#it's plainly unethical.

[awaiting-my-escape]

Oh just in case I'm being scrutinized by someone who really could be doing a million other things that would be actually responsible instead of neurotic, obsessive, and narcissistic, the incorrect label you were looking for was "pretentious", but that's more of that whole projection thing that's textbook for narcissists and is not an accurate label.

Like for real I'm just trying to live my life and grow as a person so when I said I wasn't going to play narcissist's games with people who would rather waste time clowning around trying to "win" rather than also being mature and responsible and growing as people, I meant it. I don't need to dig for receipts, I never had any desire to use them, but even if I did they've not been made hard to access. I do not want to be involved in nonsense and if this were truly a game that I was forced into, I would quit.

If I am forced to continue playing a game which should have never been started, I will release what I have and the outcome will be brutal. Quit while you're ahead. I know it's virtually impossible for me to win a narcissist's game, but I absolutely know how to make everyone lose. Do not force my hand.

[gothhabiba]

What makes most "uninhabited wilderness narratives" more similar to like. The European settlement of the Americas than the Polynesian exploration of islands. Like I also get that vibe but I can't form a coherent ideological reason and you seem like maybe you could put it to words.

You’re getting it backwards if you think that the criticism of the “terra nullius” narrative consists of “it’s unethical to go to, poke around, or settle a place that was actually previously uninhabited by human beings.”

Rather, "terra nullius" is a set of concepts and frameworks created and disseminated by Europeans over the course of European settler-colonisation. It consists, roughly, of ideas about land (it is inactive, to-be-acted-upon, eternally stagnant if not acted upon; it must be 'worked' and this work is backbreaking, unpleasant, and a moral and religious duty; 'working' the land completely transforms it; the land is valuable and ownable insofar as it is worked and transformed; land can be bought, sold, and traded)—

—ideas about exploration (another way to act upon land, which is to-be-acted-upon, is by 'exploring' it; 'exploring' land, naming it, mapping it, viewing it from above, even painting landscapes of it. are activities that give you authority and ownership over the land; 'exploration' produces knowledge about land, which only Europeans can produce and disseminate)—

—and ideas about Indigenous peoples (they have not 'worked' the land or claimed ownership in a way we recognise; thus they have no control, authority, or ownership of the land; because of this they are the land, part of the flora, fauna, and landscape to be explored, mapped out [as in linguistics and anthropology], controlled, moved, worked [read: enslaved], and killed; and, crucially, in a final move, once they have been moved or killed, they were never here in the first place).

These ideas arose variously in European scientific, literary, religious, legal, and literary discourses; in sermons, in travel narratives, in paintings, in memoirs and folk stories written by settler-colonists and sailors and traders. They arose partly as a development of things that had already been happening in Europe in the transition to capitalism (enclosure and other forms of primitive accumulation that rendered once-public resources, including land, private property), and partly as a response to the fact that this land was not empty of human life.

Plainly, there were people in the Americas, in Oceania. In fact, they had altered the land in various ways. The scientific and anthropologic majority, at least in Europe from the 17th to the 19th centuries, even held that they were descended from the same stock as Europeans were (though there was debate on that score). Nevertheless, there were resources and money and land (among other things) to be gained through colonisation and genocide.

The idea that these lands, then, were terrae nullius, empty lands, arose as justification for said settling and genocide. There were never people here, and if there were, then they didn't really have the right to be here; they didn't claim the land in ways that Europeans or their descendents legally recognised (in other words, Europeans created property laws on purpose in such a way to deny Indigenous peoples property rights); perhaps they didn't work the land because they were inherently lazy, or promiscuous, or gluttonous, or savage, and that's how a legal discourse becomes a 'racial' one.

So the answer to your question is basically: because Europeans are the ones who wrote "uninhabited wilderness narratives." Because (the peoples who would become) Polynesians in 3000 BC did not invent a bunch of related popular, religious, scientific, legal, and literary discourses in order to deny or justify the fact that they were enslaving, driving off, or slaughtering millions of human beings, this just has nothing to do with them.

[starrycomics]

Reading Batman #138 has just confirmed for me that one of the main themes of Zdarksy's run is the line Bruce's loved ones (particularly the Robins) walk between Family and Soldier, and his struggle to separate the two

It's shown pretty plainly from Zdarksy's first Batman comic where Tim gets shot in the throat. In the heat of the moment, Bruce cradles Tim in his arms and calls him 'son', prioritising Tim's safety over evacuating civilians

But then in the car a couple of pages later, you get these amazingly horrific panels showing Bruce de-costuming Jason and Tim's bodies, referring to them as 'soldiers’

At this point I read his soldier description as almost sarcastically bitter - he clearly hates that ‘the mission' drives him to treat his sons like impersonal soldiers, but he does it anyway

And this is something Tim completely goes along with - Bruce doesn't even visit him in hospital, but he's back out soon after with a bandage still on his neck. When he's back in the field he has an argument with Batman that with hindsight feels like an obvious set up for Gotham War

Bruce questions Tim's judgement and berates him for something he did in the field, while Tim says that Batman can't control him

Bruce is, at this point in the story, pre-Zur, and obviously doing this from a place of concern for his son rather than as something more coldly militaristic, but it's still the same type of justification Zur will later use during his fight with the rest of the Bats

Batman #138 is when this turns on his head, when he becomes more drill sergeant than concerned father, where having a son in place of a soldier is a hindrance rather than a gift

And that’s the whole point of Gotham War - a lot of people have been bogged down debating the logic of Selina’s plan, when it was really no more than a MacGuffin to put the Bats’ fault lines on show and illustrate the strain of being a father to your soldiers

And if you’re viewing this with a completely cold, mission-first mentality, then Bruce-as-Zur is kind of right - he’s allowing the rest of the Bats, his soldiers, to essentially mutiny against him because he’s tied to them by his love. Obviously that’s a good thing, he absolutely should care about his children like that, but it objectively makes him weaker

Tying back to Tim getting shot - the most fatherly thing to do in that situation would be to damn their identities, prioritise Tim’s well-being and take him straight into hospital without wasting time with his uniform. That would ruin him as Batman, but it’s still something he considers out of love for his son. Throughout his run and especially in Gotham War, Zdarsky is putting that love to the test and exploring what’s more important to Bruce, justice or family

I could say a lot more about Bruce’s role as a parent (personally, while I do think he can be fatherly, there is something inherently unethical about sending your children to war - him and Batwoman’s dad have a lot in common in that regard imo)

Mostly I just love the fact that Zdarksy’s exploring the complex dynamics between Bruce and his Robins, and I can’t wait to see where he takes it

[getvalentined]

I've never done a full breakdown of everything that happened to my version of Vincent while he was under the knife (although there is a partial breakdown from like 12 years ago on Ask Vincent Valentine), but @spinejackel tagged my recent Vincent doodle gushing about autopsy scar (Vincent Has a Y-Incision headcanon supremacy!) so I figured it was probably a good time. This is also probably the best method, since I can apply the right tags and trigger warnings to hopefully keep it from hitting the people who would be disturbed.

For anyone who doesn't know, figuring out the fucked up physiology of victims of science is like my entire jam. I think this is what happens when you let a chronically ill child watch Akira and the original Bubblegum Crisis OVA and most of the works of Masamune Shirow. All that before FF7 even existed. This means that the explanation under the cut may seem excessive, and this post is very long. I've been building it over over a quarter century, I don't think there's any avoiding it at this point.

Warnings for body horror, nonconsensual body modification, medical horror and torture. Basically, if there's anything you can think of related to becoming a victim of science under the rule of an unethical sci-fantasy oligarchy, it's probably in here to some degree. It's explained plainly and simply, in clinical but not visceral detail.

My headcanons for what Hojo did to Vincent are pretty specific, albeit not precisely comprehensive; 27 years later I still don't really have a particularly solid concept for how he turned Vincent into a shapeshifter, although at least we know it's not something entirely specific to Vincent—Hojo repeated that facet of the experiment in Azul, but not in any other SOLDIER operative even in DeepGround, implying that it's only possible if very specific physiological conditions are met. The minimal concept I do have involves a twisted application of the concept of incarnate summoning as it appears in FFXIII-2, but it's very vague and also not the topic of this post. Maybe later.

Regarding the Y-incision/autopsy scar, my headcanon is that once Hojo tweaked Vincent into being able to regenerate from any injury—an enhancement that is confirmed to be entirely Hojo's work in Dirge—the professor of course felt it necessary to run various tests quantify the usefulness of his handiwork. He did this first by inflicting various surface injuries, then by causing more extreme bodily trauma, which eventually culminated in Hojo removing the majority of Vincent's internal organs in order to measure how long it took them to grow back and, assuming they did grow back, how the new ones compared to Vincent's original parts.

To be able to observe this as closely as possible, Hojo kept Vincent's torso open for the entire process—which he repeated twice more in order to check the weight, size and structure of the newly-grown organs in comparison to the originals. This study proved that most of them did grow back, but the majority of them stopped developing much earlier than was appropriate for Vincent's age and size. The difference was consistent, Hojo just never figured out why most of them grew back smaller and less-developed.

The reason this happened is based the fact that most of the organs in the human trunk are used in digestion and other related processes, and Vincent's regeneration means he doesn't need to eat or drink anymore. His body only expended as much energy as was completely necessary to develop those organs to the point of being functional rather than normal, because they're not really necessary. Vincent is glad he still has them, though, because he does still occasionally eat (usually in social situations) and also he'd be really sad if he couldn't even have coffee.

Vincent's brain activity remained normal during the entire process, although that may have something to do with Hojo driving a bunch of fluid lines into his head and flooding the inside of his skull with mako to keep him awake the whole time even while deprived of oxygen. (Rebirth spoilers, but seeing the bit in the Nibelheim Protorelic questline where Hojo does something super similar to this, after this has been my headcanon for decades, was a trip.)

Two organs didn't grow back at all: Vincent's appendix and one kidney. This was also the result of efficient energy expenditure, as the human appendix isn't necessary for survival, and only one kidney is really required. (Each time Hojo removed the new kidney, the one that grew back would be on the opposite side, which bothered Hojo to no end.)

His lungs grew back a little larger, possibly because his skeletal structure never quite recovered after his first transformation into Galian—his arms and legs are noticeably too long for his body, although not to the point of looking impossible, and likewise his ribcage settled to breadth that would allow for larger lungs. He doesn't really need these anymore either, related to his brain being exposed to so much mako during the process that it can now operate without oxygen if necessary, but switching himself over from aerobic to anaerobic respiration is really unpleasant and Vincent tries to avoid it when he can.

His heart was pretty normal by the time Hojo was done with him, although his heartrate had dropped to like 20bpm even when elevated. Again, if respiration isn't necessary, there's not much reason for the system to be active. (By the time Lucrecia was done this had dropped to around 5bpm on average, although it's completely arrhythmic and jumps all over the place when he's not either particularly active or on the verge of a transformation.)

This was the experiment that left Vincent susceptible to degradation, which Hojo didn't realize until after finally closing him back up. Upon realizing that Vincent's body wasn't responding properly to a different test (a repetition of an earlier experiment related to the regeneration of external tissues and features), Hojo just kinda threw him in a tube to be disposed of at a later date, kinda like that scene in Arrested Development where there's that dead dove in a bag in the fridge. The incision healed at some point during the period that Lucrecia was working on him, but early enough in her work that the tissue couldn't flawlessly regenerate (like it does in the present), leaving him with one more gnarly scar on top of all the rest.

Vincent is self-conscious about all the physiological changes brought on by what was done to him, often to the point of loathing. His left arm is the worst—it rotted off while he was in the throes of degradation and grew back as something that he hesitates to call his arm—but Vincent hates that Y-incision scar almost as much. Some days they tie.

(It has come up in appropriately horrified conversation with Shalua that, considering how his regeneration works, Vincent could probably get rid of all the scars on his chest if he somehow peeled the skin off his torso in a single swath. He will not be doing that. Besides, it might grow back the wrong color/texture/etc, like his left arm. Not worth the risk, much less the suffering.)

Also I gotta finish off this entry with the extremely stupid headcanon reveal that Vincent's (honestly fairly impressive) dick was cut off during the first round of bodily trauma regeneration tests—and Hojo has never felt the sort of rage he experienced upon discovering that it grew back bigger than before. This occurred early enough in the experiments that Vincent was not awake for it, and thus has no idea how the fuck this happened, and does not want to talk about it ever thank you very much. I've never mentioned it in public anywhere because it is extremely stupid, but I hope someone out there finds it as funny a concept as I do.

[eoieopda]

FORCE QUIT // EPISODE II: THE PROFESSOR

until now, hyunjin's never met a problem that subterfuge and violence couldn't solve.

pairing: hwang hyunjin x reader | series masterlist (2/4) | prev. episode | next episode series summary: it's 2077, and life's a fucking nightmare. corporate titans ate the state and shat it back out, leaving citizens of the new republic to fall in line or fall to their knees. a reckoning is coming — where will you fall? au: series — dystopian, cyberpunk; episode — secret relationship, star-crossed lovers ➢insp. by: cyberpunk 2077 + the true lives of the fabulous killjoys genre: angst + smut word count: 10.6k rating: 18+ — minors do not have my consent to interact. series warnings: violence (hand-to-hand, firearms, explosives), depictions of injuries (blood/bruising/burns), some characters have cybernetic modifications, class conflict + poverty, surprise - corporations are bad!, unethical medical/tech experimentation, self-indulgent references to non-skz idols, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns. episode: above + recon!hyunjin, corporate defector!reader, hyunjin’s pov, minor time skips, reader has had cybernetic modifications (similar to plastic surgery + prosthesis) to change her appearance, reader’s current and prior hair/eye colors are described but they’re artificial(!!), reader is a fugitive, reader is smaller than hyunjin and can be/is lifted by him, hyunjin is a Charmer™️, shower sex, brief nipple play + fingering, implied unprotected p in v penetration. a/n 1: each episode features a different member x reader pairing, but the plot is linear, so you'd need to read them (in order) to get the full picture! you can sign up for the taglist to be notified of the next uploads. thank you to my beloved @sailoryooons for beta'ing this and @jihopesjoint for being my emotional support internet wife even though she doesn't stan skz. ily both endlessly! a/n 2: the smut isn’t long or particularly explicit because the plot is more important, sorry!

One of Hyunjin’s earliest memories is of his halmoni looking him dead in the face and calling him a phantom. 

Cruel as it may have been, the superstition was justified. Even as a kid, Hyunjin existed in blind spots, floating through walls and picking up on all the whispers he was never supposed to hear. Never seen or spoken to, he was ever-present, nonetheless; and worse than that, he was seemingly omniscient, too. 

Who the fuck wouldn’t be afraid of him?

Funnily enough, his halmoni is now the one haunting him. Careening into his late twenties, Hyunjin can still hear the slight rasp of her voice echoing in his ears, reminding him that he’s still stuck beyond some fucking veil. He may have the same beating heart and a pair of operable lungs he’s always had, but biology doesn’t change the facts.

For all intents and purposes, Hwang Hyunjin is a ghost.

As is usually the case, Hyunjin stands unnoticed in the doorway of the Hub with his expectant arms crossed. His gaze alternates between the face of his watch and that of Bang Chan, who sits completely unaware at his desk on the opposite side of the room. This game is one that Hyunjin’s been playing for years now, as sad as that is.

How long can he exist in plain sight without anybody plainly seeing him?

At least twelve minutes and seven seconds, according to his watch. 

In all the time that his reconnaissance man’s been standing there, anticipating a reason for being summoned in the first place, Chan hasn’t looked up once. Whatever he’s preoccupied with involves furiously typing away at the screen in front of him and continuing to ignore the untouched coffee near his elbow. Like this meeting, that room-temperature Americano seems to be on the list of things Chan can’t find space for in his short-term memory. 

It’s for the best, really. 

Chan’s stress is baked into his hunched posture, and it’s so palpable that Hyunjin can feel it from the doorway. Adding caffeine to his system now may make him implode, setting off some cataclysm that can’t be stopped. That’s not a loss the Black Screen is capable of surviving, now or ever. And frankly, Hyunjin is maxed out on hauntings as it is.

Speaking of…

He glances down at his watch again, confirming that two more minutes have slipped by in silence. Though he’d love to see an organic end to his game, Hyunjin doesn’t have all night. With a forlorn sigh, he frowns and quips, “Maybe I should wear a bell.”

The Black Screen’s de facto leader all but jumps out of his skin, which is a reaction Hyunjin may never get tired of. There are a million practical benefits to his incomparable stealth, but this is far and away the best of them: scaring the piss out of people simply because he can.

To his credit, Chan doesn’t get angry the way most people do when they’re caught off-guard. His panic leaves him quickly, giving way to the patient smile he always manages to find. That expression is a wonder, as far as Hyunjin is concerned, given the massive burden Chan has undertaken at such a young age. It’s the sort of demeanor that Hyunjin’s only ever seen on overworked single fathers and, in a way, Chan is. 

Except instead of adoring kids, he’s got a battalion of strays with a collective death wish, a severe caffeine dependency, and prematurely grey hairs popping up at his temples.

Pity.

“That’d kind of defeat the point, wouldn’t it?” Chan rubs his hand sheepishly over the nape of his neck to cover his embarrassment. As he does, he chuckles, “You’re an asset because you’re so fucking difficult to keep track of.”

Hyunjin appreciates the acknowledgment — he is an asset — but he’s never been good at accepting praise, so he merely shrugs and removes his frame from the door’s.

Crossing now to the disaster Chan calls a workspace, Hyunjin can’t help but marvel at the changes the room has undergone in just a few short years. It’s still hideous, having been a foreman’s office in a past life, but their low-rent war room is finally starting to live up to its name. 

The Hub.

Mitochondria of their haphazard little cell.

Along the southernmost wall, the hastily boarded-up windows have since been formally blown out and built over by people actually qualified to handle the task — not by teenage anarchists wielding hammers, as was the case with the first attempt. In their place, various monitors take up the bulk of the surface area. Each one emits enough light to make the overhead fluorescents redundant, leaving them to go unused.

Hyunjin has to smother a laugh every time he glances between the two corners of that wall. One contains a station so immaculate that it feels illegal to glance at it with an unclear head. A fucking miracle, considering that it belongs to the most scatter-brained netrunner he’s ever met. Her various gadgets are meticulously stored and labeled, nary a wire out of place. 

Maybe, he thinks, Spider is compensating for all that internal chaos with external organization. 

The polar opposite occupies the other corner: Bang Chan’s stable mind and the goddamn mess of everything that feeds it. A fucking disaster belonging to the one person best equipped to prevent them.

If Hyunjin didn’t know to expect him there, he wouldn’t have seen Chan’s head peeking out from the certifiable mountain range of files. Schematics, dossiers, and maps clutter every surface to a suffocating degree, and yet there sits Chan, still breathing. Still typing away, as if the conversation they just had has already been deleted from his brain.

“You the only one keeping office hours these days?” Hyunjin wonders, gesturing vaguely to the quiet that threatens to swallow them.

Bang Chan’s scoff is the only indication Hyunjin gets that he was heard at all. It’s enough for him; the sound seems twice as loud without the others around to drown it out. To fill the void, he hums to himself, biding his time until he gets what he came for.

Wandering aimlessly around the room, his eyes trail over what little scenery he has left to take in — what would’ve constituted work stations, if the people they belonged to cared to use them. 

Next to Spider’s vast assortment of equipment sits Minho’s desk, although the only thing on said desk are his knife-carved initials, an empty bottle of soju, and a broken pair of brass knuckles. Directly across from his anarchy, there used to be stations for the Black Screens’ weapon-smith, Seungmin, and mechanic, Jeongin — but both scrapped their respective shit for spare parts, to no one’s surprise. The only hint of their former presence there is carpeting that’s been ripped to shit and a few screws, too stripped to be of any use.

Hyunjin picks up one of them as he passes, firing it off with his non-dominant hand towards the trash can several meters away. It lands with a thunk against the existing garbage. He glances again at Chan, who has swapped out typing for massaging his temples. As usual, Hyunjin’s scores go unseen.

“Been at it long?” Hyunjin asks. 

Chan actually looks up at him this time, blinking slowly while his brain catches up to the conversation. 

“That eye strain doesn’t normally hit you until the six-hour mark.”

Chan nods. There’s a small smile on his lips that looks appreciative —  like he’s grateful to be known so well. He gestures to the table at the center of the room and says, “Almost finished, man. You can sit if you want to.”

Table is a bit of a reach, Hyunjin thinks as he approaches it. That Formica monstrosity is held together by duct tape and sheer force of will. It’ll buckle if anyone around it blinks too forcefully. 

Despite how truly heinous it is, he has a soft spot for everything that broken piece of furniture represents: all-nighters spent huddled over plans to un-fuck a state they had no part in destroying, long-forgotten family meals — at tables far nicer than this — sacrificed for a calling that beckoned them to leave home and never look back. 

His own bed may be a stranger to him, but there’s a permanent imprint of his ass in his designated folding chair. It’s likely the closest thing to a home that he’ll ever know. When he lowers himself into it now, it groans under his weight despite him not weighing much at all. His arms cross nonchalantly and his legs do, too. 

If he’s going to keep waiting, he’s going to be comfortable.

And he does wait.

And waits, and waits, and waits —

“Sorry about that,” Chan states abruptly, several minutes later. 

Unlike Chan, Hyunjin isn’t easily surprised. He doesn’t flinch at the sudden sound of Chan’s voice. He waves dismissively instead, knowing full well that the leader wouldn’t waste his time on purpose. With a quick nod towards the chair at the head of the table, he invites Chan to join him; but Chan shakes his head, opting to stand nearby as he stretches his arms overhead. 

Yawning through his words, he attempts to explain, “Been sitting all fucking day. My back is killing me.”

“Did you eat?” Hyunjin asks, catching the eldest off-guard once again. 

The only response he gets is a grimace, so he reaches into the pocket of his jacket for the dalgona he managed to get his hands on. It only breaks his heart a little bit to toss it over to Chan, who lights up like a roman candle the second he sees it.

It’s always the little reminders of home that hit the hardest, isn’t it?

Chan rips open the packet the moment he catches it and freezes when the plastic wrapping no longer obstructs his view. There’s no humor to be found in his dry laugh, and Hyunjin understands why that is as soon as Chan holds up the snack. Dead center, there’s an outline of an umbrella pressed into the toffee. 

“Speaking of Ulsan…” Chan sighs, all joy extinguished. Snapping it clean in half, he tosses a portion back to Hyunjin, who’s eager to sink his teeth into it for more reasons than one. Through his own mouthful, Chan mumbles, “Have you picked up any intel on this trial they’re running? I can’t even find a name —”

Hyunjin interrupts with a nod. “The Bliss Beta.”

His tone is casual because this shit is old news by now. More than that, he doesn’t want Chan to burn energy he doesn’t have on a spiral he doesn’t need to make. Someday, people will finally realize that Hyunjin is ten steps ahead of them. 

Today, unfortunately, is not that day.

Chan simply gawks at him.

“I swung by Scraps’ apartment building last week to grab her shit, and I heard some drunks talking about it on the sidewalk outside,” Hyunjin states with a shrug. “I nicked a flier from one of their pockets on my way back here.”

“You know, you could’ve just talked to them,” Chan frowns disapprovingly. “You catch more flies with honey, or whatever.”

Leave it to Bang Chan to whine about prosocial behavior when he’s barely left the factory at any point in the ten years they’ve been holed up inside it. 

Effectively a recluse, the only two people he’s spoken to outside of the Black Screen — Felix, a decade ago, and Changbin, most recently — were mere seconds away from joining up. And if that isn’t enough to disqualify his hot take, Hyunjin would like to note for the record that Chan founded — and actively leads — what’s been deemed a “terrorist organization” by the general public. 

That has fuck all to do with honey — just subterfuge, violence, and a dream.

Hyunjin rolls his eyes but keeps the bulk of his exasperation to himself. After all, calling Chan a hypocrite won’t make him get to the point any faster. 

“Eavesdropping got me nowhere. I’m not sure what I could’ve possibly gained from inhaling that liquor off their breath beyond a drunk and disorderly of my own.” 

Before Chan can get a word in, Hyunjin continues his report. 

“They’re marketing this beta exclusively in low-income neighborhoods, but there’s no indication of what these people are signing up for — only the amount of cash they’ll get if they consent to participate in the R&D.”

“So, we still don’t know what we’re dealing with,” Chan mutters dejectedly. 

He stares off to the side as the gears in his brain turn; however, he doesn’t stay stuck for long. In a matter of moments, he begins to pace the length of the table, getting more worked up with every step. “Spider said their tech is a brick wall. It’s going to take a while for her to break through, if she even can.”

Hyunjin means it, so he says it with his whole chest: “She can.”

In the time he’s known her, Spider hasn’t met a code she can’t break. No person has ever been successful in keeping her out — up to and including Lee Minho, who has a cement-lined sarcophagus where his heart should be. If she doesn’t find a crack to slip through, she’ll fucking make one. She always does.

Trust like this is hard to come by in the life they’ve all chosen, but she’s earned Hyunjin’s. 

She deserves Chan’s, too.

Brow furrowed, Chan looks back at Hyunjin. There’s something in his expression that he’s attempting to keep to himself — something he’s not allowing himself to say. Whatever he’s withholding, the fact that he’s concealing anything makes the hair on the back of Hyunjin’s neck stand up. A long, tense pause fills the space between them. 

Hyunjin knows it’s hypocritical, getting frustrated by someone else’s refusal to open up. Someone who plays everything close to the chest shouldn’t be allowed to hate it when others do the same around him; but he does, and he’s seconds away from demanding that Chan spit it out already.

Chan must see it coming, so he intervenes to keep the younger man’s annoyance from boiling over. Gently lowering the temperature, he asks, “Hyunjin, do you have any contacts on the inside?”

The fact that Chan’s asking at all tells Hyunjin that the answer is already known. 

Still, the head of reconnaissance looks his leader dead in the eye and responds flatly, without hesitation.

“No.”

Hyunjin is only ever able to make his way to you in the dead of night. 

Though the location frequently changes, the preparation never does. He lays awake until he knows for sure that the rest of the compound is down for the night. When all he hears is snoring, he drags himself out of the bed he can never seem to sleep in. 

Once he’s on his feet, whatever he’s wearing is quickly replaced with something that won’t stick out: nondescript black clothing, shoes with the tread and size label worn down beyond recognition, hood up, mask on.

You once joked that he looked like a jewel thief, all shrouded in darkness, and you were sort of right. Unfortunately for Hyunjin, there’s a fatal flaw in that comparison. He has to leave his prize behind every single time, doomed to return home empty-handed.

Tonight won’t be any different.

The front door rattles too loudly for his liking, creates a risk of questions being asked that he doesn’t want to answer, so Hyunjin utilizes the fire escape that abuts the westernmost wall of the factory. The late October air has left the metal rungs of that ladder so cold that they circle back to burning, but it doesn’t slow him down. Nothing ever does when it comes to you. 

If anything, the pain drives him to pick up the pace. Him and his stinging palms make short work of the obstacle. Just as quickly, he hits the ground running towards the freestanding garage that sits to the east of the factory. Once he reaches it, panting slightly, he sets to work, going through the same old motions.

It doesn’t take long for Hyunjin to swap out his motorcycle’s license plate. He’s done it so many times by now that the task no longer requires conscious thought; just muscle memory and the desperation he feels to move as quickly as possible in order to reach you faster. The old plate hits the floor with a clang that’s still ringing out when he finishes affixing the new series of numbers to the back of his bike.

All these precautions are tedious bullshit, but failing to go through the motions is a surefire way to get the attention of private police. Simply put, Hyunjin doesn’t have the spare energy it would take to kill and bury whichever poor fucker attempts to cite him; nor does he have the heart to keep you waiting even longer than you have been.

Fuck. 

How long has it been?

Suddenly rushing, he slings one, lean leg over the side of his bike and grabs the handlebars.

Too long.

The terrain is a thousand times harder to navigate in the dark, all divots and ditches along the winding side roads. Still, the threat of losing control of his ride is far less severe than that of betraying the compound’s location; or worse, the Black Screen’s presence anywhere, at all.

So, like always, Hyunjin stomachs the barely-sufferable thrashing and keeps the headlamp off until he makes it to the main road. Even then, he flies a kilometer or so into pitch black before he feels comfortable enough to light the way.

He doesn’t know how many kilometers he’s driven in total just to keep you, but if he had to guess, he’s cracked quadruple digits.

Worth it.

You can’t stay in one place for long enough to put down roots. The time you do stay put varies, never following a pattern. Daegu for eight weeks, then to Anyang for three, Namyangju for five…

Busan, he thinks to himself as he reaches the expressway. 

Busan was the last place he held you, a month or so ago. Some shitty little apartment near the docks, where the ceiling leaked over your bed and made a fucking mess of things. Nothing could be done to fix it without calling too much attention to you, but it didn’t matter; he fucked you on the living room floor, and you slept like a baby against his chest, bed be damned.

He hasn’t felt rested since.

The drive from Changwon to Busan takes thirty-five minutes, if Hyunjin recalls correctly — he always does — and it burns him up to know that the trip would take half that time if he could drive as fast as his heart races. 

But he can’t. 

He won’t, not when a traffic stop could ruin both your lives. It feels like crawling, abiding by limits. 

And fuck, he’s sick to death of those.

As he drives, the rubble eventually gives way to a proper cityscape. The neon signs of Busan bleed out into the dark, so hazy in the smog that the words themselves are lost. It’s only color — sharp reds and blues — not substance that offsets the inky black. The massive buildings that those signs are affixed to stab upwards into the sky until their tops disappear, like they don’t ever stop at all. 

Still, despite the seemingly endless interiors around him, Hyunjin sees houseless people everywhere he looks. It’d be more comfortable to look away as he winds down side streets to your last known location, but he doesn’t. Even though he has nothing else to give them, he can spare the courtesy of acknowledging that they exist. 

Nobody else does.

Every time he raises a hand off the handlebars to wave at someone, they wave right back. Just for a second, he forgets that the city isn’t always unkind. It’s a feeling he’d bottle if he could, the little glimmer of hope.

When Hyunjin reaches the docks, he parks his bike behind a boat house and heads on foot from there. Up the sidewalk, around the block to the back entrance to your apartment. The rational half of his brain knows you won’t still be there; the lovesick half doesn’t care. It signals his heart to beat faster with every step, damn close to breaking through his chest when he picks the lock and pushes the door open.

The four flights of stairs between him and your place are taken two steps at a time, not only due to his eagerness but the shitty construction. Even the steps he deems safe enough to touch creak beneath his weight, like they’re screaming at him for the intrusion. He ignores it, and soon enough, he’s outside your door.

This time, Hyunjin doesn’t need to pick the lock. Your door is open. Everything that used to be behind it is gone.

He presses his palm against the center of his chest, glances down, and mutters, “Told you so.”

With you and your few earthly possessions absent, he’s left to a scavenger hunt — finding some hint of where you’ve gone next. You’re far more creative than he is, which makes this part even harder. 

As bitter as the necessity makes him, he’s thankful for the amount of times he’s had to do it. Practice has made him the tiniest bit smarter. Now, he spots the empty bottle sitting on a windowsill, and he doesn’t immediately assume that it’s trash. 

Hyunjin jogs over to it and picks it up, grinning instantly. 

“Gyeongju beopju,” he murmurs as reads the label aloud. Then, knowing full fucking well that you can’t hear him, he says it anyway, “You beautiful genius.”

Only one question remains, and it’s the hardest one to solve: where in Gyeongju?

For good reason, you can’t leave an address floating around. That fact doesn’t appease the frustration creeping up from his stomach, transforming into a groan on its way out of his mouth. With an exasperated breath, he lets his hand drop, though he maintains his grip on the bottle. It’s damn near inaudible, but there’s a muffled sound within it as it jostles in his grip.

The fuck?

Seeing no other option, Hyunjin screws off the cap. On the inner part of that metal, he finds a strip of double-sided tape and nothing else; whatever you stuck to it must’ve been shaken loose. 

Beautiful, perfect genius. 

He tilts the bottle upside down with his free hand ready to catch what falls: a ripped-up piece of paper, rolled up like a scroll. There, written in your neat script, is a lead — 8793 & 2441, which he assumes designates the street address and apartment number. Directly below those, you’ve written “red”, which he doesn’t know what the fuck to make of.

One way or another, he’ll figure it out.

The race to Gyeongju swallowed another hour of his time. Midway through the second leg of his never-ending journey, the sky opened up. Rain came down in sheets so strong that he almost gave up, which isn’t a decision he would’ve made lightly. He didn’t — thank god — because the downpour started to peter out around the time he crossed the city limits.

Now, idling off to the side of the road in the city’s center, he’s soaked and thoroughly chilled to the bone, but at least he can see. 

Capitalizing on his newly unobstructed vision, Hyunjin fishes his mobile out from the zippered pocket of his jacket. The leather glove adorning his right hand is shoved back into that empty space. He rapidly thumbs through applications, eyes scanning just as fast until he locates the navigation. To avoid any unwanted attention, he keeps the screen confined to the glass, rather than projecting it into the space in front of him.

A quick search through the city’s most recent map gives him three locations with “8793” as the street number. One possibility is ruled out immediately when he zooms in on the satellite image and finds a vacant lot. The two remaining results both appear to be high-rise apartment buildings, both of which could be this month’s pit stop. Notably, neither building is red, nor does the color feature in either of the street names.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself. 

Once again, he swaps his mobile and glove, then hastily stuffs his fingers back into the latter. With a sigh, he sinks back down onto his bike and makes to leave for the nearest of the two possibilities. It’s not until he reaches the intersection that the realization hits him.

You live your life on the outskirts. 

There’s simply no way that you’d pick a place so close to downtown.

Disregarding the blaring horns and shouted obscenities, he makes an illegal turn to reposition himself on the opposite side of the road. It’s for the best that no one he cut off can hear him laughing over the roar of his engine. All their rage is drowned out by the screech of his tires as he peels the fuck out of there.

Five more minutes slip away while he speeds off to the northeast side of town. Thankfully, when he locates what he presumes is your building, your final hint begins to make some fucking sense. 

Around the block sits a bar with boarded up windows, tiny fragments of glass still littering the sidewalk where a break-in must’ve occurred at some point in the recent past. On a hunch, Hyunjin looks up at the street lights framing the exterior of The Red Door. His suspicion is confirmed immediately.

The CCTV cameras covering the area were smashed to shit, along with the bar’s windows.

You were giving him a safe place to park. Damn near throwing his bike down in the process, he stumbles off to your building, muttering as he goes, “Beautiful, perfect, considerate genius.”

Hyunjin ages forty years in the time it takes the elevator to drag him up to the twenty-fourth floor. 

When he finally steps out and the doors close again behind him, force of habit checks for any people or cameras that may have eyes on him. Finding none, he whirls back around to face the closed, metal doors behind him. Frozen fingers tug at the black, cloth mask that sits over his mouth and nose until his face is fully visible. 

It’s reckless and melodramatic — he’ll openly admit to being both of those things — but he needs to see it to believe that he still looks as young as he did when he entered the car in the first place. Oh, thank god. Drenched and windswept as he may be, he finds some amount of solace in the absence of wrinkles.

With the mask secured again over his features, he heads off in the direction of apartment 2441, praying to anyone listening that he didn’t fuck this all up along the way. His brain can’t hold a candle to yours; and this certainly wouldn’t be the first time that he got so caught up in thinking like you that he missed the mark completely.

After wandering down a hallway far fucking longer than it seems, he reaches the door he’s been seeking. Despite the anxious fluttering in his stomach, Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate; he immediately lifts his arm to grab hold of the knob. It pulls away before he can even wrap his hand around it, leaving him frozen on the doorstep with his pulse hammering in his ears.

Transfixed, he watches the splinter of light on the floor grow wider until his curiosity wins out. A quick glance upward reveals an occupant he’s never laid eyes on before, but he doesn’t have the opportunity to study them fully. Through the narrow gap, fingers far warmer than his own encircle his wrist and pull him through the opening. Behind him, the door closes again so quietly that his stumbling drowns out the sound.

Opting to ignore his surroundings for the time being, Hyunjin tilts his head curiously to the side and stares straight ahead. No matter how many times his gaze sweeps over the person in front of him, he finds absolutely nothing familiar. 

Not the irises, not the hair, not even the bone structure.

He arches an eyebrow. “Impressive timing, opening the door before anyone even knocks.”

“Were you planning on knocking?” His expression is reflected right back at him. “Since when is that a thing you do?”

Grinning wolfishly, he turns his wrist to capture the hand still holding onto him. All it takes is a gentle tug to eliminate the distance. As if it’s a reflex, two hands reach up to the mask obscuring the lower half of his face, carefully ushering the fabric down until it pools around his neck.

“How’d you know it was me?” He asks, genuinely curious. 

Nobody manages to notice him when he’s standing in the same room, let alone through a door with no peephole. His measured steps never make a sound, either, which makes it all the more insane that his presence was sensed before he intentionally gave himself away.

Arms loop around his neck and pull him closer as feet push up on tiptoe. 

“I could ask you the same question.”

Hyunjin’s answer — that he would know you anywhere, that he could find you in the dark with touch alone — is eerily close to the one he receives.

“A sixth sense,” you chirp. 

Though everything else about you has changed since he last saw you, that voice is the common denominator. It strikes a chord deep in his chest, plucking his heartstrings masterfully in a way only you can. The sound is so much better when it’s not looping hopelessly in his head; when it slips through lips finally close enough to kiss.

So, that’s exactly what he does.

There’s no word Hyunjin can think of to describe the desperation behind his movements — at least, not in any language he’s ever heard. He lifts and you jump, and your fingers are threading through his hair with an identical, insatiable need to be closer before your body even settles fully in his arms. Like your legs around his waist, your mouth opens up for him, sighing softly into his when your lips crash together.

He can hardly catch his breath, but he doesn’t give a shit. Air in his lungs isn’t worth half as much as your tongue licking into his mouth. Gripping the soft flesh of your thighs and letting your weight warm his palms is more than enough to keep him alive. Hyunjin clings to you, and it hits him then — so forceful and sudden that it almost knocks a tear loose:

He’s not a ghost when he’s with you.

Clinging to him as closely as you are, you notice the way he shivers. Every article of clothing on him is rain-drenched and chilled to the touch; his eagerness doesn’t make him tremble any less.

You break the kiss. A concerned frown takes his place on your lips. “Cold?”

He nods, bumping the tip of his nose against yours affectionately in the process, silently begging for you to kiss him again. You lean away and leave him no choice but to frown, too, albeit much less cutely than you.

You’re quick to soothe. You glance over your right shoulder towards a hallway he can’t see the end of. When you turn your head back around to him, a coy smile lights up the dark.

“A hot shower might help,” you suggest. You tilt your head to the side, as if there’s anything either of you really need to consider here. “What do you think?”

Hyunjin thinks carrying you off towards the bathroom answers your question well enough.

With how feverishly you kiss him, he’s effectively flying blind, moving as quickly as he can while trying not to stumble. He has to keep one arm off you, extended, to prevent a collision; but he eventually reaches his destination. A measured kick opens the half-closed door far enough to move your bodies through it.

The same arm that guided him to the bathroom swipes uselessly over the wall in an attempt to find the light switch without turning his head. You seem to sense his struggle, pulling away kiss-bitten to handle the task yourself.

It’s then that Hyunjin truly gets to drink in the sight of you, radiant despite the flickering fluorescent overhead. 

It’s then that his heart truly starts hammering away in his chest, pumping so eagerly that he finds it hard to hear you say, “You need to let me go.”

He knows you’re referring to his hold on you now, which keeps you from reaching down to the shower handle. Those words sting, nonetheless.

“We’ve got a good thirty minutes’ worth of hot water.” You slip through his hands and immediately push up onto your toes to kiss him again, like you know exactly where his train of thought has gone. “Then, I’ve got a warm bed under a leak-free ceiling.”

For how long, though?

Hyunjin shakes his head to knock those thoughts out of the way. He refuses to spend another second thinking about anything else. For now, he’s here. 

He’s with you — beautiful, considerate, genius you — and you’re glancing over your shoulder at him as you check the water’s temperature on the back of your hand, smiling with your eyes alone. With a built-in fondness that never changes, even if the eyes themselves do.

“Coming?” You chirp. You flick water at him to wake him from the trance he’d fallen into while watching you.

Hyunjin raises his eyebrows quickly then drops them, eyes sweeping over your body and making you shiver on instinct. “At least once.”

You want to roll your eyes — he knows you do — but you’re too flustered. You’re always so easy to play with. So shy that you pinch your bottom lip between your teeth when you reach out to help him shrug his jacket off his shoulders. 

With a muffled thud, wet leather hits dry tile. Shirts, shoes, and all the rest of the tangible barriers between you fall by the wayside. The two of you resettle within the steam of the shower, and his hands revel in your softness the second they can. 

He kisses an apology into your bare shoulder for the shock his cold fingers press into your waist. Yours, perfectly warm, thread through his already wet hair. 

Somehow, it’s your touch that sparks a shiver.

“Missed you.” Your eyes flutter shut as his lips travel nearer to your neck. “I still do,” you amend, breathless by the time his mouth reaches your pulse point. How a heartbeat can feel like home, he’ll never know. “I’m never not missing you.”

Hyunjin’s palms follow the curves of your waist down to your hips, grip solid as he pulls you flush against his chest, kissing up the column of your neck until your head tips back. You’re in the perfect position to gaze up at him when your eyelids finally find the strength to stay open.

“Have I ever told you what I think about?” He murmurs. His hands dip further down to caress your perfect ass, massaging the flesh with both hands until he works a quiet whine out of you. “When I want you but can’t have you?”

Your pupils dilate so fast that it’s almost comical. Hyunjin lets a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He lets his eyes drift, too, so he can watch rivulets of warm water streak down your chest. Halfway to hypnotized, he speaks in a low, reverent tone:

“Think about holding you so close that I can feel your nipples start to peak.”

Experimentally, he raises his hand and flicks his thumb over one. It glides easily — slippery when wet — and you love the sensation, judging by the way you gasp.

When he moves towards you, you seem to anticipate where he’s headed next. You inch backwards until your spine rests against the shower wall, shivering slightly against the chill.

“I picture you writhing in my arms, pinned to a wall just like this one.” Left palm flat against the tile near your head, he cages you in, tilting his head down so that his forehead touches yours. “Your fingernails pressing crescents into my shoulders, your legs wrapped around me.”

You whimper, right on cue, when his right hand drops.

“Spilling all those sweet little sounds of yours right into my ear.”

The knuckle of his index finger traces a straight line down, down, down your stomach. Your breath catches in your throat because he keeps going, finds you with his fingertips, wet and wanting.

“Hyunjin,” you plead, voice barely loud enough to overpower the drum of water landing at your feet.

He ducks his head, lips now close enough to your ear that they touch while he whispers, “Will you let me?”

You gasp when Hyunjin’s middle finger begins to swirl over your clit.

“Can I show you?”

Though he’s better at hiding it than you, his ministrations have him fucked up, too. His cock hangs heavy in the minimal space between you; his whole body begs for yours and yet, when you nod, he limits himself to one digit. Your arousal coats that finger like gloss in the second before it slips inside of you.

You’re boneless, but you manage to wobble off from the bathroom towards your bedroom, nonetheless. As you do, you pull your half-damp hair up into a crooked knot at the top of your head, unintentionally leaving tendrils behind. They cling to the wetness of your shoulders, not budging a millimeter despite your movement.

Hyunjin pads along behind you, and he can’t help but smirk. You clung to his shoulders the exact same way, only letting go when the hot water and your shaking legs gave out simultaneously. 

Like you can sense his smugness, you look back at him. You don’t call him out the way he expects. Instead, you smile sheepishly. “It’s bleeding, isn’t it?”

His eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “It’s what?” Frantically, his wide eyes dart across your exposed skin for some injury he must’ve missed. Something he must’ve caused. There are old scars, sure, but nothing fresh to tip him off. “Is what — ?”

“The dye!” You amend quickly, gesturing over your shoulder. 

This clears up his panic but not his confusion. 

Chuckling softly, you turn back around with a shake of your head and continue your steps towards the dresser at the far side of your room. Your explanation continues as you go. 

There’s no condescension in your expression or tone  — there never is — but Hyunjin thinks it’d be warranted. You know more than he could ever hope to about a million different things, all of which he’d willingly pay tuition costs to learn about.

It’s simple, it’s sweet, and it’s effective. 

“Hot water opens up the cuticle of the strand and flushes the color out. Red molecules don’t penetrate as deeply — they’re the biggest — so they wash out super easily, unfortunately.”

You frown again and tug open the middle drawer, mumbling about your poor white towels while you root through your limited selection of clothing.

He’s so fond of you that he really might drop dead, so he jokes his way around it, doesn’t speak the quiet part out loud.

“Shit. You spoil me, Professor.” Hyunjin whistles, genuinely impressed and only slightly devilish. The unexpected noise prompts you to look up at him again with startled eyes. “First, the shower sex, now a chemistry lesson —”

He has to cut himself off to catch the sweatpants you hurl at him. The interruption doesn’t wipe the teasing look off his face, though; and it certainly doesn’t distract from the flustered look on yours. You try like hell to hide his effect on you, but it only gets worse when he swaps out the towel hanging low on his hips for the clothes you’ve given him.

After shooting you an impish grin, Hyunjin twirls around, if only for the split second it takes him to drop himself into your bed. And fuck, just like every other time, he wonders how either of you ever manage to leave it. Here in your sheets, it’s all weightless — your joint baggage, the world’s expectations, the thousand things neither one of you can say out loud.

“Must be sore from the drive,” you hum. “Tired, too.”

Hyunjin can’t remember a time when he wasn’t.

The urge he feels to close his eyes and bury his face in pillows that smell like you is overwhelming. That familiar floral perfume of yours calms him so quickly and completely that he could fall asleep in an instant. Really, that’s exactly what he’d do if the clock wasn’t running, but it is, and he knows better than to waste the limited time he gets to spend staring up at you.

So, he just says, “I’ve never felt better,” because all of these things can be true at once.

You’re too focused to notice him watching you, but Hyunjin doesn’t mind. While you rummage around for the shorts that pair with your short-sleeved, button-up pajama top, he commits the current state of you to memory. 

It feels like a moral duty, filling up his brain with as many mental snapshots as possible. After all, this version of you will be gone the next time he sees you. You and all your iterations deserve to be remembered, even if Hyunjin is the only one alive who can do it. Unfortunately, there’s a blank space in his scrapbook. A piece of your story he’ll never be able to speak to, and it comes right at the start of it.

One of fate’s cruelest twists is that he didn’t get to meet you — the original, anyways — before your survival became contingent on reinvention. By the time he stumbled into your life, you’d already done your best to destroy all the evidence of who you used to be; burned up your past with a box of matches until no trace was left. 

And even if photos did still exist of who you used to be, it’d be too dangerous for you to possess them. For over a year now, you’ve been running from your past, hopping from city to city and modifying your appearance with every move.

As physically and mentally taxing as those procedures must be, they’re necessary. A single slip-up would cash in that price on your head. Considering the role you used to occupy, that would be a massive payout. It’s a safe assumption to make that the interest only compounds further with every day you evade them.

To Hyunjin’s knowledge, you’re the only Ulsan defector to last this long on the outside. It’s virtually impossible for ex-employees to escape at all with their memories still intact; even less likely that they’ll evade the bounty hunters that come next. After that, it’s only a matter of time — not if, but when they’re discovered — until Ulsan’s retention team comes calling. Their luck runs out then, if they ever had any to begin with. 

Worse, their subsequent deaths aren’t even a blip on the general public’s radar.

Absolutely nobody bats a fucking eye at deaths by “natural causes”. And thanks to iron-clad non-disclosure agreements, nobody knows that the trail of corpses are connected in the first place. By design, the string that ties their bodies back to a common employer is invisible.

Knowing what life would be like otherwise, most don’t even attempt to flee. Understandably, they give in to the cleanse when their employment is terminated, one way or another. They live the rest of their lives without so much of an echo of their time at Ulsan.

You’ve been slipping him intel about the corporate experience since he met you, but Hyunjin has never asked about yours. Speaking any of it out loud feels like a summoning spell. Like saying that name in the mirror three times will invite your demons in.

“I miss the blue, I think.”

Hyunjin props himself up on his elbow, frowning. You finish buttoning that soft, silk top of yours and shuffle over to join him, melting into his side the second your body slips under the comforter. 

He counters, “The red looks just as good,” and kisses the top of your head to emphasize his point. 

You wiggle enough to look up at him with your nose scrunched thoughtfully. “I thought you liked the black best.”

This time, there’s a tiny bit of crookedness in the bridge of your nose like it’s been broken before and didn’t quite heal right. That attention to detail — creating lived-in features that haven’t actually been lived in — is probably why you’ve lasted this long. Anyone else that goes under the knife as often as you tends to seek perfection, not realism. 

Funny how the choice that sets you apart is what lets you blend in.

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, looks you dead in your newly hazel eyes, and he says nothing about the fact that they were most recently green. “I like them all best.”

This, like any compliment, immediately makes you shy. Before he can blink, your face is buried in the crook of his neck, warming him from the outside in. You mumble something against his skin that he can’t quite catch. You must know it, too, because you reposition yourself to free up your mouth.

“You’ve finally stopped shivering,” you note before leaving a solitary, soft kiss on the side of his throat. 

He nods to the best of his ability. “Sufficiently thawed.”

You glance up at him at the same moment that he looks down at you. It’s written all over your face — don’t you dare — but Hyunjin always does, doesn’t he? And he always will, so long as your eyes keep going wide like this.

“Can’t say it was the steam that did it, though. I think you fucked the chill right out of me.”

The tiny groan you let go of gets lost under the playful smack of your hand against his chest. You put no pressure behind it whatsoever — he didn’t feel a thing — but he gasps, nonetheless. His head crashes back against the pillows; his eyes fall shut. And because he’s a little shit before he is anything else, he goes slack-jawed, tongue hanging limply from the corner of his mouth.

“You might be the most dramatic person that’s ever lived. You know that, right?”

His reply comes like a death rattle. It’s automatic, it’s ominous, and there’s no taking it back now:

“Truly unfortunate that you have to be loved by me, of all people.”

That admission has been a long time coming, but Hyunjin has tried to hold it back for the same reason you have. For the same reason you don’t say it back now, even though he feels it seep into every other word. Calling this what it is — love — is a promise neither one of you can keep. 

It’s the worst thing he could’ve said to you because he can’t act on it; and it might be the worst thing you’ve ever heard, so you just return to your spot, nuzzled into his neck.

“Tell me what I’ve missed.” You deflect, lips tickling against the spot just below his ear. “What are you all up to?”

Hyunjin used to wonder why you wanted to know every mundane detail about his and his comrades’ daily lives — boredom with your own or genuine interest? Now, he doesn’t bother splitting hairs. It’s both, and he has no fucking business passing judgment. Without a community of your own, you deserve whatever pieces of his that he can give.

“Well,” Hyunjin sighs, fingertips drawing nonsense shapes on your back. With his prints burned off, they glide especially smoothly over the silky fabric of your pajama top. Yet another bonus. “Got some new blood right after I saw you last. One of them was a childhood friend of Felix’s, and she’s — uhh — a little rough around the edges.”

Your little chuckle makes him shiver.

“He loves her, though — like, truly, madly, deeply loves her — so, I think he’s uniquely capable of refining her enough to be useful.” He pauses for a moment to consider whether or not he wants to say it. In the end, he can’t stop himself. “It’s nice to see him happy. That shit’s so rare, living the way we do. He deserves it.”

“Hyunjin, so do you.”

This time, he doesn’t say what he wants to. 

He doesn't ask you to run away with him, knowing damn well that it’s even more dangerous to try than to stay. Neither of you would willingly leave loose ends, anyway. There’s too much left to be done, and all of it comes before his own happiness. It always has.

He doesn’t ask you to come back with him, either.  As much as he wants to offer up the Black Screen to keep you safe, there’s no guarantee that they could. You’d only turn him down if he tried, remind him that your proximity makes the target on their heads even bigger. Hyunjin suspects that this isn’t your only fear, however. 

Trust is a luxury you can’t afford; and it’d cost a lot of it for an ex-corp to cross the line in the sand. If you did, you’d be walking into a collective hell-bent on destroying the entity you used to associate with — into a factory full of mercenary anarchists, not many of whom make the best listeners. Your story might fall on deaf ears; or worse, breed suspicion about your motives.

It’s all fucked, top to bottom.

After another pause, Hyunjin responds with a truth so unattainable that it feels like a lie. “Someday,” he murmurs. “When this is all over.”

If that time ever comes.

“Are you close?” Your question surprises him because you almost sound hopeful, which isn’t a word he’d ever previously thought to associate with either of you. You mistake his stunned silence for misunderstanding, so you clarify, “To a plan, I guess.”

Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say next, so he takes your hand from where it rests on his stomach and pulls it up to his lips. They brush over your knuckles slowly, a failed attempt to avoid the inevitable.

He’s never — not once — asked you about Ulsan. It’s the last thing he wants to do, tearing away from the limited time he gets to exist with you out of context, but he can’t think of any other way around it now. 

What if this is the only way to someday?

When he stalls, you excavate yourself from his side and prop yourself up on one elbow to assess him. It’s more concern than anything else, the gentle way in which you look at him. If only it didn’t make him feel more guilty. If only it didn’t cause his question to stick in his throat on its way out, forcing him to clear it.

“Have you ever heard of the Bliss Beta?” 

It must stun you to hear it because you freeze solid. 

Fuck. 

He shouldn’t have done this. He shouldn’t have brought it up, should’ve kept his fucking mouth shut, but it only spills out faster:

“Ulsan is running some clandestine clinical trials for something called the Bliss Beta. It’s —”

“— I know what it is,” you interrupt quietly.

“You do?”

You pause. There’s something unreadable in your expression that he’d normally guess after; you don’t give him the opportunity. You state it slowly. Cautiously. “I made it.”

Hyunjin is the frozen one now.

If he could make himself move, he might leave and never look back. But some persistent part of him refuses to run, refuses to accept that you truly had anything to do with the horror show wreaking havoc in neighborhoods just like this one. 

If you did — if Hyunjin can force himself to swallow that truth — then he may as well fall off the grid right here and now. There would be no coming back from that, not for him.

Please tell me you’re still the person I think you are.

“It’s also what made me leave,” you explain softly. “What they wanted to do with it, I mean.” 

Hyunjin’s hand is still limp around yours, so you take yours back into your lap. For a moment, you say nothing, only fidgeting with the rings around your fingers. When you finally do speak, your voice is so quiet that he has to strain to hear it, even sitting as close to you as he is. 

“Ulsan was putting all its resources into cyberware, but none into addressing the side-effects. I was naive enough to think that I could change that.” You shake your head, letting out a humorless laugh. “I applied in the first place because I wanted to find a way to treat cyberpsychosis. All of these people are replacing every single part of their biological bodies with extremely powerful, inorganic materials…”

Your voice trails off at the end as a grimace takes over. Even though your features are different now, that subdued look of utter hopelessness in your eyes is the same. He could pick it out of a lineup if he had to.

“It’s such a slippery slope, Hyunjin.” You exhale, voice tinged with a sadness he can’t fully understand. “When you fuck with a person’s reality to that extent, that recklessly, and add in the kind of omnipotence that comes with all of these modifications... They lose themselves in it.”

The sort of people you’re talking about feature heavily on the news due to the horrendous acts of violence they’re caught committing, but no network dares to show the kind of empathy for them that you currently are. They only show the squads of WraithCo. goons it takes to neutralize them — a sterile, media term for “shot like a dog in the street”. Try as he might, Hyunjin can’t recall a single one of these stories that doesn’t end in state-sanctioned murder.

He looks up from your hands in your lap to your face, seemingly catching you by surprise. To his surprise, your eyes are swimming. 

In all the time he’s known you, you’ve never cried — not about the state of the world or the shitty cards you’ve been dealt, time and time again. Until now, Hyunjin wasn’t sure if you could cry. It always seemed safe to assume that you’d either given up or forgotten how. Modified your way around the process, maybe. Cut the flow to the faucet in the course of your renovations.

Reflexively, he takes your hand back in his and squeezes once to ground you. Maybe it’s stupid, but he prays that some part of you will light up the way it normally does when you have the opportunity to educate him about something new. 

His favorite teacher, the best there is.

“What did you design, Professor?” Hyunjin asks.

Please work.

You crack the world’s tiniest smile at the nickname — one you’ve always rolled your eyes at — and it’s enough for him. There’s a sliver of excitement in your voice again, too. 

Proof of life.

“So…” You suck in a breath, like you’ll miss more than a few as you ramble. “The problem is mechanical, even if it presents as psychiatric, right? You can’t rely on psychotropic medication to soothe a brain that’s gone haywire in a literal sense. The solution is hidden within the problem itself, you know?”

You pause and glance over at him for some confirmation that he’s following. He’s doing his fucking best, but this shit is so far outside of his wheelhouse. You take the borderline grimace he gives you and run with it, gesturing wildly with your free hand while you talk.

“I designed a chip to be inserted here —” You reach over and run your fingertip over the small, titanium datashard slot behind his right ear. 

Most people use this port to store and share data in the same way its distant predecessor — the universal serial bus — was used, generations ago. Having started out as a military exclusive, this tech weaved its way into the corporate sectors following the war. From there, it trickled down to civilian populations, who primarily use it for media consumption.

Of course, the run-off always lands in the gutter. Edge runners and their neighbors in the underbelly swap maps, schematics, and the like, passing intel from person to person without leaving an easily discoverable paper trail. Money, too, that’ll never cross paths with a bank or an audit.

Their more tech-literate counterparts — net runners and back alley doctors, for example — pad their ill-gotten income by peddling programmed datashards. Ones that enhance hacking capabilities or bolster combat prowess, as if the recipient is main-lining skills; no practice necessary. 

Hyunjin, to the contrary, doesn’t use his shard slot at all. He’s never been adept at this tech shit, and he can’t be fucking bothered to learn.

“— with the goal of de-stimulating the frontal lobe.” You move your hand to brush your fingertips gently across his forehead. 

Your touch is gone too soon. 

Pausing for a moment, your shoulders and the corners of your mouth droop downwards. Dejected, you sound almost apologetic when you eventually say, “Not a perfect fix, by any means. I just figured that if you can mute some of the noise that’s overriding these people’s true personalities, you can negate the impulse to —”

“— Peel people apart like perilla leaves,” Hyunjin mutters darkly. He’s nowhere near as tactful as you are, so he sees no use in trying. “And if they’re not not doing that, then it’s less likely that —”

Looking now at him, you chirp, “The last thing they see in this life is their own brain smeared on the sidewalk, yes.”

Hyunjin stares at you with his jaw hanging open, absolutely shaken to his core that something like that, something he would say, just came out of your mouth. Flabbergasted is too weak a word; his whole goddamn world has been upended. And he doesn’t know or care what it says about him as a person that he wants to kiss you more now than he ever has before.

Seemingly unaware of the way you just broke his brain, your gaze shifts back down to your joined hands. You go quiet again, smile slipping away as you fade in real time. He fucking hates it. Hates that reality always finds a way to creep back in, even though it’s never once been welcome here. 

It’s heavy. 

It hurts.

“It could’ve been great.”

Hyunjin knows you’re talking about your project, but that’s not all he hears. 

You could’ve been great if this world wasn’t anything like it is. Instead, your genius is tucked away in one shithole apartment after another. 

You could’ve been great together, but the time and place are all wrong. 

It all could’ve been great, but it isn’t.

He’s at a loss for words now, so he simply nods.

“I don’t know what I expected, signing on to work for Nam Yeongsun,” you admit quietly. “I don’t know why I thought he’d be any different than the rest of them.”

Them, meaning the other fundamentalist, venture capitalists hiding democracy behind a paywall. 

Your assessment is mostly correct. The only thing that sets Ulsan’s Chief Executive Officer apart is his mastery of dog-whistle politics. Charming demagogue that he is, he’s the best at what he does — subtly reinforcing prejudices that dwell below the surface.

“He took what I created and perverted it.” 

Hyunjin’s no stranger to your fiercely passionate side, but he’s never seen a simmering rage quite like this one. 

You spit it out like it’s poison: “Nam is trying to eradicate what he deems to be unproductive traits, as if you can bug fix poverty and addiction.”

A wave of nausea crashes over Hyunjin so forcefully that his palms start to sweat.

The targeted advertisements in low-income areas.  

The promise of cash for participation without any explanation.

Oh, fuck.

“He’s hijacking people,” Hyunjin croaks, struggling to breathe. “That thing you said about the frontal lobe,” he mutters before swallowing hard. “They’re losing themselves, aren’t they?”

“I didn’t think it was possible.” The tears in your eyes threaten to spill over. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t make a difference; your voice still shakes, trembling alongside your hands. “But if they’ve made it all the way to human trials, that means they’ve actually figured out a way to do it.”

Hyunjin is torn between wanting to scream, faint, and vomit. None of them could adequately purge him of the gnawing sense of doom that swirls in his gut; there’s no quick fix, if a fix even exists at all.

But the boulder is already flying downhill at breakneck speed, and he can’t stop it. Throwing his body in front of it won’t make a difference. That feeling of abject helplessness only swells when you glance at him sideways and up the ante.

“Hyunjin, that’s not the worst of it.”

He doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to ask and shoulder the burden of knowing, but refusing to bear witness to the truth is what made this state the way it is. Hyunjin doesn’t have a choice.

“What could possibly be worse than that?”

“Nam’s charge has always been to eradicate societal ills. He wants abstention, whether it’s drugs or antisocial behavior — forced, if it can’t be willful.” Your voice gets weaker, the more you say, but you don’t stop. “If he really found a way to dig his fingers into the brains of undesirable people, he’ll never stop at one form of abstinence.”

“You're talking about eugenics, right?” He struggles to swallow the bile rising in his throat.

“If this beta makes it out of the trial phase, I’m talking about classicide.”

The ride back to the compound breaks Hyunjin’s heart every time he has to make it. With how tight he grips the handlebars now, his fingers might break, too, but he doesn’t give a shit. All he can think about is the small, metal datashard in his pocket, and the look on your face when you’d handed it to him.

“You have to give this to Spider, Hyunjin. Nobody else. Do you understand?”

Every part of that exchange had been a plea. You’d pulled the tech out of a locked box in your nightstand and transferred it to his palm with a desperation in your eyes that he’d never seen before — from anyone. You’d closed his fingers around it and kept your hands over his, holding him tight, and he made the mistake of asking why.

In hindsight, Hyunjin wishes he hadn’t.

“The encryption. If someone doesn’t peel back the security correctly, layer by layer, it’ll flag your location.”

If he’d kept his mouth shut, he wouldn’t have to know why you clung to him the way that you did, looking at him like it was the last time you’d ever get to do it.

“Everything I know about the beta is on that shard — the program, the lab’s coordinates, its security, and its vulnerabilities.” 

Your voice broke then. 

“They’ll know the source of the information as soon as you access it, but they cannot find out where you are when you do.”

When he felt the weight of your words, Hyunjin refused to accept them for what they were: a sacrifice. Ulsan’s retention team, who currently has no idea you’re still in the peninsula — still alive — will tear the New Republic apart to find you, and when they do —

He kept repeating that there had to be another way to prevent this rollout, that he’d find one, he promised; but you touched his cheek, and he knew:

The only way to Ulsan is through you.

On his way out the door, you’d stopped him with one hand around his wrist. Kissed him hard, cheeks tear-stained, and tried your best to get the rest out through a tightening throat.

“Hyunjin,” you’d whispered, then your voice trailed off. 

All the time you’d both spent swallowing it down made it too difficult to vocalize, but Hyunjin still heard it in all that quiet. He took the baton from you then, speaking just as softly, just as sure. “I know,” he promised. “I love you, too.”

And now, as he races back to the compound with your death sentence in his pocket, Hyunjin knows something else for certain:

When you’re gone, you’ll haunt him, too.

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

tagging: @saintriots, @mal-lunar-28, @dabiscrustyfeet @ldysmfrst @obeythemasters @moni-logues

wanna be tagged for future uploads? sign up here.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Jason and Scruffy!verse reader doing kid things?

"So," Bruce asked, folding his arms and looking down at where the two of you were, seemingly working on homework while having a whisper screamed argument, "Why did you go see Santa?"

"Because that's what child-things do," Jason said solemnly.

"Child-things," you agree, nodding.

"Wha- you know what, No. I'm sure you think you're very funny. But no. You cannot ask Santa for grape flavor-aide and a switchblade." At 13 you should know better but then- neither of you LOOKED 13 which had probably only added to the 'creepy'.

"You did tell them to go do something," Alfred said, suppressing a smile with difficulty.

"Also we got a picture," Jason said cheerfully, handing it to Bruce. And indeed, Santa and his elves looked unnerved. Almost comically while both of you were plainly trying not to lose your shit laughing.

"You're both horrible," Bruce said shaking his head. "So after you traumatized a mall Santa-"

"We went to the petting zoo so I could pet a cow," you answer.

"And a goat. And we fed a reindeer," Jason added. "Oh. And a really fluffy rabbit."

"The cow's name was Rita. A+ cow. Wouldn't eat," you say, frowning at Jason's math homework and switching your pencil to the other hand to copy his handwriting.

"And?" Bruce prompted, eyes narrowing.

"Threw snowballs at some cops that were hassling a homeless guy," Jason said, "Pockets that was right before-"

"No it wasn't, your decimal was in the wrong place you were gonna send everything into the lake-"

"What Lake?" Bruce sighed.

"Pockets found plans for a catapault. We're gonna build it-"

"Absolutely not," Bruce said, "Stop distracting me from-"

"Are you really gonna yell at us for not getting caught?"

"You did get caught," Bruce said, not sure who instigated it and wondering if he could just ground both of you. "Jim Gordon just called and said two kids matching your description were interfering-"

"With what? An unethical quota system or the bonding rituals of people who peaked in high school and took gym class too seriously?" you ask blandly.

Bruce looked at Alfred for help and the butler simply shrugged. It was always refreshing watching his employers' children run circles around him. And for all the cherubic sweetness of both your faces and your contentment to do engineering for fun... well. Faced with both of you he was a bit outmatched. "Next time you throw snowballs-"

"You're right, Bruce. Next time we'll just throw bricks," Jason mused turning to you, "Do you thing we could build really small catapults and-"

And with nothing more to say, All Bruce could do was turn and walk away. Following Alfred who had had to leave swiftly to avoid losing his composure entirely.

"Child-things?" Bruce asked, shutting the door to the library.

"I couldn't begin to say, sir," Alfred said taking the picture from his hand, "But I do know this is the best Santa picture I've ever seen."

[doodledrawsthings]

Hey, there, Mak! This question is probably going to sound somewhat nonsensical since it is related to something plainly stated in your bio. So, if were someone to utilize your art as a profile picture whilst addressing you as the artist, but without asking could be considered something unethical and disrespectful? In this case, how does anybody get a permission for such a thing? :')

Its more of a courtesy thing I guess. You can DM me or send an ask. if you'd rather i answer privately in my inbox, please do it off anon and ask me to answer privately. I just like to know what people wanna do with my art before they use it, and that the art they're using isn't like. my OCs or something.

[beardedmrbean]

The disqualification effort against Fulton County District Attorney Fani Willis in the sweeping RICO case against former President Donald Trump and his allies is gaining steam.

Four of the co-defendants in the Georgia election interference case—Rudy Giuliani, Mark Meadows, Cathy Latham and Michael Roman—revealed in Monday court filings that they are filing their own appeals in the rejected bid to remove Willis.

Giuliani is a former Trump attorney, Meadows is the former White House chief of staff, and Latham is a former state Republican leader. Roman is the former Trump aide whose attorney first revealed that Willis was in a personal relationship with special prosecutor Nathan Wade in January.

They now join Trump, former Georgia GOP Chairman David Shafer and seven other defendants in their bid to challenge Judge Scott McAfee's March ruling.

Earlier this year, McAfee allowed Willis to stay on the case after several defendants took issue with Willis and Wade's "improper" relationship and moved to have her booted from the case over the alleged conflict of interest. Willis and Wade have admitted to the relationship, which they say ended last summer. They argued it had no bearing on the case.

The judge ultimately determined that their relationship did not amount to a conflict of interest but recognized that as long as the two remained on the prosecution, the "appearance of impropriety" would continue to hang over the case. He ruled that either Willis or Wade would have to step down. Wade resigned hours after the ruling.

Although McAfee chose not to disqualify Willis, he granted a request from the co-defendants to have his ruling reconsidered by the Georgia Court of Appeals. Last week, the appeals court agreed to hear the defense's case. A court date has not yet been announced.

Newsweek reached out to Willis via email for comment.

In the appeals application, Trump, Schafer and seven other defendants argued that McAfee's decision to give Willis "the option to simply remove Wade confounds logic and is contrary to Georgia law."

Their application also went a step further, arguing that Willis' disqualification would be "the minimum that must be done to remove the stain of her legally improper and plainly unethical conduct from the remainder of the case" and that the only "truly appropriate remedy" would be an entire dismissal of it.

Willis indicted Trump and 18 co-defendants for their alleged efforts to overturn the results of Georgia's 2020 election last August. Four of those defendants—bail bondsman Scott Hall and former Trump attorneys Sidney Powell, Kenneth Chesebro and Jenna Ellis—have pleaded guilty to charges. Trump and the remaining 14 co-defendants have denied any wrongdoing and pleaded not guilty.

"President Trump looks forward to presenting interlocutory arguments to the Georgia Court of Appeals as to why the case should be dismissed and Fulton County DA Willis should be disqualified for her misconduct in this unjustified, unwarranted political persecution," Trump lawyer Steve Sadow said in a statement responding to the appeals court decision.

[dairy-farmer]

Ya know what Bruce would absolutely do? When Tim first shows up and insists on being Robin, Bruce would say no and then try to think of contingency plans on how to stop Tim from going out as Robin

Just saying no won't keep him off the streets, asking nicely won't work, and he can't just lock him in the Manor... Wait

Bruce might not be able to lock Tim in the Manor against his will, but what if he has a reason he needs to stay in the Manor at all times?

It's decided then; he'll knock Tim up ASAP and then he'll never be able to leave the Manor, least of all to go fight crime! He'll either be too concerned about the baby, his paternal instincts kicking in even at the young age of 13, or he'll simply be too big to move much, Bruce's giant baby practically dwarfing the rest of Tim, making it impossible for him to waddle anywhere outside of the Manor

(and once the baby is born, Bruce knows Tim will want to get back into shape and join him out on the streets again. So Bruce will simply have to make sure Tim doesn't get that chance. It's a good thing the Manor has so many rooms, Bruce has a feeling they'll be seeing a big expansion in the family over the next few years)

one of my favorite things in the world is bruce impregnating tim as a way of trapping him 😈😈😈.

"the third robin's the charm" is not something that bruce is willing to take a chance on because he drove the first one away, he got the second one killed. who knows what horrible fate awaits innocent tim. tim who won't listen to him when he tries to listen, who won't listen to him when he demands.

like all robins before him tim won't obey him.

so bruce has to take drastic measures. his hand has been forced and he has no choice. he goes through every option he can think of. keeping him forcibly tied up or stuffing him in a bunker and throwing away the key is unfathomably cruel. breaking a limb wouldnt work, he'd just heal. removing a limb would be crossing a line. poisoning tim with medicine and "daily vitamins" until he's too ill to move is plainly unethical. tim will always find a way to go out as robin, he'll always find a way.

....unless. unless there is something more than him at stake.

a different kind of responsibility and duty. one that would guarantee tim being confined to the manor for months at a time and even afterword it would take months before he could venture out. tim is small and pregnancy would be rough. so would the post-birth of trying to get back in fighting form. tim also likely has a lingering complex from his parent who always left him for work. would tim be willing to do that to his baby?

if bruce just drugs tim and dumps him at a college party for frat boys to use him as a cum dump he'd be able to get him pregnant. but then tim would just get an abortion. the father of his baby had to be someone he cared for and respected, who he'd listen to if they asked he have the child.

someone like...him. because while tim may not listen to him and may sass him, he does think bruce's words hold a lot of weight. if bruce asks him, begs him to keep the baby then....there's a good chance he would.

bruce can't say that he doesn't enjoy fucking his would-be robin.

tim, despite how mature he tries to project himself as, is still a child. children are easy to manipulate, they're easy to convince to take their clothes off and to get into bed with bruce, a stranger.

the hero worship helps a little, it may have worked better if he was dick. but bruce accomplishes it. first he fucks tim just to get him to like and enjoy it. if it's bad then its unlikely tim will want bruce to do it to him again when bruce has to get him pregnant again.

so bruce makes sure tim likes it. he kisses tim and holds him, he laps at his little pink cunt and he fucks only half his cock into his tight little hole because he needs to work tim up to fuck him with the full length of it.

bruce makes it good, he gets tim hooked on it like how drug dealers get their clients hooked on smack.

pretty soon tim is approaching him, initiating sex with him, asking bruce if he can climb on top and sit on bruce's cock. that's when bruce stops using condoms, he fills tim's head with stuff about how sex feels so much better without a barrier between them, how the orgasm is better, how much bruce likes it.

bruce has never fucked someone without a condom. tim is his first bare pussy and as he cums deep into that little hole he resolves to never again have sex any other way.

its no surprise tim gets pregnant pretty quickly even though he's barely started getting his period.

the positve pregnancy test lies discarded somewhere on the floor as bruce fucks tim again and tells him to keep the baby as he caresses tim's cheek and presses his tongue into his sweet mouth.

bruce's plan may be deranged.

but at the end of the day his robin is safe and he's having a baby.

a baby. the first wayne baby in decades and the first of many to come.

[amethystdreamer114]

“I find you… amusing.”

Summary: You’re one of Professor Gold’s students in a college magic 102 class. You’re a bit of a prodigy to put it lightly, far surpassing the rest of your class. It could be due to natural talent… or the intensive attention you’re paying to your teacher.

TW: bondage, touching, swearing, Professor x student, non-consensual sexual activity, oral s*x,

If there’s a tw I didn’t mention, let me know!!

It was a normal Monday, and as always the rest of the class was barely paying attention to the lecture. That is, until Gold began talking about enchantment spells.

“It’s very simple. The subject must touch an enchanted object or say a specific phrase. Following this, you have total control over their actions until you release them.”

The class gasped and murmured.

“Dark magic? Perhaps… but necessary.”

Soon the bell rang for 5 minutes till lunch.

“Alright that’s all for today,” Gold flipped his cane, turning it into a blue dry erase marker. He turned to write your homework assignment on the board.

“Before Tuesday, I want you to test out an enchantment spell. Use it for good or evil, it’s up to you, but I want written documentation of how it went.”

Most of the class filed out of the room, some murmuring about how this class was definitely unethical on occasion.

Gold smirked hearing them.

“Rumpelstiltskin is teaching it… it’s obviously unethical.” He chuckled under his breath.

“Professor Gold?”

He turned to see you with a partial smile.

“Ah (y/n), what can I do for you?” He walked to his computer, glancing over the plans for next class’ lecture.

“Well I was having trouble with the homework from last night. Number 7…”

He looked at you questioningly.

“It’s not like you to have questions dearie. Half the time you have the assignment done before I tell you the page number.”

“Well I know,” you answered. “But this one stumped me.”

He laughed. “Alright let’s take a look at it.”

He looked over the page, pointing to the question as he read.

“Oh, this one’s an easy one.” He read it aloud. “Changing one object into another without a verbal spell. I do this all the time.”

You studied his hands, knowing full well how to execute the spell…

“Watch me.” He flicked his wrist and the marker switched back to a cane. “Just don’t think about it. Calm your mind, steady your focus.”

“The hallway is too loud, I can’t…”

He flicked his wrist and the door closed.

“Now,” he gestured to you.

“Thank you,” you smiled and flicked your wrist the same way he had. Not even a second later, his cane was a black, leather belt.

His eyes widened.

“(Y/n)…”

You smirked, feeling the leather up… and down, the slight clink of the buckle being the only sound in the room.

“Guess I knew more than I let on.” You shrugged.

You snapped and the belt was around his neck. You pulled it taut, creating a leash of sorts before you pulled him toward you.

“Tell me Rumple… what do you think of me?”

“Well… I find you… amusing.”

You could see in his eyes that he thought much more than that, and if his eyes weren’t enough, the hard bulge in his pants left no room for doubt.

“Mmmm, I bet you do.” You looked up at him, your fingers walking up his chest.

He smirked at you and picked you up, setting you on his desk, your skirt riding up as his hands slid up your thighs.

“Mmmm naughty boy.” You locked eyes with him.

You spread your legs wider, his leg pressed between them. You tilted his chin up with your finger.

“Oh dearie…” you mocked. “You look so desperate..”

He took your necklace between his teeth, tugging it lightly to move your head to the side before he began to kiss down your neck, soft and tender.

“What’ve you done to me…” he whimpered.

“It’s an enchantment spell to say it plainly. You’ll do anything I tell you to.”

“How…” he continued to kiss your neck, moving down to unbutton your blouse.

“It’s simple. You touched my textbook, I enchanted it. And now, you’re licking my tits.”

He took one of your nipples in his mouth and massaged the other.

“God I-“ he moaned breathlessly as you pulled the belt around his neck.

“Touch me rumple.”

He backed up just a bit and gritted his teeth. “This is beyond unethical…”

“You’re Rumpelstiltskin . Unethical is your middle name.” You batted your eyes, smiling evilly.

The belt began to glow red, a sign of dark enchantment.

“Rumple. I won’t ask again. Besides, you want to.”

You pulled your skirt up, and he nearly whimpered.

“And just how do you know that?”

You whispered in his ear.

“Darling I worked on this spell all last night to make sure it forced you to give in to your own desires.”

He was locked on your red silk thong.

“Go ahead Rumple. But…”

He bent down.

You pulled the belt up a bit to make him look at you. “Don’t use your hands.”

Like some sort of ravenous wolf, he bit the studded string on your hip, pulling it down to your knees.

“Good boy.” You ruffled his hair.

He was overwhelmed with pleasure just by looking at your pretty pink folds.

“You’re so wet…” he moaned, lapping at your opening.

“All for you…” you threw your head back when he began sucking on your clit. Thank god everyone was at lunch because if they hadn’t been, they might’ve heard you moaning in pleasure and knocking a stack of books into the floor.

He put his tongue into your vagina, relishing in your sweet taste.

“Fuck Rumple-“ your hips bucked up.

Seconds later, the bell rang, bringing the other students back down the hall.

“I can’t stop…”

“Easy there big boy….” You tilted his chin up again.

“You’ll have another time.” You smiled.

You could tell his boner was going to be a terrible problem during his next class as he could barely stand.

“I-what am I supposed to do with this?” He pleaded for mercy.

“Amuse me.” You smirked darkly, slipping your panties back on and buttoning your shirt before hopping off his desk to take your seat for the next period.

[donnerpartyofone]

I always seem to make myself the expert of something I really don't like, and this is simultaneously producing good work and sucking the life out of me. I started working on Amityville because I had a question about why so many have believed in a patently ridiculous story, told by plainly dishonest people, and most frequently heard in the form of a bad movie and an even worse book. When I started working on THE ENTITY it was because I love the movie so much, but then I had to deal with the unforgivable novel and a lot of infuriatingly bad and unethical pseudo-scientific reportage--and like it was important to understand and contextualize that stuff, not just dismiss it, the nature of that was part of my focus. Now I'm working on this Phantom of the Opera project and it's like...it's not just that most iterations of the story are bad, but the book is actually REALLY bad. I'm not unfamiliar with this kind of antique pulp writing either, this is just a particularly bad example and I swear to god reading it is making me stupider. It's not just a dumb story with shallow and unlikable characters, it also has the quality of someone inarticulately explaining something that happened last week; it's sort of vague and there's a lot of summarizing, and it's distinctly unthrilling, like it's just really uneventful for the most part. And this is going to be a key part of my analysis, I'm not torturing myself like this in order to be judgmental and superior. The question is about how even though the basic foundations of this story are unsound, there is something about it that compels people to retell it endlessly, even though few ever get it right (and I'm arguing that one particular unlikely candidate manages to make proper use of it, and it's not the Lon Chaney one which of course is great on its own merits). My goal is never to monologize about how moronic and inferior something is, even though that's a temptation that everyone with internet access can probably relate to. In a way I think that flawed work can provide really fertile ground for exploration and discovery because there there are a lot of questions to ask about it, about what it's trying to do, what it does by accident, what makes people react to it. A work of art always has subtext, but it also has a subconscious if you know what I mean, and there's a lot of interesting stuff in there especially with less polished products. Discussing a work of genius can have the quality of a foregone conclusion unless you're the first person to do it. I think that taking something imperfect really seriously and trying to understand its effects is a good thing to do, and I think I'm particularly suited for this--but I do sometimes wish that my life's work were more focused on something I just unconditionally love so I wouldn't have to spend hours and hours and hours analyzing stuff that gives me brain damage.

[rideroftheoctocorn]

Maybe this is my “I’m from New York so I didn’t choose to live here I was just already here” kicking in but can we actually learn to respect people’s privacy and acknowledge the fact that not everyone who lives in a major city is doing so because they want to be famous or the main character or an influencer or whatnot. I’m so sick of seeing tiktoks go viral that are just plainly stalking or doxxing random people who didn’t ask for attention or fame and are just living their lives. Especially given how many people in NYC are living with a wide variety of mental states, abilities, divergencies, and diversities treating them as a spectacle for your entertainment is deeply dehumanizing. Particularly in the past few years seeing so many content creators move here and gain their fame here it is becoming increasingly frustrating to feel like just existing in my home is not coherent with the burgeoning voyeurism culture that’s growing online. I, nor anyone who lives in a large city, should have to leave their homes every day worrying about the potential of being recorded and ridiculed online for just being a person.

People should be able to live their lives with the right to privacy. This isn’t to say that certain instances of internet activism shouldn’t have happened; for instance the Central Park bird watching incident (google it if you aren’t familiar but a woman was being racist towards a black man bird watching in central Park and his recording on the incident vindicated him). But instances like those are the exception and not the rule and many cases of publishing interpersonal conflicts/interactions is not from good faith activism or even from an activist point at all. Honestly what sparked this for me was that dumb tiktok that blew up of that girl looking for the person who kept writing “monke” on the whiteboard at her gym and the series of videos she made amassed more than 25 million views as she made a very public game out of trying to find the identity of this person. Some of her tactics included staking out at the gym waiting for this person or even asking the employees at the front desk who the person was. Maybe this person didn’t want to be a viral tiktok sensation and just wanted to write something goofy on the whiteboard at their local gym. Instead, this person has millions of strangers online seeking them out using unethical/invasive methods. All over someone who just wanted to write “monke.” Can we not just be a little silly in public without being at risk of it being the next internet sensation? If you live in a busy metropolitan area is it now your responsibility to make yourself as invisible as you can every time you step outside your front door? I genuinely leave for work each day wondering if I’ve maybe picked the wrong outfit, makeup, or maybe there’s an embarrassing stain or issue with my appearance that someone is going to see, record, and share online. I’ve even now seen TikTok’s of people recording through peoples windows commenting on how they’re living in their private lives now as well (the video in question is of a young woman recording a couple dancing through their apartment window). Even the guy who goes around “turning average people into models” initiates these videos by first taking non-consented photos of strangers on the street. Invasion is not flattery as much as people on the internet might like to think it is.

It is deeply unfair to ask human beings to live their lives in an unending panopticon. We should be able to go outside, make a joke, leave a silly note, have a bad day, an embarrassing moment, an emotional outburst, leave the curtains open with the knowledge that these moments belong to ourselves and are not suddenly (and without our consent) just become something for the masses to consume. Small spats that should remain small spats become global debates, a conventionally attractive or unattractive person becomes the internet’s object of desire or disgust. Let people exist. Let them have their dignity.

[rainystarters]

* ☔ : dialogue from the novel SORCERY & CECELIA by patricia c. wrede and caroline stevermer. ( adjust pronouns, etc. as needed. )

" so i set a trap, as you see, and you have fallen in. " " i find that most amusing, don't you? " " it's no concern of yours. just mind your own affairs. " " what a rude thing to say! " " you are odious. " " i didn't mean to snoop. " " what are you doing skulking about in these bushes and spying on us? " " assignations are not at all the thing for a young lady of quality. " " you are the most unprincipled man i have ever met. " " you aren't planning to do anything...indiscreet, now, are you? " " only—i was admiring the way you tie your cravat. " " how dare you accuse me of any such thing. " " i thought i told you to stay in well-lit ballrooms. " " ill met by moonlight, my dear _____. " " nothing elegant, but it ought to do the trick. " " you shed hairpins the way hansel and gretel shed crumbs. " " now let us return to light, safety, and society. " " i never meant to flirt with any of you. " " you must stay the night, at least. " " are you concerned what the local gossips will say? " " well, but one must be practical, after all. " " in that case, we must clearly do something. " " will you take some more tea, _____? " " do you really dislike me so much? " " i wish you would accept it as the first of many things i wish to give you. " " are you foxed? " " i need a fiancée rather urgently. " " you'll be perfectly free to cry off when the season is over, you know. " " i'm neither rich nor titled, and as for prospects... " " i hardly think our marriage will last long enough to inconvenience either of us. " " don't play the innocent with me. " " i won't let you tangle me up with your sardonic remarks. " " i believe i owe you an apology, _____. " " what are you planning to do, drown me? " " i don't know what to make of you. " " lie down until you've got your breath back. " " you're the one who almost got killed. don't you have any sense? " " i had no idea you were a wizard. " " oh, dear, i am so dreadfully sorry! i can't imagine how i came to be so clumsy. " " what _____ tells me is none of your affair. " " please use your common sense for once and stay home. " " you said you could handle things by yourself. plainly you are mistaken. " " thoughtful behavior from a man who looks as though he'd like to kill me himself. " " save a waltz for me at the ball next week. " " it is one of the most unethical, immoral uses of wizardry imaginable. " " that is hardly a lady's mount. " " so this is where i find you, playing cards and drinking claret. " " a lady has no knowledge of such pursuits. " " i wish i could insult you in turn, but you are looking very healthy indeed. " " remember the promise i made you once, that i would dance at your funeral? " " i do not think i would ever expect you to do anything sensible. " " just because you dislike magic, you think everyone who uses it must be wicked! " " these magical bonds can sometimes prove painful. " " how dreadful to be caught up in a game and have no idea of the rules. " " i won't offer you such a pleasant fate now. " " it will be amusing to witness their reaction to your death. " " what do you know about anything except to hurt people? " " i like the idea of marrying you. " " you can't steal my magic! "

[jmagnabo92]

PM - 74 - May 13 - Potential

@prongsfoot-microfic

McG is upset that James and Sirius are wasting their Potential.

AO3

***

“I just don’t understand,” Professor McGonagall says as she gestures towards the Great Hall which is filled with different colored balls that pop when touched by a person and reveal either: Screaming voices, singing voices, colored paint, water, or little animals like frogs that are now roaming around the Great Hall.  “You have so much potential, and you choose to waste your efforts on pranks?”

Sirius looks down, feeling somewhat ashamed.  He knows that James only came up with this idea to distract him from the howler he received on his birthday informing him that he was not and would not be the heir to the Blacks as he had been disowned for running away the previous summer amongst other reasons.  

Sirius had known that he had been disowned, but he hadn’t expected such a public display and the jeers in the corridors had made him want to run and hide, so James had decided that he needed a new project.  Something that would take enough time that he would be distracted by it and forget his horrible family.

The plan had worked, and this was the fruit of their efforts, unfortunately, they were caught.  Given that James had done this for him, Sirius couldn’t let him get into trouble for this.

“Don’t blame James – this was all me,” Sirius states.  “I just figured with everything … that it wasn’t like I was going to have many prospects after school and …”

“That’s not true,” James states from beside him.  “You’ve got so many prospects – you’re ridiculously talented.”

“Talent doesn’t matter when you’ve been publicly disowned and shamed, James.”

“You’re a Potter now – none of that Black nonsense matters.”

“It does matter!  They aren’t afraid to do unethical things to keep punishing me for not being their perfect heir.”

“Listen to me, Si.  They don’t have that kind of power everywhere, if nothing else Dad’ll help you start a business or you could join Sleekeasy’s…”

“I don’t want your dad’s pity job –”

“Boys!” McGonagall yells to stop their arguing.  “It doesn’t matter what you think with regards to your prospects.  What matters is that the two of you decided that you would fill the Great Hall with these abominations.  You’re wasting your potential.”

Sirius and James look down.  

“You two need to realize that with your brains that you could do so much more than this nonsense.  Thus, both of you are going to be in detention for two weeks and I will be giving you both a special project.  One that will expect weekly updates and progress on and one that will hopefully distract you both from causing any more chaos.”  

She doesn’t give them the chance to refuse, instead stating, plainly.  “Clean up this mess and report to my office as soon as you finish.”

With that, she stalks away.  

“Guess we’ve got a long night ahead of us,” Sirius states.  

“Yeah, but at least we’re together,” James says, pulling him close to kiss him.  “And we’ve not got a special project that we’ll get to work on just the two of us.”

Sirius grins and gives him another kiss.  “Yeah, that part’ll be nice.”

Before James can respond, Filch yells from the doors, “Stop snogging and get to work.”

“Eye, eye, Captain!” James yells back.  Then he winks at Sirius, “We’ll kiss later.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

[jalebi-weds-bluetooth]

Hi J!!

Congratulations on your interview and with Mr. Sobti, it was a delight to read!

I’ve always wondered how ipkknd would have dealt with going down a darker path with arnav and Khushi’s story and wanted to know what you thought

Omg thank you for loving it 🫂

Hmm darker path 🤔 I did hear once they had intended on a darker storyline but had to change as now the show was in Star Plus instead of Star One.

But then their definition of dark was Arnav and La living together (and sleeping together pre wedding) so maybe unconventional would be the right word.

Going on its natural path I think there would’ve been no “let’s make Lavanya desi” track, the office track would’ve been wayyyy longer (I do think that’s how it would’ve played for a big time - they had to rush to family/home setup due to star plus family demand).

I don’t think we would’ve had that much comedy, I definitely think Khushi would’ve been lesser of a traditionalist. Like she’s traditional but still a lot more of her own (see the difference between the first thirty episodes and the next).

The fact that Khushi was looking at Arnav breaking La’s fast for Teej, her affected by it. Them exchanging glances. Her affected by La saying she loves him. That, in my opinion, was deliciously dark.

Because it is crossing so many ethical boundaries.

And she’s justifying that by plainly stating how much she hates Arnav. So it doesn’t feel as much of a transgression.

(Also i do think she’d be less isolated from her feelings. As the show progresses to “sanitize” the fact that she wanted a man who was very publicly in a relationship - thus being the third woman in La’s life - they infantilize Khushi into someone who doesn’t understand she’s in love and doesn’t understand she’s feeling things. That innocence gives her the leeway and slightly lessens the darkness of everything).

So perhaps Khushi, in a darker version, would be quietly more conflicted with her emotions but not in a childlike way but in a more - how improper and unethical this is - way.

And you see that in a certain episodes - Lavanya accuses Khushi of voyeurism when she catches them in the office where La was fixing Arnav’s tie. Khushi quietly has an intense stare with Arnav when La brushes the dirt off his cheek. Arnav looks back to get a glance of Khushi while he helps Lavanya away from the garden side.

THIS is dark and perhaps it would’ve dived deeper into this. People often mistake darkness being it would be more sexual or violent.

IPK, very cleverly, left a lot of silences and I believe played more with Khushi’s character to be more acceptable to a wider audience.

I also like they removed the playboy aspect they wrote in for Arnav in their promos. And even with Liza - it was evident they have shared something.

I felt it fleshed Arnav further as a character and separated him further from tortured playboy trope. And removed the whole trope of playboy has his eyes on nice girl and nice girl “changes” playboy.

Rather the story becomes further nuanced with the removal of these. So sometimes the fact that it didn’t go darker was actually better cause they could’ve leaned into tropes that could’ve reduced the quality of romance we got.

Episodes are always written daily in television shows - and I genuinely believe some things were for the better as is.

My gripe would honestly be post marriage and the execution of things - but otherwise I think this show did exceedingly well as is.

Best,

- Jalebi

[infinitemonkeytheory]

It’s hard to imagine a more dangerous place for abortion providers than Texas. Doctors who perform abortions face up to life in prison, with civil penalties of at least $100,000. That’s to say nothing of the physical risks: violence against providers and clinics has skyrocketed since Roe was overturned, with a 2022 study showing major increases in stalking, death threats, and invasions.

So you can imagine how OBGYNs felt when they got an email last month from the American Board of Obstetrics & Gynecology (ABOG) telling them they’d have to take their certifying exams in Texas this year.

[…]

ABOG, headquartered in Dallas, is telling candidates that they “should not be at legal risk” because Texas’ criminal and civil penalties only apply to abortions performed in the state. But the group hasn’t addressed the danger for doctors in pro-choice states who ship abortion medication to Texas patients via telehealth—potentially a tremendous criminal risk.

It was also just last week that a group of Republican attorneys general, including Texas AG Ken Paxton, pushed the Biden administration to allow them access to medical records of those who get out-of-state abortions. So if there’s a question of how broadly Texas law enforcement plans to interpret their ban, it seems fair that doctors would want to err on the side of caution.

Especially considering that the exam itself necessitates that some doctors talk about their work in abortion care: In order to be certified, OBGYNs must prepare a list of cases that they’ve worked on and are ready to discuss with a panel of examiners.

For OBGYNs of reproductive age, the threat of traveling to Texas goes beyond legal concerns. Those who are pregnant or considering becoming pregnant aren’t keen on being in a state that would rather let them die than provide them an abortion.

And while ABOG says they have a partnership with a nearby hospital offering “high standards of obstetrical care in medical emergencies,” pregnant OBGYNs know better than anyone what the standard of care is—and that they’ll be unable to get it in Texas. After all, the state is being sued right now by 15 women whose lives and health were endangered by the ban.

There’s also something uniquely terrifying about the idea of hundreds of OBGYNs, many of whom perform abortions, all descending on one publicly-listed building at the same time in a state filled with anti-abortion sentiment, few gun regulations, and a recent spate of mass shootings. (ABOG’s emailed promise that their staff is trained in “active shooter response” isn’t all that reassuring.)

Given the legal, physical, and emotional threats to doctors—testing-taking is anxiety-inducing enough in a state where you’re not afraid of being arrested or killed—there’s no real justification for ABOG’s decision.

It’s plainly unethical to ask doctors to put their freedom and lives at risk over an exam that could be given remotely or in another state.

[…]

Given that the exams have been successfully conducted remotely, and that ABOG is explicit in their support for reproductive rights—even threatening to revoke the board certification of doctors who spread misinformation about the procedure—some OBGYNs believe the organization’s insistence on holding the exams in Texas must be a financial one.