of your teeth and everything hurts. It’s a miracle. The water is uncomfortably icy as you enter, grabbing hold of his shoulders. You have to remind yourself to be careful, washing away all remnants of sand and dirt. The filtration system will take care of it. Again you note how silky the texture of his skin and scales is, clearly not made for life ashore. Before the water starts to paralyze you more with its frostiness, you decide to submerge him completely at the bottom of the pool. Different laws of physics, you remind yourself. For a human, air would basically be like water for him. His own weight sustains him down there well as of now. Begrudgingly, you leave to change clothes.

It’s good that your backyard is surrounded by copious palisades. You do hope nobody observed anything, thinking you transported some carcass or worse, and check back just three minutes later. The garden gate is firmly locked already but doesn’t do much to pacify your feelings of imminent paranoia. So the balcony is a good place to stay where you can sit with your laptop to catch up with pressing work. Any concentration is still out the window though, and any noise snaps you out of typing in emails. 

The pool water rouses after the nearby church bell strikes 11 am. You return to the gazebo next to the pool to look if you’re not hallucinating, met with huge, dark eyes. They’re Prussian blue and almost doe-like. He’s leaning at the edge, two arms propped up.

“Thank you, madam. You didn’t have to do this,” he dabbles quite gently, stirring the water with his tail to cause ripples. His voice is very pleasant and friendly, youthful. Never did you think he would be able to speak your language. Everything comes unexpected today.

“Nevermind,” you respond, trying not to show both incredulousness and unease. There is no way in making this sound like a proper conversation, but you try. He called you madam, after all. 

”I came to pry for shells and lost my sense of time. It’s my bad.”

You squat down at the edge of the pool at some distance. This seems all too much at once. Yet you have to gather words to let him know.

“Don’t, don’t say that. I can’t let you die out there. To see you become food in a tin can if a hunter or the police come along.”

It strikes a chord with him, and you instantly regret saying it.

“I know who they are. Their prejudice has killed one of my brothers not long ago.” He’s downcast now, impossibly sad. You know who this brother was. A little glistening tear makes its way down his cheek, he picks it up with thumb and index finger. It has turned into a small pearl. “You’re not like them. I can be glad you picked me up without fear or reporting it.” 

You enclose the shiny gift with two palms as he passes over the bead. When you tuck it away, it rests in the breast pocket of your blouse. The merman looks very relieved to see you accept it.

“It’s not over yet. But I guess I did the right things so far. You’re alive. I hope I can drag you back at high tide. Or do you need more time?”

“My body regenerated. But my mind, I feel very strange and dizzy, still. Tomorrow.”

“Shit… it’s the chlorine in the water. I don’t think that’s good for you.”

“Chlorine?”

You wonder why he speaks your language perfectly but doesn’t know this.

“To disinfect bacteria dangerous to humans. For you, it might just be nauseating. Maybe because you’re not used to it, or sensitive. Wait, I’ll use the pool filter. I have one.” 

While you take care of the pump and also clean away some debris, the curious merman lingers closely. 

“Did I tell you my name yet? I’m Jungkook. I have a question, actually. It might sound weird.”

You look up from your task. Jungkook. It’s fitting.

“Just go ahead. I’m Y/N.”

“Why do you have a pool next to the sea?”

He’s a bright guy. You understand where the query is coming from, too.

“I do love the sea like you. But the waves are too high. It’s dangerous to bathe there without a vigilant eye. You’ve seen what happened. I prefer to swim here, especially when it’s warmer.”

“Oh, I forgot,” he marvels at you, “humans can’t swim that well in the cold.”

“It’s true. We have trouble moving around mermen as well,” you chuckle, glad your work at the pump is completed. You stand up to return to Jungkook. His presence is soothing, almost familiar. 

In that very moment, hasty knocks and rattles resound from the garden gate.

Jungkook immerses himself in water within a split second. He’s diving down faster than you can say anything, in fact. The pool’s surrounding bushes have saved you from being seen with him, thankfully, but your feeling tells you to hurry to the gate as soon as you can. But you have to stop yourself from being in a rush not to be suspicious. It’s painfully obvious who it is from a distance already. You’re in trouble. 

It’s Taehyung.

“Oh hey, hey! I rang the doorbell — nobody responded. Figured you’re here! How ya doin’?”

A hurricane as usual. You keep the gate locked. He’s looking at you through the metal bars with inquisitive eyes.

“What do you want, Kim… I’m busy.”

“Sorry, just looking for my painting cover. Do you still have it? Am gone in a minute.”

“Sure.” 

You spin around and race inside without further ado. Taehyung must think you have gone completely mad now, but knowing Jungkook is likely having a heart attack down there you would waste no second. You return breathless, red blotches all over the face. He rolls his eyes.

“Slow down, slow down, Noona. It’s Sunday. God, heterosexual people. Always caught in such a fuss.”

“They are. Now, here. Take it. Just, buzz off now, Kim. Got things to do.” 

And again, you spin around on your heel and hear him trot away sulking, but clenching his long-lost cover tight. He said he’s gone in a minute, then he has to deal with it. You’ll have to come up with something very intricate to appease him next time when he mocks you for it. And you are sure he will, because Taehyung notices when something’s off. Telling him the truth would be like being Taylor Swift’s boyfriend, he would just broadcast everything.

You dash back and lean over the pool for Jungkook to recognize you. But nothing moves. He’s right about staying where he is. If the police coerced you to be their decoy, luring him out, he’d be dead. Jungkook, that is indisputable to you, continues to prove being very sharp save being aware of tides. The media never talked about merpeople being this people-conscious and easily intimidated. They’re just drawing them as evil to get hunting permission. Vicious pigs. 

You want to make them fall. 

There’s something else that strikes you, watching for activity in the pool. There must be a way that merpeople gather excessive knowledge about humans. Or it might be a contact person. But you don’t want to know, it might be a way to trace them back. Such a secret must never be revealed, you know you’ll take all this to your grave to protect him. It would be good to tell your story to everyone so they would change their mind. But the police was hawk-eyed and knew how to press for information. 

They’d be hellbent and relentless to slit his throat as soon as they could. Officials and hunters had methods to find him if it was not too far out in the ocean. Or they would just wait until he came back to you sooner or later. You are sure that he will. He’s feeling indebted. And attached. You’re too. You dread the day, and tomorrow’s goodbye if it actually comes. 

You have to admit it: This propelled you into a gigantic mess. You already felt your heart burst when Taehyung knocked. You have to guard Jungkook from a greater fuck-up, come what may. 

With the entire government of Busan or even Seoul against you when your secret ever goes public. Because they want to keep it on the low, too, and would stop at nothing. You did not go against the law but social customs and conservative morale, and those are by far more powerful. 

You rip off your blouse and pants and toss them on the balcony. Your tank top is hardly suitable for the temperature, but the pool water is slightly warmer as you get in slowly. The chlorine has faded. The first good news for today.

Diving down, Jungkook appears curled up in the deepest, darkest corner, holding his hair together so it won’t float up and betray him. Most of the fright on his face dissolves when you give an intent thumbs up. These mermen understand so much about your culture. You cannot let go of this thought. How could he know?

Swimming closer, you seize him by the hands, nodding your head toward the surface. He pulls you up with ease, fast and agile. Emerging, you have to draw several breaths. He looks around frantically. You hope this didn’t traumatize him.  

“It was my neighbour friend asking for art supplies. He left and didn’t see anything. Nobody else around. We’re good. Jungkook, it’s alright. It was just a friend.”

It’s Sunday, thankfully.

“I was so afraid… There was a vision, I was bleeding!”

“It’s okay now. There’s no blood. I protect you, nothing will happen.”

It’s of no use. He can’t stop looking around. Jungkook needs something to ground him. 

A little kiss on the forehead. 

It makes his cheeks turn cobalt blue. You feel how his tail sways back and forth a bit quicker. You part your legs wider so they won’t crush his fin in between. 

“I will handle it. If I can pull you out of the mud, then I can subdue them when they ever show up. You just have to hide. Jungkook.”

It’s self-persuasion and hoping for a self-fulfilling prophecy. But you’re beaming at him, and his smile grows just as large.

“Y/N, you’re very strong. I wouldn’t know where I’d be without your help. You hardly knew me, just my kin.” 

“So did you. But you didn’t freak out when you were awake.”

He nods emphatically.

“I felt your hands on my gills. It was very nice. Like waves. I knew you were benevolent, you resemble the sea when you move. No bad person does this. Can you… again? Only if you want, I—”

What he said stuns you for seconds. Your hands move to his upper body on autopilot. 

“Like, like this?”

Jungkook sighs a mellowed yes when you start to stimulate his sides. His gills are much more relaxed than at the beach. After some strokes, you’re leaning in so much that his arms virtually just have to close an inch around you for an embrace. 

He clings to you in a tight hug, your lips coming up to meet his. Whatever magic or trick he is using, they feel curiously sparkling and slightly saline after a while. It’s magnificent. Meanwhile, your breasts are squeezed flat against his chest, feeling how Jungkook’s heartbeat accelerates. Much like his fin that’s bringing more of his tail between your legs. You pull them upwards a bit, but inevitably he brushes against your pubes. You thought it would be awkward. But something about his body infatuates your skin like an ancient charm. 

“Apologies Y/N, I didn’t mean to!”

“Don’t be sorry. Just, fuck… do it again. Feels awesome. You can be yourself with me.”

He understands, bringing his tail stark forward this time. Shit. Your clit says yes to that. So does your face judging by how he reacts, a lot keener than before.  

“Jungkook, I have a weird question, too,” you brush back against him, “Is it possible, I mean. Can you penetrate me somehow, or…?”

He’s blushing a second time.

“I can peel the scales apart at the front.”

And he does it. 

Oh wow.

He has the most gorgeous shaft you’ve ever seen. Clad in lustrous, thin scales sprouts forth a splendid length tinted in jade. It sojourns hard and upright, poking heavy at your clit and entrance only separated by your underwear. 

“You can’t impregnate me, right?”

“I can’t. Human egg cells are too small and not receptive.”

That has you wondering, and quite amused how he said that. It means something big is coming. Sounds like fun.

“Can I ride you then?”

“You can do anything, really.”

It can’t get any hotter. Thankfully, you’re half undressed already. The panties you had left on soon float elsewhere just below the surface, and you’re shoving up the hem of your tank top. His chest feels ten times as invigorating when you’re naked against it. There’s hesitation when you reach for his cock. You don’t want to do anything wrong to hurt him. But Jungkook is encouraging the initiative. And the way he’s dipping at you flicks a plethora of switches. So it’s easy. You slip him in and start to move your hips. Soon you realize it’s a bit difficult to go down further.

“Can I use a spell? It helps.” he exhales. You knew it, he has those abilities.

“Mh, love to see it.”

There he goes. You catch Jungkook whispering a convoluted spell to himself before your walls pop open without further trial. He’s dipping in first, then going half the way already. That’s not normal at all. He knows what he’s doing, though. It’s so, so damn good. 

Jungkook is completely ecstatic. 

Your experience so far has been that sex in water generally… doesn’t go well. No lubrication, no fucking. But no, this has to be the best exception. The practically seamless scales, they’re really doing the trick. The plunge is slick and exciting, going in clean with every bounce. And there’s a quite a stunning lot to slide up and down on, that you get to welcome soon. He’s getting confident to echo the thrust with eyes fixated on yours. 

“Give me more of that,” you insist, leaving both legs wrapped around his wavering tail. It’s almost too slippery to hold on to. But good to sink down smoothly while squeezing deeper inside. You’re pushed upwards the more he fucks into you. His tip is broad enough to anchor you, not letting you glide off easily. But you’re dangerous close to it. So you’re letting yourself drop down on him with more momentum which he has to cushion first, causing your belly to bulge out considerably. You’re obsessed. 

“Lift my legs more, Jungkook!”

Like that, the insides of your thighs graze at his gills, abrasive and brisk. To your surprise, it eventuates in sharper thrusts going for your sweetest spots. The depth that he pursues now starts to stretch you hard and wide on the glossy scales. Jungkook keeps murmuring spells. If this goes on for any longer, that’s a cock riding that would send not only you but Taehyung and the entire neighborhood to the gates of heaven and higher. 

You keep shoving him straight up to dent out your abdomen, and he’s making it so salacious with his little moans. When you’re grabbing for hold at his shoulders, Jungkook warns you about his precum. Indeed it’s not to underestimate when you feel it, making everything two times as sleek. You slump down completely now, surprised not to feel any trace of balls against your ass. 

Different anatomy. 

Normal men need cooling for their sperm outside of their body, otherwise they would not survive. Jungkook? He’s got something else going on. Busan’s sea is not notoriously warm.

“Intertwine your fingers in my hair, Y/N—”

“What? Can I really do that?”

It sounds like heresy to your ears. 

“It’ll stimulate you, do it quickly,” he persists, and your fingers seek a place in his silky mane. And Christ, he’s right. There’s a rapid sedation of the anxious thoughts at the back of your mind. Instead, you’re feeling an immense euphoria descend from your spine down to your loins. Jungkook whimpers while you’re drilling him deeper with all your power. Slowly but surely, you lose yourself in his dazzling ocean hair. You’re so happy now. Nothing matters. Just you together within the blur of everything else. 

Fuck society. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. 

Jungkook’s moans have grown incomprehensible. Both of your hands soak up more of the sky blue energy. And once you grab the strands tighter, an overwhelming current verberates in your back until you’re ready and cumming. The world is so elated, nothing can bring your hands away from his hair. It’s pushing you to the limit incessantly. Better than any drug trip, better than the feeling after you ran your second marathon. You’re climaxing so vigorously on him that twenty seconds in, something effervescent and tingly begins to pour into your womb like a bursting well. His unearthly groaning gives you an idea of how much it shatters and empties him. You get filled to the brim and it won’t stop. Of course, he’s significantly larger than the average human — much semen to store then, by your logic at least. You do get a glimpse of the proportions as Jungkook keeps cramming loads and loads past your cervix while your orgasm keeps electrifying even the last corner of your body.  

The well won’t cease. He keeps moving until you’re entirely pumped full with an all creamy, tickling substance. You try to keep everything in not to leak it into the water. But it’s too much. With each of his last thrusts, the bulk of it just comes spilling out. A shimmering, dark cyan liquid rises to the surface in gradient plumes, mixed with streaks of your cum. It looks like fluid shapes of orchids showing as a supple iridescent foam. 

And it turns golden.

The scent gives you a feeling of the hours after rain in spring. Jungkook picks up a decent bit of the foam with two fingers, slipping them into his mouth. He leans in to kiss you again as you reach the aftermath of your peak that threatens to leave you bland. But what happens now makes you tighten around his dick once again, seizing out more to splutter inside.   

On your tongue unfold an explosion of jasmine blended with peppermint, thyme, fresh raspberries, wild honey, and even something like caramel. There was no way you would have been prepared for this. You had expected something like a sea breeze, but this beats all that you could imagine. Because beyond approximation, you can’t really describe what it is like. 

You swallow fast and retreat one hand from his hair to pick up something yourself. This is the best thing you’ve ever tasted. It can’t be called an actual thing, in fact, it’s more than that. It has to be an artifact. A magic potion that you want to bottle up and drink all day, sweet and glowing. 

It’s like alchemy. 

And you’re so deliciously stuffed with that now.  

Before you pull him out, all the negative pressure culminates. Then, the rest of his seed bubbles up placidly. The gaping feels like you just jammed a baseball bat inside of yourself, reckless abandon with a Himalaya of premium coke up your nose. Complete inebriation. 

Water streams in and flushes out the final strands of cyan when his following spells seal you tight. Jungkook holds you firm until you detangle his hair with your remaining hand, then place it on his cheek. If there were mermaids out there, they’d be the luckiest women on the entire planet. 

“Kook”, you whisper with an unwinding tremble, “you’re amazing.”

Anchoring an old khaki tent next to the pool takes some time, but you remember something about the manual. This goes here, that goes there, and this is how you zip up a sleeping bag. Jungkook giggles along. You can’t afford to sleep inside tonight. You only move your blouse to the safety of your wardrobe and get a snack, switch on the lights of the balcony to illuminate the garden for the rest of the evening. He’s singing for you.

The next day is grueling because you have to go to work. But before leaving, you relocate Jungkook to the bathtub as fast as possible, leaving him your phone with a short explanation so he can call you and vice versa. The anxiety comes back.  

He gets lighthearted leisure magazines and books to spend the time, and devours them. History, art, fashion, beauty, celebrities, health, sports, food, philosophy, fantasy, comedy. He also asks for a globe and celestial map, saying his uncle vaguely told him about it. Maybe it’s good that he knows a bit more about the mainland when he returns. You don’t want to let him go with the same ideas he had before, give him a bit of faith in the good things you had here. The other side of the coin, even if it was just a glimpse of hope. 

Though you didn’t expect him to return to your mansion in any way. Humanity is already terrifying enough. Especially after his loss. This should not happen again. You decide to leave him your trusted chef knife and a word of caution. He doesn’t know how to use it so you teach him the technique. He says he wouldn’t be any better than his attackers if there were some. You try to clarify that it’s the way humans act sometimes. Tit for tat. And he has all the right and responsibility to defend himself under threat, otherwise, he would never be able to see the stars again. 

At 10 am you give him a short call. He’s fine, quite mesmerized how the phone works, and just a bit hungry. You decide not to spend lunchtime in the city, but speed your car to a local supermarket and deli, looking for seaweed. Returning home Jungkook is still in his place, having managed to drop Terry Pratchett and J. K. Rowling into the water. But all else is as before. In the afternoon, you call him twice. He talks about the invention of the lightbulb, pasta salad, Kant, and how nicely Tolkien writes about Hobbits. Work passes torturously slow, the keyboard in front of you blurs each time your mind drifts away. You go home early, leaving your subordinates Jimin and Seokjin a bit puzzled at a shallow excuse. If only they knew.

It’s way after dawn when you move him out of the bathroom. Jungkook gets the idea that you could just use a wheelbarrow this time, knowing you own one after having had enough hours to glance around your garden already. You fill a bit of water into it and pick boots with a sturdy profile. And it works, the leverage is much better on the arms. You arrive at the beach laughing and joking together how silly of a duo you must look like. Jungkook has already given his word to come back in two days around the same time. 

The tide is close enough for you to take him to the water. He parts reluctantly with five, six, seven sublime kisses. You hope he wasn’t missed by his family. Busan’s nocturnal skyline radiates from afar when you watch him swim east ever so elegantly.  

It’s hard to find any sleep later. Your arms still ache like hell from dragging him. And so many things are going through your head. You end up outside in the tent after taking a quick shower, pretending he’s still there. Jungkook has last started a chapter from the Chronicles of Narnia, and you put yourself in a tired daze finishing it. Work tomorrow is going to be so hard.

Jimin asks if you’re okay while he organizes some files, but doesn’t comment anything further. You resume typing with the feeling that you are now leading a double life. Taehyung’s words come back: Slow down, slow down. And you do. Wednesday you will see him at the bay, everything is alright. Who knows what you will do afterwards, how often you will meet. Maybe it’s good not to make him cross into dangerous territory regularly, or at least you should look for more hidden places. You’ll make it.

Two days after, you receive an early mail. You’re drowsy but startled, Taehyung and Jin haven’t sent anything for months. It has to be one of them.

It’s only a red envelope and some strangely filled paper bag. You peel open the red letter first.

It was made with a typewriter. 

“A million and you get the fish back whole. He has a nice buzzcut already. Friday 1 pm, quay. Pull up with the money or you’ll see him on the news. Tell anybody and we will do the same to you.”

Below, the paper is embossed with a saw and hook symbol. 

You drop the bag as soon as you open it. 

There are hundreds of tiny pearls on the floor. 

Chapter II: I’m No Angel (m) | Chapter III: Dauntless

MASTERLIST

Do not repost, modify, or translate my work.© 2017-2019. submissive-bangtan. All rights reserved.

[fanficwriter013]

The Tower - Chapter 27

The Tower: An Avengers Fanfic

Chapter 27

Chapters: one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven / twelve / thirteen / fourteen / fifteen / sixteen / seventeen / eighteen / nineteen / twenty / twenty-one / twenty-two / twenty-three / twenty-four / twenty-five / twenty-six / twenty-seven / twenty-eight

Word Count: 2179

Warnings:   Drama, mentions of human experimentation, and child abuse, mentions of injuries, emotional conversations (sappy y’all)

Synopsis:   Elly starts her work for HYDRA, until things get a little out of hand.

Author’s Note: Written with @emilyevanston because I’m with you till the end of the line.

Chapter 27 - The Rescue Mission

The others didn’t come at all that night.  I started to panic and I noticed that Clint started pacing in the middle of the night.  The cells were too dark to see each other to be able to sign to each other.  Thankfully, at some point, Scott showed up and whispered to me that it had taken longer than he’d expected to backup their data.   It had meant by the time it was done most of the people in the building had gone home for the night.  So they were waiting until morning to raid the building with other federal backup.

After that, I slept.  Not well, I woke up panicked a few times but I did sleep.  I was woken early by a male guard.  He was polite but made it clear I had no choice about going with him.  I looked back at Clint who signed to me that I’d be okay.  

The guard took me to some showers and gave me toiletries and a change of clothes.  Thankfully he left me alone to shower, choosing to stand guard on the door outside.  While I was in the bathroom I drank as much water as I could.  I had not touched any food or drink since I got there and I was very, very dehydrated.  After I washed I was taken to a cafeteria to eat.  I was really hungry so I watched what the handful of other people that were there were getting and copied them.  I went extra safe, opting for prepackaged yogurt, a banana, a sealed bottle of orange juice and a bottle of water in case I needed it later.

I was then taken up to the lab where Alexa was waiting for me.  “Elise,”  She said greeting me with a kiss on the cheek.  Like we were friends despite the fact she’d locked me in a prison cell overnight.  “You look terrible.  Didn’t you sleep?”

“You locked me in a cell opposite Clint,”  I said, my voice monotone.

“Mmm…”  She hummed looking quite pleased with herself.  “I heard you two were fighting.  I’m sorry, sweetie.  It’s best to have a clean break.”  She took me into a lab that had a biometric scanner on the door.  “This is where you’ll be working.  Your data is uploaded onto the system.  Right now your project is fixing my genome but whatever other side projects you want to run is up to you.”

There were three people in the room, two women, and one man.  “This is Claire, Rachel, and Ben.  They will be working directly for you.  Whatever you want them to do they will do it.”

The three scientists nodded to me.  “The door will be locked to you.  There’s a bathroom over there and lunch will be brought in.”

I nodded to her without making eye contact.  She put her hand on my shoulder.  “Just show us we can trust you and you can have your life back.  That’s all.”

I nodded again and she left.  The other three looked at me awaiting instruction.  I looked around not really sure what to do.  I didn’t actually want to do any work.  “I’ll uhh… need blood samples from… from the… the assets put through the centrifuge.”  I stuttered.  “I’m going to need a full DNA analysis.”

They nodded and turned to start work.  I went and sat at a bench and just started opening up files on what Alexa had done to herself.  It was quite horrific really.  Justin had gotten it into his head that along with the manned flight suits he wanted to try getting into the Super Soldier arena too.  He’d started experimenting on Alexa.  I’d thought my dad was bad.  He was a positive saint compared to Justin Hammer.  Alexa had basically joined HYDRA bringing all the money from Hammer Industries just to fix her father's mistakes because all he’d left her with was terminal cancer.

I’d be sympathetic if she wasn’t torturing my family.

I was starting to get an idea of what she’d done to herself.  She’d created a serum, made from her own genetically modified cells and then used Bruce’s gamma radiation technique hoping they’d take over from her cells.  It had worked except her modifications weren’t enough.  I was just wondering if I could modify her technique to actually create these mutations in people when an alarm went off and the three other scientists all stood suddenly.

“What’s going on?”  I asked, jumping to my feet.

“It’s a code zero.  There’s going to be a raid.”  Ben said as the three started moving to different stations.  “We have to start destroying everything.”

I grabbed a heavy piece of equipment and just slammed it down on the door lock.  It fizzed and went out.  The other three turned and looked at me shocked.  “I’m going to need you to move to the wall and not move,”  I said, cracking my knuckles and hoping they didn’t call my bluff.

The women moved to the wall while Ben stood and looked me up and down.  “Knew it was a mistake trusting you.”  He hissed.

“That was smart, now go stand by the wall or I’ll show you how the Avengers train their scientists,”  I said taking a step toward him.

He backed off quickly going to stand with the two women.

“Sit down, push your phones to me and then hands where I can see them.”  I barked at them.

The women complied quickly but once again Ben seemed to think twice about it.  He stared at me for a few beats trying to work out if he could take me or not.  His shoulders sagged and he slumped to the ground tossing the phones over to me.

“Thank you for your co-operation,”  I said looking down at them.

“You might still have the specimens but the data is getting destroyed as we speak.  You’ve got nothing.”  Ben snarled at me.

“Shut up,”  Claire whispered.

I laughed.  “Thank you for worrying about me.  Don’t worry.  I’ve been here a full day now.  It’s already been backed up.”

“Alexa is not going to be happy about this,”  Ben said, scowling.

I shrugged.  “I’d say you’re right about that.  Now, keep your fingers crossed it’s not the Hulk that finds us.  I can convince the others to go easy on you.  He might be harder.”

We waited for a while.  Someone tried the door before moving on.  It sounded like chaos outside.  Gunfire and people running around.  My head was suddenly filled with Wanda.  ‘Elly, where are you?’  Even in my head, she sounded sick.  I was relieved to feel her though.

‘Floor 45.  There’s a lab.  I broke the door so they couldn’t get in.’ I sent back.  I guess I was a little emotional too because it was also sent with a random mixture of relief and love.  ‘Oh god, are you okay?’ ‘Wanda, I was so scared.’ ‘I love you.’  Among a lot of other things.

‘Calm down, El.  I can’t keep up.’  She sent me.  I think it must have made her laugh or something though because I felt happier too.  ‘45?’

I sent back ‘Yes.’

There was a brief wait where there was nothing and then Wanda sent me, ‘Take cover.’

“Take cover,”  I yelled and dropped to the ground covering my head with my hands.

There was an almighty crash and Hulk burst through the door, sending it flying along with part of the wall.  He stepped into the room with a roar.  Ben started crying.  I jumped to my feet and ran to the Hulk.  His face softened when he saw me and when I slammed into his leg and started hugging him one giant hand gently stroked my back.  “Elly okay.  Hulk here.”  He said in a gentle rumble.

“Thank you, big guy,”  I said.  A bunch of police in SWAT gear came through the door arking wide around Hulk and giving me a strange look. I looked up to see Steve standing behind them.  I wanted to run to him too but given I’d just hugged the Hulk I was worried about the whole public image thing.

Steve smiled and made a ‘come here’ gesture with his hand.  I rushed over and crashed into him.  He closed his arms around me.  “You did great, El.”  He whispered in my ear.

“Bucky and Wanda…  She was… they were…”  I felt myself close to tears and he rubbed his hands in soothing circles on my back.

“I know.  Do you know where they’re keeping him?  We still haven’t found him.”  Steve said.

“He was down in the basement with Wanda and Clint,”  I said, my stomach sinking.  Steve let me go and stepped into the Lab.

“We still need to find Searant Barnes.  Three of you go with the Hulk.  Two of you get these three out of here.  The rest start bagging up this stuff as evidence.”   He said.  Everyone took action.  Hulk and three of the braver officers took off towards the stairs.

“I’ll take you to the Jet.  Wanda and Clint are there with Hill and Coulson.”  Steve said.  I followed him to the stairwell.  We started walking down, but I had trouble keeping up with him.

He turned to me.  “Come on, El.  Get on.”  He said.  I jumped on his back and he started carrying me down much, much faster.  On floor thirteen he stopped dead, his head tilted to the side.  He lifted his hand to his ear.  “Is anyone on 13?”  He said into comms.

I don’t know what the reply was but he patted my legs and I climbed off.  “Stay here.  There’s someone in there and there shouldn’t be.”

He went through the door silently and I waited in the stairs.  It was still noisy but mostly much higher up as the police and the Avengers cleared the building.   Police kept running up and down the stairs and I moved up a little to get out of the way more.

The door opened again and I turned expecting to see Steve coming through the door.  It was not Steve.  Bucky moved silently, seeming to almost be made of the shadows himself.  He turned to look at me and for one brief second my heart stopped.  I was sure they had gotten through to him.

“El?”  He said, and his face broke out into a huge smile.

I rushed to him wrapping my arms around his waist and that was when I started crying.  “Oh god.  What they did to you.”

He pressed his lips to the top of my head.  “It’s over.  It’s… it’s gonna take some therapy, not gonna lie.  But it’s over.”  He whispered.  “I love you, Elly.  I’m so sorry I never said it before.  I do though.  I love you.  I was scared because I thought I’d just end up losing you.”

“It’s okay, Buck.  I knew.  I love you too.”  I said, my tears flowing.

He tilted my chin up to face him and kissed me.  It wasn’t long, but I needed it so badly.  “Why are you standing out in the stairwell by yourself?”  He asked when he pulled apart.

“Steve was…”  I didn’t get to say what Steve was doing because he stepped through the door, said my name and then just slammed into my back wrapping his arms around Bucky and burying his face into his neck.

“Oh god, Buck, I thought they’d triggered you.”  He murmured.

“They tried,”  Bucky replied.

I wriggled in between them.  “You’re crushing me.”

Steve laughed and stepped back.  “Sorry, El.”  He said, ruffling my hair.  “Come on you two, we’re getting you to the jet.”

Steve carried me the rest of the way downstairs with Bucky next to him.  In the lobby, he let me to my feet again and we followed him to the Quinjet.  When I saw Wanda in the stretcher I started crying again.  Wanda held her hands out to me and I crouched on the floor beside her and rested my head on her chest as she ran her hands along my hair.

“You shouldn’t be comforting me, I should be comforting you.”  I sobbed, as I held onto her.

“You are El.  Don’t worry.”  Wanda said, resting her cheek on the top of my head.

Slowly the rest of the group returned.  Scott was first, followed by Tony and Rhodey.  Sam came next with Bruce.  Bruce was back to himself, small, pale and wrapped in a blanket as he often was after the Hulk had taken over for a while.  Coulson left to join the rest of the SHIELD members in their jet.  Finally, Natasha and Steve climbed in.  “Shall we go back to the tower then?”  Natasha asked surveying the group.

“Please, can we?”  Clint said.  I think he was trying to make it sound like a joke but he mostly just sounded relieved.

Natasha smiled and got into the cockpit.  “Buckle in, moya semya.”  She said. “I’m taking us home.”

[lightsandlostbells]

Skam France S2.3 reaction

Gossip Girl’s legacy continues to thrive

Julie’s legacy of fuckboys getting out of cars, ehhh, not so much

Episode 3

Clip 1 - Birthday aftermath

Emma’s reactions to the random dude nuzzling into her neck were amusing.

Well damn, French Linn isn’t afraid to go off on her roommates.

French Linn (Lisa) being Manon’s cousin is, I assume, perhaps to make the living situation a little more realistic? In terms of why Manon would be living on her own at this age, since I’m guessing it would be unusual, and that moving in with a cousin makes more sense. (I don’t know if this would be the case for French teenagers, feel free to correct me.)

But since they’re family, that also makes me wonder if they have a close relationship, a distant relationship, or if it doesn’t matter because the show will never address it.

Also Mickael comparing Lisa to an annoying neighbor makes it sound like they’re not as close as Eskild and Linn, though it could just be affectionate complaining. And I mean, Eskild could complain about Linn, too.

Mickael … wow. “That’s my name bitch.” Damn this conversation got heated! Love it. I feel like he has a different personality from Eskild already? In Skam, this scene ends with Eskild teasing Noora about taking her place in the girl squad, telling her how pretty/smart/popular she is, and wrapping her up in a bear hug while she’s giggling. She’s not that upset with him. This scene with Manon and Mickael plays out like an actual spat, although not a very serious one, I’m sure. But Manon did still seem peeved by the scene’s end.

Clip 2 - The Most Important Scene in Skam

LMAO THEY CUT JULIE’S FAVORITE SCENE.

We don’t get a collection of handsome male youth emerging from an impressive vehicle, a clear shot of Alex’s battle-born bruise, perfectly timed wind rippling effects, Kanye West making dramatic proclamations (maybe for the best given his drama over the last week). It’s just Charles and Alex walking down a school hallway and Charles looking back at them, damn.

Lol, I was never mad that this was Julie’s favorite scene, it’s just very ???? in terms of all the amazing scenes she has produced, that this is the one that stands out to her. I can only guess something really fantastic happened to her that day or that the shooting went well or something. 

But now I’m imagining like how they would stage a similar scene in the school … Charles and Alex dramatically emerge from the bathroom and Manon’s hair starts blowing in the wind, cut to a janitor turning on a large fan behind the girls.

This scene was such a non-entity that I have nothing more to say about it.

Clip 3 - Emma revealed as Gossip Girl fanfic writer

Was weird Clara the girl Alex hooked up with before?

Daphne sure wants to meet Manon’s secret girlfriend, huh. And what’s with that look Daphne gives Emma before mentioning lesbians … just wanting her to know she is A-OK with lesbians. More than A-OK. Haha Emma, we know what’s really going on, don’t we? Wouldn’t it be so funny if we made out in like two episodes, I mean weeks?

Emma’s reaction to connecting the Manon-Charles dots is amazing, she’s ascended to another plane of existence. Her sliding away from Daphne and then sliding back toward Manon … good timing, I actually laughed out loud. She’s so proud of her detective skills and living for the drama, and I love that she took the Gossip Girl thing a little farther than in the original.

Did they actually end this scene without music? Did they???? Character development for Skam France!

Clip 4 - I’m just combining all the Friday party clips here

Lisa seems like such a more trying roommate than Linn. Linn just flopped around and did her own thing, Lisa has more fire behind her, which might be nice in some respects, but she also seems like someone ready to explode the next time a fork ends up in the wrong drawer.

I’m enjoying Emma more this season but her drunk acting is not very good. She seems to be too … upright for her level of intoxication, lol. I get that everyone exhibits drunkenness differently, but it feels like her level of Drunk Speaking is way farther along than her level of Drunk Body Language, if you catch me. I don’t buy that she’s really wasted.

I’m not going to be too critical about this since I don’t know what the French standards for raucousness are, but that seems like a damn tame party to get the cops called on you. But I guess maybe it was louder before Manon arrived.

The staging of this part is so ridiculous! 

Lmao, EMMA WAS RIGHT THERE, MANON. She was probably no more than 30 seconds away! Manon easily could have run out and caught up with her! 

Also why did she think Emma took her stuff as opposed to any other rando with a similar coat who might’ve grabbed it by accident? I watched it a few times but I didn’t see how Emma was clearly the one who took her things?

Then she says she's going to call Emma and yet she immediately calls Mickael? Why didn’t she call her own phone, or Emma’s? Even with Emma drunk, she might’ve picked up. At least Mickael’s voicemail is great.

Like they could have, IDK, had Manon hand her things to Emma and go to the bathroom, and when she walks back out, the police are there and everyone’s leaving, Emma has gone, she briefly goes out to look for her with no luck.

I don’t think it makes sense even if you assume Manon ~wants to be there with Charles~ by this point and isn’t trying very hard to go home, because then why even bother leaving Mickael a message, when he could call or text back on Charles’ phone at any time and reveal that he’ll be waiting to let her in?

Charles offers Manon a drink when last week he said he knew she didn’t drink and that’s why he made cocoa. Seriously? This isn’t like Lord of the Rings or A Song of Ice and Fire where there are a million world-building details to remember, this is pretty simple stuff and it was said only one episode ago. Did no one on the cast or crew point this out? Usually I would check to see if the original show made the same mistake but because Skam France was being lazy, guess I will be, too. (And I can’t think of a reason why Charles would make this mistake intentionally, even a very convoluted one. If you can, please share.)

So now it’s time for this iconic scene.

Regarding the original,  it’s one of the few Noorhelm scenes that I like (for the most part), though taken out of the larger context. But one slight issue I’ve had with it is that it feels like this scene is where we as viewers fall in love with Noora … when really this scene should have been about falling in love with William. Because we had plenty of reason to love Noora by now, flaws and all. She stood up to William for Vilde, she spoke out against sexism, she cheered up her friend Eva, she was cool and confident and had impeccable style.  I’m highly charmed by Noora in this scene, and I’m glad Josefine got a chance to show off, and one of the few moments I like William is watching him watch her, because of course who wouldn’t fall for her at that moment? But like … you didn’t need to convince me to like Noora, Skam. You needed to convince me to like William. 

Sure it helps that we see them having some cute interaction, but William seems kinda, well, passive through much of it? He’s reasonably helpful but a lot of it is in ways that make him a baseline decent person rather than an over-the-top great guy (I mean, Isak also lent Noora his phone in S1, and he barely knew her). The cocoa moment is sweet but she asked for it first. The guitar scene doesn’t tell us much about him when really it could have. I mean, for all that Noora mocks the cliche of fuckboy with a guitar ... yeah, it might have been good to see him actually play? Or at least talk about music? Instead of playing the predictable romantic ballad, he picks up the guitar and plays something goofy to make her laugh. Or we see him fumbling through it because he’s a beginner, and Noora ends up giving him some pointers. Shit, even him playing Wonderwall while staring deeply and earnestly into Noora’s eyes would give us a sense of his life away from school and Noora, his hobbies and interests. We learn some about William’s family situation, but I didn’t get much insight into him as a person. The part where they’re "fighting” in the bed is the most enjoyable part for me; it’s playful and cute and made William seem more like a person.

But anyway, on to Skam France’s take on this scene. I don’t have a problem with them cutting out the guitar playing, for whatever reason they chose. Maybe the actress can’t sing or play guitar. Sure, that’s fine, play to her strengths. We could have used the cocoa making scene, though, or if not that, some other enjoyable activity that they do together. I do think cutting out the cocoa/guitar playing hurts the pacing and makes it feel rushed - like in the original, I got how Noora was slowly easing into enjoying herself, feeling comfortable enough to stay, and there isn’t really a sense of that here.

It’s worth mentioning that this scene in Skam is about the length of this entire episode of Skam France. Again, I know, time restrictions, but I wish they could condense more effectively.

Lol, they cut the cocoa and guitar playing but left the part where he calls his mom a misogynistic word, thanks! That part in the original was the one sour note in that scene, TBH, especially because his response to Noora calling him out (“So you only want me to be honest if it’s politically correct?”) is dumb. Imagine if he called his mom a slut because hey, it’s honest. I so love when women object to men’s sexism and men don’t take them seriously. At least Manon seems unimpressed with his response.

Although I do want to clarify, I don’t know the intensity of those words in either Norwegian or French, I’m going off Noora and Manon’s reactions to them.

“It’s good to finally be alone with you” - I mean, you were alone with her last week? The fact that this scene is shortened makes him seem like he’s coming on quite strong since there’s not as much buildup to it.

I do think Charles has some more vulnerable expressions and mannerisms than William, which are nice.

IDK, I still want a version of this scene where we really, really learn something endearing about William/Charles. Something playful. Cut to Manon and Charles playing video games. Air hockey. Chess. Ping Pong. He has a model train set up somewhere. He’s into photography and has a wall where he hangs photos he’s taken. He has a fucking cat named something gross like Princess Pinkypaws that he dotes on. Like if you’re going to go with the “bad boy with a sensitive side” cliche, you might as well go all out and give him a cute pet to manipulate us into liking him. Imagine if Manon asked if he lived alone and Charles said, “Almost” and next we saw him pulling out this well-fed cat and snuggling it.

We know Charles plays basketball, at least, but it’s not like we know anything about why he’s playing, whether basketball means anything to him or if he’s just doing it for parental approval, etc. I need some more insight into who he is as a person. Like I know William’s kind of impersonal apartment might be the point, but think about when Isak walked into Even’s apartment and we saw that he had sketches he’s done on the wall, he had a Nas poster, there were Star Wars posters (the last ones might have been Marlon’s, I’m aware). And at that point we were inclined to like Even, who we hadn’t seen do anything negative yet, and we had already gotten some good insight about his passions via the Mikael video. William/Charles has done a number of crappy things at this point; he needs to win us over.

General comments

Manon and Emma seem flirty as hell in their texts and IG posts. Baby, wife...

Are Lucas’ laundry posts supposed to be a clue that he’s living on his own by now, or am I reading too much into it? We don’t know the timeline for Isak, obviously, but I figured he didn’t move out/into the basement until after Noora and Eva told Eskild about him possibly being gay. Because... how would Eskild know Isak otherwise, right?

I don’t speak French so I apologize if I miss some context, and feel free to correct me or elaborate.

If you got this far, thank you for reading!

[psychsounds]

Observations on Agnès Humbert’s Resistance: Memoirs of War Occupied France

Despite occupation of Nazis in 1943, opportunities for French resistance.

Agnès sees a French soldier having returned from the Front, being stopped by German guard.  German offers soldier a cigarette, soldier promptly refuses saying “non-mercy.” Heartening signs of resistance.

Small signs put up in Paris. “Nous sommes pour le general de Gaulle.” (19).

Agnès resistance papers provided information to French people regarding why they were being starved and why supplies were so low - not due to British blockades but German plundering of resources.

During Interrogation

When questioned by the Gestapo as to what her motivation for producing literature was, Agnès is smart enough to construct a narrative that is believable.  She says that the early years in the war she had no idea who de Gaulle was but became radicalised when Germany occupied Paris.  The Gestapo’s eyes well up with tears, as he believes her to be a nationalist.  (Agnès reflects on this half truth - she is not a nationalist but more a pragmatist.)

Agnès’ son had been sent to Newfoundland prior to the Occupation and was awaiting his fiancee to travel to meet him.  Nazis placed barriers for this to happen, making it difficult, had to pay a lot of money for ‘travel permit’.  Compare with Shiber’s experiences of similar costly bureaucratic processes implemented by Nazis.

Re: Agnes’ son’s wedding rings, customers have to provide their own metal. Maman (Agnes’ Mum) donated her own wedding ring.  Nazis deduct 30% weight, the cut of occupying authorities.  (39).  

Weird power dynamic with Nazi guards, peering through the spy holes in the cell and watching when prisoners were bathing themselves with water.  Female guard trying it on with Agnès.  Agnès rebuffs her and surprisingly there is no recrimination from the guard.

Agnes employs strategies to keep fighting and stable during imprisonment.

‘I think back to all the happy times in my life. Just the happy times. The rest you have to forget, especially in here: you must forget, or else you get wrinkles. Wrinkles on your face are bad enough, in your heart they are even worse.’ (75).

Restricting Agnes books deliberately for so long.  Then ‘Mme Blumelein half-opens my door, and with a vinegary smirk hands me a book: La Trajedie de Ravaillac by the Freres Tharaud. From today if seems, I am allowed books.’  (79).

Female prisoner arrested for having a pet pig and naming it “Hitler.”

Nazis power plays - officers deliberately smoking in the Underground (this was not permitted.)  Swastika flags displayed in public buildings.  Disseminating information that people would be executed if they resisted.

Nazis methodical in looting - expensive, important historical documents taken from Parisienne archives and Museums.

Curious incident when female who is in imprisoned with Agnès shouts down to a man in the street, asking for news on the Allies. Man replies you would know if you weren’t such a slut sleeping with the Nazis. (Disempowered males quick to judge female political prisoners - incorrectly and harshly.)

Transfer to Prison de la Sante, communal cell.

Political prisoners - Jewish communists. Derailed trains carrying German soldiers   Set fire to food of German horses. Killed by Germans. Petitions run by families of French prisoners

Contemptuous silence

Gathered Jewish prisoners together at Drancy.  Sent to Germany.

German warder crying tears:-

‘A warder, fat Herr Matz, sobs into his checked handkerchief. I say to Lulu: ‘he must be drunk, the fat haricot vert.’ Far from it, it appears: he is shedding tears for us. 'Such fine women, it’s disgusting taking away like this.’  (110).  

Michel Strogoff made a huge impression on us both when we were girls.

Transported in Police vans to German prisons

March 1942, at this point political deportees were not taken straight to extermination camps but were automatically sent to do forced Labour in Germany alongside common criminals. This explains why my own experience, and that of all the other deportees in early 1942, differed so greatly from that of deportees who arrived in Germany after us. Their fate, alas was far crueller than ours.  p. 111

Rumours rife. For instance, Anrath Prison - bad rep, prison director is a sadist.

Deathly silence of a prison cell.

Stomach cramps

Yvonne delicate, haemorrhaging blood.

'They have taken everything woollen away from her -and she is so delicate and feels the cold so cruelly! For a moment she forgets to stand to attention and slips her hand up to her hair. A wardress orders her to stand to attention according to the rules. Yvonne does not obey absolutely immediately, and the wardress strikes her hand with a key, tearing the skin on her thumb. Yvonne draws herself up to attention and I notice blood dripping from her thumb on to her hand and then on get pinafore…I’m fuming. This is a fine start: Germany certainly looks promising! That a nasty little brat of a 20 year old can lay a hand on Yvonne, to make her bleed!

Inspected by Nazis, German guards dismissive of (in my book) superior , more socially progressive French education system.  

Modestly I begin to list my university degrees, but she remarks that if Frenchwomen are to be believed they are all 'professors.’ Agnes tries to explain how they are political prisoners not criminals.  (114).  

Opportunities for friendship, based on shared cultural affiliation, personal biases etc.

In among them, though, is one charming face, a young blonde woman with blue eyes. Our eyes meet, and with a deft manoeuvre we manage to get next to each other. Between clenched teeth I venture: ‘Francaise?’

‘Belgian, political prisoner.’

I squeeze her hand and whisper. Let’s stick together, you and I, whatever happens.’ She seems as anxious as I am not to be on her own, all alone among this pack of German women with their depressing faces.  (116).  

Belgian Allies working for the Resistance

‘Kate and her husband ran a hotel on the border between Belgium and Germany which was used as a ‘mailbox’ by a client and friend, a German Jew who was a member of the Intelligence Service. They both knew and approved of his activities. Denounced by the village postmaster, they were arrested as soon as the Germans invaded, on 10 May 1949.’

Ritual humiliation - walk to the Factory (work camp arrangements, German ‘productivity’ by exploitation of prisoner’s labour).  

Walk to factory;

‘They make us walk down the middle of the street, like soldiers. It’s impossible to speak to Denise, as the two dormitories are not allowed to mix. We pass in front of a dress shop. It has a large mirror, and I catch sight of myself in it. That old crone, limping along in her preposterous clumping shoes and with get hair scraped back into such a grotesque style - that old crone is me…It’s so ridiculous to feel humiliated at being made to walk through these sunny streets looking like this. Other women, ladies on the pavements, are wearing pretty dresses with an air of spring about them. This feeling like sadness that rises in my throat, choking me, is just absurd. Why should we blush at being paraded through the streets of Krefeld like this? Yes, of course, my internal dialogue continues, but if only we had something - Kate, Denise and I - to mark us out from the German thieves and murderesses we have been thrown among, something small like a tricolour rosette. But then, I reflect, men (and women) are truly petty creatures if all it takes to allay these feelings - to rescue us from the weight of humiliation - is three little lengths of ribbon seen together!’  (120).

Female sexuality, punished harshly.  

German women having relationships with French soldiers - arrested forced into German labour prisons.  

Gendered double standard.  Denunciations used to air grievances, reek revenge, capitalise on situations.

Greedy husband ate all the food from the rations, so his wife forged food rations. Denounced and given 3 years hard labour in German prison camp. Husband is Nazi Party member and he divorced her, replaced her with younger wife.  She can’t stop crying through ‘shame.’  Refused to do work, reappeared with a black eye.

Butchers wife swapped meat for shoes for her children; 2 years imprisonment.  

Frau Kaiser is elderly, bought her husband some cigars from a French prisoner who used the money to escape. 18 months.  

Ingrid is implicated in same affair. Sweet tooth, couldn’t resist buying half a pound of French chocolate for 5 marks from same prisoner.  2 years.

Harsh prison conditions

Scraps of rayon used for sanitary towels.

Upset digestive system - warders denies prisoners opportunities for toilet.

Punched in stomach asking for aspirin.

Warders given koshes. Tell prisoners now have power of life and death over them.

No protective clothing or fresh air, 60 hour week. Slave workers, lives are held cheap. (152)

Day and night shift workers have to share a cell, for lack of space.

Nazis dosing prisoners with bromide? To increase docility.  

1943 air raids become more intense

Suicides among prisoners increase

Female prisoners sleep with men workers for chocolate, soap, not to be treated harshly.  (200).  

Small joys in possessions

I have a few books, a stub of pencil, paper, clean underwear, eau de cologne and a mirror. We hold fragments of our homes in our hands, we can see them with our eyes and feel them with our fingers, and they help to take our minds off the way we live here.  (217).  

Prisoners have ways of resisting, ritualistic.  Yet Germans still seek to deprive basic human needs.

The management has become aware that many of the women receive letters from their families that have dual meanings. Some are obviously written in code, while others contain obscure hidden meanings. So, to make sure that we do not have time to decode them, we are allowed to keep our letters for one hour only, and even that varies between commandos.  (196).  

Agnes learns that her Mum has passed away, which must have been absolutely devastating as she was not with her in the final days.

Imperceptible sadness He wrote to tell me that Maman died in November. She didn’t suffer. She just fell asleep. The endless waiting was too much for her. This was a brutal awakening; then I subsided once more into blessed torpor. However hard I tried, I simply couldn’t imagine my life, my future, without the warm presence of Maman…I felt numb; I remained frozen like that until the spring, or more particularly until the day the Russian told me the Allies had landed.  (212).  

Voyeurism of guards

As we wash the men watch us. Shears off her hair. Simone, our young Belgian comrade, has turned scarlet; I try to make her feel better by telling her the humiliation is theirs, not hers.  (170).

Change in Russian female prisoners.  Forced to trade off their sexuality.  Agnes wonders what must they think of this situation?

The change in a year is startling. Its not that they are physically abused, as their work is quite bearable. But the promiscuity in which the wretched girls are forced to live, the shameful existence reserved for them here, has degraded most of then utterly and killed their spirit. Where have they gone, those pretty girls with their fresh, innocent faces framed by their traditional headscarves or headbands? Most of them have abandoned their national headdress, and with it all the human dignity they had brought with them from their homelands. Now they all curl their hair and wear heavy make-up, shout and yell all the time and sleep with the lowest of the low from among the Belgian and Dutch workers. Many of then have been infected with diseases and twenty five are pregnant. Those that make it back to Ukraine will have a handsome souvenir of ‘western civilisation’ to take with them.  (201).  

Despite harsh conditions, there are opportunities for prisoners to sabotage the German war effort:

I have also developed a good trick, when deployed with sufficient skill, breaks the cogwheels under the machine and puts some of the lots out of use for a good day at least, as the mechanic is an extremely busy man and happily is often unavailable.  (182).

1945 - Signs that Germans are losing war, delicious, can’t come quick enough.  

I emerge to see German soldiers shuffling past the building in groups of two or three.  Filthy and exhausted, they have thrown away their weapons and walk with their backs hunched and heads bowed.  Oh what joy!  What glorious schadenfreude at the sight of Germans looking like the French soldiers I saw on the roads in June 1940.  (222).  

Germans lost the War, Agnes still shows kindness towards German captors (more respect than they afforded her).  

Winfred prison, 2 April 1945

Frau Herpes (:P), our wardress, comes into the dormitory, her face streaming with tears.  Barely able to speak, she manages to convey to us that we are free, that we should leave the prison immediately.  On behalf of us all, I tell her that we have decided to wait for the Americans in the prison, where we are in relative safety.  Then I go down into the director’s office, where I find the wardresses terrified out of their wits in case of reprisals.  I give them my word of honour that since they have treated us with great humanity and courtesy no one will lay a hand on them, neither us nor the Americans.  I also try to impress on them and the German women prisoners the dangers of going out in the streets. (221).  

Confusion during liberation, having to prove which side you are on, the extent you support the Allies

Hello, we are French political prisoners and you have just liberated us and we are so glad…’

“French!  French” the American replies.  “Are you quite sure about that?  Because if you’re German I’m not allowed to talk to you.  I can’t afford to lose three months’ pay for talking to some German women, no thank you!”

We are completely taken aback, and this lends unexpected force to the arguments we muster to allay the little American’s fears.  The cross of Lorraine with which we have decorated our jackets means nothing to him, but the tricolour flag, combined with our talkativeness at least convinces him.  Slowly, he draws off his gloves and shakes our hands; whereupon he declares that he’s starving and some eggs would be great.

At this point with impeccable timing, the farm steward appears.  With lofty hauteur I order him to fetch a dozen eggs for “Herr Offizier amerikanisch.”  When he sees the way the steward scuttles off to obey my orders, the little American squaddie can’t be left in much doubt about my Frenchness. (225).

Absolute chaos, due to break in the power structure.  Infrastructure broken down, opportunities to exploit gaps.  Agnes ‘Others’ the Polish prisoners i.e. defines them by the differences to her behaviour.  

‘Within less than an hour, the Polish prisoners have completely ransacked the Schloss. i have seen documentary films of trees being stripped and devoured by locusts.  This is the same, except it is more wanton.  Everything is destroyed, defiled, smashed beyond use.  I don’t even attempt to raise a hand to stop this senseless vandalism.  These are primitive people, I tell myself, venting their primitive instincts.’  (226).  

American captain arrives

‘There is chaos everywhere…He tells us that he is overwhelmed, and asks us if we can any advice as to how to restore some degree of order in the town, where the Poles are practically in control.  The number of refugees is growing and the looting is getting worse. Not content with ransacking and plundering, they are now threatening to burn down the whole town.  

Agnes resourceful, formulates 3 solutions to secure the area.

I suggest three stopgap measures.  The first is to plaster all the houses with posters warning in several languages that looters will be shot, and if necessary to shoot a few of the most troublesome Poles in the foot, in order to calm down the rest.  The second is to requisition a cinema, cover the floor with straw and turn it into a temporary shelter for refugees with a soup kitchen twice a day.  The third is to requisition a hotel and convert it into a hospital for the sick or injured refugees or deportees…The captain approves of all three schemes and five me a carte blanche…A few days ago we were slave labourers, and today here we are requisitioning building in the face of total apathy from the Germans; it’s a complete farce.  (235).

Agnes’ attachment to American Officer who liberated the prison, but also awareness of the rareness of the situation / sanctity of memory.  

‘To be honest, I don’t mind if I never see him again.  There are some memories that are so precious that they are best treasured intact and untainted forever.  i want always to see that vision of him trudging slowly up the stairs at Wassenburg, moving wearily and heavily, his helmet dented and his battledress crumpled and stained; he was magnificent!  But what if he were to come to see me in Paris? …Thrust back into the workaday world, we would feel embarrassed, a little awkward and we wouldn’t know what to say to each other.  No, better not to see each other, to keep our memories.  And anyway, in Paris I wear make-up and dresses and colour my hair.’  (240).

Lawlessness continues, secret societies spring up in the woods.  Nazis are still around trying to centralise power.  Members of bourgeoisie are in state of panic due to breaks in structure.  Agnes is sympathetic to Baroness von Scharfenberg who owns half the town’s buildings.  

‘Endeavouring not to show my feelings, naturally, I converse with the  Baroness about the latest news and - as she says she speaks little English - urge her to come to me if she should encounter any difficulties with the occupying forces.  I give her a scrap of paper on which I’ve scribbled my name, but she looks flustered and protests, ‘But I can’t keep your name on me, it would cost me my life.’  Laughing, I ask her if she really thinks the Americans would execute her for a trifling thing.  ‘No,’ she replies, ‘not the Americans, the others.’  Assuming that she means the SS, I reassure her, adding loftily, ‘The Americans will get rid of those vermin for you.’  It’s not the SS she’s worried about though, it’s the ‘men in the woods, the ones who give orders by radio.’  And she adds, ‘I’m so frightened of them!’ My heart skips a beat.  Trying to stay calm, I tell her that she only has to give me the information about the mysterious men and the Americans will make short work of them.  With the utmost dignity, she replies that as a German woman she cannot denounce fellow Germans.  I know enough already, so I leave the frightened Baroness as an American soldier comes to ask me to go with him into  the town, where I am supposed to find him some crates of munitions…Clearly some sort of secret society has sprung up in the wood and forests around the town; we’re plumb in the middle of an adventure story. ‘  233.  

Agnes warns Major of SS guards and secret society in the woods.  The US Captain’s flippant dismissal of the danger confirms Agnes’ views about the Americans having not faced as much destruction as the Germans and Allies.

‘Yup, we have SS swanning around here too,’ he replies with a laugh. He finds this highly amusing, but it’s a type of joke that neither we nor the German anti-Nazis can see. For most Americans, war is an abstract, theoretical activity. They are waging this war and doing so extremely well - they are winning it, after all - but in their hearts and souls they haven’t suffered it’s pain. They haven’t seen their young girls carried off by the tens of thousands, their hostages shot, their wives imprisoned, their houses destroyed, their possessions looted. They’ve heard about it all, but it’s happened to other people, not to them.

pp 242 - 243.

Amazing how immediately after being liberated, Agnes gets to work chasing Nazis.

We hand drawn up a list of the Nazis of Wanfried, the fanatics who joined the Party before 1933…In addition, we have a respectable number of records documenting events in communities within a twenty-kilometre radius of Wanfried; not gossip or tittle tattle, but impeachable testimonies that have the Americans shaking their heads.  (244).  

Agnes is devastated to hear about the Concentration camps and worried that her friends from the Resistance have been captured and killed.  Imagine worrying that people you liked and trusted had been brutally murdered by the Nazis.  Heartbreaking.  

We know that the Russians and Americans are advancing rapidly, and we are sure that victory is not far off. But today I heard a broadcast that shattered me, made me sick to my stomach. A young political deportee was speaking. Very simply and with no rhetorical flourishes, she related the horrors of the concentration camp in which she had been incarcerated. The prisoners weren’t merely tortured; when they could no longer work they were sent to the gas chamber, and from there to the crematorium. When the liberating armies arrived, it appears that the Germans killed thousands upon thousands of prisoners. I am haunted by this women’s voice by her palpable sincerity…I am desperately worried about the fate of my friends.  (251).  

Some groups still refuse to provide information on the extent of their persecution by the Nazis.  

Jehovah’s witnesses were a large social group in Germany in 1945 and refused to inform on Nazi persecutors, trusting in God to avenge them.

Agnes observes that the standard of living in Germany seems higher than the French.  (Analyses of National Socialism have pointed to this point too, that it did achieve its political aims of raising living standards, while enabling brutal atrocities by the Fascist state).

Our enquiries take us into a great many German homes. Many of then are very modest, but everywhere we are struck by how superior the German standard of living is to the French. The peasant dwellings and small farmhouses are cleaner and more harmonious than our own, and generally better and more tastefully furnished. (256).  

People who have been clearly persecuted by the Nazis, are given positions of power in the re-stabilising process.  The unspeakable horrors of their experiences stay with them permanently, change them irrevocably.  

Local chief of police, German freed after 5 years in concentration camp.

Discussing what happened,

‘Intellectuals were chained up like dogs and forced to live on their hands and knees. To obtain their rations they had to bark like dogs, otherwise they starved to death…Then, controlling his emotions with difficulty he says, 'There are things that a man cannot say to a woman face to face.’ (254).  

Rumours among the occupied Germans are rife.  Germans try to enlist in the US army - the perceived winning army and offer their services against the Russians (with irony considering the fragile nature of this alliance, and ensuing Cold War).  Americans re-iterated their alliance with Russia, France and UK.  

Spluttering and snorting, they explain that they have just sent packing the fourth German this morning who wanted to enlist in the US army…When the fourth applicant appeared, the interpreter was moved to enquire as to the reason behind the enthusiasm for the American army. ‘We want to help you defeat the Russians,’ came the reply, and it was all the Americans could do to convince the man that the Russians are and will remain friends and allies…This rumour of war between the US and USSR is spreading through the region like wildfire.  (261).  

Agnes calls out spinelessness of conformity of German professional class that colluded with the State in denying medical attention to people in need.  

Chief Medical Officer

He stresses that ours is the only one of its kind within a radius of two hundred kilometres. I allow myself the pleasure of yelling at this chief medical officer, in front of his high-ranking nurse, that he should be ashamed to belong to a country where the people have to wait for an enemy political prisoner to give them the order to do their duty as professionals and as human beings!  He takes it all without a word.

p. 262.

Although, Hitler also persecuted his own people massively and Germans suffered massive injustices if they resisted.  

Not a day goes by without our hearing the tale of another German family’s sufferings.  The bullying and persecution suffered by children who refused to join the Hitler Youth pierced their parent’s hearts like daggers.  The lives of those who did not support Hitler (though who didn’t go to the lengths of opposing him) seem to have been strewn by traps and pitfalls on a daily basis.  As for anti-Nazis - Catholics, democrats, communists or others - the world is only now beginning to understand what they have suffered.

p. 263-264

Agnes’ views on retribution; ultimately we need to build empathy and not alienate Germans so much that WWIII happens.  

‘Will we get the help we need to build a new, decent Germany?’  There is a sentiment, all too frequently heard already, that sadly seems to sum up the situation as far as many French people are concerned.  ‘We should make them suffer.’  It is a sentiment that fills me, a former political deportee, with dread.  Yes, we should make the Nazis suffer, and in many cases we should put them beyond suffering for good.  But as for the rest - the Germans who have already suffered so much, those whose cruel fate it was to be weak and spineless, who didn’t know how to resist or couldn’t do so, who were condemned to wait until the most hideous war and occupation by foreign power brought them deliverance - if we ‘make them suffer’ we run the risk of producing another Hitler, of fomenting a backlash that would be absurd and tragic in equal measures.  (264).  

That men were forced to join SS and act in unspeakable ways by the Nazis, and some might have experienced crises of confidence and felt remorse. To punish them in the same ways as active Nazis might be a further act of violence or aggression.

My over-active imagination often presents me with a scenario that must have already played out many times.  We now know for certain that from January 1945 and perhaps earlier, raw recruits were assigned to the SS, whether willing or not.  We also know how Allied soldiers deal with the SS, with every justification.  But how many recent recruits, forced into the SS against their will, have found themselves confused with the true fanatics? (265).