#the non-idiot (mostly)

[shen-yuans-closet]

me when I’m mourning my disciple who lived in my house and happily cooked and ate with me and who I gave headpats on the daily. who I read the entirety of a horribly trashy porn novel for. who I wrote whole paragraphs about when he was disgraced by that FUCKING HACK AUTHOR. why are people calling me a widow

[kacievvbbbb]

Gonna do two cause I haven’t done them in a while. And because I want to encapsulate the whole goth family

- @Alonesomes, Crybaby

Do I even have to say it or can you see the vision?

This is just very Mihawk. I mean he lives by the blade ever meaningful relationship he has (except perona) is defined by it and he one day hopes to die by it.

You get the sense that he is more sword than person that Yoru is probably his soul made physical form.

And

(I swear I couldn’t find a credit for this anywhere so if you have an idea please let me know)

But yeah this is very Perona and Zoro. I can imagine Perona just telling Zoro all her fears like her deepest fears that she’ll never really belong anywhere and Zoro dumbass that he is will just be like “well you’re here now aren’t you” and down a bottle of absinthe. Like he just has the bluntest form of reassurance it’s honestly so nice. And if Zoro (maybe after he loses his eyes or just after a really bad day) feels like what if l he won’t even beat Hawkeyes what will that make of him then and perona would laugh in his face and tell him he’s still young and the old man’s just gonna keep getting older so who knows maybe sim for his bad hype. And then she’ll paint his nails.

Like they just feel like they would never actually, out loud in the exact words, reaffirm each others dreams or dismiss their fears but Zoro will let Perona paint his nails and do her share of the chores and Perona will make stitch up his cuts and make him a snack and they’ll know.

[no-face-no-shame]

I'm kinda glad Dungeon Meshi stopped being popular because I just couldn't fucking stand the dumbass drama and discourse. Especially since ppl were just fabricating it because there was nothing to argue about in the source material

[jaesblogstuff]

The Lines I Crossed For You

Happy (early) father’s day i guess LOL. I might write something a little better, best fit for the occasion.

Simon’s been divorced six years.

She left without a fight — just said she was tired of a man who worked too much and smiled too little.

He didn’t beg. Didn’t chase. Just stood in the kitchen while the door shut behind her. Since then he’s been steady. Alone.

Liam —his only continuation of Riley blood, his son — moved in after burning through money and excuses. Said he was trying. Said he’d “try and get back on his feet” Simon didn’t ask. Just gave him a room. A second chance.

But he knew the truth. Liam wasn’t trying. He was coasting. Still a boy in a man’s world.

And then you came along.

At first, just weekends. Then overnights, shifts too long, Liam too distracted to show up. You were always moving. Always tired. Always giving.

Simon saw it all. Quietly. Every forgotten pickup. Every brushed-off look. And the way you stayed anyway. He knew that lingering in the doorway, cooking for you, waiting up even when you didn’t ask. It was too much. But there was a point where watching became unbearable.

He told himself to stay out of it.

But tonight? He can’t, He wouldn’t.

⸻

It’s almost 11 p.m. when you show up. No text. No call.

You hadn’t planned to really. You’d finished a 14-hour shift, head splitting, feet throbbing, too exhausted to go home. You’d asked Liam to pick you up — just this once — and when he didn’t answer, you sat in your car with your keys in your hand and your chest tight with something between shame and fury. Simon’s house was closer than your apartment. That’s the only reason you came. At least… that’s what you told yourself.

He opens the door in sweatpants, barefoot, hair a mess, face unreadable — and the moment his eyes land on yours, something in you buckles. You’re not okay. And he sees it. “I didn’t know where else to go,” you murmur. “Just… need a quick crash.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just steps aside. “You’re here,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”

You walk in. He doesn’t ask questions. Just takes the bags and load from your hands, sets them gently on the counter, and looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you. You swallow and glance toward the hallway. “Is Liam here?”

Simon’s jaw shifts, barely, but you catch it. “He left a few hours ago,” he says. “Went out with friends, I think. Didn’t say much.” A pause. Then quieter, “Haven’t seen him since before dinner.”

You nod once, like it doesn’t matter. Like it didn’t sting.

“I called him… three times,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Guess he forgot.” You rub your hands over your face, the fatigue crashing down all at once. “I can go… if this is weird. I don’t want to—”

“Stop.” Simon’s voice is low, firm. “You’re staying. Sit down.”

You do. Not because you’re told, but because for once, it feels like someone means it.

He places a warm mug in front of you — tea from the pot he made not long ago. You wrap your hands around it like it’s the only heat you have left. He sits across from you, watching you sip. “Rough day?”

You nod. “I don’t even know what happened. Just… non-stop. Four admits. One code. Everyone short-staffed again.”

You shrug lightly, stare into your cup. “It’s whatever.”

Simon watches you a long moment, his eyes careful, searching. “And Liam?”

You let out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh — hollow. “Didn’t show. Again. I waited outside the hospital like a fucking idiot for fifteen minutes before I gave up.”

The silence that follows is thick — not awkward, just loaded. Something in Simon snaps. Not loudly. Not violently. Just… breaks.

“I’ve watched you give him everything,” Simon murmurs, voice low and sharp. “And I’ve watched him give you nothing. That’s not fair. That’s not love.”

You blink hard. Swallow. “I don’t want pity.”

“You think this is pity?” he says, eyes locked to yours.

Then, softer, steadier. “I don’t look at you and see someone weak. I see someone who’s been strong for too long.”

His hand finds your knee. His thumb moves in slow, grounding circles.

“I’d give you everything if you let me. Every minute. Every drop. Just to watch you breathe easier.”

Your throat tightens. Something inside you splinters. You’re tired. Spent. But right now — right here — you’re also seen. Not just as someone who’s holding it together. But someone worth being held.

And Simon? He’s still waiting. Still giving you room.

“I don’t want to think,” you whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why I will.”

Then you nod, barely a movement, and say, “Yes.”

⸻

He fucks you like someone who’s had years to imagine it.

Because he has.

Celibacy might as well have been stitched into the collar of his shirts — not by choice, but by the kind of quiet, aching resignation that comes from too many years of going untouched. No one since his wife.

And not once does he rush.

He undresses you slowly, reverently. Like your body is something to earn. His hands are warm and a little rough from yardwork and tools, but his touch is gentle. Intentional. His lips brush the inside of your wrist. Your collarbone. The skin just beneath your navel.

He doesn’t move to tease. He worships. When his mouth finds your thighs, you’re already trembling.

His tongue circles your clit. Soft, controlled, devastating, and the moan that leaves your throat is so quiet it startles you. It’s the kind of sound you don’t mean to make. The kind that lives deep in your chest and only comes out when someone really knows what they’re doing.

“Please,” you whisper, hips twitching, too gone to be embarrassed.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Let me feel you first.”

Two fingers slide into you — slow, deep — and the groan he lets out is nearly broken. Like he’s mourning all the days he didn’t get to touch you like this.

His mouth doesn’t stop. And neither does your unraveling. You writhe under him, hand fisting the sheets, tears pricking at your lashes from how tender it all is. He doesn’t stop until you break — gasping, breathless, your back arching and legs shaking as you come hard against his mouth.

Only then does he rise, chest heaving, and kiss you like he’s starved. And then, just before he sinks inside you, he presses his forehead to your shoulder, voice rough and trembling

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Simon says, his voice low and raw against your shoulder. “To have someone like you. Someone so strong, so fucking hardworking, and beautiful, and kind — and just… look away. To not show up for you.”

“If you were mine—”

He stops himself. Shakes his head again like he’s trying to clear it. Like the thought hurts too much to say out loud.

But you feel it. You need it.

“No,” you whisper, voice shaky. “Say it.”

His throat works around the words. And when they come, they’re not smooth — they’re wrecked.

“I’d never stop touching you,” he says, voice cracking. “I’d never stop showing you. Every day. That you’re wanted. That you’re seen. That you’re safe. That you deserve it. All of it.”

You let out a broken sound, a breath that turns into a moan because the way he says it is what finishes you.

Not the touch. Not the friction. Him.

When he finally pushes in — slow, thick, achingly deep — the sound that leaves your mouth is a strangled cry.

“Oh my god—Simon—”

He groans, low and guttural. His hands grip your hips, firm but careful. “That’s it,” he pants. “Take it. Let me give it to you. Let me fucking have you.”

You nod wildly, mouth open, no words left. Your moans are quiet, breathy, raw. Real. They spill out of you like confessions. Like relief.

Simon moves slow — deliberate — each stroke heavy and deep, angled just right to drag a new gasp from your throat. His eyes never leave your face. His hands never stop touching.

It’s not just sex. It’s reverence. It’s grief. It’s a man making up for all the years he didn’t believe he’d ever get to feel this again.

It’s a man giving you everything his son never even thought to.

“You’re so full,” you whimper.

“You deserve it,” he breathes against your mouth. “Deserve to be filled until you can’t think.”

And when you come again, harder this time, your whole body clenched and trembling, he fucks you through it with nothing but praise:

“Good girl.”

“So fucking perfect.”

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

When he comes, he doesn’t pull out. He stays there — still buried inside — holding you like he’s terrified the moment might vanish if he lets go.

Later, when your breathing slows and the room fades to a quiet hum, Simon wraps his arms around you from behind. Anchors you to him. Then softer, at your temple: “Sleep.”

And for the first time in a long, long time — you do.

(i don’t know what i was thinking oh my goodness i’m sorry)

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: The Fight Drive.

Pairing: Yandere!BatFam x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 2k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Mentions of Kidnapping + Prolonged Captivity, Mentions of Past Assault, Sleep Deprivation, Implied Food + Water Deprivation, Obsessive Behavior, Non-Graphic Violence, and Gratuitous Pseudo-Incest. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Finale]

On your way out, you stole Jason’s bike for good measure. You’d never been on a motorcycle without him before, but you couldn’t really bring yourself to care about crashing, and you’d picked up a few things in those long, boring days you were forced to pass watching the Wayne family live their short, dangerous lives. Either way, you’d pretty much gotten the hang of it by the time you crossed the state border.

You couldn’t afford to waste time on sleep. Energy drinks and coffee were enough to keep you awake on an empty stomach. You traded the bike for an ancient junker as you passed through Maryland and again in Washington DC, to a woman you met in a diner named Selina. She was laughing as she handed over the keys to a car nicer than you deserved. Exhausted, starving, and paranoid, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to ask what she found so funny.

Keeping track of Bruce wasn’t hard. Even in the most rural areas, tabloids reported sightings of his private jet religiously, and more reputable magazines stolen off convenience store racks kept you updated on his business trips, in-person deals, and charity events. Batman’s activity lulled, growing sporadic as a laundry list of his b-rated sidekicks attempted to fill the void. You’d give it about a month, maybe two before Gotham devolved violently enough for him to call off the search. It left a bitter taste in your mouth – knowing how willing he was to put the safety of his city aside when it was his peace of mind in danger.

The trip took longer than it had to, mostly because of your stubborn refusal to use any road they so much as might be able to track you on. You spent Jason’s money on gas when you could, food when you had to, and motels when your body threatened to break down if not properly rested. The only time you stopped for longer than a few minutes, it was in a by-the-hour inn on the outskirts of a larger city. You made the mistake of using your real name, of forgetting to barricade your door before collapsing into the creaking, yellowed mattress.

By the time you rolled over, Cassandra was perched on the foot of your bed.

You managed to pretend you were asleep for all of a second before Cassandra turned her head a little too quickly, a little too smoothly, and you were falling out of bed, scrambling to the far wall just to put that much more distance between you and her.

Like an idiot, you’d left your gun in your car. Defenseless and paralyzed, it was all you could do to meet her eyes as she stared you down.

“Is Bruce—”

“In Montreal. Tim thought you might try to cross the border.” Her tone was impassive, and the darkness hid most of her expression. She’d made it here before sunrise, meaning it was still the best time of day to drag someone unwilling back to somewhere they didn’t want to be. “Not happy. Jason is…”

She trailed off. You tried to fill in the gaps. “Jason is alive?”

The beat of silence that followed made it clear that wouldn’t have been her choice of words. Still, she nodded. “Alive. Angry. Dick, too.”

Your mind was a haven for contradictory thoughts. That was terrible. That was great. The guilt was practically eating you alive. You hope they both spent the rest of their lives as miserable as they made you.

“Do you hate us?”

Last time she’d asked, Stephanie had been there to answer for you, to smooth over any worries with chirped platitudes and easy humor. Now, the question hung in the air. You let your gaze fall to the ground.

“I can’t go back.” Your voice sounded hollow. “I can’t be forced to do something that’ll break me, again and again. I won’t let myself live like that.”

Cassandra hummed. You heard the mattress creak, her feet pad against the carpeted floor. “You should leave. Dick will be here in…” She paused. “Soon. He’ll be here soon.”

You didn’t bother responding. It took you long, precious second to skirt around the edges of the room, careful never to get within arm’s reach of her. You were behind the wheel before the adrenaline faded. Cassandra watched from the doorway, her eyes locked on your vehicle until you were too far to track.

~

You arrived in Kanas not long after. The farmhouse wasn’t hard to find, if a little out of your way. You only had to knock twice before a tall man opened the door, his glasses low on the bridge of his nose.

He smiled when he saw you – that softened, sympathetic type of smile you might pull out when you find an abandoned kitten or a stray dog. You could understand why. You looked like shit. The motel room had been your last stop. That was two days ago, now.

“Sorry to bother you,” you offered, clinging to your last few scraps of decency. “Are you Superman?”

“Clark,” he corrected hastily. Didn’t deny it, though. “And you’re Bruce’s…?”

Your abject horror must’ve been apparent. He rushed to apologize. “Sorry, sorry, I—uh, I recognize your heartbeat. He used to tap it out during League meetings.”

If you’d had anything in your stomach, you might’ve felt sick. “Is your wife home?”

“We were just about to sit down for dinner.” And then, all Southern manners and country charm, “Care to join us?”

You gave yourself thirty minutes. Fifteen to eat, ten to show their youngest son (and, by association, the grumpy teenager pretending not to watch) a magic trick you’d learned in college, and five to pull Lois aside and recite all the Wayne Enterprise passwords, back-doors, and poorly encrypted private forums you knew. You tried to make a hasty escape, but Clark caught you by the shoulder, asked about the rest of your trip, mentioned that their guestroom could use some company. It didn’t seem like he was willing to take no for an answer.

For the first time since leaving Jason’s apartment, you got eight beautiful, heavenly, uninterrupted hours of dreamless sleep. The Kents’ shower was similarly orgasmic, and you savored every second you spent under the scalding hot water, secure in the knowledge that the only door was well and truly locked.

All good things had to come to an end eventually, though. You should’ve known that by now.

Your paradise cracked and broke open the moment you stepped out of the bathroom. Leaning against the bedroom door, jaw set and eyes narrowed, was Dick.

In hindsight, you could only be thankful he was alone.

He was blocking the only exit – obviously, obviously. Screaming never occurred to you. Instead, you lunged for the gun on your bedside table, and he let you, never once moving to get in your way. It was until you had a finger on the trigger that he stepped toward you, closing the distance before you could think to shoot.

“Do it.” A fist curled around the barrel, a tug forward. He pressed the muzzle to his chest, and you felt your hands begin to shake. “You left Jason with lead under his skin. You gave him something to remember you by. Were the rest of us not worth it? Was he the only one you could stand to have thinking about you?”

“I never wanted to hurt anyone.” It was true. You still didn’t, if you were being honest. You didn’t want to spend the rest of your life living under the weight of one more thing Bruce and his fucked-up family pushed you to. “Please, let—”

“You think this doesn’t fucking hurt?” He was raising his voice, now. Cassandra was right. You’d never seen him angrier. “We were going to get married, sweetheart. We were going to leave together. Now Bruce doesn’t want us so much as saying your name and you—” He stopped suddenly, shaking his head. “No, no, that’s not your fault. None of this is. You were scared, right? Jason scared you. You felt like it wasn’t safe to wait for me, and—”

“Dick,” you cut in, tone warning. “I left because I had to. And you need to—”

“—take you home, I know.” His hand flexed around your gun. The ghost of a smile passed over his blank expression, but it wasn’t enough to dull his anger. “Where the others can’t bother us. But they’re going to come looking, aren’t they? We’ll need something to keep them away, to show them we’re in love.”

His hand dropped lower, the other darting up. He cupped your hands in his over the grip, hold tight enough to bruise. “Let’s have a—”

There was a blur of movement, then the sound of something blunt hitting something solid. One second, Dick stood in front of you, and the next, he was crumpled on the ground, unconscious and hair matted with blood. The grumpy teenager, Conner, stood in his place, fist still raised just above where Dick’s head would’ve been.

“Sorry about that, ma’am. There’s a change of clothes for you in the kitchen – Lois’ stuff. Clark managed to get the tracker off of your car, too. Along with most of the rear bumper.” His attention fell back to Dick. “What a freak. Want me to…?”

He made a vague gesture, something involving his eyes and Dick’s crotch. You considered it for a second, but shook your head. “No, I just—I just need a couple more days to get where I’m going. Do you think you can keep him here, or… I don’t know, send him in the wrong direction?”

Conner grinned. “Oh, I can make sure he stays put.”

He threw you a two-finger salute, and you returned the gesture. A few miles down the road, you changed into Lois’ hand-me-downs, throwing out the clothes from Bruce’s wardrobe in a gas-station dumpster. You felt lighter, like you’d gotten rid of the last remnants of him. You felt more like yourself.

You felt better.

~

You didn’t stop again until you reached California. You ditched your car in a public parking lot and spent the rest of Jason’s cash on a train into Gateway City.

The air smelled like rain, salt, and fresh paint. You walked the streets for hours before you found the apartment complex you were looking for, and lingered in the lobby for another forty-five minutes before you saw her – black hair, blue eyes, weathered tan. She looked like she had someplace to be, all neutral focus and quiet intensity, but she paused when she saw you tentatively approaching.

She waited for you to speak, despite how long it took you to swallow your nerves. “Dr. Diana Prince?” She nodded curtly, and you tried not to choke on your own relief. “I’m from Gotham. Wayne Manor, specifically.”

“I know. Kent called ahead.”

How he’d known to, you couldn’t imagine. You’d told him you were going to the North Pole. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk. Privately. I have something I’d like to ask you for.”

Something flashed across her expression. Curiosity, maybe. Interest. “It’ll have be quick. I have to be at the docks in a few minutes.”

You couldn’t bite back your smile. “Trying something new?”

“Heading home, actually.” She turned to face you properly. “It’s a quaint little island. They’re very welcoming to travelers, but compared to someplace like Gotham, I’m afraid you won’t find much to do.”

“I think I’ve had enough of Gotham, for a while.” You were beaming, now. You dug your teeth into your cheek, doing your best to keep your cool. “That is, if you’re willing to put up with a guest?”

For the first time, she returned your smile. You did your best to be objective, to be wary, to be careful, but if there were any fangs behind her lips, any desire to make you into anything you weren’t in her eyes, you couldn’t find it.

Honestly, when you looked at her, all you could seem to feel was safe.

“It would be my pleasure.”

[inbabylontheywept]

How is your life so interesting

Normally, I just kind of laugh this question off, but I've been asked enough times I'm gonna take an honest stab at it.

So, the first thing worth considering is whether the story itself is all that interesting, or whether I am just a good storyteller. My most popular story is about cutting a lot of worms and half, and crying, and then being comforted by my mom. That's not a terribly uncommon or hard to imagine event. A lot of my stories more about the telling than the substance.

There are also some stories that are weird, but they're weird in ways that I also find, like, relateably weird? It might just be that I knew a lot of athletes in college, but I don't think eating raw eggs is that weird. Eating 15 in one go is, but I was roommates with a guy that ate like, three for breakfast, three in his in-class protein shake, and another three at dinner. That guy was attending ASU on a gymnast scholarship, but also, he genuinely ate 5 dozen eggs a week. That seems much more normal than eating 15 in one day.

To say nothing of eating raw onion. Tons of people eat raw onions. It baffles the non-onion eaters, but it's a super common thing. Especially in Mexico.

Some of the stories happen because I am better at noticing story-worthy events than most people. I can't tell you how many times I've been in public, and seen someone do some weirdass thing, and then had to nudge my wife and to get her to watch it too.

If I had to point to the parts of my life that are truly, genuinely, bafflingly weird, they would be my dating stories, and. I dunno. My general thermonuclear dumbass event posts. And I can break down why those two are interesting pretty simply:

I was unbelievably bad at dating. The majority of the time, that just meant that there was a few minutes of stilted small talk and never get a call back. But the thing is, Mormon culture strongly encourages dating as like, a social-practice thing, and I was very motivated to get good at it, so I just kept trying and trying and I think I went on at least 200 first dates before meeting my wife. I genuinely believe that if anyone went on 200 first dates, they would get some pretty incredible bad date stories too. Especially if they had autism. I know I write well, and I can sound very charming here, but it took me a very, very long to get decent social skills. I am just a disturbingly persistent learner.

I am very convincing. This is helpful when I am interacting with other people, because it can do things like, convince them to let me into their secret facility, or convince them to not vote Republican again, or to save at least put the company match into their retirement accounts. But when I'm just debating something with myself, my convincingness works against me: I am very good at tricking myself into believing that bad ideas are, somehow, actually good. This is part of why I have so much sympathy for the right wing lunatics that I work with. Every time I meet a crazy person I go, ah, but for the grace of God, go I. Anyway, this does an unfortunate thing where my excellent verbal skills drive my poor decisions, which results in the very odd combination of welll written, articulate stories about someone being A Fucking Idiot. Like the condom bomber story. I think this is also why most of the lawyers that I meet are insane in their personal lives.

Anyway, those are my theories! I'm gonna tag @lizardho because we mostly had the same childhood, but she has a better grasp on what normal people look like than me, and perhaps she'll have her own theories on the weirdness of our lives.

[sp0o0kylights]

“Alienate.” Flo mutters, the first thing Phil Callahan hears when he enters the station. “No, that's eight letters. Darn.” 

“How’s the crossword, Miss Flo?” He asks, as he always asks, every morning. 

It’s part of a little routine he’s established with their doting receptionist, partly out of boredom, mostly because she sometimes asks him for help.  

If there’s one thing Phil enjoys doing, it’s helping.

(It’s why he became a cop, after all.)

“Hi, hun. I’m stuck.” Flo responds, staring down at the New York Times spread out before her. 

It’s a quiet Friday morning and a quick glance at the open and dark-empty office of the Chief says the man’s not in yet, and so Callahan rounds the big wooden desk to stare at the puzzle over Flo’s shoulder. 

“Which one?” He asks, seeing most of it’s already been filled out. 

Flo jabs a finger at the offending clue, her nails painted a light pastel blue. “Pushed away through inattention.” She reads dutifully, then traces her finger to the blank section of the crossword, tapping at it. “Nine letter word.” 

Phil cocks his head, thinks it through. 

“It wasn’t alienate.” Flo says, non-helpfully. 

“Ignored?” Phil tries.

“That’s seven letters.” 

They both stare down at the puzzle, the black and white squares taunting them. 

“Neglected.” Phil says suddenly, triumphant. “It has to be neglected--the word has to end with a D to make sense in the puzzle. See?” 

One of two words that crosses over with their missing piece is ‘abandoned’, which fits nicely with the apparently gloomy theme of today’s crossword. 

“Doesn’t work with the other word that goes through it though.” Flo points out, defeating the proud little glow that had been building in Phil’s head. 

The other bisecting word is ‘isolated’, making him wonder if the puzzlemaker is in the middle of a rough divorce. 

(Or maybe just a rough day, and he’s the one projecting…) 

“Well, hell.” Phil grumbles, staring down at it. 

“Try estranged!” Powell calls as he passes by with a mug full of coffee. 

Flo carefully pencils in ‘estranged’ and makes a pleased noise when it fits. 

“Thank you, hun!” She calls, and Phil huffs at himself for not seeing it, but also refuses to let Powell’s one upping ruin his day.

The man himself offers their receptionist a smile, before tossing a casual reprimand Phil’s way.  

“Callahan, get to work, would you?” 

“Yeah, yeah, smartypants.” He says, going to fetch his own cup of coffee. “Save the bitching for the Chief.” 

Powell rolls his eyes at him, and Callahan makes a face back, and the two of them go on to have a very boring, small town cop sort of day--right until a legitimate call finally comes in. 

Well.

Sort of. 

“The Harrington residence is having a too-loud party again.” Hopper says, having finally shown up sometime between nine and noon. “Drunk teenagers are throwing up in people’s lawns.” 

“It’s not even dark yet.” Powell mutters, staring at the clock as if he couldn’t imagine a party taking place before 8 pm. 

“Teenagers don’t care about that shit, that’s why they’re getting the cops called on them.” Hopper snips back. He’d been in a mood all day, and not the fun, jolly kind. 

“Come on Callahan, let’s go remind Harrington Jr. that it’s his daddy that owns this department, not him.”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about that.” Phil says as he follows Hopper out the door, waving goodbye to Flo as he goes. “People are going to think you’re serious.” 

(Sometimes, Phil thinks as he swings into the patrol truck, that Hopper is serious. 

That they are being paid to look the other way. 

Then he takes a sip of their god-awful coffee and hears Hopper’s ancient truck cough to life, and figures, if anyone was getting cash here, there would at least be evidence of it.) 

xXx 

Harrington Jr.’s party isn’t quite the chaotic disaster it was made out to be, though there are a handful of tipsy teenagers stumbling around the lawn.

“One of these idiots is going to drown in that damn pool someday.”  Hopper complains through gritted teeth as he storms up the driveway, kids scrambling into action the second they spot him. 

One loudly screams; “Cops!” and the rest of them scatter, running in so many directions it makes Phil’s head spin. He briefly moves as if to give chase before deciding there’s simply too many to bother. 

(Knows that it’s unlikely they’ll arrest anyone but Harrington tonight, anyway.)

“If the right kid bites it, Dick Harrington might even have to come deal with it personally.” Over his shoulder Hopper tosses Phil a shark’s smile, barging up the porch to bang hard on one of the two front doors. “Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?” 

“No, not really.” Phil says, because he’s thinking about dead teenagers in pools. 

“Also I don’t think Richard likes to be called Dick.” He adds cautiously, just in case the man himself happens to be home. 

It’s unlikely, doubly so given all the drunk minors, but that just means Phil isn’t surprised when it’s not the Vice President of Indiana Corporate Consulting, LLC that opens the door but his son, Steve. 

“Officers.” The kid drawls, shirtless in swim trunks, not a single strand of his perfectly styled hair out of place. “What can I do for you?”

He leans casually in the doorway, as another kid screams out a warning inside. 

“You can cut the shit.” Hopper says. “You know the drill. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” 

Harrington does neither of those things, instead tilting his head and making a face like he just smelled something foul. 

“I’m not drunk. And anyone who is drunk brought it without telling me. You should go arrest them.” Steve  jams a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the rapidly emptying house. 

Then he smirks at both of them, every inch the newly crowned King the kids insist on calling him. 

“You think your old man is gonna believe that?” Hopper snarls, infuriated. He never was one that dealt well with teenagers. Or at least, these kinds (and that damn Munson kid, who just loved stealing everybodies lawn flamingos.) 

“I think you’ll find ‘my old man’,” Steve mockinly mimics, “doesn’t care.”

“He will when the neighbors start calling.” Hopper tosses back as Phil pushes past Harrrington Jr. to begin the process of trying to wrangle drunk teenages. “That’s Janet Wilkinson’s prized hydrangeas Hagan’s been throwing up in. You wanna see what happens when she talks to your mother?” 

“She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.” Steves snarks, instead of pulling out his usual charm. “Why do you think she called you instead?” 

This isn’t Phil’s first call to the house, but it is the first time Harrington Jr. has been this combative. It’s new, but not exactly unexpected. 

Not when Steve Harrington has been hurtling towards this ever since he started hosting parties. 

“You think your parents won’t care when I call them?”

“Well they haven’t before, so--” 

Phil rolls his eyes as the kid and Hopper trade more barbs, the adult’s growing sharper and sharper as Steve makes a couple of arguments about being held accountable for other people’s actions (and something else about unreasonably high standards and making his own bail.) 

Let's them argue it out as he quickly realizes he will definitely not be catching teenagers, and pivots to scanning for too-drunk stragglers in need of help. 

“Keep running your mouth, Harrington, and I’ll let you cool your heels overnight in a jail cell. That what you want?”

“You already did that, remember? Swore you’d never do it again because I was too annoying.”

“You can’t annoy me if I’m not the one there watching you--” 

Phil tunes out the rising voices, his attention snagging on something else.

The Harringtons’ entryway was sparse, and the rooms beyond weren’t much better. The whole house had the sterile feel of a museum;  untouched and unlived in. 

Not even a swarm of teenagers had managed to leave much of a mark. Or at least, not in these few rooms, anyway. 

Which is what makes the scraggly note stand out.

It’s taped to the wall right above the phone, but slightly askew, like it’d been thought of last-minute. A little crumpled, like someone half-heartedly tried to peel it off before giving up and pressing it back down.

‘Who puts a phone in the entryway?’ Phil wonders, but then, it is the Harrington’s. 

Maybe they need it to find each other in this huge fucking house. 

He leans in to read the note, spotting the bold letters at the bottom informing everyone the entire notepad had been custom ordered for RICHARD HARRINGTON, VP. 

‘Darling,’ beautiful cursive starts, at odds with the footnote, ‘Sorry that we couldn’t get a hold of you. Your father had a business opportunity, you know how important those are. I’ll send you a postcard. Take care of the house, remember that Martha is coming on Wednesdays now to get the dry cleaning. Do something fun for your birthday!’ 

It’s signed XOXO, Muffin. 

Muffin is, of course, Richard Harrington’s wife, and also a walking punchline. Or at least she is when people aren’t tripping over themselves to stay on her good side.

Weird that she signed it as such instead of with ‘Mom’, but then Muffin always has been a bit…much. 

More importantly (besides the fact that they skipped out on their own kids birthday) is the date at the top, which says the note was left Tuesday, March 17th. 

It’s currently the middle of May.

Flo’s crossword springs to mind, each guessed word clicking into place beside Steve’s own, still warm, spoken just moments ago.

Abandoned, and ‘She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.’ 

Ignored and ‘I think you’ll find my old man doesn’t care.’ 

A cold realization sweeps through Phil, as he recalls the things they’ve all heard other kids say about Steve. 

No parents. 

Big house. 

Always down for a good time. 

(‘Neglect is the failure to give somebody proper care or attention.’ Powell had argued on their lunch break, as Phil complained that ‘neglected’ fit the stupid crossword better than ‘estranged’ had. 

“Estranged works because it’s when you’re not really talking to someone. Hence the pushing away part. They’re different. Similar! But different.” 

“That’s dumb.” Phil argued back. 

“You’re dumb.” Powell replied, then laughed when Phil gasped in mock offense. “It’s why you’re getting taken to the cleaners in your divorce!”

“Hey man, come on, too far!”

“Sorry, sorry--” ) 

All cop’s develop intuition, even the small town ones, and Phil’s kicks in as he stares at the note. 

Neglected might be a hard sell for a fifteen year old that drives a BMW, but estranged definitely fits the bill. 

(He’s pretty sure neglect does fit the fucking bill no matter how much money the kids parents have, but he’s been on the force long enough to know how these things go.) 

He turns on his heel and marches over, sticking himself right in between his boss and the only remaining teenager. 

“Where are your parents at, again?” He asks, right over whatever point Hopper was butchering. 

“What?” Steve and Hopper both say, before giving the other a look for it. 

“Do you know where your parents are at?” Phil asks again, switching up the wording a little just like they’d taught him in the academy. 

“Uh…No?” Steve says, seeming too startled to lie. “You’d have to call dad’s receptionist.” 

“Okay. And when are they coming back?” 

This time Steve tosses a look at Hopper, like Phil’s the one being weird here. 

“When they get back.” He says, and it’s like he’s trying to still sound tough, to put forth that King persona, but is fumbling a little now that it’s not Hopper who's asking the questions. 

“So you have no idea, at all.” He clarifies, and feels his stomach sink a little. 

“I mean, I could also call dad’s receptionist.” Steve says, like that makes it better.  

“Whose in charge of you while they’re gone?” And yes he knows it’s a stupid question, knows that Steve is fifteen (he thinks, anyway) and is perfectly old enough 

“...I am.” Steve says, right over Hopper’s annoyed; “What the hell, Callahan.” 

“Chief, can I talk to you?” He says, turning to face his boss. 

Hopper stares back at him in disbelief, before making a show of summoning the last of his patience with a loud sigh. 

“You.” He points at Steve. “Sit. Stay.”

“Want me to shake too?” Harrington Jr calls out in an attempt to recover, but Phil’s got a hand on Hopper’s elbow and is dragging the older man away before he can get sucked back in. 

“You better have found something good Callahan.” Hopper warns, as Phil snatches the note on the wall as they pass by. 

“Hopper,” Phil says quietly, leaning in as he pulls Hopper all the way into the kitchen, kicking empty solo cups as he goes. “I don’t think his parents have been home in a while.”

He shoves the note in the Chief’s face. 

“No shit, kid.” Hopper spits, and the nickname sits badly, now that Phil’s heard it spat at Steve the same way. 

(Hopper doesn’t mean it, Phil knows he doesn’t. 

Hopper’s the best boss Phil’s ever had. The guy’s just a little rough sometimes, gets lost in the little things and needs to be brought back down. 

‘He’s got a lot going on, hun, but we’ll get him there.’ Flo says when he’s been really mean, and Phil knows they will, he’s seen it himself, but sometimes he wishes whatever the Chief was healing from would let him go a little faster.) 

He grabs the note, eyes scanning over it, and Phil talks a little faster. 

“No, I mean, look at the date, Chief. They’ve been gone for months.” 

Hopper looks up from the note and gives him the world’s flattest state. “So?”

Phil gapes a little at him. “Isn’t that abandonment?” 

In response, Hopper simply steps more into the kitchen, then throws open a door next to the stove. Reveals a huge, walk-in pantry, piled high with all kinds of food. 

Stands next to it like it’s a party trick he just unveiled. 

“Given the lights are on and that fancy little car of his seems to have gas,  I’d say they’re providing for the kid just fine.” He says crossly. 

Which isn’t wrong exactly, but it’s not right either. 

“Yeah,” Phil protests, “but--” 

“Trust me, things could be a lot worse.” Hopper cuts him off. “Save all the pity for someone who actually needs it, and not a kid whose parents’ lawyers will cut both our balls off for even suggesting they don’t care about their kid.” 

“Harsh, Chief.” Phil mutters, stung. There’s a small, growing voice in his head that says Steve Harrington does kind of need someone.

That a kid, even one as old as Steve is, shouldn’t be left like this. 

“Life’s harsh. Now unless you’re volunteering to watch the kid all night in a cell, I say we call the brat’s parents and this time, we’re gonna hit them with a citation when they get home. See if they ignore that.” 

“Please do!” Steve calls loudly, from where he’s still seated on the couch. “It’ll be funny, trust me.” 

Hopper goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, before glancing sideways at the island counter covered in solo cups and bottles. 

Changes course to pluck an unopened whiskey bottle from the pile, tucking it under his arm. 

Storms back out to whatever the Harrington’s call the room Steve’s in, pausing only to stop in front of him. 

“Hey.” Steve says, spotting the bottle.

Hopper holds it out. “Oh, I’m sorry,  is this yours?” 

Steve’s mouth opens, before he catches Callahan’s shaking head. Thinks better of it, and slams it back closed. 

Grumbles; “No, sir.” 

“Oh it’s sir now, is it?” Hopper says with a snort. “Since you’re so good at eavesdropping, you already know what I’m going to do. Congratulations Harrington, you get out of jail tonight, but,” 

He leans forward, putting himself almost nose to nose with the surely teenager, “I will be making sure that this time, your parents pay attention.” 

Quick as a shot he’s up and out the door, slamming it close behind him like he forgot Phil was there. 

“Good luck!” Steve shouts after him, but it’s clear even he thinks the Chief won their little sparring match. 

“Have your parents really been gone since March?” Phil says when the coast is clear, and watches Steve blink at him like he hadn’t realized the younger officer was still there. 

“Yeah.” Steve says with a shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Every kid’s dream.” 

It’s not. Even Phil can tell from the way Steve’s face looks just then, that he knows it’s not. 

He doesn’t know what exactly posses him, but the next words out of his mouth are; “You ever get too lonely here, you can stay with me.” 

“What?” Steve says, eyes snapping right to Phil’s face like he misheard him. 

He’s embarrassed for two entire seconds before deciding, fuck it. 

He already offered, he’s not taking it back. 

“It’s a big house, kid. You shouldn’t be alone for that long.” Phil thinks about his impending divorce. On the emptiness of the house, with his soon to be ex wife long gone. How that eats at him, sometimes. Adds;  “No one should be.”  

Harrington Jr. stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Whatever.” He scoffs, but it’s not quite the waspish tone he’d used before. 

“You ever need help either, you call me.” Phil says, because that seems important to say too. 

He points up at one of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, impossibly high over both their heads. “Even if it’s just to hold a ladder to change one of those lightbulbs.” 

Steve’s eyes go up with him then back down, like he’s still not sure this isn’t a joke being played on him. 

“I mean it.” Phil says, right as one of the front doors whips back open. Reaches into the pocket of his uniform, and pulls out his card. “You need me, you call.” 

“Callahan!” Hopper bellows, and Phil calls out a loud; “Coming!” before making eye contact with Steve once more.

“Take it.”  He says, holding out the card, and hopes he sounds like a proper adult when he does. 

(Phil often does not feel like an adult, least of which because he’s the youngest in the department by two decades, nevermind the failed marriage.) 

“Okay.” Steve says dismissively, but he reaches out.

Takes the card.

It feels like a victory and Phil lets it be one as he leaves the Harrington residence and Steve behind with it. Feels the rot of that be soothed by the fact he at least did something. 

(Also see’s Hopper didn’t wait for him, but is instead sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck. 

Knows his boss is gonna be pissed at him, but faces the noose anyway.) 

“Puppies are expensive.” The Chief tells him darkly, the second Phil opens the door. “And they shit all over the floor.”

“What?” He asks, not always used to his bosses nonsensical ramblings. 

He eyes the thermos the Chief’s holding, and wonders if already dumped the whiskey he stole in it. 

They all thought the Chief had been getting better, but maybe not… 

“Puppies,” Hopper stressed, jamming the hand holding the thermos in Phil’s face (no liquor smell, thank God.) “who have very rich owners, are typically well cared for, even if their idea of care and your idea are different.” 

Phil’s face contorts in confusion, eyes following Hopper’s finger pointed middle finger to the fading tail lights of Steve’s BMW. 

It takes him a second, but he gets there.

“Steve isn’t a puppy.” He says instantly offended, because teenagers and puppies are very, very different, thanks, and yes okay, he knows it’s a metaphor, but it’s a stupid one. 

“Acts like one.” Hopper says, before taking a noisy sip of the thermos. 

“He really doesn’t?” 

Phil wants to say he complains right back at his boss, but really it comes out as more of a question--because Steve Harrington has never acted like a dog. The kid’s not clingy, or whiny or even loud. 

He’s a kid, sure, a teenager that’s obnoxious, but aren’t all teenagers that way, by default?

Phil’s mother certainly said so, though she’d been teasing about it. 

(She also said something about how kids who can’t get what they need the right way, will revert to trying out the wrong ways instead.) 

“Whatever. Just don’t come running to me when you get too close and Mommy and Daddy show up to remind you it’s none of your business.”

Hopper starts the cruiser, expecting that to be that.

And normally it would be. Phil would leave it alone, even if he disagreed, but today he finds he can’t. 

Not when the words from Flo’s crossword are still haunting his head, ‘abandoned’ and ‘neglected’ and ‘pushed away’ lighting up like little warning signs, all pointing towards one very sad kid. 

“If they come back.” He finds himself saying. 

“Oh, they always come back.” Hopper snorts right back. “Just not when any of us ever want them too.” 

Phil doesn’t like that answer, but this time he does leave it alone. 

Figures the best he can do for Steve is what he already did. Let him know he saw him. Let him know he understood. 

If Steve needs someone, he now knows Phil will come. 

He won’t let anyone make him feel bad for offering that, either, because this is the exact thing he signed up to do, when he became a cop. 

Even if Harrington never reaches out to him, at least Phil can say he did something. At least he can live with himself. 

xXx

Weeks go by.

A month.

Two months and more.

By a year Phil has kind of forgotten about his promise to Steve Harrington, and by the time the Chief has gotten them all involved in some kind of--poisoned pumpkin patch problem, he’s too caught up in trying to figure out what the hell is going on in Hawkins to really think about it. 

That is, until the kid himself shows up on his doorstep, with a black eye and a hand hugging his ribs. 

Which would be concerning on its own, but it’s worse given that known lawn flamingo thief and constant pain in the police department’s ass, Eddie Munson, is right there with him. 

“Hi Officer Callahan.” Munson says, and he, Phil quickly realizes, looks perfectly fine, despite clearly being the only reason Steve seven on his feet. “Uh…Harrington said I should take him here?” 

He does not sound certain, and frankly, looks two seconds from bolting.

Given how much Steve is bleeding on him, Phil can’t blame him for it. 

“What the hell.” He says, shocked and loose tongued for it. “Did you two get in a fight!?” 

“No!” Munson yelps, then immediately stills when the act of it jostles Steve. “I found him like this. He was fucking trying to drive and was weaving all over the place--I got him to stop, and get in my van, but the only thing he’ll say is that I needed to bring him to you!” 

Like it wasn’t bad enough the chief had been out of contact all night or that there had been weird people swarming all over town, nevermind all those damn phone calls about loose dogs and--

“You said.” Steve interrupts Phil’s spiraling thoughts, voice sounding oddly strangled, and he'd pay more attention to that if he wasn’t finding new and concerning injuries every second he looked. 

“You said I could go to you, for help. If I needed it. Cause Hopper--Hopper’s busy,” Steve’s slurring, Phil realizes and oh god a lot of that blood is on his head, “An’ I didn’t want the kids to worry, but I think…i was wrong, I don’t--I think I’m…I don’t wanna be ‘lone--”  

“Okay, okay.” Phil reaches out, tries to take Steve’s weight off of Munson. “Get in here. You too, Munson.” 

Expects the latter to protest and is a little surprised to watch as the kid instead helps Steve hobble inside. 

“Put him on the couch while I get my first aid kit.” Phil orders, trying not to panic and failing. He has first aid training--more than, actually, because he took it as an elective back when he thought he was going to go to medical school, but that was years ago and Steve looks like he went head first through a blender. 

‘Stabilize him now, panic later.’ He orders himself, as Munson settles both of them down on the couch. 

“Am I dying?” Steve asks vaguely, to Munson’s increasingly panicked face. 

“Nope.” Phil says, voice as firm as he can make it. “Not today.” 

He comes over, looking over Steve once again 

“You staying Munson?” He asks, more an out for the kid than anything else. 

Watches as the older teen clocks that for what it is. 

See’s Steve unintentionally lean into his chest, breathing a little weird. 

“No man, you’re going to need an extra hand.” Eddie says. “I’m staying right here.” 

“Me too.” Steve slurs nonsensically.

“What the hell, me too.” Phil says, just to lighten the mood a little. 

Then he drops to his knees and goes about stabilizing Steve. 

(At some point Munson decides to help tell his latest flamingo heist story. Phil let him, even if no one had realized he’d pulled off another one again.

He got Steve to laugh, so Phil figures it was worth it, at least. ) 

Part Two

[hannie-dul-set]

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — ONE.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this. 

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is. 

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 9k.

NOTE. my goal for this fic is to make as many male characters either detestable or unesttling, and make you like them against your will. in other words, meet mark and doyoung HAHAHAHAH. this is mostly still exposition!!! establishing facts and relationships and dynamics and whatnot. more jaemin next chapter. too much jaemin, even. anyway, enjoy! CHAPTER TWO.

IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR OFF DAY TODAY. You’re on sick leave— that is, sick and tired of drafting legal papers, meeting clients, reading piles and piles of documents every single damn week, so you decided to use your once-a-month get out of jail free card to stay in bed playing Stardew Valley. It’s pre-planned. You’ve already faked sneezes and coughing fits at the office yesterday. You’ve already called your Division Chief this morning. Kim Doyoung can’t do shit when you’re allegedly bedridden and downtrodden with a fever. He can eat his own ass and suck it.

“You have a new case,” he informs you over the phone. “It’s from Nalkkeutta.” 

Or so you thought.

“Hah,” a weak wheeze squirms out of your throat. “Sure. Okay. Got it.”

Motherfucking son of a bitch. Those two lines spring you out of bed immediately as though your bones have just been tased. God dammit. You’ve just managed to snag Sebastian into wedlock. How dare he throw another job at you right now? How dare he ruin your sweet, sweet honeymoon with the emotionally constipated 2D man of your dreams? 

Still. It doesn’t matter if you just got married or have a collapsing lung right now. You haul your ass, get dressed, get out, and get into your car to drive to your district’s police station in a hissy fit, as per your boss, Kim Doyoung’s, instructions. This damned firm is working you like a dog, but you can’t bite the hand that feeds you. And neither can Kim Doyoung.

“Yes, sir, I’m on my way. Are the files ready? Can you send them to me?”

This case came from Nalkkeutta. NCT. Nal. Day. Kkeut. End. Ta. To burn. The day ends in flames. It’s a name that haunts the streets of Yeongdeungpo. It’s a name that’s synonymous with loan sharking, weapons dealing, and coughing up protection fees unless you want to get your shit rocked on an unfortunate walk home— under the guise of an honest to goodness security company to service your protective needs. 

In the early 90’s, the government had a massive crackdown on gang activity and organized crime, subsequently snuffing out any emerging organized crime presence by officially criminalizing the mere act of joining a gang under the Revised Penal Code. But Nalkkeutta is relatively new. That scorching sunset symbol suddenly emerged in the district one day, around eight to nine years ago, and it’s marred the district of Yeongdeungpo with burn marks ever since.

And your life. You haven’t been lucky enough to be spared from that damned gang’s mess. In fact, you’re currently entangled with one of their messes right now.

The glass doors of the Yeongdeungpo Police Station shut behind you. You’re smacked hard in the face far too artificial lighting and sickly white walls and the words Patriotism, Justice, Honor mocking you in embossed silver. You grimace, cross your arms, divert your eyes with an impatient tap of the foot— and your arrival doesn’t exactly come unrecognized by the front desk and the others scattered around the lobby. One officer takes immediate initiative upon seeing your familiar sour expression, rustling out of a conversation to attend to you. 

“Hey, attorney. How may we help you?”

You eye the man. You’ve come to know him by name— Jung Jaehyun— even without needing to take a peek at his uniform’s name tag. You spare him and yourself the small talk and jump straight to business. “I’m here to see my client,” you inform, followed by under-the-breath swears as you fumble through your phone for the e-file Doyoung had just sent because Nalkkeutt had the gall to demand you to run and fetch the bone they left behind here without even giving you the chance to look at it. Seriously. If they want you to do a good job, they should be more punctual than this. “His name is—”

Huh. You read the top line of the document. A lump forms in your throat. You read it again. Once more. And the letters neither shift nor fold, confirming with absolute certainty that you read the name of your client correctly.

It’s a name you haven’t heard of in a while. It’s name that stalked the corridors of the place you’d bid good riddance to eight years ago with a spit on the concrete ground. 

“Na Jaemin.” There’s a bitter taste on your tongue when you pronounce his name— like your very digestive system can’t stomach it, rejects it, and wants to vomit it right back out. “His name is Na Jaemin.”

A nod from Jung Jaehyun. He turns his heels and leads you further into the station.

Empty footsteps echo against the slowly dimming hall leading to the private visiting rooms. The silence pricks at your memories— an uncomfortable sound you’ve grown accustomed to in the two years you’ve spent at Ganghak High School. It’s been eight damn years since you’ve graduated, yet one mention of a name reels you back into the past with a vividness that’s still as clear as the present.

In your memories, Na Jaemin was the guy who carried with him a pungent air of animosity and violence in his wake. On paper, he is your client, a member of the power-drunk gang that you’re tied by the noose with, and someone you have to defend. At present, he is sits right before you— tight-browed, tight-lipped underneath the singular light bulb hovering above the center of the table, looking as though he’s one clock tick away from flipping the table over (the only thing maintaining a safe distance between the both of you), and leaving on his own accord.

Your eyes meet. Your head snaps down to avoid his gaze.

“Good day, Na Jaemin-ssi,” you manage to choke out. “I will be your lawyer for the case against Yoon Naksung and company.”

You’re not sure how you feel when there isn’t even a click of recognition on his part when you introduce yourself and mention your name. You realize that what you’re feeling is a mixture of fear, relief, and absolute revulsion when he responds with, “So, when the fuck am I getting out?”

There’s a ring in your ears.

It’s the sound of your heart trying to escape from your chest.

You inhale sharply. Fuck. You’re not sure if you have the willpower to push through this, and you can’t even ease your nerves or melt your frozen bloodstream with a sigh because he’s staring right at you— impatient, as though he’s counting down the seconds in his head after a one-sided declaration that you have a limited time to willingly answer before he forces it out of you by the throat.

That fucking looking in his eyes. That damned stare that instinctively triggers you to look down, look away, look anywhere else but directly at him. It’s a habit that everyone in Ganghak used to have. It’s a habit that’s still deeply instilled in your psyche, in your muscles, in your instincts to the point that despite being the person in authority at the moment, you have your head down, throat dry, and doing your damn best to read his case file despite the letters looking all wobbly from your anxiety.

Disturbing the peace. Three counts of physical injury. Less serious. Thank fuck. That makes things a little bit more hopeful, but that doesn’t mean you’re free from hell. Hell is sitting right in front of you, handcuffed because the cops have deemed his very existence a threat to public order and safety. You muster up a bit more confidence knowing he can’t reach over the table to sock you in the face.

“You’re an alleged offender, Na Jaemin-ssi. You’d have to be detained until the trial.”

Na Jaemin sneers, a kick against the table leg with a grunt. “Fucking useless,” he spits. His chair is tipped back, head turned away. You firmly press your lips together. You wish he’d just completely tip over and crash his skull and die.

For someone currently detained for a possible criminal offense, Na Jaemin sure seems very much unbothered yet annoyed at the same time. He sits relaxed on the foldable chair, shoulders slumped as if he owns the place, and he stifles out a lazy yawn— drawing attention to his busted lips and handful of scratches littered all over his cheekbone, temple, and forehead— a stark contrast to the vibrant purple splotch painting over his right jaw. You make a mental note to schedule a physical examination on his ass to record his injuries. 

“But…I can make sure you don’t get arrested” You proceed with caution. His evident annoyance is flecked with momentary interest. You suck in a deep breath. “Were there any other people involved besides you and the three witnesses? Was anyone else there?”

You’re not sure what you were expecting as a response. Whatever it’d be, you just hope you get some useful information. Any sort of information. However, it seems like you just asked the wrong question.

“The fuck? Hell, if I know.”

All that interest is eradicated by a sharp glare. Na Jaemin lets out a huff and a sneer. You’re stressed. You’re beyond stressed. This is impossible. Of all people, why did it have to be him? Back then, you’d always had a feeling that he was part of something sketchy, whether it be some ragtag juvenile group or whatever the fuck. You didn’t care enough to find out. But, christ jesus, he just had to be in fucking Nalkkeut. 

That sun tattoo sprawled on the back of his impatient hand— the gang’s symbol, sun rays etched into the bumps of his veins and calloused skin— tap, tap, tapping on the table with the clunk of his handcuffs tells you that he isn’t just some disposable grunt either. The urgency in Kim Doyoung’s tone when he called earlier confirms that dreadful conjecture as well. He’s up there. Way up there, and you have no choice but to fight back the urge to swallow your own tongue.

“I—I understand. That’s fine. Then…can I ask what events led to the incident?” you tentatively try to prod, taking a peek at his expression to see if you’re greenlit to ask this. His face brightens up. One corner of his mouth twitches upward, revealing a sliver of teeth. You flinch. He looks deranged.

“That bucket wearing dumbass looked me in the eye,” he starts, smiling. “So I punched him right in the socket. Then his friends decided that they wanted a beating too.” 

Na Jaemin is leaning back on the flimsy plastic chair as if he’s reminiscing a happy memory. Jesus christ. He’s always been like this, but it never fails to scare you shitless. You’ve always wondered why he was so insane, but the fact that he currently is and has been in Nalkeutta explains a lot of the things you’ve seen in high school. No high schooler had any business pulling up the gate with a BMW, nor was it reasonable for anyone at your age at the time to afford at least five Cartier watches considering the neighborhood you were in. Yet Na Jaemin and his lackey’s always showed up in the days that he thought was convenient in some sort of Chanel tracksuit and dozens of gold and silver accessories.

You were lucky enough to have never gotten punched in the nose with the absurd amount of rings on his fingers— a taste which he seems to carry until today, you notice while keeping your eyes down and trained on the table. They aren’t allowed to keep any personal belongings in the holding cells, jewelry included, fucking obviously. How this guy managed to keep his is beyond your imagination. 

“So, it wasn’t one-sided,” you try to confirm, try to get a good enough testimony to help his and your sorry ass in court. “Can you testify their participation during the trial?”

Wrong move. Very wrong move.

You jump in your seat when he suddenly lurches forward, chained palms slamming against the rocky table with a loud thump and a clink. “Hey, Little Miss Attorney. Listen very carefully,” he rasps. He’s leaned in closer now, making it a hundred times more difficult to keep your head down and not look him in the eye. “I beat all three of them half to death, and that’s all that matters. This question and answer bullshit is pissing me off. Are we done here? Can you fucking leave now?”

You’re scared shitless. You really are. It’s two years worth of trauma suddenly jumping you from behind a wall and throttling the air out of your lungs— of course you’re fucking terrified, and Na Jaemin can smell it like the rabid dog he is.

The problem is, he isn’t the worst of your fears. This mutt is leashed to an owner that would have your head as a dinner treat if you don’t manage to get him out of this stupid cage. So you don’t have much of a choice in the matter. Damned to hell if you do, damned to an even deeper hell if you don’t.

“Na Jaemin-ssi,” you start. Your jaw is tight. It takes everything in your power to force it open and speak. “I need you to cooperate with me so I can get you out of here. Help me help you, alright?”

You’ve really been trying your best to phrase your sentences in a way that doesn’t sound demanding, that you’re leaving it hp to him because you know this bastard doesn’t like being told what to do. But your careful attempts don’t matter against a volatile son of a bitch. “Why’d you even need my help? Ain’t that shit your job?“ he barbs, a slight scoff hanging off at the end. “Seems like Mark hired a useless fucking lawyer.”

Twice. He just called you useless twice. The sheer level of offense you feel momentarily overpowers your nerves— a biting tick near the side of your temple, and you dig your fingers into the clothed skin of your thigh. 

The Mark he’s referencing did not hire you because you’re useless. In fact, that guy regularly asks for you specifically whenever his gang is caught in any civil or criminal trouble because you’re the only damned attorney willing to get her hands dirty to find an out— and competent enough to pull it off in exchange for an extra zero on your commission. 

Meaning, this bastard is at your mercy. And he has the audacity to piss you the fuck off.

“Strike a nerve?”

Apparently, you failed to hide the scowl polluting your expression. When you sneak a glance at Na Jaemin, he appears to be amused at his successful non-attempt to get under your skin, a lazy, lopsided grin on his face. 

You get it together. Mark Lee, that fucking bastard. It had been fine for the past few months when all you’ve had to mediate were petty settlements and bails and lesser criminal offenses, but you’ve never had to deal with one of his executives directly before— who just so happened to be your high school bully, at that. You close your eyes shut, press your lips together, and release a deep breath from out of your nose as you stand up.

“I’ll handle it. There’s nothing for you to worry about, but I will need to arrange a meeting with you again before the trial.”

Na Jaemin simply shrugs and waives you off. Your tight lips force themselves into a smile as you nod and stomp your way out.

Fucking bastard, fucking piece of shit, fucking, god damn it—

You leave the station with a jumbled up head and with all your five senses screaming themselves into oblivion. Shit. Fuck. What the fuck. Had Kim Doyoing emailed you the file a lot earlier, you wouldn’t have gone here and welcomed yourself directly into hell. You could try to settle with the victims, but in case they won’t agree to a compromise, you’d have to pull a defense out of your ass considering that your client is the most uncooperative asshole you’ve ever been cursed to deal with.

It doesn’t help that spending two years in high school with Na Jaemin is reopening pages and pages of trauma that you thought you’d successfully managed to file away— stored in a safety vault in a little corner of your head that need not be reopened. But just meeting him— talking to him directly when you’ve never even dared to before— brought a rusty crowbar to that vault, mercilessly ripping it apart.

Having cancelled your off day, the car ride to your office building is spent thinking about how to scrape up a case to defend the bastard you thought you’d finally been freed from eight years ago. The bastard who’d made the last two years of high school a literal level hell of dread and desperation.

Even for Nalkkeutta, this has got to be the worst kind of torture anyone could ask for.

*‎

The next morning, Nalkkeutta’s boss is gracious enough to answer your request for a meeting. 

Mark Lee shows up to the conference room of JSS’s Criminal Division, accompanied by a polite knock on the already open door, a humming smile, and a Kim Doyoung— who you very clearly don’t remember inviting to this meeting. Mark enters the room with a good morning. You nod and your eyes skip over him, flitting over to meet your boss’s gaze by the door instead. “You must be very busy, sir. What are you doing here?”

The wrinkle that forms between Doyoung’s eyebrows signifies that he very much understood your polite version of a fuck off. “I just wanted to escort our client,” he replies, adjusting his glasses. 

You smile at him. “The escorting usually ends when the client has arrived at their destination.” 

Doyoung’s jaw stiffens. Mark seems to be sufficiently entertained by the exchange, attention hopping back and forth between you and your boss. The latter surrenders and ends the episode with a sigh and a nod, completely glossing over you to speak to Mark instead. “Mr. Lee, please let me know if you need anything.”

You hear Mark respond in a pleasant tone, “Don’t worry, I know I’m in good hands,” but you don’t look at him yet. You force the gravity of your gaze onto Doyoung— an unwavering smile that creeps him out just enough to finally give up and leave the room, shutting the door behind him with a click, and finally allowing you to relax your shoulders and sink into the glossy, wooden table.

“Ugh.”

Stuck-up prick. The bane of your fucking existence, had it not been for the reappearance of Na Jaemin, the other capricious asshole in your life. Your head cocks up, hearing the scratching noise of a chair being pulled out. Mark sits right in front of you, maintaining a smile. “Bad morning?” And you finally speak your first words to him, in the form of a raging rant about his hot mess of an executive.

“Hey, be honest, do you want me fired? Do you want me to make my first ever loss? Your employee, Na Jaemin, told me he got into this mess because Yoon Naksung and his friends were looking at him for too long. Does that make sense to you? Is that how a sane man operates? How the hell am I supposed to defend that in court? How the hell am I supposed to defend his ass when he gives me fucking nothing to work with, and all while having the balls to call me useless?”

You’re out of breath by the end of it. Whew. That felt so freaking good. 

“Sorry.” You eject yourself out of your tantrum upon hearing Mark’s not-so-apologetic apology. You leer at him from across the table, watching the stillness of his apparent pleasant expression. “Jaemin can be kind of rude sometimes.”

This guy is Nalkkeutta’s boss, you remind yourself. He’s the source of your fattened up bank account and worsened sense of justice and morality for the past five months—

“Rude is an understatement. He’s a fucking piece of shit.”

—and he’s also somewhat your friend.

“I’ve never seen you this angry.” Mark laughs, relaxing into his seat. “Was he that bad?”

Nalkeutta and JSS Law firm’s partnership has existed prior to your employment here. However, you’ve know Nalkkeutta’s boss even before you’ve entered law school, much less started working here. Kim Doyoung doesn’t know this, obviously. Their background check on you did not go as far as finding out your regular patrons throughout the four years you spent working at a run-down cafe-bar downtown throughout the entirety of your undergrad.

The cafe’s name was The Hangman. Pirate-themed, which was used as a frequent justification by your boss to never fix the broken chair legs, unkempt storage boxes, and occasional leaky ceilings. They add to the aesthetic, he says. 

Anyhow, it was then that you first met Mark Lee, around three weeks into your first shift. He’d usually come in at around 10 p.m., order an old fashioned at the counter, flash you a pretty and boyish smile, then quietly read on the same spot until one in the morning before thanking you and leaving. Each time, you clock the hardbound cover titles. The Laws of Human Nature. Man’s Search for Meaning. Leviathan. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man. 

Frankly, the crap he regularly reads worked better to make him look more daunting than his overall appearance. Mark Lee wore the visage of a cute, college literature major— covered in knit beanies and warm cardigans and all— but carried books and ordered drinks that made him seem like he was fifty-seven years old. The only time you found an opening was the time he finally brought a long something other than self-help or pretentious nonfiction. Kafka on the Shore. “I didn’t peg you as a Murakami guy.” 

Mark Lee was taken aback when you first talked to him. He asked what made you say that. 

You referenced the previous books he’d been carrying along. He blinked, laughed, then said that he actually preferred reading fiction. He’d only been reading all that obnoxious bullshit (your words) because he was fascinated with the mental gymnastics (his words) some people were capable of, and he was just compelled to read more. You’re still not sure how much of that defense was true, but that doesn’t really matter because your conversations gradually strayed away from books to your daily life instead— your classes and readings and the annoying customers you’d regularly had to deal with at work. It’s mostly you doing the talking, and it’s mostly because you otherwise had no one else to talk to to kill time during your night shifts at The Hangman.

“Was he that bad?” you parrot, sarcastically. “He said that you did a shit job picking a lawyer. You tell me, Mark Lee. Do you think your executive is a stellar guy?”

Mark only laughs. You grunt and slump in your seat, arms crossed as you observe Mark’s expression from across the table. It seems like he doesn’t mind you talking shit about his people this much. His lips are pressed in a perpetual, easygoing smile as he eyes the set of folders and documents on your side. You bite the inside of your cheek. From his appearance alone, you wouldn’t have guessed him to be the head of the most notorious gang in the underbelly of Yeongdeungpo. In fact, you would never have guessed it if you didn’t take an extra shift one day at The Hangman. 

You ended up staying later than your usual 2 a.m. to cover for a co-worker. It was a weekend, so you didn’t mind much. Mark Lee hadn’t shown up that night. That is until you saw him come in at the store thirty minutes after two— deviating from his usual routine in more ways than one when he didn’t stop to order a drink, when he was with someone else who you were frankly too intimidated to look at for too long. When he went in and up the staircase at the back of the bar that was otherwise off limits because it led to your boss’s office in the upper area— and none of your supervisors came to stop him nor even attempt to look at him when he came back out with his big, scary companion walking three steps behind him while carrying a large and heavy looking black bag.

This happened a few more times. And Mark Lee would always smile at you when he’d pass by the bar counter. That’s when you knew something was up. But you knew better than to dig your nose into that kind of business. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t have the ability to see the future back then.

You look at the guy sitting in front of you right now. Mark Lee’s eyes flit up from your documents to look at you again, hands clasped together and resting gingerly on the conference table. “I’d sincerely like to apologize on his behalf,” he starts. You feel a thump in your chest.  “But I hope his uncooperativeness isn’t making it impossible for you to win the case, attorney.”

Yup. That was a threat. Get my errand dog out of jail— even if he bites you in the process, is what he’s trying to say. Mark Lee may have been your bar regular and friend at some point, but right now he is your client— the most important client your firm has ever had the pleasure of receiving. He is not your friend right now. He is your high school bully’s boss. He is the head of the biggest organized crime group in the district. And your law firm is just one of the many cogs running his criminal machinery. One slip up, and he could just wrench you out without a second thought.

“Of course it’s not impossible. What do you think of me?”

You slide the first file you have down the table. Even if Na Jaemin is fucking useless, you’re not letting him ruin your flawless performance record. You’re not letting him give Mark Lee a reason to throw you away.

“What’s this?”

“The witness list. Yoon Naksung, Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong,” you start. “Your dog fucked them up really badly. I already met their lawyer. He was being dodgy about it, but I doubt they’d let him off with a simple settlement.”

A glint flickers in Mark Lee’s eyes are your introduction.

“I already have another meeting scheduled with him this week. I’d like to talk to the three victims personally, but you know I’m not allowed to do that.”

He hums, glossing over your file before setting it back down on the table, fingers pressed firmly on the page as he looks up with a pleasant smile. “When should I take care of them?”

A shiver crawls down your spine. “I’ll let you know depending on how the second meeting goes,” you answer. “Even if the three of them testify, there won’t be enough evidence to prove his guilt beyond reasonable doubt based on what the prosecution has so far. I don’t know why the fuck their counsel is even bothering with this. Na Jaemin would effectively be acquitted from his criminal charges.”

Your client appears to be satisfied, but you’re not done yet.

“However, that won’t absolve him from civil liability.”

No way in hell.

“Yoon Naksung’s party can still sue for damages. And they have enough evidence to guarantee a win. Na Jaemin would be fined at most, and I’m sure it’d be very easy for you to cough up a couple thousand for him. But that’s still a loss for me. And I can’t have that stain on my record.”

Your brows wrinkle. You release a breath.

“Talk to Yoon Naksung. Or Hong Hyunjae. or Ma Gildong, or whatever. It doesn’t matter. It might be hard to get through Yoon since he’s the one fighting the most for this, but the other two would be pretty easy. I hear Ma Gildong’s business isn’t in good shape lately. The address is on the file.” You rise up, leaning forward to reach an arm over. You drop an index finger on the exact spot on the document you were referencing, landing a firm thump on the table. “If the court hears that all of them were all equally beating the shit out of each other in a drunken episode, not remembering who started what, instead of it being a one-sided beating from your exec just because they looked at him wrong—”

Your eyes flit up. You meet Mark’s gaze— unblinking and dilated. You clear your throat and look away.

“Then—then, their case won’t be merited. The court would dismiss it in pari delicto.”

Mark Lee seems pretty fucking happy to hear that. He’s all smiles and applause and it stresses you the fuck out. “I knew I could count on you, attorney.”

You sigh, slumping back down in your seat. “I already have Na Jaemin’s medical report. If you could get at least two of the witnesses to cooperate, that would be great.” Mark responds with a nod and a hum. You sigh again. “We have so many competent lawyers here. Why do you keep specifically asking for me? Next time, go ask Doyoung, or something. I’m tired.” You’d give up this illegal but lucrative money machine just to see Kim Doyoung experience the life-or-death stress you’ve been experiencing these past five months. You really would.

“Because you’re good,” he responds lightly— genuinely. A little too genuine for your liking. Mark shoots you a smile as he tucks his abandoned seat back under the conference table. Uh oh. Here he goes again. “How about officially joining Nalkkeutta as the head of our legal department?”

“Hah,” you snort. “My hands may have gotten dirty, but I can still wash them, Mark Lee.” The look on his face tells you that he isn’t taking you seriously. You leer your eyes. You’re serious. You don’t intend on being Nalkkeut’s clean-up dog forever. Five months ago, you just happened to have shit luck with the desperation to match. Both bad luck and desperation are bound to run out at some point. You just hope they manage to burn out before this guy could burn you alive. “I’ll get back to you once I’ve met with their lawyer again. For the meantime, just keep an eye on the witnesses. Let me know if you find anything of importance.”

His eyes linger on you for a while, still smiling. You know where his head is at. Your grimace— even harder when he asks again to confirm, “So, is that a no?”

“Hell no.”

Mark clicks his tongue. “Worth a shot.” At this point, he’s already halfway out of the conference. “See you again, attorney,” he bids farewell

“God, please, no,” you respond with a grunt. He laughs. The door clicks shut. You groan and become one with the almond table.

How many times has he tried to recruit you already? You’ve lost count. You’re already being regularly run through the wringer at JSS, how much more under Nalkkeut? Jesus, you don’t even want to entertain the thought. So, you busy your head with your  current main stressor: the Na Jaemin case. You force your face off the table with a grunt and pull out your ipad to double check the trial schedule. Two weeks from now. Thursday. Fuck all. How did you end up here?

In retrospect, maybe it was actually all your fault. Three months ago— two months into working at JSS Law Firm— you decided that you were sick and tired of being trapped in Kim Doyoung’s legal counsel team as an associate, without being granted any personal recognition or accolades. You wanted to prove your worth. You wanted to get your credit. This time, you’re going to get  your first fucking big girl case. Even if it meant discourteously bulldozing into Kim Doyoung’s office like a chihuahua looking for a fight.

Which you did, only to be shell-shocked and surprised to see the face of your old bar counter friend— who might also be a gang leader— in the middle of a very…confidential conversation with your supervisor.

“Attorney, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Too late. You’ve already overheard their conversation. They were discussing a case much like your current one— one of Mark Lee’s executives got caught in the middle of an illegal firearms deal, and Doyoung was having trouble looking for a lawyer stupid enough to take the case. 

He shooed you out, but you stayed. You simply had no choice. You had to bite the bullet. This was a spring-loaded opportunity, and you didn’t intend on feeling from it.

“I’ll do it. I can handle it.”

You did get your big girl case, alright. You won. But you also had to book a full body spa session after your first time shaking hands with a criminal— just to feel somewhat cleaner. Obviously, you’ve become a lot more jaded now. Your boss has decided to dump all of Nalkkeuta’s major cases onto your desk since then, and Mark Lee has been trying to poach you ever since.

JSS. Jinsilseong. Integrity. What a load of bullshit. Where’s the integrity in working as criminal clean up dogs? There’s neither integrity nor justice here. Yet you’re able to afford a decent apartment because of that tarnished integrity. Dirty money. You make yourself sick, but drive home and back to work again for the next few days with the car that money bought you, because there’s no way in hell integrity can give you a comfortable life.

*‎

“How’s your Nalkkeuta case going?”

Kim Jungwoo comes over to greet you at the division breakroom while you’re in the middle of making yourself a cup of instant coffee after three fucking hours of being hunched over your cubicle the whole day. You jolt upon hearing his voice, flitting your head over to the direction of his voice, and you’re greeted by a face that clearly has gotten his eight hours in.

Unlike you. Jungwoo and you joined the firm at about the same time, yet somehow you look as though you’ve been trapped here for a good ten decades. He bats his eyes at you with a pretty boy smile while waiting for your response. You grunt. 

“Dreadful. Horrible. Do you want to take it from me and liberate me from this misery?”

The laugh he gives you in response probably means a no. You click your tongue, grunting as you set aside to give him space on the counter. “Is it that bad?” he asks, rustling through the cabinets for a coffee stick somewhere. Kim Doyoung should restock and feed his poor laborers better.

“Yoon’s party won’t settle. They’re dead set on pursuing a cIass action.” Jungwoo manages to fish one stick out. “Not to mention my own fucking client refused my visit. I miss the days where all I had to do was summarize court transcripts and deliver correspondences for Doyoung. You never really know what you’re missing until you lose it.”

That was a lie, but you’re miserable. You were able to meet all three of the witnesses last week, in the presence of their lawyer, obviously and unfortunately. Yoon Naksung seems to be their leader, because the moment you uttered the words ‘settlement’ and ‘compromise,’ he nearly jumped off his seat to full-on throttle you. You’d ask why the hell he’s so hostile, but you read their written testimony on the day of the incident. He recounted all the heinous crap Na Jaemin spewed out while he beat the shit out of them. Things you’d rather not repeat out loud. The other two witnesses didn’t seem as passionate as Naksung, like they just wanted it to be over with and forget how much Na Jaemin humiliated their asses by wiping their faces on the ground and proceeding to call them a bunch of bitch babies.

Anyhow, you have your last attempt of negotiation this afternoon with their lawyer. Honestly, it doesn’t even matter at this point. You just want to let the court know that you’ve done your due diligence of attempting to reach an amicable settlement. You’ve got other cards up your sleeve— you’ve always had.

Which is why Kim Doyoung doesn’t buy your whining and complaining when overhears it in the breakroom.

“Get a grip.”

You flinch. Doyoung makes an appearance by shoveling in between you and Jungwoo to the coffee storage. You two step aside. He releases a silent swear upon realizing there’s no more instant coffee left. So, he decides to release his pissy attitude onto the innocent cupboard door by slamming it shut with a loud bam!

You and Jungwoo look at each other. Bad executive meeting. Very bad, you two mentally agree, sharing a look and a nod. JSS has been dealing with negative press lately. Director must have dumped the burden of fixing it onto him. Poor guy. He deserves it.

Doyoung manages to compose himself in a matter of seconds. He inhales, chest rising, then adjusts his crooked glasses with a huff from lips, finishing it up by giving you a lowered stare. “I’m not really worried about your performance,” he carefully pronounces. “Nalkkeut always asks for you for a reason. Mark Lee gets along well with you, too. So, quit being dramatic.”

He gets along with you because you both like Haruki Murakami, never dug your nose into his business, and always cleaned up his messes. You doubt you’d get the same grace if you fucked this one up, especially considering it concerns one of his executives. Sure, you’ve managed to weasel your way out of your previous cases without much trouble besides your inherent workload. The problem this time is your client.

Ugh. Na Jaemin. That bastard. How dare he decline your visitation request when his freedom is on the line here? You need to brief him for the trial, make sure he doesn’t do anything fucking stupid that would jeopardize your case and fuck not only himself, but you over as well. His freedom isn’t the only thing on the line. Your record is. Your freaking license is. As much as you really don’t want to see his face again, you have to. And the only comfort you can find at the prospect of meeting him again is the very clear evidence that he does not remember you— whereas your bones are already shaking at the mere thought of having to face him again.

It sucks. This sucks. But even if it does, you force yourself out of the office later in the afternoon to meet the witnesses’ lawyer at a cafe downtown. 

His name is Jung Sungchan from the District Prosecutor’s Office. He’s baby-faced. He still has the light in his eyes. You’ve never even heard of him before this case. Meaning, he’s far too irrelevant to have the gall to strut into the cafe, say his piece, then leave without even buying a freaking coffee.

“See you in court, attorney.”

Of course this meeting ends the same way as your other meetings have had: no settlement, no compromise, no nothing. You release a scoff once he sees himself out with a cocky ass grin and a pep in his step. Hah. Fucker thinks he’s winning. This bitch is a toddler in the field compared to you. You’re gonna show him just how ruthless the law could be in the hands of someone that could bend it. He has no idea what’s coming for him.

You pull out your phone. You text Mark a go signal. [Give me an update tonight]. You stare at your string of texts you’d just sent, squint, contemplate for a second, then bring up your phone to your face. [Also, please send a message to your locked up exec that I really have to meet him soon. Tell him to stop rejecting my visitation requests. Please. For the love of god]. You hit send again. You exhale. That does it. You fix up your things and prepare to start leaving.

While you make your way to the cafe’s exit, you unfortunately overhear a conversation. Not that you’d even tried to overhear. There are two girls sitting next to the counter— one with straight black hair and blunt bangs, the other one with a very bad bleach job— and they’re both just talking really, really loudly. 

“That’s what you get for fucking my man, you tramp,” sneers the fake blonde.

“I’m telling you, I really didn’t know he was taken!” straight hair screeches back.

Oh, fuck. You didn’t want to hear this drama. You try your best to maneuver past them quickly, quietly, but you end up hearing more information as you walk by. “I already broke it off and apologized! Please just take down the post already—”

“There’s no way you didn’t know, and there’s no way in hell I’m taking your disgusting texts down. All your friends and family deserve to know how much of a dirty, manipulative skank you are. So that they’d know to keep their boyfriends away from you!”

“Look, I’d get down on my knees to apologize, but you posted not only my private texts, but my fucking nudes were in them, you bitch! I’m not fucking proud of hooking up with a man I didn’t know was taken, but you’re going too far! I—I could sue you for this!”

“Hah! As if! If anyone, I’m the victim in this situation! Not you! You’re the affair partner who seduced my man!”

Goddammit. You jerk back after a sudden stop six feet away from the exit. You shit your eyes, mutter a silent breath as you continue to listen to the high-strung argument behind you. Normally, you’re not one to butt into these things. It’s none of your business, and quite frankly, you could give less of a fuck. But maybe it’s because you’ve yet again been subject to do something that desecrates the very principles of your occupation— the very notions of what is just and lawful and good— that you find yourself spinning your heels and stomping back into the opposite direction before you could even reconsider.

“Excuse me. I apologize for interrupting without consent, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

You just want to balance out the scales of your negative karma— even by just a little bit. You’re doing this for no one’s good but your own. The two girls snap their heads at you, one visibly more annoyed than the other. You gloss over it.

“The right to privacy of communication is heavily protected by our laws and Constitution,” you begin. Blondie furrows her brows at you, a loading symbol practically spinning above her head. Straight hair looks at you, confused. You keep a straight face, digging into your bag. “Prying into the privacy of another’s conversation is a civil offense and a cause of action for damages. That’s one thing. Posting someone else’s sensitive and explicit conversations is another story.”

You pull out a card. “Who the hell are you? Why the hell are you butting in?” she snaps, the sound of her chair scratching the ground as she stands up in a huff to level you. You set your business card down onto the table, the words ATTORNEY AT LAW, all caps, facing right side up. 

Blondie’s eyes look down. Her face pales. Then she looks up to meet yours. You almost snort.

“It is a criminal offense punishable by three to seven years imprisonment, or a fine not exceeding twelve million won. Or both.” You could very well be jumping the wrong ship here, but you got a fair sense that Blunt Bangs was telling the truth from how desperate she looks, and that Fake Blonde is simply high on a vengeful power trip over the wrong person. “And, considering the fact that you publicized it online through a post, if I heard correctly, it would also be considered a cybercrime. Meaning, you could be charged for both.”

You didn’t think she could get any paler. You’re proven wrong.

“Wow. That’s an impressive feat considering you had no idea you were committing those crimes. Amazing.”

It doesn’t take much longer for her to sputter out something incoherent and stomp out in a panicked frenzy while mashing something onto her phone, most likely trying to delete the post. Sometimes witnessing firsthand the dredges of humanity gives you a little bit of comfort that you’re not the shittiest person in the world. You release a breath, readying yourself to leave once more, only to be stopped by a quiet excuse me from the same table.

You look down. You’re met by the way too happy smile of Blunt Bangs. She looks cheerful. Oh, god. You’re not used to this kind of positivity. You feel a shudder down your spine and force down a lump in your throat.

“Hi,” she starts. “Thanks for helping me. Jeez. What a psycho.”

The girl asks if she can buy you a drink as a thank you. You have not known kindness ever since you started working at JSS, and, by proxy, Nalkkeutta, so you were possessed with the inclination to say yes even though you’ve just had an americano with three shots. You settle with a warm jasmine tea to spare your stomach lining. The girl introduces herself as Natty, and starts giving you an unsolicited rundown of how Fake Blonde just suddenly started sending her swears and death threats the other day alongside the revelation that she was apparently her fling’s girlfriend.

She came here all the way from Mapo just to apologize again and beg her to take down the post. And then you witnessed how that went down. “I really had no idea,” she huffs in complaint for the nth time. You take a sip from your half-empty cup, glancing at the time. It’s 4 p.m. Sweet. Doyoung still thinks you’re having the meeting right now. One more hour before you have to clock out. You decide to pay a bit more attention to Natty as a thank you for allowing you to slack off on the job. “Oh, by the way. Can I ask something?”

You set down the cup on the saucer. “Sure.”

“Did you maybe go to Ganghak High School? Around eight to nine years ago?” 

And then you nearly choke on your own fucking spit. What the hell? You stare at her, wide-eyed in both surprise and innate fear. “Why...why do you ask?” Natty takes that a yes and immediately lets out a squeal, followed by the squeal of your name, followed by a very slow process of recollection on your part of a girl with similar blunt bangs in your repressed high school memories— then it clicks.

“I recognized your name on your business card, but wasn’t sure if you were the same person! Whoa! You’re a lawyer now! That’s amazing!”

Blunt bangs. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Pretty smile. You remember being classmates with a girl with that same description. You think they both have the same name. You don’t get the chance to second guess yourself because she starts talking about more people you vaguely remember in Ganghak— the class president who’s apparently on his third try at taking the Civil Service Exam, that one couple who apparently recently got married just two months ago in Jeju, that one kid who had once gotten his head dunked into the trash can on the first day of senior year because he came in without knowing the rules of the school.

He didn’t know who ran it. You did. Natty did. And that confirms the fact that you two had indeed been in the same hell once. 

“Hey, do you have any idea what happened to Na Jaemin? I haven’t heard a single thing about him since we graduated and I moved towns.” 

You look at her, a stiff smile on your face. She was your classmate. She was his classmate. If she can remember all those other people and what their roles were back in Ganghak, she’d very clearly remember yours as well. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard about him either.”

Natty gets the realization and immediately flinches out an apology. “O—oh, haha. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring him up.”

“No, it’s alright,” you hum, smile softening. “I haven’t heard of him, either.” 

Christ. This man really haunts you everywhere you go. Natty is great at conversation, and manages to smooth over that one bump as quickly as she can and proceeds to ask about any new hot places at Yeongdeungpo, ask about your job, you asking about what she’s up to in turn under it hits five in the afternoon and you have to return to the firm to clock out.

The both of you exchange numbers. You look at Natty’s saved contact on your phone with conflicted feelings.

Now that you’ve managed to slot the memories into place, you do in fact remember her. She was your classmate throughout the two short years you spent at Ganghak. On your first day, she was the first person who’d come up to talk to you— the only time she’d ever talked to you and vice versa. It took nine years for the both of you to have a conversation again. And there’s really only one person to blame.

*‎

(“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—!”

It’s Monday. You race down the now emptied hallways, eyes quickly scanning each door label that you zoom past in the off chance that you got carried away running and missed your room. To think this is how your year starts. You were looking forward to using the opportunity before homeroom to introduce yourself and make some new friends, but no— you just had to doze off because you spent the entire yesterday unpacking. 

It’s a new neighborhood, new school. You’ve heard that most of Ganghak High School’s students came from Ganghak Middle, meaning almost everyone already knows each other here. They’ve already formed their respective cliques and cohorts and groups. You’re currently an outsider, and you need to put in the effort to change that. You need to make a good impression to get some god damned friends and not spend the rest of your two years here as a loner.

Which is why you feel a splashing wave of relief drenching your bones the moment you make it to your assigned class for the rest of the year— slamming a palm against the door, just in time for the bell to ring.

“Whoo! Safe!” 

At least fifteen sets of eyes immediately zero in on you. You stand there by the door. You smile and nod.

“Hi, good morning.”

No one responds. They all look at you— some stares lingering longer than the others— but they all eventually divert their eyes before five seconds, releasing what you could only assume were sighs of relief, and then proceed to drown the classroom in a silence that’s so, so unnatural for a large group of fifteen to sixteen year olds. 

That should have been your first sign that this school was far from normal.

What a great start, you mentally huff, scanning the classroom the seat you’ll be stuck with for the next two years, and you eventually clock a pair of empty desks in the middle of the back row. You walk over to the available seat, waiting to see if anyone calls out saying it’s theirs, and after a few moments of no objections, you sit yourself down on the wooden chair.

The moment you hook your bag on the left side of your new desk, you swore that the heavy silence pervading the classroom just got heavier. 

You look up. You see someone from the center row, peeking over her shoulder at who you assume is you with a somewhat nervous jitter— as if she’s having an argument with herself in her own head and for some reason, you’re involved. That should’ve been your second sign, but despite your confusion and frustration, you sit still. You sit still until one side eventually wins the girl’s mental argument and she rises up from her seat, tentatively stalks up to you as the class’s eyes follow her short walk with anticipation, including yours.

“Hi, uhm,” she practically squeaks out, hesitant, eyes quickly flickering over to the classroom door before looking back at you. She inhales and smiles. Her bangs are covering her eyebrows. “I’m Natty.”

You greet back and introduce yourself. This is a really fucking weird first interaction, but you take what you can get. “Hi.”

The expectation would be that she’d ask you if you’re new here, if you’re a transferee, if you’d like to join her and her friends for lunch, but no.

Natty completely diverts your expectations by saying, point blank, “This may sound weird, but…you should maybe pick another seat.”

You blink. What the hell? “Why?”

The answer comes in the form of the sound of the classroom door violently swinging open, followed by a series of hushed exclamations, and Natty’s suddenly paled face snapping away from you within the same moment, scampering to return back to her seat at the center, without even giving you the grace of a response. 

You didn’t think the room could get any quieter, but it does, even with the sound of graveled footsteps marching their way over to you— the only thing you can see of the late student’s arrival because for some damn reason, everyone has their head down, and you felt compelled to follow and shut up and catch up to your confused and bated breaths as you listen to the chair next to you screech against the tiled floor, and feel the presence of someone plop themselves down with a rattle and grunt, and at that moment, you feel like you were given the subconscious permission to look up again.

So, you do. 

And when you do, you immediately lock eyes with Natty. Sorry, she mouths with a hand up her cheek, then just as quickly turns back to the front, leaving you to think— what the hell just happened?

Hesitantly, you crane your head to the right, sneaking a glance at the person who just yanked the atmosphere down into hell with just his arrival, the person who you’d be stuck with for the rest of the year by virtue of your seating arrangement. 

Much to your surprise, you’re not met by a face. You’re met with someone hunched over, a mop of messy hair with his face buried into crossed arms over the desk with an aura that immediately repels you from prodding even an inch closer. You nudge your seat away to the left, making sure not to cross the invisible mark marked by the gap between your two desks. The only sign of life you glean is the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders— invisible to anyone but you solely because of proximity— which leads you to the conclusion that he’s sleeping.

Sleeping. Something tells you that it’s better that he stays this way. That something is the sigh of relief from the person sitting right in front of you as your homeroom teacher finally walks in.

At this point, you still haven’t seen your seatmate’s face. The only time you know of his name is during attendance, when your teacher calls out a hesitant, “Na— Na Jaemin…?” after double-taking at her class list, answered by nothing but a heavy silence despite having all seats in the classroom filled. She quickly nods in acknowledgement and moves forward after that. Just who the hell is sitting right next to you?)

*‎

Beyond your control, memories from that time of your life continuously flash behind your eyes as you drive back to the firm. A buzz from your phone momentarily interrupts you. It’s from Mark Lee.

[Thanks, attorney. We’ll take care of Ma Gildong first tonight. You can see Jaemin on Monday, next week 🧑‍🎓].

Na Jaemin on a Monday. You grimace. What a load of crappy poetic irony. You reply with a thanks and a middle finger. Mark Lee beeps back with a bright grin in emoji form.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

[espressheauxs]

𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 || 𝐈 || 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭

summary : the “right person, wrong time” kind of chaos decided it wasn’t done with him – it hadn’t really started, after all. It wanted him to feel in a way that not even Plato could immortalize the kind of punishment Zeus would strike down on him for feeling he deserved again. It was starved of a beginning, of a place in Jack’s life.

pairing : jack abbot x f!reader

words : 2.2k~

themes/warnings : MINORS DNI/DNR. Loads, and I’m talking LOADS of hurt before the comfort that follows, Age gap relationship (reader starts off in her 20s & jack in his 30s, progresses to late 20s/early 30s & jack in his 40s), implications of power imbalance, inappropriate workplace feelings, heavily implied emotional infidelity, actual infidelity (not from Jack or reader), mentions of grief/death/being widowed, religious/mythology references & allegory, mentions of mental/emotional health issues, jealousy, misunderstanding because two idiots are in love with each other, miscommunication because said idiots do not communicate with each other, mentions of therapy and medication, conflicting feelings about having/wanting children and being married, jack is so down *bad* for you like he just wants to give you the world, eventual smut maybe idk yet, Shen is a bestie ™ , reader has some specific / non North American characteristics / cultural references, but anyone is welcome to read!

p.s: if I see you reposting, stealing, feeding my FICS into AI or some other fuck shit, don’t. 👀🫵🏽

note : wow a mostly fully outlined fic is in the works. So far I’ve messily outline 5 parts. Thank you sosososososo much to @slyyywriting @celestianstars for proof reading. Also, @abbotjack you made a post asking to be emotionally endangered with anything jack related…okhereyougobyeeeeee

Jack never really had to think about the phrase “right person, wrong time”.

He thought he had “right person, right time” figured out, until life decided it wasn’t really going to be fair and vanish the floor out from under his feet.

The grief still keeps up with its daily appointments, reminding him it still exists with each prescription and psych appointment he has.

That he, after losing more than just part of his leg, now has to learn how to exist as only himself with his heart missing as well. It still is, or was, some days. He was still trying to figure that part out.

Medicine was his only purpose now. Has been for a long time. Only the chaos is different now – more controlled, predictable.

The “right person, wrong time” kind of chaos decided it wasn’t done with him – it hadn’t really started, after all. It wanted him to feel in a way that not even Plato could immortalize the kind of punishment Zeus would strike down on him for feeling he deserved again. It was starved of a beginning, of a place in Jack’s life.

His life decides he needs it now– the chaos night you start shifts with him; you transferred starting in your last year of residency, some 400 something miles east of Pittsburgh, chasing a purpose, a challenge, an ideal.

Dana loves you instantly, and much to Jack’s chagrin, you find a camaraderie in Dr. Shen in between iced coffee runs and bad jokes while charting.

Jack often sees you arrive a little while before he does, chatting it up with the nurses in the break room over the latest episode of British Bake Off, or huddling over a shared plate of pansit on the nights no one ever dares to call it the Q-word. Other nights, it’s steamy plates of your carbonara on the nights no one ever wants to label the S-word.

You’ve always offered when he walks by, but he simply shakes his head and mumbles a gentle thank you.

It fascinates him, the way you’re close with everyone. He’s close with Dana and Robby, but you are something else entirely different to him – professional, and enthusiastic to learn from anything Jack had to say keeps a safe enough distance from either of you reaching for anything more than an easy going working relationship.

The distance also exists as the ring that he wears, and so do you, in a necklace tucked under your scrubs – as the love he’s afraid will die a second death if he doesn’t hold on to the last memory he has, and the one that had just been borne to you.

He’s easily got at least a decade and change on you. It’s not appropriate, he knows. He’s pushing forty something, your attending, and you’re his newly minted resident in her twenties. Barely having started living life.

Jack thinks you’re too sweet sometimes. A lot of the time, really. It’s the way your face warms up when he looks directly at your eyes when he asks you why you make a decision or a give a dosage, or the way your nose sweats a little when he compliments you on a job well done.

Yet he admires it all the same, especially when he sees how you are with the oldest and the smallest patients.

Especially with the smallest ones that came in crying and left happy after dealing with a hair tourniquet on a nine month old’s little thumb. The parent thanks you with a watery laugh and a smile, and the baby squawks happily when you magic a small toy from the hospital’s gift shop from your scrubs pocket and pretend to make it sing.

He does not, can not, let himself dream about something far more dangerous than being shot at. It felt like a betrayal to the memory of a life and a love he barely got to live.

—

He doesn’t remember exactly when it happens or what you said, but you had opened up his chest in a pseudo emotional thoracotomy and burrowed yourself into his heart just by being you, if only to mend whatever he had left of it from the inside.

Night by night, case by case, guidance on your research in exchange for the good protein bars from Shen’s secret snack stash only you knew about.

Jack feels it ardently when you’re performing an actual thoracotomy under his guidance. Lithe fingers slicing and examining a bloodied heart.

His throat just aboutdries up when you look at him - not because it disgusts him (he’s seen far, far worse) , but seeing how you maneuvered someone’s thoracic cavity and their heart was like feeling it in his own, slowly being fixed by you, being examined for further damage that could be fixed.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” he says after the patching up is done and he looks at you with blood smeared all over his gloved hands.

“Yeah, you think so, Doc?” You ask in a hushed tone, eyes glistening with enthusiasm and adrenaline.

His heart knows he shouldn't like it, the way it looks when you’re coming down from the high of saving a life while blood is smeared all over you.

Jack huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and looking at you with admiration and disbelief at your own fearlessness when breaking someone’s chest open, “Take the win. Besides, it was far too risky to do it by myself.”

You don’t immediate catch the way the timbre of his voice drops as he says it, but the look in his eyes gives it away mostly, and it leaves you feeling baffled by his praise for the first time.

“..what?” Your lips tug awkwardly, not knowing how to react or what to do, especially not with bloody PPE that has definitely been soaked all the way through.

—

Somehow, there’s a closeness between you that follows. Of things left unsaid yet understood. Often silently working like a well oiled machine, a singular unit perfectly in sync while caring for a patient, affirming your decisions and you wordlessly predicting what he needed in the ER.

When Robby had asked Jack who he would recommend as a fellow out of your group, he didn’t think twice when he said your name.

“She’s the smartest one out of all of us,” he’d once said to Robby while nursing a doordash order on the roof , “this hospital would be stupid not to keep her.”

He’d certainly be for not advocating for the best resident he’s had in years.

Robby had recommended Shen. Not because he didn’t like you or because he didn’t think you were capable. But reading Jack’s glowing recommendation about you only affirmed what he suspected. Time would only tell if Jack himself could see beyond his own words.

Shen stretches out a hand, blindly sipping on his coffee as Robby and Dana slip him a $50 bill each the next time they’re in front of the betting board.

—

Jack finds himself lingering, feeling a little more, without knowing how or when – only that he does, and you exist in him long after the sun has gone up and the moon has gone down.

The corners of his lips tug in a secret smile, as his nose is able to catch the whiff of your perfume and your own smell whenever he helps tie your surgical gown and you help with his.

He tries, he really does try to ignore the feeling that burrows itself deep whenever you pat his back after helping him tie on the surgical gown.

Your hands always lingered a little longer than they should, like a balm to soothe his aches, as if to tell him - “I have you. I’m here. You’re okay.”

Jack finds it easier to sleep in his bed on the days that you do, as if your touch carries him all the way to safety, away from sand & heat and the phantom burn he still felt in his leg.

On those nights, he dreams of a feeling that only wakes when he’s not.

—

The two of you never, ever fought. Disagreements? Sure. Difference of opinion only to arrive at the same answer? Definitely.

Jack knows that that’s what he likes about you since you came on several months ago. You’re definitely the favorite out of all the residents he’s taught. The prodigal resident that was never afraid to ask why decisions were being made.

It’s what makes you an excellent doctor in his eyes, noticing things that people often don’t. It was easier for him to teach a resident that was self confident but not arrogant, and unafraid to get their hands bloody.

But your fearlessness was something he didn’t like if it involved you making a decision that put you at risk.

Sure, he’d sometimes find it funny when you were the only one to vocally tell Gloria to fuck off when she knew fuck all about being on the front lines after she denied yet another increase in security (until then, no one had ever heard you drop so many f-bombs - Jack couldn’t not laugh when he was there to witness Robby’s eyebrows all but fly to his hairline when it happened). No one but Robby ever did that (less riddled with cuss words), everyone else simply ignored what she said.

Hell, you’d even ignore what Jack would say sometimes in light hearted, less life or death situations.

But this? It was never, never this – making a decision of this magnitude without consulting him on something you’d ever only seen him do once.

“You should’ve never, ever done that by yourself.” His eyes are full of bewilderment at the mess that he had walked into as the patient is rushed to OR 1 upstairs.

“Yeah, well, I did what you taught me to do – if I waited any longer for you to tell me what to do the patient would’ve fucking bled out!”

It’s the first time the two of you ever got into an argument. The two of you never, ever argued especially not in the middle of a literal bloody mess where everyone could see and hear. But your patience was worn past thin and your fucks had long flown out the window.

“I’m your attending, that’s not the kind of decision a resident gets to make on their own!”

Jack isn’t prepared for the way you all but stomp your foot on the pedal of the biohazard bin, practically shoving your bloodied scrubs and gloves into the damn thing. Nor is he prepared for the way you point at him furiously with your left hand, where he sees the thin band of silver taunting him.

He is not a religious man, but in that moment he knows he became a martyr for a love that could never be worshipped like he used to know how to do.

“You do not get to pull rank on me!” Your voice is loud, and you’re well past the point of giving a fuck after the way your life in and out of this hospital has been lately. “I may be younger than you, Dr. Abbot, but I’m not fucking stupid!”

“That was not the standard of care.” His voice drops, full of warning as he looks directly at you. For the first time in years, the tinnitus in his ears re-emerges as his eyes flit between your face and your hand. “You’re lucky that it’s something I’m not reporting.”

He regrets it the instant he sees the way the shock on your face melts into disenchantment, and the bile burns at his throat when he sees the way light leaves your eyes.

It's the first time in a long time he wished he’d rather fall on a sword, rather than ever see that look again.

The look that told him what everyone else could see between you – that you were to Jack what Psyche was to Eros.

That you cared about him and what he had to say in a way that was more than appropriate.

Your chest heaves as you look at him, eyes riddled with a rage that squeezes in his heart. His eyes zero in on the ring again as you rub your face, hair wild in all directions from the braid it was in.

“Well fuck the standard of care, and fuck you for making me feel like shit.”

The smallness and the vulnerability in your voice hits Jack squarely where it hurts, in the places where you had started to carefully stitch the broken pieces of him back together.

“Take a bre–”

The words die on his lips as you shoulder past him, shoving the door open and knob rattling as you let it go to storm your way out and past the nurses station and down the hall.

That night, a patient’s heart was saved at the expense of two.

—

© espressheauxs, 2025

[axetivev]

— Summary: In a very sad Monday (at least, that was your perspective), you and Wu Xiangli, a new member. Had a role of assassinating a corrupt commander who was in a party for "high class", fortunately for Xiaoling, he was the one who executed the killing. Unfortunately for you, you were the bait.

— Warnings/Tags: Crossdressing (reader wears a maid outfit), Mentions of blood, Violence, Age gap [ Xiangli is two years younger ], Non-con touching, Asshole commander, Feminization (?), Gruesome scenes, Handjob, Fingering. Getting caught.

— Words: 4.3k

— A/N: yeah.... small info, if you read my violist reader drabble. i must apologize that my fics took longer to be uploaded. i've been sick for the past few days, and work also made it worse. fear not, i'm writing the fic after i finished this ! i'm not critically sick. i'm always available if you want to talk with me. that's all, I hope you enjoyed this fic !!

— Pairing: Oc!Wu Xiangli x Male!Reader

— translate ! : 哥哥 = Brother (this can be used for non family members)

BEFORE YOU READ WHATEVER THIS IS. PLEASE BE AWARE THAT THIS FIC INCLUDES GORE. YOU HAD BEEN WARNED.

If you could be honest, never in your life you imagine yourself working to be a assassin.

Your work was mostly dealt with murder (obviously), working by violence, having to work with dangerous people, and the possibility that you were a victim of assassination itself. Yes—thought, the pay was high. Is it worth it? For you, unfortunately. It’s a yes. Even though the chances of you getting killed was high, you found yourself having a lot of friends working for at least that you recall, four years experience.

You’ve work for this organization, Paxxy Internationals. Sometimes, you’d laugh to yourself because the name was a bit childish the name was—but that same organization what brings you here. Paxxy’s base was relatively close to your apartment, actually. It’s a convenient store. The workers were also your co-workers, you sometimes question yourself; how can people didn’t know? It’s somewhat weird for a convenient store that’s normal 24/7, closed at 12 P.M. or worst, not open for a whole week straight.

When the morning comes, fuck. It’s Monday. A groan as you sat up on the edge of your bed, praying your phone didn’t had so much notification.

Oh yep. Never mind.

Your friends, well. Work friends kept spamming you about a new guy coming in. Your colleagues knew you like men. But this is just absurd and just bullshit, just because it’s a guy. Doesn’t mean you automatically liked him!

——————————————————————

i heard he’s cute!

@[Name] wake up you idiot, raise and shineeeeee~

@[Name]

@[Name]

@[Name]

@[Name]

@[Name]

Guys, let him at least try to process whatever you little shits spam at him

——————————————————————

You don’t really had the energy to reply everyone’s bullshit. You simply yawned as you slowly scroll up, your colleague, Zhuxin sent a picture of Wu Xiangli. Just a simple glance, you already hated the fact he looked pretty. Messy black hair with hazel eyes. He isn’t practically muscular, he does had some muscle but not a lot like one of your male colleague, Xavier.

——————————————————————

i’m coming…

stop bombarding me with texts

——————————————————————

You turned your phone, you stood up from bed, letting it messy. Because, who would even come to your apartment anyway?

“[Name]! you do came.” Zhuxin’s voice echoed around the Paxxy’s meeting room. You came in with your usual suit, with Paxxy’s logo on your suit’s collar.

You grumble as you took your chair, which was next to Zhuxin. “As much as I hate that Mei and Touya terrorize me this morning, I still prefer to be here then in the apartment,” you sighed. Then added quietly. “Even thought I had to see their stupid faces…”

Zhuxin rolled her eyes, amusing by your comment. “Boss is coming a bit late, he said he had to help his wife about something, but he asked me to give you this,” she explained, giving you a sheet of paper. “Give this to [Name], he said.”

You raised and eyebrow, accepting the paper she gave you. “And this paper being?”

“To not use violence and followed the rule on your mission later. He doesn’t want Wu Xiangli to follow your steps OR traumatized a new co-worker.”

It’s relatively funny to remember that day when you first met Itto Touya, you just threw the plan like it was nothing when you and him was signed to kill a corrupt governor. The fact you still remembered it vividly—you stabbed that governor in the face—12 times—you saw Touya’s face paled when he saw blood on your face, as you kicked that corpse like nothing but rock. At the end, it resulted by Touya scared of going to work for a week or so.

“That man…” You sighed. Thanking Zhuxin after she gave you a pen, what you had to fill was just a yes and no question. Only two but it’s hard for you to held back to choose violence.

After you filled the paper, you decided to had a conversation with Zhuxin. You had a long conversation about a lot of things, until you lost track of time. Since most of your colleague was there, and your boss, Kamishiro was in front of the board. He rubbed his eyes, you noted that his eye bags had increased, maybe because he had to deal with his kids at home.

“Right so—” Kamishiro shuffled between his papers, he cleared his throat. His voice slowly sounding smooth yet professional. “I’m sure, here. Everyone knew why I called you there; we are getting a brand new member to our team.”

To think about it… there’s only five people who’s working for Paxxy, including this new member obviously, everyone already knew.

“Well then—please, welcomed Wu Xiangli .” Kamishiro extended his hand, everyone’s gaze met with Wu Xiangli.

He was identical to what Zhuxin sent on the group chat, even better—for a moment. Your professional face slowly melted, you mindlessly stare at the man in front of you—well, everyone. Xiangli was standing next to Kamishiro, your boss was around 183 cm Xiangli was seemingly taller, maybe your rough guess was around 187 cm.

Kamishiro when runs around everybody’s seats. Giving everyone a profile about Wu Xiangli, it wasn’t really detailed. The profile of Xiangli was rather simple—the profile card includes him with a neutral face, that still, he looks so pretty…

How many prettiest do you even use…

Name : Wu Xiangli

Age : 23

Nationality : Chinese

Height : 188 cm [6’2]

Weight : 72 [ 158 ibs]

Probably because of the muscle… you muttered to yourself as you bore to the profile. Your eyes just stare at that face, as if it hypnotize you. Zhuxin, who was beside you slow nudged your shoulder. A low chuckle escaped from her lips. Shit, you were caught!? You let out a cough that caught Xiangli’s attention, he smiled at you. Charismatic and innocent.

Is he though?

“Right, since all of us seated facing each other, I suggest Xiangli sat next to [Name]. Since his left is empty.” You snapped back to reality when Touya raised his hand. What even happened? Were you day dreaming? You looked at Zhuxin, who immediately avoiding your gaze. In front of you—Touya, Mei, and Xavier also did the same. Kamishiro just nodded thoughtfully, without another thought. Assigned Xiangli to sat next to you.

You couldn’t really bite back at your boss. Well, your salary would probably get decreased if you did it again. You sat on your place with a huff, crossing your arms over your chest as Xiangli next beside you. He adjusted his navy suit and Paxxy logo you yourself confused how did he get it so quickly. You stared at the Paxxy logo.

For new members to obtain it, they’ll have to face intense training for roughly six months. No exceptions, gender nor age. You’ve trained Touya in the past, and you’ve also seen how Zhuxin trained Xavier and Mei. Don’t forget, a lot of people who signed up for Paxxy didn’t last for a week. Dropping out the job because it was too much, but here is Xiangli. Proudly wearing the logo, you didn’t recall Zhuxin or other members training him, because when a new member came. Everyone had to rate his progress.

How odd…

“Is something wrong with me, ah… 哥哥?” Xiangli pointed at himself as he titled his head a shy smile formed between his lips. He looked so innocent, really.

You shook your head. “Sorry, a little distracted. Just… call me [Name], it’s fine.”

Xiangli’s eye lightened up. But there was a hint of worry in his eyes. “Isn’t it a bit… you know.”

“I’d rather be called my name then my last.” You said, shrugged as you looked back at Kamishiro who already ended the meeting.

Everyone—Zhuxin, Mei, Touya, and Xavier rose from their seats, followed by you. As others left, Kamishiro coughed. Which took your attention and Xiangli towards him. Hos thumb pointed back, showing to the back alley.

“So, [Name] and Xiangli.” Kamishiro leaned against the wall. “Since today is Xiangli’s first day at Paxxy, today. A corrupt commander under the fake name Li Yao. We haven’t known much information from him.” He sighed disappointed, Kamishiro tapped his watch. A small hologram projector appeared about “Li Yao” information.

Name : Li Yao[?]

Age : –

Nationality : Chinese

Height : 190 cm [6’2.8]

Weight : 76 kg [167 ibs]

ㅤㅤ> Information: A commander that had work for approximately 5 years. In his third year of work, “Li Yao” was secretly killing those who were lower then him. If his victims nor suspects tried to speak up, he’ll blackmail them. In his fourth year mark. He corrupted around 245000 Yuan [34015,97 USD] without consequences. There’s currently not much information about him…

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ→

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤto be continued~

The picture, which was suppose to be filled by “Li Yao”, was empty… filled by a blank male. Your gaze harden when you stare at the void profile. You groaned in frustration, while Xiangli was looking at the info board. As if he tried to study the very information.

“Unfortunately, we can’t find any detailed information about him,” Kamishiro sighed defeated as he rubbed his temple. “However, commander Li Yao’s ex-partner. Asked to assassinating him, he said, and I quote; This evening. Li Yao held a ceremony for the anniversary of him being a commander, in a mansion that’s privately his. I’ll give you the coordinates later, let me know.”

Xiangli placed his index and thumb over his chin. He then slammed his right hand, that’s in a fist to his left hand. As if he figured something. “I think I know where would this mansion be.”

Kamishiro raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Li Yao may had many mansions. But I can take my guess that this mansion where we celebrate his anniversary is inside of the forest that’s far from the city.” Xiangli explained. His voice was surprisingly calm. “I had a feeling that this manor of his was the “haunted” house that people rumored to once became a place of murder.”

You and Kamishiro paused for a moment, he then added. “How so? Because once, my relative was hunting around the same forest and heard music right underground.”

“Are you sure that it’s not a made up story?” You countered. Xiangli shook his head as he pulled out his phone. “I have evidence.”

The light of Xiangli’s phone slowly shined inside of the empty alley, firstly, a video showed. It was a voice of a male in chinese that sounded faded, but there’s a sound like from 1980-an classic that echoed in the background. Xiangli than swipe right, showing foto, a window with a glimpse of a party. Even a picture of a man and woman making you.

“Gross…” You whimpered, Kamishiro rolled his eyes at you. He inspects the picture longer then he should, your boss slowly nodded approvingly.

“Wu Xiangli is responsible of this project—” “WHAT!?” Your voice practically echoed around the Paxxy’s office. Some staff looked at you with concerned. “Kamishi—Boss. Hey, I thought Zhuxin said that—”

You boss ignored you, well there’s no point of arguing with you. Kamishiro looked at Xiangli, his hand clasped over the younger male’s shoulder. “I assigned you to our project; Elimination LY. You, Xiangli. Will had long talk with [Name] about this project. If did something that’s out of the plan, let me know.”

“Now, get the plan ready.” Kamishiro walked out from the alley, Xiangli’s eyes widened as if he was tasked by god. You just groaned.

It's not like you can’t trust him completely. It’s more because he was new, and the most new members you’ve trained always confused about Kamishiro’s orders, even some still confused how to load a gun. But Xiangli seemed he can do all of those things with ease. Which made you suspicious.

“So, [Name]!! Are you ready to hear the plan?” Xiangli turned to you, the sudden calm and seriousness turned to childish. His hazel eyes sparkled with stars, you slightly caught of guard. But you nodded.

Inside of the empty Paxxy office, you and Xiangli was in front of the hologram projector, showing the “haunted” mansion Xiangli said. Along with the evidence from his phone, how he explained everything was absolutely beautiful. As if he was in a meeting with many important people. But really, he was only with you.

Though, he looked serious. He sometimes paused mid presentation, and smiled at you. It looked so innocent—you hated it. You tried to hide your reddened face but it was difficult by the fact he kept repeating that smile.

Xiangli’s presentation, to put it simply; he planned to use a bait for “Li Yao”, the bait being a specifically male and one executes the killing. He also found two pictures of males he theorized being “Li Yao”, first. A picture of an old man in his 50s and a male in his 30s. After all of that, you were the one telling Kamishiro.

“So. This is all of Xiangli’s plan?” Kamishiro asked, clutching the paper in his hands as he titled his head to look at Xiangli.

“Y–yes, Mr. Kamishiro,” Xiangli answered. “Do you have any suggestions?”

Kamishiro paused for a moment as he nodded his head thoughtfully. “So, your plan is to make a bait. Right?” Xiangli nodded, Kamishiro continued. “Well then, [Name] is the bait.”

You turned your head to Kamishiro, glaring at him. You were staring straight at his soul. But Kamishiro didn’t seemed to be amused, he slowly looked at Xiangli who covered his face with his right hand as he looked down. Both you and Kamishiro looked at him with a confused look.

“Something… wrong?” You broke the silence, Xiangli jolted for a second. His face was red. With what? “It couldn’t be that bad, right?”

“I’m going to fucking kill him…”

Who said that? Obviously, you did. You were seating on the back seat while Kamishiro was driving the car. Never in your life you’d imagine yourself wearing a stupid maid dress for a mission. You placed your hand over your face, honestly. You can refuse but you have corrupt people with a burning passion.

When you arrived at the mansion. It was like how Xiangli describe—it’s still looked like a haunted mansion. But you can hear a song echoed underneath you, the mansion was closed. You didn’t saw the glimpse of the picture however. Kamishiro already left, so you stood there confused—you slowly tapped the small ear comm on your ear.

“Xiangli, tell me the plan.” Your voice was low, you slowly take blind steps. The sound of your booths and the soft hums of creatures of the dark is the only thing company you.

Not long after, Xiangli’s voice came in. “Ah… 哥哥? Are you safe there?”

“Okay okay… so listen carefully; there’s an entrance right around—” “Found it.”

You effortlessly opened an entrance, that was literally in the back of the mansion. You looked around, when you sure everything was safe. You slowly opened the door. Everything seemed gloomy, but you found stairs that lead down. You asked Xiangli, he said with confidence it was where the ceremony is.

You pulled out a cloth from the pocket of your maid outfit, threw it to the stairs and wait. There’s no much signs of danger, so you slowly took some steps down, the sound of music slowly grew louder and louder. There was a door right on the end. You slowly traced over the wooden material, you knocked the door—unsure why. But the door slowly opened, your eyes widened at the sight you were seeing.

The room was big, maybe a wholeass soccer filed, many tables arranged beautifully, flowers, everything was perfect. There were many men in the room—well, obvious. You stood there, looking for a spot to at least, tried to had a convo with Xiangli later on. Your ear comm suddenly lose connection, you cursed under your breath as you walked almost into endless circles until you accidentally bumped with someone.

Your grunted and immediately backed off, you were about to apologize when the man turned his head—a smile formed between his lips.

“Oh, and who you might be?” His voice sounded calm, soft but there’s something under it that you can’t really take a finger on. “Welcome, I suppose you’re a maid here too. Please, I’m Fu Yuan just call me…”

“…Li Yao.”

You froze for a moment, your eyes widened, Li Ya—no, Fu Yuan. It’s rather surprising that you found him so early, usually it took for hours but you somehow able to find him within minutes. His face doesn’t really resembles any of thing that Xiangli showed. He looked like he was in his 20s. You and Fu Yuan also looked similar in age, but you didn’t asked much about it.

“Just call me by Raven.” You used your codename instead. Besides, using your actual name may bring suspicion. “For give me for my recklessness, commander Fu Yuan.”

Fu Yuan had hazel hair—neither from the lighting of that’s his actual hair with a white strain in his hair. His raven eyes met with yours, you actually paused for a moment when you finally noticed he was slightly taller than you. Maybe 181 cm.

“It’s nothing really,” Fu Yuan smiled. It almost too sweet, you tried to keep your guard. He looked at some of his partners, his hand slowly moved over your waist when you tried to find somewhere to communicate with Xiangli, he then dragged you closer. Continuing whatever he was talking about with his partners.

His grip was strong, it tried to squirm away from him. But you felt a hand moving inside of your maid dress, moving up your ass. You looked at Fu Yuan who didn’t seemed to be bothered by what he was doing—he squeezed your cheeks making you gasped.

Fucking asshole!

You flinched your hand into a fist, preparing to his Fu Yuan at his face. When the ear comm suddenly buzzed, you slightly leaned back so the voice couldn’t be heard. You heard sounds when you finally getting connection on the other side. Xiangli was grunting and sounds of men falling one my one. Even sounds of gunshots could be heard.

You heard another gunshot followed by another squeezed on your cheeks by Fu Yuan, you slowly moved the commander’s away when he drank a glass of wine. You walked to an empty corner, a buzz slowly came when you finally heard Xiangli’s voice. Well, more specifically. His pants.

“哥哥, any informations?” His voice sounded ragged. You can correct him, but you sighed as you looked back at Fu Yuan.

Glaring at his back before you finally replied. “Firstly, he was a fucking pervert. Touching someone’s ass without their consent. Secondly, this “Li Yao” is Fu Yuan.”

The side from Xiangli was a full-on silence. You nervously looked around, your eyes slowly met with Fu Yuan’s raven eyes. He smiled at you, you looked at him carefully.

Fuck, he was walking towards you.

Panic slowly filled your heart, when Xiangli was saying something you couldn’t really heard. You immediately turned off your ear comm.

[Xiangli’s POV…]

“哥哥? 哥哥!?” There’s nothing. He waited, and waited. But he didn’t get anything as a response. Xiangli sighed, kicking something as he cursed loudly.

What he was kicking exactly? Corpses, of course! The corpses he had killed that was Fu Yuan’s personal guards that was sent if there were some assassination attempts. He was surrounded by corpses of men, alone in the lower part of the mansion. He leaned into the wall that had crimson. Xiangli stepped on one of the dead bodies, he rested his right arm over his knee as he looked at the corpses. He then looked at the door in front of him, the door where he will met with you.

Xiangli couldn’t deny it that he worried about you. But your words filled his mind; “Firstly, he was a fucking pervert. Touching someone’s ass without their consent.” Fu Yuan harassed someone like you, someone Xiangli never thought he’d actually had feelings for. Born in a dark household and the only thing he knew was to kill to survive. And then he saw someone like you.

Better life… better home… better everything. He may not know much about, but he was willing to know anything for you.

…Guess you ruined the plan. But you don’t have any other choice.

Blood stained your maid outfit. Bodies of man—woman scattered around the room, you pointed your blade at Fu Yuan, who doesn’t seemed to be impressed in any sort of way. His face was all neutral, even though crimson stained his face. The tip of your blade shined thanks to the chandelier.

“Fu Yuan, you. Already did many things that were unforgivable,” your voice went cold—nothing of your usual tone was there. “You’ve killed innocents, blackmailed people… many others.”

You slowly lowered your blade. “But never in my life, I thought you’d touch people without their consent. That’s fucking harassment.”

Your eyes locked with Fu Yuan, moments of silence—he laugh. He fucking laughed. “Ah, Raven… or should I say, [Name]. What’s the problem?”

You clutched your blade, he walked forward. Pulling out his own blade. “Working for Paxxy don’t you? Such pointless organization. It doesn’t matter what you do, the law is blind money was enough for everything. What do they desire? Money! Humanity wanted nothing but cash, [Name].”

Fu Yuan leaned forward, his blade slowly clashed with yours. The steal rubbing against each other, echoing the empty room. “And I happened to had a lot of them.”

You counter Fu Yuan’s attack, immediately. Your eyes aim at his neck, You slide back, Fu Yuan strike his blade. Your eyes widened, even after you counter his attack once more, blood slowly tickled your cheek, crimson fall on the golden floors. The sound of blades clashing to another—slashes was like a song in the mansion.

Even if you had a lot of experience fighting, you found yourself being cornered by Fu Yuan. Some parts of your maid outfit was cut by Fu Yuan’s unforgiving attacks. Blood slowly came from your mouth, you kneel down as you grabbed your chest. Desperately trying to keep yourself together. Fu Yuan was right in front of you, you gulped. Guess this was your faith—

—Bang!

A bullet came in and left Fu Yuan his own blooded cheek, you look to find Xiangli Yao pointing at his gun with a stoic face. Fuck, he looks handsome even with a stoic face—

Since Fu Yuan was off guard, you immediately used your leg to hit Fu Yuan’s, his eyes widened as he stumbled back. You stood up, immediately, you used your elbow and send a blow straight to Fu Yuan’s face. Blood slowly poured in his nose, Xiangli wasn’t silent neither, he used his leg to made the commander tripped backwards, he fisted his hang and give him a punch on the face.

Xiangli’s hazel eyes looked down to Fu Yuan’s raven eyes. Xiangli haven’t said anything—but you already come in. Ending that commander with your blade, stabbing his stomach repeatedly. Fu Yuan’s screams slowly—immediately went quiet. Xiangli just looked at you, eyes widened. He didn’t expect to see someone higher then him—wearing a maid dress but somehow. He still able to show his colors.

Brutal and handsome.

You’d probably didn’t stop when Xiangli pulled you back, his hands gripping your arms. Your maid dress was stained by more crimson, your blade was stuck on Fu Yuan’s body. Your eyes met with Xiangli’s, he was the now staring. Not in a scared way, but more in a way in love.

“…Sorry.” You broke to silence, a sigh running from your lips.

Xiangli raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

You sighed, sitting on top of the dead commander. “For ruined the plan,” you said calmly. “Seriously. This bitch was touching me, what are you expecting me to do? Sit down and let him?”

Xiangli chuckled, shaking his head amusingly. “Sorry for that… [Name]. But I saved you, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Shouldn’t I get a little reward then?” Xiangli kneeled down in front of you, his eyes glamping with mischief.

If Xiangli was a stranger or even worst, Fu Yuan. You’d cringed and probably killed him.

“Does it hurt?” Xiangli rested his head over your shoulder. You slightly squirmed in his lap, you felt a finger inserted to your hole.

Xiangli’s fingers were thick, his fingers may not be the longest, but it was enough to stretch your hole wide. A whimper escaped your lips as he slammed this middle and ring finger, your hands gripped his suit that smelled like metallic from the blood and a strong smell that you assumed was his perfume.

“[Name]…” Xiangli whispered against your ear, you shivered as he thrust his fingers deeper, making you whimpered. His free hand slowly moving to your cock was already leaked out pre-cums. “I need an answer, please?”

“Xiangli… fuck—!” You lolled your head back, your hands gripping Xiangli’s suit harder when moans finally escaped your lips. Both of the sensation of his fingers and hand working together, you panted. But the moment Xiangli’s middle finger rubbed your prostate, you swore you see stars.

…Not until the door where you entered the first you came to the mansion.

Kamishiro, and five other people wearing black suits froze all at once when they saw you. Your lower half naked and sitting on Xiangli’s lap, it was clear what he was doing to you. Those people behind Kamishiro, some covered their eyes, and the other ran out and groaned.

“Xiangli, what is this—” “I thought I may not be able to saved you… so I call for backup. Guess they’re late.” Xiangli whispered, shrugging like it wasn’t a big of a deal. Kamishiro slapped himself seeing both of you.

Never again, you’ll accept Xiangli’s “requests” during missions.

[deepdarkdelights]

Predator (Jungkook x Reader) Part II - Prey

Pairing: Vampire Jungkook x Reader

Word Count: 5.2k

Series: Predator Universe

Warnings: 18+, Yandere, Vampire Jungkook, Obsession, Manipulation, Forced Relationships, Blood (So much of it), Fear (Copious amounts), Panic/Anxiety Attacks, Mind Games, Tormenting the MCs, Discussions about dead bodies, Jungkook and his unblinking stare, Self Injury (Non Mental Health Related), Forced Feeding, Isolation

I do not condone the acts displayed in this story nor do I believe any members of BTS would actually engage in this type of behavior. This is simply written for entertainment purposes and should not be taken as a reflection of my own values, opinions, or morals.

Preview: The worst part was that you never tried to run. Jungkook never tied you down to anything or bound your wrists or feet. He simply knew that you would never try. It would be idiotic for you to try and run, you knew he was a talented tracker - he would be able to find you within minutes of your escape. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide from him, he would always be able to find you.

A/N: I am alive! This was entirely inspired by an ask that was sent to me so the entire reason this exists is because of the wonderful anons who have asked be about what has happened since the end of Predator and who have asked to see what a more lucid Jungkook would look like. I haven't had this much fun writing in such a long time. I'm sorry it's so short, I hope you can forgive me 💜

READ PART I - PREDATOR

_______

It was dark and quiet, the only sound being the steady, slow, drip of water hitting the dusty floorboards and the harsh chatter of your teeth as they clashed together. 

You were freezing, your body trembling despite your best attempts to collect yourself. It was no use, no matter what you did you were never able to warm up anymore. You knew it wasn’t all that cold outside, but that didn’t really matter. Despite the chills that wracked your body there was a fine sheen of sweat that coated your skin.

You were unsure as to how much time had really passed since you had found yourself here. All of the days had begun to blend together like some horrible fever dream you simply couldn’t wake up from. The only constant in your life has become him. 

If you didn’t know any better, you would think he was trying to kill you. 

What was truly likely, was that this was a side effect of his treatment of you. It was very likely that he just didn’t know how to take care of a human. And despite your incessant pleading, he had told you that he would not kill you. So really, it was his own ineptitude that had you knocking on death’s door.

Your skin felt grimey, not entirely from lack of hygiene, but from the film of blood that coated your skin. It was all over you but it mostly dominated your cheeks, lips, throat, chest, and fingers. He was not violent when he claimed his feeds, but he was not necessarily gentle either. You hadn’t looked in a mirror for quite some time, but you were certain no amount of vampire blood would be able to seal your wounds with how often they were readily reopened.

This wasn’t a life, it was a slow and painful trek to the afterlife.

Your trembling increased as the front porch creaked, he was already back. Your head lolled backwards and hit the wall behind you in defeat. You couldn’t do this again, you couldn’t give him another part of yourself - this time you were certain that it would kill you. 

Every time he fed from you, there was a horrible, delightful, exhilarating rush that followed. Whatever it was that he was doing to you, it was forcing you to enjoy the very thing that was killing you. It was perverse. It was disgusting. It was addicting.

It was hard to hate him in the throes of ecstasy, there was this horrible thrill that came the second before his fangs pierced his limb of choice as you knew you would be rewarded with bliss in the moments that followed. It was easier to hate him when he wasn’t there, his lack of presence giving your mind the briefest of reprieves to remind yourself of the horrible situation you were truly in. 

The distance, however, didn’t seem to allow him the same clarity. If anything, it made him grow more needy, more irritated, and more clingy.

The door creaked open, and your time to yourself disappeared. Your body shook tenfold as his presence filled the room. He still looked the same as he did the first time you had come face to face with him. His clothes were worse for wear, even more blood stained and shredded than they had been before. There was a permanent coppery scent that surrounded him, the dried blood being the prime suspect. 

You were certain that you didn’t smell that much better. Although, to a vampire, you probably would smell all that more enticing.

His gaze was immediately drawn to you, your eyes locking with one another, bridging the fifteen foot gap between you. His eyes often fluctuated in vibrancy depending on how hungry he was. The days where they were near black were the most difficult for you, but today they were a bright crimson red. He had fed on someone, someone who luckily wasn’t you.

“Hello little mouse,” He greeted, his voice low and surprisingly soft, devoid of the almost manic tone you had been familiar with for the longest time. 

He began to close the distance between the two of you, his gait smooth as he approached you. The way he moved was unnaturally perfect, the silent power of a predator imbued in every muscle of his body.

He wordlessly dropped a bag in your lap as he sank down to the ground beside you, his wide, red, unblinking eyes staring at you, waiting for you to make a move. No matter how much time you have spent with him, his stare was still unnerving.

It took you longer than it should have to open it, your fingers trembling beyond your control. But Jungkook was patient, he has all of the time in the world to wait.

The scent of food hit your nose, your mouth watering and your stomach growling eagerly in response. From the color of his eyes and what he had brought you, you assumed he had decided to have his fill of a hiker instead of you. 

Jungkook didn’t know how to take care of a human, that much was obvious. He had, however, been keenly aware of how much blood he was draining from your body on a daily basis. You had become so weak, anything but sitting felt like a herculean task nowadays. And the lack of consistent meals was weighing heavy on your body.

You didn’t care that he was watching you eat, your mannerisms ravenous and most likely off putting. But you no longer complained when he took his fill of you, and for some reason he remained silent and returned that courtesy. 

You had noticed a shift in his behavior when that other vampire had found the two of you not that long ago. He knew Jungkook, from the way they spoke it appeared he knew him very well. This other vampire, despite how he appeared more human than Jungkook, frightened you just as much. You could tell from the curl of his smile to his confident gait that he was just as bad, if not worse, as Jungkook.

You had nearly fainted on the spot when he suggested the two of them share you, you were already tapped out as it was, Jungkook had fed on you that morning. The two of them, together, would kill you for sure.

To your surprise, Jungkook had not responded enthusiastically. He responded like an animal defending its territory - baring his fangs and growling in just barely contained rage. And that reaction had set off the other vampire and before you knew it they were a blur of limbs.

They moved so fast your human eyes could barely keep up with them. You were only able to focus when one of them threw the other giving you just enough time to watch them separate before they came back together again. The sound their bodies made when they clashed together was like thunder from what you could only assume was the pure force and strength they possessed. And, much like animals, they ripped and tore into one another with their teeth and nails.

By the time the two of them had finally separated for good, it was because of how much they had injured one another. The both of them were covered in wounds oozing black blood, some of which was their own, and some belonging to the other.

The other vampire, whom you had briefly heard Jungkook address as Hoseok, was tired but still enraged.

“Are you fucking serious? All of this for what, a pathetic little human?!” He yelled, his nostrils flaring in anger. “It’s food, Jungkook! I’m your brother!”

Your body flinched out of habit at the snarl that left Jungkook.

“With the rate that you’re going you’ll kill her anyways! Why does it even matter?!”

“She’s my human,” Jungkook replied, his voice low with warning.

“This isn’t even supposed to be about her! She’s nothing! Namjoon sent me to come and find you but you know what, I think I’ll let you deal with the consequences of your actions. It’s only a matter of time before he comes for you and when that happens, you're on your own!”

He disappeared quickly after that, it was like he was there one moment and then vanished the next. Once he was gone, Jungkook’s once sturdy stance softened, his shoulders bending forward from the strain of his own weight. He was hurt, badly.

He slowly turned to look at you, the red of his eyes and his dark mop of hair just visible over the curve of his shoulder. You knew that look, it usually didn’t end well for you. 

“No, no, no, Jungkook, please!” You whimpered, scrambling backwards.

But it was no use, he never listened to you anyways. He always took what he wanted, even when you had nothing left to give. 

He stumbled when he moved but he quickly regained his footing, his black blood stained hands grabbing you by the shins and pulling your retreating form towards him. You fought as hard as you could but you were already weak to begin with.

“Stop it, please!” You begged, but he didn’t listen. He wrapped his arms around you, his grip too tight and utterly uncomfortable. 

“Jungkook-”

“Shut up,” He grunted before yanking your head roughly to the side and sinking his teeth back into the scarred skin of your neck. The shriek that left you was borderline inhuman, the building scar tissue made the intrusion all the more painful and Jungkook was not gentle.

And he had already taken so much blood the day before. It wasn’t long before your eyes rolled to the back of your head and you went limp in his iron hold.

That was the first time that Jungkook had given you vampire blood. You had almost died that day, you had gotten so close to finally being free of him and still he wouldn’t let you go. Even death wasn’t a great enough adversary for him. 

When you had woken up after that attack, shocked that you managed to survive, you were met with those big, red, frightening eyes. The look on his face was the most serious you had ever seen it before, an odd clarity in his eyes that you were seeing for the first time.

He had been dreadfully quiet since then, speaking even less and shorter sentences than he normally did. You wouldn’t say he felt bad for what he did, but he had become increasingly aware of the inherent fragility that came with being human. He never apologized, but he had fed from you a lot less after that.

You froze mid bite as you felt his icy fingers graze your flesh, the coolness biting your skin and seeping into your veins. His touch was feather light, just barely there, but you went still beneath it anyways. You were incredibly aware of the strength that was concealed in that touch. He appeared unbothered by your response, his thumb smoothing over the curve of your jaw as he leaned in unbearably close.

You flinched at the feeling of cold metal being draped around your throat, his fingers clasping the material at the nape of your neck. It was a necklace. Your chest felt tighter, the food in your stomach quickly souring. 

He was doing it again. 

You were well aware of Jungkook’s strange and disturbing habit of taking mementos from his victims. His ears, wrists, neck, and practically every inch of his body were adorned with items he had stolen. You noticed he had an affinity for jewelry, but his jacket and boots had been taken from someone’s corpse as well. And, recently, he started bringing them back for you as well. 

Your bloody fingers were littered with several rings, a bracelet on your right wrist, and your ears decorated in earrings - some of which he had pierced himself. And now, the necklace.

It left your stomach in knots when he did this, you couldn’t help but think about the bodies abandoned in the woods that he had slaughtered every time the metal glinted back at you. Each piece felt like another shackle keeping you at his side. 

The worst part was that you never tried to run. Jungkook never tied you down to anything or bound your wrists or feet. He simply knew that you would never try. It would be idiotic for you to try and run, you knew he was a talented tracker - he would be able to find you within minutes of your escape. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide from him, he would always be able to find you.

And so, you had become his plaything. His dinner and now his doll, a weak body that he could play with and decorate to his greatest desires whether that be with a corpse's jewelry, or a litany of scars.

“Pretty,” He said, his voice deceptively soft as he grazed the skin of your neck, his fingers moving from the clasp of the necklace to trace over the scarred imprints of his fangs and teeth.

You were thankful that he wasn’t hungry.

The odd, calm atmosphere between the two of you was quickly dissipating. Jungkook shifted away, agitation clear on his face as an annoyed growl parted his lips. You flinched back against the wall, scooting away to stay out of his path. 

This wasn’t unusual - he had been having rapid mood swings lately.

The few moments of peace the two of you would share were often interrupted by the sudden pained twist of his features - his eyebrows drawing together and his nose scrunching in a snarl. It almost looked like he was in physical pain despite there being no signs of any injury.

And then, the pacing would start. It was like watching a caged lion sweep the perimeter of their enclosure. Back and forth, slow and menacing steps. It was like he was looking for something, or trying to guard the two of you from someone else. You hadn’t dared to ask what he was doing, to be entirely honest you tried your best to avoid initiating any interaction or conversation with him at all. The few times you did speak to him, it was usually to beg for him to leave you alone, pleas that often fell on deaf ears. 

You didn’t know what to do with this. When you first “met” him, he had been sadistic, like a zealous child with more power than they knew what to do with. He had wanted to play his sick and twisted games with you and the plan had always been to gorge himself on your blood and leave your mangled corpse deep in the forest to wither and return to the earth. That was what was familiar to you, that was what you were expecting. 

You were never supposed to live, that had been an unfortunate circumstance, a split decision he made to prolong your torture and pain. You didn’t know what you were supposed to do with this suddenly quiet, confused, and barely human creature in front of you. One that would rip open your flesh to feed just as soon as he would leave bruising kisses on your lips and throat, painting the flesh a rich red that was left to rust.

You were waiting for him to snap, waiting for it to all finally be over. But that would be luck, luck that you didn’t have. He had promised you, so long ago, that you would never be alone again, that he would keep you. And you have suffered the consequences ever since.

When he said your name you felt your blood freeze over. He had never said your name before, you didn’t even know that he knew it. He had always called you that horrific pet name, his little mouse.

You wrapped your arms around your legs, pulling them into your chest in an attempt to feel some sense of security as he continued to speak. 

“We’re leaving soon.” He said, the words simple but the expression on his face ever so complex. Reluctance, frustration, pain, anxiety.  

You swallowed, but did not move. The silence was deafening. But, by the look on his face, you knew that he was waiting for your response. You would have to break the stalemate. 

“Are you…taking me home?” You dared to ask, your heart thundering in your chest as that predatory gleam returned to those red eyes. 

“No,” He growled, his jaw clenched as his fangs ground against his lower set of teeth, “You’re not going back there, ever.”

Your heart shattered. 

“I’m being called back to my home.”

His home? This was the first that you were hearing of it, you never stopped to ask yourself if he had a home. You couldn’t picture it even if you tried, it was a puzzle piece that simply didn’t fit. You had always assumed he was simply a nomadic creature that moved as he hunted. And, due to his supernatural nature, it seemed that he never needed the typical human necessities and comforts such as four walls and a roof. 

You knew he had some sort of family at the very least. You had, after all, had the displeasure of meeting Hoseok who had referred to himself as his brother. And he had mentioned the name Namjoon, the phrasing suggesting a hierarchical structure. But even the notion that he had a family felt just as mismatched. And how ironic it was that he was returning home to a family he didn’t even want, and he wouldn’t let you go home to the family that you missed so much. 

“And that’s bad?” You hesitantly asked, flinching as he growled in frustration. 

“It’s worse than bad!” He yelled, his hands sliding through his hair in stress, “It was difficult enough fending Hoseok off, but all six of them? You’re as good as dead.”

Hope.

“Then…don’t go?” You said, although it sounded more like a question. By the way he was acting, it was like returning was not a choice. 

“If only it were that easy,” He laughed, the sound bordering on being unhinged. “I can’t ignore it, if I’m called I have to answer. If I don’t it becomes more and more persistent. It feels like a cord that grows tighter and tighter until it pulls and my body moves on its own and takes me back.”

That explained the pacing, the restlessness his body had been experiencing. He had been trying to redirect it by walking the perimeter of the decrepit cottage but it had been a temporary fix to the problem. You could only assume that he was getting to the point now where his body was ready to return against his will. 

How horrible it was, to be someone’s unwilling puppet. You knew that feeling all too well. 

You didn’t know what you were supposed to tell him. There were no choices to be made by the two of you. He would have to return, and he wouldn’t leave you here on your own as he knew you would be given the greatest opportunity you have ever had to leave him. So, he would have to take you with him right into the lion’s den where you would undoubtedly be consumed.

He was mumbling to himself now, his pacing becoming more frantic and much faster, your human eyes struggling to keep track of him. You were sure that he was moving so fast he would wear down the old floorboards beneath him and the soles of his beat up boots.

You could only assume that meant the call was becoming even stronger. Before - it was asking, now it was commanding.

You had never seen him so frantic before, those wide blood red eyes unblinking and shifting back and forth faster and faster as his thoughts raced. It was borderline demonic, like something you would see during a paranormal movie or an exorcism. It was terrifying. 

You began to scoot back as far away as you could until your spine was flush with the wall behind you. You felt better with some part of you concealed from the open, but that did little to calm your racing heart and the creature that raged in front of you.

What was he so afraid of, so panicked by? You couldn’t imagine anything scaring him, not with how terrifying he was on his own. What could be so bad, so scary, that it frightened a monster? You weren't sure you wanted to find out, even if it meant you could finally feel the sweet embrace of death and escape him once and for all. 

Jungkook finally came to a stop, his body still but his eyes continued to move erratically. And then they too settled, and a look of deadly calm settled over them. He had decided something, and you were certain that whatever his decision was it wouldn’t be good for you. 

“They wouldn’t,” You heard him mutter to himself, “Not if I put a fail safe if place.”

A fail safe?

Before you could even blink he had moved across the room, faster than your eyes could track. Your body had been ripped away from the wall and set in between his legs, your spine pressed against his chest, the both of you seated on the ground.

An uncontrollable wail shook your body, the sound emanating a feeling of pure hopelessness. You had been surprised it came out of you, but you knew why. You were terrified he was going to feed from you again. 

His one arm was wrapped around your ribs, his legs tensed and forcing your own to squeeze together. He had immobilized you, there was nowhere else you could go and no way to escape him. 

Your entire body shook and heaved with hysterical breaths as you writhed in his grip. “Please, please don’t do it again I can’t take anymore of this!”

He hushed you, his free hand brushing over your hair in a surprisingly gentle manner. It was more like someone who was trying to calm a startled stray animal than anything else. His touch moved to your chin, lightly taking hold of the point where your neck and jaw bone met.

He didn’t say anything, instead he forced you to look at him, turning your face so that he could look directly into your eyes. And then, to your shock and horror, he plunged his fangs into his own wrist and ripped the flesh wide open. A torrent of thick, viscous, black blood rolled down the pale flesh of his forearm. And before you could do or say anything he grabbed you by your hair and jerked your head back before pressing his open wound to your mouth. 

You gagged at the smell and taste, tears blurring your vision as you tried to move your head away but he did not budge. His arm around your ribs finally moved but only to help him pry your jaw open and force the blood flow down your throat. He continued to hush you as he forced you to drink, gently rocking your body in stark contrast to the harsh and violent hold he had you in. 

“Just relax,” He whispered against the shell of your ear, “The more you struggle, the longer I’ll keep you here. We need to get as much of my blood as possible into your system.”

You were crying even harder now, the salt of your tears slipping between his wrist and your lips and mingling with his blood in your mouth. What had you ever done to deserve this? What horrible thing had you done in some past life to deserve this kind of punishment?

You just wanted to go home. You wanted your mom and dad, your grandparents, and the gentle comfort of your bed in your childhood room. You wanted that life back, and you were never going to have it again. 

His harsh grip on your jaw loosened as you went limp in his arms, resigning yourself to your inescapable fate. His hand returned to those soothing strokes against your hair, a low hum in his chest vibrating against your back as he watched you feed from him with a curious gaze. You were such a weak little thing, you needed him more than you would ever understand. 

You hiccupped pathetically when he finally removed his wrist from your mouth after what felt like hours. Your lips and chin were stained black from the blood he spilled when you had struggled. He stared at you again, curiosity evident in his gaze, as he leaned forward and licked the flesh of your lips, tasting his own blood.

You shivered as he made a soft hum, cocking his head to the side before doing it once more, stroking over the bitten and chapped skin with his tongue as he transitioned into kissing your battered lips in a grotesque act of intimacy. He laughed against your mouth as you weakly pushed against his chest, he was amused by your pathetic attempts to push him away. It only encouraged him to kiss you harder and deeper, sampling the taste of his own blood straight from your mouth. 

Once he was satisfied he finally allowed you to breathe, a devious gleam in his eyes that you had not seen in a long time. 

“They won’t be able to kill you for a while now, not unless they want another vampire to worry about.” He said. He was gloating, reveling in the win his family had no idea he had already achieved.

Your blood ran cold, your body freezing at his revelation. The very thing you craved, your own death and by association freedom from him, would be the very thing that would trap you with him for the rest of eternity. If you were killed with his blood in your system, you would become one of them. He truly had taken everything from you, even the dignity of your own death. Your life was his and his alone.

He really was a monster.

His features suddenly twisted in pain, his head jerking to the side as he released a low and threatening growl. The call was becoming even stronger, the most intense it had ever been. There was no more delaying it. They had to go, and they had to right now. 

He quickly lifted you into his arms as his body began to move on its own, forcing him to begin to move in the direction of his home. There was nothing more that you could do, all you could do was remain limp in his arms. It was over, there was point in fighting anymore.

He had finally broken you. 

When he stepped outside you were shocked by the fresh air and the cold weather. Then again, you always feel cold now. The clouds were thick today, the sun hidden behind their cover. It had been so long since you were outside, and even longer since you had been in the sun - that wouldn’t change in the near future. But what truly shocked you, was that the world went on without you. The seasons continued to change, the flora continued to flourish and then decay. The cycles continued while you were stored away. How cruel the world was to keep going on as you withered away. 

You leaned your head against his shoulder, shielding your face from the harsh wind as he began to move faster, running at his impossibly fast pace that no human could ever wish to match. How had so much changed? When did you go from human being to a play thing for a monster like him. You had a life, but now it had become inconsequential, toyed with and thrown away like it never even mattered.

What were you supposed to do now? At the end of the day, it didn’t really matter. He had won, he had played his sadistic stupid games with you, and he had won. He had broken you. You tucked your chin into your chest and like the pathetic creature that you were you whimpered.

You cared about what was going to happen next. If Jungkook had been wrong, then the two of you walking into the proverbial lion's den would end with you turning into one of them, a fate worse than any other that you could imagine. To be tied to him for all of eternity would be your personal hell on earth. 

What would they do to you when you got there? Would your death before your next life be slow and torturous, or quick and merciful? Would it be planned and intentional, or accidental? 

Jungkook began to slow, his fast pace relaxing into a natural walk. The tension that previously rested in his body had begun to dissipate. You could only speculate this was the relief of obeying the command to return home. His control over his own body was slowly but surely coming back to him the closer the two of you came to his home.

He stopped for a moment, placing you down on your own two feet before he took hold of your wrist and forced you to follow after him. Your knees wobbled beneath your weight, unaccustomed to you standing after being curled up in a ball in that abandoned shack for the longest time. You looked more like a baby fawn learning to walk than you did that meek little mouse Jungkook always thought you were. He, however, paid little attention to you at that moment. He was tense, his body in a state of alert as subtly surveyed the area as you continued on. 

He could sense something that your dull human senses weren’t entirely picking up on. However, the hair on the back of your neck prickled and your gut twisted as you felt phantom eyes digging into your body. 

Someone, somewhere, was watching you. 

A building began to break through the cluster of trees. A modern, contemporary house in the middle of the forest was coming into view. This was the last place you thought of when Jungkook had mentioned his home. In all honesty, you would have been less surprised by a crypt and a row of coffins.

In front of the house, stood a man. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, his eyes that familiar shade of deep burgundy, the same shade the monster’s eyes were when he was hungry. This sent chills throughout your body, your entire being sensing the danger in the vampire that stood across from you. 

Those burgundy eyes swept towards you, a look of shock and confusion discoloring their once calm gaze that you speculated was rarely rattled. His features twisted as he took in the state of you, the dried human and vampire blood that coated your body in thick layers, the dirt that was caked into your clothing, your hair that needed to be washed, and the smattering of scars that decorated your body and glistened in the cloudy daylight. 

You were barely human anymore, you were a walking corpse.

“You called me home, Namjoon.” Jungkook simply said, his body moving to shield you from the other vampire's gaze.

“Jungkook,” Namjoon said, utter disbelief tinging his words, “What are you doing to her?” 

In every possible scenario you had conjured in your mind, this had not been one of them.

Sympathy.

_______

[nobodyfamousposts]

Scarlet Lady Top 10 Favorite Characters: Number 8

@zoe-oneesama

Number 9 Here

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Number 8: Nino

Oh Nino, Nino. Canon did you so poorly.

I can’t even preface this with a compare/contrast between how he is in Canon vs how he is in the comic. There’s nothing to compare. Nino in Scarlet Lady is vastly superior.

1. He makes me smile whenever he appears 

Yes, I know this reason is particularly subjective, but it’s true. Whether he’s making me laugh from some of his antics or making me smile at how wholesome he can be. He is just a character who cheers me up whenever he appears. Not because he tries to, but because that’s just who he is.

And as such, I’m counting it as a reason he’s on this list simply because he’s so enjoyable.

His expressions vary mostly between cute and hilarious. His attitude towards some of the situations he ends up in are very relatable. Not what he “should” do or what you would expect a show geared towards a specific demographic would have him do, but what a random person in his position would be likely to do—good and bad. 

Knowing he will inevitably be bailing Alya out of jail some day.

Screwing with Adrien about wanting to ask out Marinette himself.

Faking dead at the sight of Alya all dolled up for Chloe’s party.

Out of the core group, he is the one who most reminds me that these are teenagers. Sometimes selfish and often immature teenagers. While Adrien and Marinette are dealing with some variation of stress that comes from hero work and Alya is focused on her blog about the heroes, Nino is just vibing. He’s chilling and just trying to hang out and be a good friend.

All the fun antics and wholesome friend and teenage moments I was hoping for in Canon? Where we get to see them just be regular teenagers doing regular teenage things and be happy? They are here in Scarlet Lady. And Nino is one of the characters who shows that best.

He’s a silly. 

He’s a sweetie.

He’s an idiot sometimes, but I can forgive him.

Overall, Nino isn’t really mean. He can be a jerk at times, or selfish and dismissive, but we don’t see him really be mean to people and he doesn’t get snarky the way other characters do.

He’s just a very human very chill character living his life and doing the best he can and I love and appreciate him for it.

…though of course he wouldn’t be on this list if that was all there is to him.

2. Nino’s Role

Nino’s role is hard to place when compared to the other main characters of the story. But trust me, it’s there. And it’s actually deeper than most would think.

So in most stories and shows, there is a character who tends to have a non-main plot arc related but still emotionally impactful role. They can serve as a connection to normalcy in an increasingly non-normal situation. It’s not just about showing support to the main character, but being a link for both the heroes and the audience to the normal world that the heroes are supposed to be fighting for. They are a reminder of humanity and what is supposed to matter. They can also see things from the normal world perspective that the heroes would lose sight of because as heroes, they have to focus on the bigger world issues.

Here, Nino is tied to normalcy. While Adrien and Marinette and Alya are all focused on heroes in various ways, Nino is focused on more personal things. He is focused on his moviemaking and his dreams. He is focused on his family. He is focused on his friends and their feelings. 

He is focused on making sure his best friend has a good first school picture day. 

He is focused on helping his bro try dating the girl he likes.

He is focused on supporting a friend in the middle of a panic attack.

He is focused on supporting his girlfriend during a tough time.

He is focused on partying with his friends.

He’s just focused on hanging out and having a good time and making sure others are happy.

Nino focuses on things on a personal level from the viewpoint of a normal kid.

As such, when he DOES get involved in heroics, it’s primarily regarding the impact it has on him on a personal level—to save his little brother during a major monster attack. To try and stay safe during an akuma attack. And yes, to support his girlfriend after she finally catches on that her hero is a fraud.

Nino isn’t attached to the world of heroes the way that the other three members of the Quartet are. Some may say this makes Nino lacking, but I would argue that this gives Nino a perspective that the other three are missing.

It should say something that Adrien and Marinette have gotten so used to Scar’s antics that as much as they hate it, they’ve lost track of how truly problematic it is. It reached the point that it didn’t register to them that other people were in a position to finally see what they had been dealing with, much less that anyone would be freaked out by that reveal. They had long since moved past shock and anger to simple annoyance and resignation.

Adrien seemed to be bitter but still more or less resigned to his unfortunate circumstances while Marinette was willing to put up with it so long as she was able to help Chat in some way. They come to accept that working around Scar and dealing with her attitude is just part of the job to the point they lost awareness of things outside of that. This doesn’t make them bad or uncaring, but it does emphasize a need for a character who isn’t so entrenched in the issues and constant crisis with lack of assistance that he can notice and bring attention to the smaller and more personal things. Their regular proximity to Scar has left them detached in a way and unaware of how she’s impacted others. 

Nino is in a prime position to see and care—far enough to not be dragged into the drama but close enough to those affected to notice the effects. It is through this difference in position that Nino offers a perspective that the regular heroes can't. It’s what lets him be aware of other people, their needs, and the changes that they go through. Even when they themselves don’t realize it or the need for it.

This actually ends up being where Nino develops as a character. Because originally, he was…pretty bad at this to put it mildly. Maybe not Kim levels of oblivious, but still problematic.

Nino shows the makings of a leader. He has to if he wants to be a director. We see it in how he was able to take charge in Horrificator and Party Crasher. But leadership only works if it’s tempered by compassion and awareness regarding the other people involved, and that was something Nino struggled with.

He had a hard time picking up on things. He had a team but wasn’t really able to lead them or work with them properly because he was stuck in what he wanted or thought would be a good idea in the moment and didn't consider the feelings of those around him. He needed people at times to tell him what was going on and what impact he was having. And at times, even when he was told that something was wrong, he struggled to really listen. It stood to reason that he ended up with a mess, but at least he ultimately learned from it.

This kind of ends up becoming the core of Nino’s growth. He improved after the mess in Horrificator and wasn’t nearly as much of a jerk, but he still struggled with being able to read people. He acknowledges it as a weakness and actively tries to do better.

This is Nino’s arc. It isn’t as obvious or big or shiny since it’s one of the only ones not directly related to either of the main plots of Hawk Moth attacking the city or Scar/Chloe being the absolute worst. But we get to see over the course of the story how Nino is doing more to improve himself and be a better friend, a better person, and ultimately a hero.

As a result, Nino comes off as perhaps one of the more mature and levelheaded characters in the story…certain moments aside.

With Marinette focusing on helping Chat and Adrien focusing on surviving, it stands to reason that being the emotional support for their friends and helping resolve their personal NON-world crisis level problems would come as a secondary priority…and likely wouldn’t be addressed at all if things continued as is without intervention.

Nino ends up being the one who takes on that role. And it ends up being one of the most important roles in the story.

Remember, he is the one who helps Alya calm down from a panic attack in Animan. He later supports her as she's coming to terms with the reality of Scar not actually being heroic. He again helped her as Foxtrot to find a new goal for herself in Sapotis. He also reassured Chris in that same episode. He supported Adrien getting to be a normal teen with normal teen experiences in Bubbler. And again later with the reveal of Gabriel being Hawk Moth—both in taking the jerk down and knowing full well how much trouble this will bring Adrien.

And let’s also recall that this is all during the timeframe Nino is noted to have been struggling with this very thing and trying to improve. Alya calls him out on it in Dark Cupid. In Intermission 1, Nino was shown to still have mistaken Adrien’s crush as being on Marigold since Adrien’s lie the previous episode in Dark Cupid. He promised to “step up his game” after and be more aware.

And it shows. The very next episode is Animan, where Nino kickstarts the whole thing by setting up the hangout to allow Adrien and Marinette the chance to see if they could be more than friends.

These moments seem like such little things when compared to the bigger plot points of a super villain turning people into monsters or a hero stealing credit for city-saving she’s not doing, but they hit on a much more personal level because he is getting personal with people in a way they need but would otherwise be overlooked in the face of those “bigger problems“.

And the kicker is that said “bigger problems” would be continuing to keep the endgame events from happening without Nino there. 

NINO is the one who helped Alya come to terms with her hero being a fake and guided her on how to move forward. If not for him, she might have tried to rationalize it and double down on her defense of Scar—that it’s her way of being a leader and staying out of the direct fighting in order to keep her Miraculous safe, which is a reasonable conclusion given that is Gabriel‘s assumption in the story and that it would be a valid tactic in any other situation if it weren’t for it being Chloe being the one doing it. And even if she had accepted the truth, that hardly meant she would do anything about it. She might just have deleted her blog and gone into a depression, doing absolutely nothing the rest of the series. Meaning no Koki Marina, no expose on said fake hero, and no leads to the main villain.

NINO is the one who set up the all boys party in Party Crasher. Kim might have had the idea, but Nino was the one with the plan and the excuses already planned. Bad move? Yes. A choice that I am going to rag on him for? Definitely. But it’s also the reason that Ivan and Kim completed their character arcs and became heroes. That’s not to say other things couldn’t have happened to give them that chance, but this specific event is why it happened and if not for this, it may not happen at all. Fu was the one giving out Miraculous at the finale and he specifically chose those who had been chosen previously. Meaning that without this, there is a likelihood that there would have been less heroes to help out in the final battle. Or whatever heroes were chosen last minute would have had similar issues as Zoe being the new Bee hero with no prior experience or knowledge of the akumas.

NINO is the one who taught Adrien what friendship actually is. Adrien’s whole speech in Despair Bear about friendship? How they watch out for each other? Consider each other’s feelings? Make each other feel good when they’re together? THAT’S NINO! He’s a huge part of the reason Adrien grows and is able to recognize healthy relationships and what isn’t healthy. Nino taught Adrien what friendship is. Nino gave Adrien the knowledge and strength to confront Chloe and Gabriel.

And here’s a huge one: NINO is the one who helped Adrien realize his own improved emotional and physical state, lessened stress level, and that he doesn’t have to continue to deny himself a relationship or things that would make him happy in general. Up to that point, Adrien fully wanted to date Marinette but had decided to forego trying because he was too stressed and busy dealing with Hawk Moth and akumas on his own while being dragged down by a partner who wasn’t helping. While Marigold joining certainly helped the situation, Adrien had been carrying the weight alone for so long and had been so accustomed to denying/being denied things he wanted that he didn’t actually notice how much better he was doing until Nino pointed it out. In Adrien’s own words: “Can…can I really? Is it possible? Am I allowed?”

Yeah, no movement was going to be made there because Adrien had spent so much time convincing himself he couldn’t until Nino pointed out that he could.

Without this insight, odds are we wouldn’t see Adrien and Marinette getting to date or reveal their identities as long as Hawk Moth was still around. And when they did finally take him down, dating would probably be the last thing on their minds.

Nino helped progress a major plot point. If I’m being snarky, I would say he did more to actually help get them together than Alya did with all of her attempts in Canon. Just going to prove he is the better wingman.

It may not feel like that much in comparison to some of the other major arcs in the story, but sometimes it’s the little things that make the biggest impact and Scarlet Lady is a story that rewards us for paying attention to the little things.

Without Nino encouraging him to try, the endgame romance wouldn’t have happened. But more than that, since Adrien and Marinette getting together came with the reveal of their identities, that would also mean that Adrien wouldn’t have had the support he needed after his father’s defeat. 

We saw it when he was talking with Fu. Adrien was trying to minimize the severity of the situation and pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t. He wasn’t able to let himself break down until Marinette showed up to force the matter.

Marinette was able to support him and know just how bad it was because they knew each other‘s identities by that time—something that Fu clearly didn’t want them knowing even at the end. And while the friends were all willing to support him and house him, they didn’t actually know the extent of it. It’s one thing to find out your father is a supervillain. It’s another thing to be the one who had to help take him down and see the full extent of what he had done and was willing to do…and how little he cared.

That? All of that? Everyone being in prime position to be where they would be needed? Nino contributed.

To be fair, maybe things could have still worked out without Nino, but I’d be willing to bet they wouldn’t have worked out nearly as well.

That’s part of what makes Nino work. As a character. As a friend. And as a hero.

3. Nino The Hero

When you have a storyline that involves other established characters becoming heroes and joining the main hero team—even if only temporarily, there needs to be a reason. Or at least more to the choice than that they are the main character’s best friend and it’s obligatory that they get first pick.

I dislike making the comparison in this case because they’re different characters with different situations in different versions of the same story, but I have to say that of the two, it makes the most sense to me that Scarlet Lady Nino was the first temp hero chosen compared to his Canon version or even Canon Alya.

I can’t even try to make a comparison with Anansi because we all know there is nothing to compare. For what should have been his hero episode, he was stuck playing referee and barely did anything with the Miraculous he was given.

So instead let’s look at how they handled the situation in Sapotis.

In Canon, we see Alya rather ineffectively and pointlessly trying to corral her akumatized sisters while seeming to forget that trying to talk down akumas generally doesn’t work and that she couldn’t control them even when they weren’t akumatized. Then her arc for the episode was a mix of secret keeper and trust exercise when neither were ever acknowledged in Canon to be an issue for her previously.

In Scarlet Lady, Nino isn’t dealing with the Akuma problem, he’s just trying to rescue his little brother—a much better and more reasonable use of his time and efforts as something he could feasibly accomplish without superpowers. Not easily, of course, but still possible. Or at least more possible than trying to talk down endlessly multiplying gremlins without any idea which were the originals or had the item.

When Nino sees Chat Noir, he begs him for help to save his little brother. Then when he’s given the offer to help out himself, he jumps at the chance—not to be a hero but to save Chris. Becoming a hero is a means to an end for him, even amidst the wonders of learning about kwamis and having superpowers, Nino’s primary focus was on saving Chris.

This shows Nino has good focus. He’s also a team player, because he goes along with Marigold’s overly complicated plan even if he doesn’t really understand it or how it is supposed to work. He trusts at least that they will help and that they have a plan that can work. Plus he got a good zing at Scar by emphasizing Chat and Marigold as the heroes of the city and the ones he will take orders from. It was a callout but a more mature one by emphasizing Chat and Marigold’s efforts rather than simply insulting Scar the way that most of the other characters did. Because that’s how Nino is.

By this time in the story, he’s already working and making progress towards being a better person. Something that becoming a hero both helped with and confirmed this progress in. We see it in his acts as a new member of a team and in his actions as a singular newbie hero. He prioritized and rescued Chris even as the Sapotis were being dealt with (in contrast to Scar who is concerningly chill with letting people die because she can just bring them back anyway). And after taking Chris back and being on a time limit, he still took the time to help Alya under the guise of a new face and gave her direction and an outside perspective when she needed it. That’s what makes him a good hero, he’s got heart.

Alya put it best: “You comforted me, even as Fox Trot, like the sweetheart you are. Of course you’d be a super hero.”

Of course he would be a super hero! Of course he would be picked as the first temp hero! Not because he’s Adrien’s best friend or the convenience of Chris being involved and them needing an extra person, but because Nino has the qualities to be an effective and supportive hero. He’s caring, he has good ideas, his work with music and movies makes him a good fit for the Fox and powers of illusions, he is capable of working as part of a team, and he’s good at seeing problems and helping to come up with solutions. He has heart!

It’s something he holds on to throughout the series. It’s why he gets akumatized on Adrien’s behalf and then again for Alya in the finale. It’s why he reaches out to offer Adrien friendship and tries to support him when he needs it while also tempering some of his antics. It’s in the way he supports Alya without dismissing the problem or fixing things for her. It’s in the way he helps guide people to realizations and solutions without taking away their agency.

Nino is a huge reason why things worked out. For the endgame, for the relationships, for the heroes, for the city.

Scarlet Lady gave Nino the focus, development, relevance, and character that makes him worthwhile. And that is why he more than deserves a spot on this list.

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt2 of Tim Drake having Joker Junior PTSD and scaring people with his laugh

[Click Here For Part 1: Titans]

Part 2: Bats

Tim hadn't slept more than 20 minutes in 4 days. He's been running around non-stop between cases and his CEO duties, and it's taking its toll. His hallucinations started flickering to life a day ago; shadowy figures at the edge of his vision and noise/voices yelling in his ears. It's all very annoying, but unfortunately, he still has to make it through the family dinner before he can barricade himself in his room for the next 24 hours. He plans to sleep 20 of them.

He's literally praying the idiots he calls siblings are too distracted by each other to bother him And that Joker isn't a topic for once. He's one Jason whining about the Joker needing to die away from letting himself from having a breakdown and stabbing himself to get out of this stupid dinner. He's so fucking tired.

Luckily, he must look as dead as he feels because they mostly leave him alone and easily accept his demands of letting him have his mini coma tomorrow. Even gave some backhanded compliments about taking care of himself, as if he isn't the only reason the lights are still on in the manor. He doesn't see any of them pitching in. Maybe they think Bruce is still paying? Man dumped his job on a 15 year old. At this point, Tim is this family's sugar daddy, which is actually really awful now that he thinks about it...

He's off topic. Just have to make it thro-

"Well, if you would just kill him!!"

'Gods fucking damnit!'

The room goes eerily silent as Tim just starts unhinged laughing. He's choking on it as he tries to breathe.

"T-Tim?"

"Re-replacement?"

"I'll grab the antidote for Joker venom. Drake should have told us if-"

Tim holds up a hand, silencing them again, as he forces his breathing to calm a fraction. It's not enough to stop the laughter, but it is enough to get words out.

"The an- HAHA- antidote isn't going- HAHAHA- going to work f-Ha-for this! HAHAHA"

"Tim. I thought these attacks stopped."

"The fuck are you talking about, old man!?"

"They ne- HAHA- never stopped! HAHAHAHA- Juss-st became less- HAHA- often. Only HAHAHA- only if I get tri- HAHA- triggered ss-sssomehow HA"

"Wh-what triggered you, Timmy?"

Tim moves his plate and drink out of the wait before slamming his head onto the table twice with probably more force than necessary or is health. He feels his family jump up to stop him from doing more damage, but he's done, he just keeps his face pressed to the table while STILL Joker laughing. He has a massive headache, and it's not just from the brain damage he just gave himself.

"Wh- I mean, what happened to make Tim have these episodes?" Duke sounds petrified. Tim feels a little bad about it.

"I'll tell you if Tim gives-" Tim gives a thumbs up in Dick's direction. "Oh! Um! Okay, Okay, cool. So I only know what Tim and Barbara told me in the aftermath, but, um, the Joker and Harley Quinn kidnapped Tim. They tortured him for nearly a month to make him into "Joker Junior"."

"Di- HAHAHA- Didn't work! The Bitches! HAHAHA"

"It kinda sounds like it did-" Tim throws a fork at Jason without lifting his head. "Hey!!"

"Asshole. HAHaHa"

"Jason, stop antagonizing your brother." Bruce lightly scolds.

"Hey, Tim? Is there any way we can help?" Duke sounds like he moved a bit closer.

"N-Ha-no" Tim morosely says. "I HaHa just have to HaHaHa wait it out HaHa"

"Man, that must suck." Jason sounds genuinely apologetic.

"Tim, do you know what triggered this episode?" That Batman, not Bruce speaking, and Tim hates it. He throws a spoon at him. Demon Brat makes a squawk of offense, but Tim can't care.

"It's a valid question, Tim." Tim sits up just to glare at Dick.

"It was probably HaHa the fact I started hallucinating yesterday from HaHaHaHa lack of sleep. I haven't been HaHa able HaHa to sleep because I've been running a HaHa HaHa HaHa multi billion dollar company while working on cases for you, HaHa Jason, Bruce, and Barbara HaHaHa as well as 3 of my own cases. THEN, we can't HAHAHA can't even have ONE STUPID DINNER WITHOUT JASON WHINING HAHAHA ABOUT DEAR OL' PAPA JOKER!" Tim runs a hand through his messy hair, trying to self sooth. "I'm so fucking tired. Hahaha I'm just so tired.."

"Okay, okay, have you eaten enough?" Dick asks with a pained look on his face. Tim glances at his half eaten meal and decides it's good enough. He gives a nod, shoving himself to his feet.

"Yeah, haha I'm going to boil myself alive hahaha with a shower and going to bed. Hahaha Don't ask me for anything hahaha for at least 24."

He ignores them bursting into conversation, 100% about him, once he shuffles out. Cass slips out into the hall and catches up with him before he can even get to the stairs.

"Hug?"

"I would haha love a hug ha" Cass gives him a strong hug. It lasts a few minutes, which is abnormally long for a hug, but Tim loves it. It helps his nerves. "Thanks, haha Cass."

She simply smiles at him as she pulls away before pointing him up the stairs with a mock sternness. He giggles his real laugh between the Joker laughter and complies with the "demand".

He knows he'll regret his outburst after he's gotten some sleep, but for now, he doesn't care. He has an overdue date with his bed and he refuses to reschedule.

[seleneprince]

REBORN

Gotham Cathedral, Spring.

A majestic silence reigns around her, interrupted only by the occasional sound of the giant bell ringing above her.

She would like to think is because people have finally learnt to respect her space and stopped butting their noses into her bussiness.

But no. The truth is that the church is basically empty at this hour. The only other people are old ladies and some last-minute sinner in need of confession. It's quite normal in Gotham. We all become sinners eventually, she thinks. It's unavoidable.

The first days she started to come here for her prayer hours after her accident, people whispered non-stop when she passed by and could barely conceal their stares. Shocked to see her out of all people in a cathedral. A holy place.

"I didn't know Lady Wayne was so devoted."

"I don't think she's ever been in a church before."

"How...surprising of her to step so confidently into the Lord's holy place. She certainly lacks some self-awareness."

The sheer hypocrisy delights her as much as it infuriates her.

Because first of all, who are they to question her faith? Just because she doesn't make a show out of it doesn't mean it's up to debate. She's always been taught that one's faith is meant to be private and personal. It's not a reason to boast.

Which is why she's always looked down on those people who praise the Lord's name and present themselves as "true" Christians just for appearances or to give themselves a reason for their self-righteousness.

In reality, they're the ones completely devoid of any self-awareness.

"Either that or she just doesn't care about seeming direspectful. I mean, we all know the kind of woman she is."

"I heard she's not like that anymore. Apparently, she's changed a lot since the accident. Everyone says so. It's bizarre."

"Yeah. She's behaving surprisingly well lately. There hasn't been a scandal since."

"Maybe she hit her head so badly it reprogrammed her whole personality."

Idiots. If only they knew...

Well, guess she can't really fault them for not knowing. After all, there's no way they can even imagine the truth behind her change.

"Maybe that's not really her and we're just seeing someone else with her face."

"Sure. Or maybe she actually died on the accident and her body is currently possessed by an incredibly nice spirit."

They have no idea.

She raises her eyes to the cross in front of her, its figure looming over her head as if watching, where the image of the Lord was carved in a typical representation of the moment He died for humanity's sins.

The most remembered moment of His life. This is the first thing that pops into people's minds when they think of Him. Not all the good actions, not His endless kindness, His banter with the disciplines, His sense of humour, how He dedicated his life to help the poor and stood for what was right. Not even His beautiful relationship with His family. His mother, His father Joseph, even His siblings.

No. Instead, He'll be mostly remembered like this. In His death, with iron drilled into His body and bleeding out between two criminals. Sacrificing His life for sins that weren't His.

The Bible is full of passages depicting His humanity, His miracles, yet this moment is what will be forever His symbol.

Most people claim it's meant to be a reminder of how big His heart was. Of how He became a martyr.

To her, it's always felt more like a lesson.

That no matter how good you are and how much of yourself you give for others, you'll still get screwed over by those more powerful than you if they want to. That doing the right thing won't always be rewarded.

In the end, people value life the most when it's gone.

The thing about martyrs, she thinks, is that they have to die to be worshipped.

She makes one last prayer under her breath before standing up, sealing it with a kiss to the cross that dangles from her neck, putting back under her coat. She walks around the bench quietly as to not disturb the others and makes her way to the exit in the shadows.

Her phone vibrates again in her pocket. She pulls it out to see the several missed calls, messages, e-mails and the news.

On top of all, one name persists.

A name she wishes to never think of again.

Mr Wayne🙄

Where are you?

Seriously, where are you?

Don't you dare ignore me now.

You can't be serious.

I just found it laying on my desk this morning. Is this some sick joke of yours?

It better be.

I swear to God, where the fuck are you?? You can't just leave like this!

Those gossips don't know how close their little jokes are to the truth.

Because she didn't just change. She wasn't reprogrammed.

She catches her reflection in one of the windows. Her face, her hair, her body, even the way she moves. She still looks the same as before. Healthy and confident.

Except it's not her. Not really.

This body isn't hers. Just like the clothes. Just like the man pestering her on the phone. None of this belongs to her.

It's from that woman with her same name and face that died several weeks ago.

Mr Wayne 🙄

What do you mean with "divorce"??

Gotham City High School

They're still talking.

It's been several weeks but they haven't stopped. In fact, she'll say it's gotten worse.

Before, it was just whispers behind her back and poorly concealed side-eyes. Now, they've taken to brazenly stare at her like she's some exotic animal, even approaching her at times to ask about her health, only to step back when she answers with a gentle smile, their eyes reflecting something between horror and fascination.

She found it amusing at first. Their faces looked so stupid at time she had to supress her laugh a lot.

But it's getting annoying now.

Whenever she goes, whenever she looks, they're there. Muttering, blinking at her, trying to strike clumsy converstations as if she's some long-lost friend who finally returned. All while keeping their distance and staring at her unnervingly.

Sometimes, she feels like a desecrated creature on display.

A pair of girls stand straighter when she passes by, following her with their eyes wide open. She catches the magazine one of them is holding, reading the bold letters in the cover title.

"Wayne heiress's lavish purchases turned into secret charity donations? Follow Vicky Vale's interviews to witnesses for more!"

Of course. The media doesn't help the insanity.

(Good to know Vale is a monumental pain in the ass in every life)

She sighs, adjusting her backpack on her shoulder. It's flashy and clearly expensive. Something made to draw attention to the teenage girl who wears it...and subtitly brag about her money.

In another life, she wouldn't have ever come to school with this thing, not even her mum wouldn't allow it. But everything is different now, isn't it?

To be honest, she can't really hold it against these guys for acting the way they do. From their perspective, this must be some kind of fever dream.

She knows her current behaviour clashes greatly with what everyone else is used to from her.

"She's gone mad. There's no other explanation."

"I don't know. She seems to be the same, but nicer."

"Seriously? She's already made three teachers cry from arguing about the lessons with them. Poor Miss Terris was about to faint!"

Yeah, well, she's not going to stay quiet when people who are expected to educate and prepare them for the future teach their damn subjects wrong.

Plus, Miss Terris's lessons were poorly structured and boring anyway. It was for the best.

"Didn't she also disagreed with Mr Johns so badly that he took a whole day off in the middle of class?"

"Oh my god, yes. Luke told me about it. She questioned his thesis for the PhD and started scrutinizing each point like she was grading the damn thesis herself. Apparently, half the arguments didn't stand and it lacked solid references."

"I saw the poor man afterwards. He looked like he was rethinking his whole existence."

That guy should've thought better before writing his thesis on cybersecurity, the one field she’s studied, mastered, and dominated for years. Reading that thing hurt her eyes more than her correction hurt his feelings.

Next time, he won't ignore her questions and shame her in front of the whole class. A time off sounds perfect for self-reflection.

"How can someone like her know so much about cybersecurity anyway? Enough to criticise a professional about it?"

"It's weird. I mean, do you remember the last time she talked back to teachers?"

"No. She's never interrupted lessons, much less to call them out on it. And she's actually right most of the time! It makes no sense."

Because she was a spoiled little brat who lowered her head at the first sign of dissapointment from adults and ran off to her mother to fight the battles for her.

Now she's a spoiled brat with a backbone.

But she understands their confusion. They have every reason for it. Ever since her return, she's been a walking contradiction of everything they've seen and known from her. A mystery.

Really, she's only annoyed when they invade her space with their antics. If you're going to speculate and gossip, do it quietly when the person in question can't hear you. Otherwise you look stupid and attention-seeking.

Or even better: Keep your thoughts to yourselves and let people live, geez.

She wonders if this the kind of attention she would've liked, once upon a time. Maybe this is what that part of her craved so bad. Or maybe she was content either way. Bad attention is still attention and all of that.

From afar, she spots Stephanie staring at her, arms crossed and eyebrows pinched in suspicion. She's no doubt thinking the worst of her, expecting a tantrum at any moment or anything that exposes whatever "scheme" she must have in mind.

Anything to remind everyone how rotten the spoiled Wayne heiress is.

"Do you think...she lost her memories somehow and doesn't remember how to act?"

"Don't be stupid, Kevin. If she lost her memories, she wouldn't even know where she is. Nah, this girl is perfectly fine. Probably just faking for attention again."

She snorts quietly. She can't help it.

Their theories aren't so far fetched. Just lacking a little twist.

Because it's not that she lost her memories.

She actually gained more.

As they wonder about her true motives and the reasons behind her change, none of them can come close to the truth.

That the girl they know died. Literally. Several weeks ago, her heart stopped beating as she bled out in the ice.

And somehow, she came back....with her soul and conscience fused to someone else's.

Wayne Manor

She hasn't moved from the greenhouse in twenty minutes.

Or so she thinks. She hasn't checked the time once since she arrived.

Everyone else is out, doing whatever they usually do at this hour. School, work, send criminals to the ER. Only Alfred is still around the manor.

And herself.

She should be at school now too, but claimed sickness and refused to leave her room. Alfred was worried about her and tried to pry, but her mother and sister covered her. They understood.

How can they not?

It wasn't until she knew for sure it was only Alfred left that she gathered courage to step out, heading towards the one place that has always made her feel safe.

The manor's greenhouse.

A botanical dream come true that only rich people can afford, and her personal paradise. It's supposed to be one of the Wayne's prides, but no one is interested in caring for plants in this family anymore. Only she and Alfred.

Well, maybe Damian too, but he barely shows up since she frequents the place, sticking to his precious farm instead.

She prefers it this way. It allows her to have the place all for herself. It's her corner to hide in when the world becomes too much, the familiar scent of her beloved flowers soothing her like a lullaby just for her ears.

And right now, the world is a lot bigger and more devastating that it's ever been.

It's been days. Long, excruciating days of processing what happened, what it means. Assimilating how things are now. Trying to get through the new routine without crashing out, despite being all she wants to do since she woke up.

Mum jumped right into action as soon as she got a hold over their new situation, and her older sister handled it as she handles everything: Adapting and somehow finding a way to benefit from it.

She envies them for it. For being able to go on with their new lives almost normally while she's still stuck repeating the same scene in her head over and over. What she saw, what she felt.

That's why she needed to come here. Nature has never dissapointed her. She loves her plants and all the green that surrounds her in a explosion of beauty she's nurtured over the years. In times of sorrow, it's her passion what comforted her, along with her family.

When you learn about mother nature, you understand everything follows a pre-established cycle that pushes it all forward, regardless of whatever obstacles there might be. It's about balance within the chaos. No one can evade it.

It's reassuring, to know that no matter what happens, you can trust nature to always find a way to fulfill its rules.

It's a shame my favourite color in the world is the same as certain asshole's eyes. Such beauty wasted on that demon, she bitterly recalls.

She inhales, taking in the scent of wet grass and some freshly bloomed flowers. It's the middle of Spring, after all. The season of life and rebirth, when all that died in winter blooms back with the same beauty as before, as if they never withered in the first place.

Just like she did.

Like the three of them did.

How deliciously ironic that it happened in Spring out of all. Maybe this is really mother nature's work, once again finding a way to restore the balance.

Or maybe it's some wicked game from the universe to make our lives even harder, her inner voice supplies.

She has no idea.

All she knows is that she should be dead. In fact, she vividly remembers dying, exhaling her last breath. Right on cue, she feels a sharp sting from her inner wrists. She rubs the pained zone over the bandage she put on herself.

It's a reminder of the incredibly dark motive behind her new life. Her second chance, as Mum said it is.

The death she remembers happened a lifetime ago....but the pain on her wrists belongs to someone's else death.

This greenhouse has been her paradise in another life, and her grave in this one.

And still..

What a beautiful place to part from, she can't help but think.

All of it, without ever noticing the shadow watching her back, still and silent in a corner of her sacred place. Waiting. Guessing. Or just looking.

a/n: Prologue for my uncoming Yandere! Batfam reincarnation au...with possible other Yandere! DC characters and my other ocs included in it because why not lmao I've been reading too many reincarnation of villainesses webtoons recently, so, here we are now

@la-patrona-magdalena (la culpable de este au, the enabler)

Taglist (for those who showed interest in this au first, thank you for the comments!): @therealme13posts, @coldilikeit, @like-thechocolate

[sirfrogsworth]

These idiots have a fundamental misunderstanding of the purpose of West Point and other similar military academies.

They all think it is to create badass wartime generals and Green Berets.

In reality, West Point is primarily interested in creating nerds and bureaucratic leadership (a.k.a. middle management).

Mostly the nerds though.

The first thing you need to know is 80% of the US Army is made up of non-combat positions. (Which is why it is very silly to exclude trans people from the entire military.) This weird right wing obsession needing everyone in the military to be a roided-out Rambo is extremely outdated. The Army needs everything from cooks to musicians to janitors. But they also have engineers and physicists and biologists and doctors.

West Point pays for tuition in exchange for 5 years of service. They spend a lot of money on the graduates. The last thing they want is to create cannon fodder. They already have poor people of color to fill that role.

They want officers who have the logistical, strategic, and coordinative skills to tell the cannon fodder where to go and what to do. And they want nerds to manage the needs of high tech modern warfare. They don't care if these people can shoot things super good. They don't care if they can hike up a mountain with 50 pounds of gear. They don't care if they are women, POC, or trans. Only dipshit political leaders like Trump and Hegseth are that discerning. The people in the Army tasked with actually getting shit done only care about logistics, competent leadership, and technological superiority.

West Point offers a degree in statistics.

Do you think they are going to send a statistician into fucking battle?

No. They need that nerd to calculate how many civilian deaths are acceptable in a "proportionate" response scenario.

There is an actual formula for that. Created by a nerd. They weight the "value" of the target against potential civilian casualties and they may even factor in the proximity to a mosque or hospital. If the value of the target is very high, the concern for civilians decreases.

Find me a jarhead who can figure out that morbid calculus.

For the most part, West Point is just a university. You have to role-play as a soldier while you are there, but you can still take a philosophy class and study French literature if you'd like. It has to be a functional degree because the graduates want to get good jobs once they finish their 5 years. They want a proper education out of the deal.

Sometimes West Point farts out a top general. But they are much more interested in training engineers and computer dorks.

Manly meatheads need not apply.

[undyingdecay]

helloooo, this is my very first time requesting anything on tumblr, but your writing is just too good to pass up the opportunity.

i cannot, for the love of all mankind, get dark!bucky barnes out of my brain. it’s like an itch that can’t be scratched, no matter how hard i try. and i’m talking about some straight up dark shit that would potentially make me look fucking insane if i said it out loud.

(non-con) WHO SAID THAT? 👀

(tw: very heavy non-con, translation: khoroshaya devochka — good girl)

ok everyone sit down and listen, so ideally — and this is so bad it’s good — i’m thinking very freshly post-hydra!bucky. the kind of fresh where he still moves like a fucking predator without realizing it. where his hair’s still got that dry, greasy texture because he hasn’t figured out conditioner and tony’s too much of a prick to explain it to him. where his eyes are still vacant half the time, like there’s a stel trap wrapped around his head, but then — then there’s moments. quick flashes. like his gaze catches on your neck a second too long when you tilt your head or his jaw ticks when you laugh a little too loud in the kitchen because sam’s being a dick. little cracks in the armor.

and here’s the kicker, steve asked you to look after him. not like he was a rabid dog. no. steve wouldn’t call him that. steve would never say it like that. it was more in that… do-it-for-me tone, that boyish all-american pleading like he’s just shy of getting down on one knee. it wasn’t fair. you were good at saying no. you were good at keeping boundaries. but when he asked, when those big stupid hands were scrubbing sweat off his neck post-run and his biceps were gleaming under the LED lab lights?

you agreed. because you’re an idiot.

and bucky, bucky didn’t talk to you.

not much, anyway. he barely talked to anyone, truth be told, and you weren't about to make him. you’d still check in. you’d talk at him, mostly. about dumb shit — what kind of cereal was on sale, how tony’s AI fridge locked you out for putting a can of off-brand soda in it, how nat had somehow learned to crochet and was currently making sweaters for the knives she kept under her mattress. normal stuff. and maybe you wondered if he was listening but only sometimes.

you kinda forgot who he was, to be honest. like, yeah, there were moments you remembered — like the time you were standing in front of the fridge, reaching for the leftover pasta you’d been thinking about all day, and he just… picked you up. didn’t say a word. just lifted your entire body out of the way like you weighed nothing. set you down a foot to the left. opened the fridge. pulled out a bottle of water. left. no ‘excuse me’. no ‘move’. just manhandled you like a fucking doll and dipped.

but then came the night. and you swear on your life you didn’t hear him come in. you didn’t. you always did before. you could hear the way his boots dragged a little or the click of metal fingers against the wall. not this time. one second you were half asleep, the next you were on your back, bedsheets twisted around your ankles and something cold and heavy pressing your wrist down into the mattress.

you knew it was him. even in the dark, even before you opened your mouth, you knew.

“bucky—?”

his hand was in your hair, not pulling but holding, fingers twisted so deep into the roots it made your eyes sting. the words didn’t register. he was speaking, low and harsh in your ear, and you couldn’t understand a word of it but you knew it was russian because natasha would curse under her breath in that same jagged way when she was pissed off.

he was grinding against you. fully clothed. all rough denim and stiff tactical gear, and you could feel the press of him through it. the sick, hot friction of fabric on fabric like it was enough for him. like he didn’t even care about getting his cock out, just needed to rut against something warm and soft and unwilling. his breathing was so fucking loud, low grunts slipping out every time his hips jerked forward.

you were pleading. of course you were. because what else do you do when a supersoldier’s on top of you with a metal hand around your throat? you were asking him to stop, babbling out whatever you could think of — please, bucky, you don’t wanna do this, you don’t wanna hurt me, please, please— but it barely mattered. didn’t even look like it registered.

and some part of you — some deep, shriveled, awful instinct — told you to stay still. like maybe if you didn’t move, didn’t scream, didn’t make it worse, he’d finish faster. like maybe this was the least you owed him. not as a person, but as a thing. a thing that had been torn up and stitched back together wrong. like maybe this was how you repaid the debt you never owed in the first place.

and it made you sick to your stomach.

he muttered something sharp in russian again, voice rough like gravel and whiskey, and his hand moved from your hair to your neck. not squeezing — not yet — just pressing down enough to make your throat work harder.

“stupid things,” you caught, because that was in english. “never listen.”

and then quieter — almost tender, which made it worse — “zhenshchiny ne mogut plakat', yesli oni mokryye naskvoz'.”

you didn’t even understand what the fuck that meant at first. not until later. not until you found natasha at the gym and repeated it in a shaky whisper and watched her face twist, real ugly and mean.

and she told you. told you what it meant.

'women can't cry if they are soaking wet'

and you’ve never slept right since.

you should’ve known better to.

the first time it happened, you thought maybe it would be the only time. some awful, one-time, trauma-fueled mistake. a sick, violent need in him that would burn out and leave you in peace. you even tried to tell yourself he didn’t know what he was doing — the way he’d snarled in russian, the cold clamp of vibranium fingers around your throat, the sharp rut of his hips into yours like an animal. the way he kept you pinned under him, fully clothed, grinding himself into your cunt through your shorts until your body betrayed you, slick gathering no matter how much your mind screamed. you thought maybe, maybe it would end there.

it didn’t.

he stayed after. lay there beside you in your own bed, that metal hand still curled around your wrist, eyes wide open and unblinking in the dark. watching. like a predator deciding whether to finish the kill or let the wound fester. he didn’t speak. didn’t explain. didn’t leave.

the next night, you thought about locking the door. stood there with your hand on the knob, heart pounding in your throat. and then you let it go, because what was the fucking point? a lock wouldn’t stop him. nothing would. not when the winter soldier still lived in his bones, moving his hands before his brain caught up. and sure enough, sometime past midnight, boots heavy on the floor, the oppressive presence of him filling the room — and this time, there was no hesitation.

he undid his tactical pants just enough, the harsh rasp of the zipper making your stomach twist. there was no slow approach, no pretense. his hand knotted in your hair, wrenching your head back, and then your face was in the pillow, his grip like a steel trap around your neck.

“stop—” you tried, and that was the last word you managed.

he spit on your cunt first. a thick, cruel thing, then smeared it with his fingers, muttering something in russian that you didn’t need natasha to translate. the intent was clear enough. then he shoved himself inside you, one brutal thrust, tearing you open like he owned the place. no prep. no care. the stretch was merciless, thick and unrelenting, your breath ripped from you as your whole body jolted forward.

and the worst part? you felt yourself get wet.

it wasn’t want. it wasn’t arousal. it was your body’s betrayal. terror slicking your skin, nerves on fire, every cell screaming and still — still the ache built between your thighs, heat blooming where it shouldn’t. he noticed. of course he did. leaned down, breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“khoroshaya devochka,” he rasped, rough and pleased. “knew you’d stop fighting.”

he fucked you like he didn’t need to be gentle, like your body was just a place to bury himself. every thrust brutal, grinding your hips into the mattress. teeth in your shoulder hard enough to bruise, to break skin. and every time you made a sound — a sob, a plea, a ragged whisper of his name — you felt him twitch inside you. like it turned him on more.

by the time he came, it wasn’t soft. a sharp snap of his hips, a guttural snarl in your ear, his teeth sinking into the muscle of your shoulder as thick, hot ropes spilled inside you. his hand never eased up on your neck. he kept you pinned there, limp and wrecked beneath him.

and then — he didn’t leave.

he rolled you onto your back, head resting on your stomach like it was some sort of goddamn prize, one hand lazily stroking your thigh while his cum leaked from you in slow, hot pulses. he stayed until dawn, and you lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, praying for death or daylight, whichever came first.

when the sun finally broke through, you got up, made coffee. looked at yourself in the mirror. bite marks and bruises trailing your neck, fingerprints mapped across your skin like a claim. you didn’t tell anyone. not steve. not nat. not sam. what would you even say? that their broken weapon was breaking you?

he came back again the next night.

and the next.

each time worse than the last. new ways to bend you, to mark you, to drag desperate, shamed pleasure from a body that didn’t know how to stop responding. every night his cock inside you, his voice in your ear, muttering in that dead, cold russian.

you stopped begging. stopped trying to fight.

because deep down, you knew he’d decided you were his.

and stupid things never learn.

(ive officially lost it)