#not the most thought out thing i’ve done

[whimsicalsesquipedalian]

Some thoughts on Andor, and that final shot everyone hates so much.

I don’t. I’ve been sitting with this show for a while now. This whole season I’ve been waiting to hate Bix’s arc with the same fervour that some of the more vocal fans do. I’ve been waiting to feel the injustice done to a “strong female character” (a phrase I fucking hate by the way, but that’s an argument for another time). I’ve seen the arguments that she should have stayed with the rebellion, that she was a fighter sidelined for the sake of a man, that she was reduced to a baby-factory straight out of right wing propaganda (Jesus Christ). And I disagree with every fucking one of them. 

For me, in season two, Bix is the heart of the show. She is the ethos, the drive, the reason that rebellion matters. Bix becomes, in a way, the most important character Andor has to offer us.

Andor has always been very clear in its ideology. Blatantly so. And one of the ideals it strives to impart to its audience is that we are not meant to live in fear. We are not meant to live under oppression. We are not meant to live looking down. For Andor the heart, the drive, the reason behind rebellion is to create a future where we are free. And where love, and peace, and community, and kindness, and hope are our foundations and are the only matter of our lives. 

Andor doesn’t want its characters to be fighters. They are forced to be. Andor doesn’t want its characters to live hiding and scared and clawing for any glimpse of peace and love and hope they can get. They have no other choice. Rebellion is important. It is so so fucking important. But it is only important because of what it fights for. 

Bix is not a fighter. In Andor’s first season she is a mechanic selling to Luthen on the side for extra money. She is not struggling against the empire. She is not joining a rebellion. She is getting the fuck by and living her fucking life. And one day her connection to Cassian puts her under the empire’s gaze and she is invasively tortured and horrifically traumatised because of it. And she endures. 

Bix is, also, an incredibly important character to me personally. There can often be a narrative surrounding trauma that it should make you the fighter everyone seems to think Bix should be. That you should take your pain and terror and suffering and turn it around and let it make you stronger. Use it to beat back against the person, or group, or institution that traumatised you. That you should pick yourself up, dust yourself off, take that horror, and fight back (girlboss-ify yourself and take those motherfuckers down). And to that I say, no. I don’t want that. I’ve done my fighting. I’ve lost my battles and I’ve come out the other side scarred in ways that still hurt to touch. What I want is to stop. Is to rest. Is to put this pain down and move out the other side of it and live, finally. 

For me, watching Bix as an horrifically traumatised woman live stuck in that fight for the first half of the second season was harrowing. To see her spend her time in the Coruscant safehouse grappling with the true cost of what it means to fight the way she needs to in this war, never at peace as the life she lives and the things she must do force her to stay held in her trauma, had me aching in ways I didn’t realise I would. To see her stuck in the dark and the gloom and the cold, and yearning the whole time she is in Coruscant to be able to go out and live without having to look over her shoulder, hurt in ways I struggle to put words to.

And then, to see her get out. 

I know there is a lot of contention about seeing Bix have little to do on Yavin. And to that I will say, it’s a big show, there are a lot of characters, and she is on Yavin during a storyline that arguably should not narratively or structurally be focusing on her anyway. I know there is also a lot of contention about writing her leaving Cassian for the sake of the rebellion. That it diminishes her character to a plot beat. And while perhaps the tropes at play feel trite in comparison to the more grounded beats the show is known for hitting, this is still storytelling. All the characters are, functionally, still devices serving a narrative. Bix leaves, and narratively becomes our ethos. Becomes the heart of this story. Becomes the reason we have been watching this all play out for our two-season run. Bix becomes the most important character in the show. Because this is why we must fight. For Bix. For everything she represents in that moment. She becomes the way Cassian’s life should be if it weren’t for this war, and in doing so becomes the way all of their lives should be. Should have always been. And will be one day soon. 

She is the reason. For all of it. For every loss, for every death, for every fight. It is her. She is the hope at the heart of the rebellion.

That last scene on Mina-Rau; the gentle light, Bee playing, the table set for a community to eat and laugh and be. People smiling and content and together and peaceful. And Bix, free. Of the trauma, of the loss, of the death, of the fight. Looking up at the open sky with her child. Literally holding in her arms the life that the rebellion has always been fighting for. 

That is the hope at the end of our story -- that Bix is the one that gets to live. 

And you can pry that fucking ending from my cold dead hands.

[angelltheninth]

Blinder Than the Blind

Pairing: James "Bucky" Barnes x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, angst, injury, working together, teammates, first kiss, Bucky is bad at feelings

Word count: 1.2k

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Every time I see him I love him just a little bit more. It's not just me is it? I know it's not.

You went on many missions before you went on one with Bucky, The Winter Soldier and kind of your mentor. It was a little annoying because the man was only a few years older then you, well not counting the experiments, and he treated you like a rookie. Going through field training with him was one thing, you could mouth off to him there, but in the helicopter, on the field you recognized stealth and your mission as the priority.

Bucky would never say he was picking on you but he did seem to keep a closer eye on you the most. During daytime it was annoying as hell, but during nighttime you found other uses for his heated gaze.

Another thing you would never admit to him, your massive crush on him.

What started as more of a hero crush, with him being someone you looked up to a lot, devolved into annoyance really fast and came back full force as what often manifested as lust. Thank god he always called you for missions cause you would not handle him hearing the way you moaned his name.

“Bucky, I’m fine. I mean, sir, I’m fine.” You giggled at him as he set you down on the medical bed, your head spinning from the blood loss. “Hey, does it do anything for you? When you get called sir?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at you and resumed reading the report of your admision, not that he had to but he wasn’t going to entertain this flirting from an injured and clearly delirious teammate. “No. But it seems like you don’t know the meaning of the word either. Why rush head first like that? You know where the drop zone was, you jumped before we reached it.” Bucky’s face hardened as he leaned forward in his chair and made a gun motion with his metal hand, “If I hadn’t jumped right after you it could have ended badly.”

That, it was that attitude that irked you. That better then anyone else, superiority complex of his. “So its rules for thee but not for me? Cause I’ve seen you jump off before, I’ve seen you storm a building by yourself, how is that not reckless?” Every time he acted that way your heart would stop for a moment before you remembered-

“I’ve done this since before you were born. It wasn’t pretty, or safe, but I learned how to be good at it. You don’t have the luxury of that. I’m sorry, but you’re off duty for the rest of the week.” Even the pain medication you were on couldn’t help how pissed off you felt at him at this moment. If you weren’t scared it would break your hand you would have punched him on his shoulder. “You’re angry.”

“Oh? What gave you that idea?” You rolled your eyes, taking deep breaths, trying to gather your thoughts and feelings, “At least I finally got your attention.”

“What?” Bucky’s responce was lightning fast and shocked, his eyes wide, the papers falling to the med bed.

“Did I just say that out loud?” All the color drained from your face at the realization. Forget the mission, forget the heroics, you just wanted to get snapped out of existence. Or to another universe, anything as long as you didn’t have to stay here in this moment.

Bucky did pay attention to you, but it always when you least wanted him to. “You did this for my attention? Do you think I don’t care about you? Are you blind as well as incapable of following orders?” His voice was rising but not with anger, with fear and worry from your words. It all looked the same to you because, you’d never seen Bucky worried about you.

When you didn’t answer him he leaned back and sighed into his hand, other reaching for your hand. Despite it being colder then your own skin you didn’t move from the contact, although it was far from the reaction you expected. The silence stretched for several minutes, neither of you daring to break it.

“I don’t need your pity, sir. And I don’t need you to treat me like I can’t handle myself on missions.”

“You really are blind, no that would be an insult to a lawyer I know. Real asshole but he can clearly see the things in front of him, he can read people like no other. You?” He chuckled, not quite mocking but you didn’t know how else to read it, “You wouldn’t get it if I spelled it out for you.”

“I also don’t appreciate you thinking I’m stupid, sir.” You grit the last word though your teeth, “Why don’t you try me?” You grabed his hand, pulling him towards you, a taunt you thought he wouldn’t answer.

But he did.

He answered loud and clear, with his lips on your, with his hands on your cheeks, cradling your face like you’d break under him.

He was right. You didn’t understand. “You... kissed me just now?” Your whole world was turned on its head, this whole time you were under the impression that Bucky hated your guts. To be fair, he might, you heard of people hooking up while not actually liking each other, to get the frustrations out. This didn’t feel like that, there was no anger behind that kiss, no frustration, in fact that was the most gentle you’ve witnessed Bucky be.

“I did. Tell me what your conclusion is, when they let you out of here.” His touch lingered for as long as possible, your cheeks burning when his hands fell away. Well shit.

You were absolutely unable to focus on anything the doctor was saying other then when she said you were free to go. In that case you were fine. Right? Wrong. That kiss made your head spin more then the injury itself. Almost enough to make you forget about it all together. Okay, you can figure this out. Bucky liked you. Your heart told you that, your head refused to accept it.

As you walked out of the medical bay you saw him waiting beside the entrance, a worried look on his face. His eyes lifted up to see you, looking well. He was barely able to hide his relived sigh. Well earlier you had the energy to argue with him so you must not have been that bad, still he showed you just how much, and in what way, he cared for you.

“Ready to go?” He didn’t seem to want to address the kiss from earlier, instead he offered you his gloved hand as he stood up, waiting.

Your felt a tightness inside your chest. You could walk past him, you could never speak of the kiss again, you could yell at him for it, you could go back home and yell at yourself for not seeing he cared about you all this time. Or you could simply take his hand. The last one was the choice you want with, and without saying a word, with a gentle smile from Bucky as you took your place by his side you started your walk back to your place.

[hannie-dul-set]

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

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

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

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 10k.

NOTE. whewwww so much happens in this. like a lot WAHAHAHAHAH. would love to hear your thoughts and comments, maybe even predictions HAHA. there’s a bit more violence in this than in the previous chapters, but y’all know what you’re getting into. anyhow, enjoy!

THAT DAY WAS PERHAPS THE MOST EVENTUAL DAY YOU’VE HAD AT NALKEUTTA. It’s been two weeks since then, and in the past week you’ve been plagued by contract drafts and notarizing documents, meeting with the groups new clients (i.e. victims) to trap a few more poor souls into this burning death trap, and giving legal advice to Mark Lee whenever he calls and needs.

Honestly, if this was all that your job consisted of, you’d be a pretty happy camper, especially considering the zeroes your bank account is set to accrue. No more hearings every other day. No more angry clients trying to get a slap on the wrist for attempted assault or embezzling company funds or whatever shit. Your work at present is more peaceful than expected— that is, of course, if you exclude what’s been causing you to work overtime these past two weeks.

“I feel like I’ve been seeing you more often lately, attorney.”

Yeongdeungpo Police Station. Officer Jung tries to entertain you while waiting for Mark’s favorite mutt to get fished out of his cell. No shit, he’s been seeing you often. This is your third time this fucking week. “He didn’t get into any more trouble overnight, did he?”

“No, we made sure to put him in a single cell this time.” You sigh in relief. They should’ve done that the first fucking time. “Hey, attorney…this may be out of line, but—” 

“Then stay in line, officer.”

Maybe your neuroticism is finally slipping through your stiff mask. Your eyes flash up at Officer Jung. He appears taken aback at first, but nods, smiling, and maintains a respectful distance. Sure, he’s hot and all, but you have no intention of hooking up with a cop just to put your career, life, and safety in jeopardy. Mark has eyes everywhere. You’re pretty sure he even has a handful of the officers here under his control.

“Damn. My guardian angel came early today,” 

Enter the bane of your existence itself. He wears an annoying grin on his face while being escorted to you, free from handcuffs meaning he can with his hands whatever he pleases— which, unfortunately, is sticking a middle finger up in the air when the guy that he got into an altercation with passes by, and a second fight almost breaks out while you dumb ass of a, executive just cackles like a madman as the second guy gets held back by the officer escorting him.

You do nothing but yank on the sleeve of his arm, nails digging into fabric and the skin underneath. You’re not strong enough to dislocate him, but by god you wish you were. “Thank you, officer. We’re heading out now.”

Officer Jung smiles at you. “I’d say I hope to see you again, but I doubt you’d want to drive up here for the fourth time this week.”

“Haha.” It’s eight in the evening. You’re tired as fuck.

The moment you succeed in dragging him out of the station to avoid another count of misdemeanor, you wipe your hand on your blazer and quickly march to your car, not even checking if he’s following when you rip open the driver’s seat of your car and slam it back close. Unfortunately, he shoves himself into the front seat before you can lock it. 

“Whew,” he says, buckling himself in. You look at him through the mirror. He’s leaned against the window and his torso is pointed towards you. “Want me to take over the wheel?”

The rev of the engine. You hear Na Jaemin scoff and turn his head away.

“Tough crowd.” He props up an elbow on the window ledge, cheek resting on closed knuckles as you continue to drive to the office when you’ve clocked out three hours ago. “You were pretty chummy with that cop earlier. If I remember, the fucker is the same prick who jumps out of station to wag his tail in front of you whenever you drop by.” 

God, you don't have time for this. You block your ears. You continue driving. You just want to go home, but Na Jaemin isn’t done pissing you off yet.

“You’re pretty amazing aren’t’cha, attorney? That why it only takes a second for you to get us all out?”

Screeeeech!

“Whoa. You’re finally looking at me for once.”

That’s fucking it. You’re not dealing with his shit anymore.

“Get out.” With all this and that damned death threat letter you received, you haven’t exactly been in the most amicable mood. “Get out of my fucking car.”

Yet somehow, Na Jaemin just starts grinning wider in response to your death glare. “But the office is too far away, attorney.” You click your tongue, grip tightening on the steering wheel as you leer away. It’s the dead of night. You’ve pulled over next to a closed laundromat. Your body still refuses to look at the psycho next to you directly. One day, you swear you’re going to rip him apart. 

“Do I look like I give a fuck?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.”

Your car lets out a loud honk when you slam your forehead into the car horn, breaking the peaceful quiet of the night. “Ugh.” You release a breath,the sound rasping against your throat. One day, you’re going to kill him. One day.

‎*‎

“Damn, attorney. You look like shit.”

The next morning, Lee Haechan interrupts your coffee break by being an asshole. 

“There’s no one worth looking hot for in this dump.”

“Now, I think that’s what you call a hasty generali—”

“Haechan, I don’t want to fuck you.” His face is a stiff smile, just on the verge of cracking from a fatal injury. You step aside to give him space on the coffee machine, swallowing an almost scalding gulp of your drink. Come to think of it, Na Jaemin isn’t the only idiot you’ve fished out of the police station. “Hey. Hold on. I have a bone to pick with you, bitch.”

Haechan’s mug makes a rattling noise when he prematurely drops it onto the counter. You see a trail of sweat trickle down his neck. “What do you mean?”

“You nearly ran someone over the other day,” you start. “If I have to bail you out for another DUI, you’ll be seeing your car in a landfill.”

They’re so lucky that none of their victims chose to press charges. Thinly veiled threats usually allow you to settle with a compromise for the barest minimum amount for the damages they incur, but your words won’t always work. Still. It seems like Mark doesn’t mind pouring out whatever amount of money to save his valued lap dogs. These mutts are so god damned spoiled.

“Monster! Don’t you dare touch my Penelope!”

You wanna bully him for naming his porsche Penelope, but that’d make you a hypocrite. You don’t want to give up the remaining integrity you have left, so you choose to remain silent instead and finish up your coffee. 

At the same time, you notice a third presence enter the breakroom, and you make the unfortunate decision of peering back, just in time to find Lee Jeno looming behind you. You nearly choke on your coffee. “‘Scuse me,” he says, voice low, and you waste no time scrambling to the side and coughing your lungs out.

Haechan talks to him while the latter pulls out a back container from the cupboards. “Hey, man. How’s the Daeghwang contract going?”

At that question, Jeno’s brows close together and you flinch when he replies with an annoyed grunt. “Bad.” He taps the open mouth of the container against the rim of a glass of water, white powder cascading out. “Cheongang is a pain in the ass.”

“That’s rough. Well, good luck. See you later."

He starts leaving with the glass and you can finally get back to breathing. Seriously. Na Jaemin may scare you and piss you off, but this guy is just intimidation incarnate.

“Hey, what was his fucking deal?” Your voice is both fear-stricken and appalled, pointing at the break room entryway the moment Lee Jeno’s shadow disappears from the floor. “Did I do something to him? He looked like he was gonna punch my teeth out for getting in the way of him and his creatine!”

Haechan has finally finished making his coffee. Instant coffee, which he brings up to his mouth to take a sip. What was the point of giving him way to the machine? “Oh, Jeno? That’s just his face. Don’t worry about it.”

“What?”

He shrugs. “He’s a nice guy, but Mark likes to bring him around when he’s out doing business. Adds to the aura.”

The fuck? Well. Now that you poke into your brain, you finally remember why Lee Jeno had seemed oddly familiar when you were introduced to him. That day you found out your (former) literati, over the bar crush was actually a fucking gang leader who’s actually kind of crazy. Jeno was the one with Mark carrying that big, suspicious duffel bag. That makes sense.

“He doesn’t look like it, but he’s actually very diligent and organized. He’s basically Mark’s secretary.” 

This is very hard to wrap your head around, but maybe you’re just being too judgmental. Huh. If this is the case, then Mark has formed a pretty well rounded inner circle for him. Lee Jeno’s the one helping him make sure the oil keeps running, pretty much an all-rounder. Huang Renjun deals with Nalkeutta’s external partnerships. Now, all this makes you wonder—

“Then…what about Na Jaemin?”

There’s a flicker in Haechan’s eyes. He looks at you, eyes peeking above his coffee mug, and you don’t break your gaze. “Curious?” he hums, setting it down onto the counter behind him. “What about me? Don’t you wanna ask about what my role is?”

“I already know that you’re a desperate son of a bitch. What else do you do?”

“God damn, you never hold back.” You know he manages most of the internal affairs. Gratified HR, but you don’t want to grant him the satisfaction that you give a fourth of a shit. “Jaeminnie’s our clean-up dog. Mark knows how to put his maw to good use.”

Clean-up dog. Hah. 

“If there’s anyone Mark needs to be beaten half to death, Jaemin’s the man for the job. The guy basically lives off of the adrenaline he gets from fighting. I think the money is just secondary to him, but who knows. Mark likes to keep him busy with chasing down debtors or else he’d take it out on the nearest Nalkeutta member within arms reach. He seems like a lazy prick, but he’s actually pretty competent and meticulous. Only when blood and bruises are involved, of course.” 

Now, that makes you feel like absolute crap. Not for him, but for you— finding out that you and a psycho have been relegated to essentially the same demeaning position, one judicially and the other extrajudicially. That’s a dig into your pride. It leaves a sourly bitter taste on your tongue, and you don’t even have any coffee left to wash it down.

“Well. That is until someone pisses him off. Then things get pretty messy,” Haechan continues with a drawl, checking out his fingernails. Then his eyes flicker up, tipping his head back to flash you a grin. “Which has been more than often lately. He’s been getting into a lot of unrelated fights and trouble. Wonder why.”

Your mouth folds up into a sneer. “Talk about yourself, you serial drunk driver.”

“Let me take you out on a spin with my Porsche next time, attorney. It’ll be fun.”

“And fucking die? No thanks.”

“Aww, cmon! I promise you’ll get the rush of the century, babe, you won’t regret—”

Swoosh!

Thwack!

“Ow, hey, what the the fuck!”

You jump back, gaze darting down to check out the flying object that was punted into Haechan’s temple right. You snicker. It’s a vape pen. You’re about to thank the culprit until you actually find out who it is: lo and behold, Na Jaemin at the break room entrance, looking as smug as ever, and he successfully ruins your day at nine in the morning. “Whoops,” he says, sauntering up to you both, ducking down to swipe the vape pen off the floor before holding it back up. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at Haechan. “Hand slipped.”

Haechan’s expression gets twisted. “Oh, you wanna go?” The gap between them closes. Uh-oh. Time to find an opening to leave. “Been a while since our last fight, Jaems.”

“Yeah, you mean the day I used your fucking face as a windshied wiper? Was it fun? Wanna try it again, you little bitch?”

“If you idiots wanna paint the carpet red, let me leave first—”

“No, wait.”

Haechan grabs onto your arm. He beams. 

“We need a referee.”

And that’s how you got held hostage for a dog fight at the parking lot of your company building. It’s not even noon yet. These fuckers need to get sedated.

You question your existence as Haechan and Jaemin warm up, a considerable amount of distance between each other. Why are you even here? “I’ll make sure to give you a show, attorney.” You stare dead forward at the empty space in between, face not looking particularly entertained. And then he shrugs off his jacket, revealing his tank-topped chest, and you choke on your spit. His face lights up at your coughing fit. “Keep your eyes on m—”

Thwack!

“Whoops.”

Oh, what the fuck, you blink and all of a sudden Haechan has lunged forward to sock him straight in the kisser.

“Hand slipped.” Haechan draws back his arm, grinning. Oh shit. You’re unable to see the entirety of Na Jaemin’s face. His head is turned, eyes covered up by his hair. You watch as he hacks up his throat to spit out a blotch of red on the concrete ground. For a second there, you think he’s pissed.

Then he lifts up his head, revealing the crooked, blood-stained grin on his teeth.

“You been practicing for me, Donghyuckie?”

This guy just got punched. He just got punched in the face and he’s smiling. 

That’s when things start getting uglier and you’re forced to watch two grown men brawl as their favorite pastime. Wow, they’re just going at it. Haechan lands another hook into Jaemin’s jaw and he quickly jumps away before the former can grab onto him. From what you can tell, Haechan’s a very sneaky fighter, retreating after every strike— almost as if he’s buzzing around Na Jaemin and nipping at him like a mosquito 

“Oi.” Na Jaemin’s jaw is tight. “There’s no fun in this. Get over here.”

“Whoa!” Haechan manages to dodge another one of Jaemin’s attempts to grab at him. “No thanks!” 

Yeah. Now Na Jaemin is definitely getting pissed. You can almost see the vein popping out of his neck when Haechan fails to duck quick enough, allowing Jaemin to grab a fistful of his hair. Haechan lets out a pained grunt when Jaemin yanks his head down, allowing full access to his face— allowing you to witness the blood drain from Haechan’s face in real time, at the very moment.

“Quit running away, you fuckin’ rat.” 

Jaemin winds his arm back. You squeeze your eyes shut. And then you hear the sound of a fist hitting bone.

“That’s more like it.”

Jesus, his voice is nothing but pure elation. That’s it. You’ve seen enough of this demon’s madness to conclude that Haechan had just lost. This is where they differ— Na Jaemin doesn’t like fighting. He likes watching the willpower drain from his opponents eyes after each blow until they’re back and blue and have lost the will to live. A textbook sadist. The moment Na Jaemin has you in his grasp, you’re as good as a dead man. And that much is obvious with how much Haechan is struggling to get out of his grip without ripping a chunk of his hair off.

He looks like he’s having the time of his life “Grit your teeth, buddy.”

Haechan responds with a nervous laugh, dangling half on the floor. “Hey, man, I thought we were just sparring for fun, yeah? Let’s take it easy, ok— oof!”

Aaaaand, that’s your cue to stop watching. If the roles were reversed, then maybe you’d be more interested. You’ve seen this show and multiple encores back in high school already. So while they’re busy killing each other, you quietly sneak off to your car just a few parking spots away to retouch your lipstick. Maybe grab a snack from the glove compartment. Anything other than this mess, for sure.

Anything. Yeah, nevermind. Maybe not anything because the moment you reach your car, you notice something stuck on your windshield wipers.

There’s a wrinkly slip of paper there.

When you fold it open, it’s revealed to be a mortuary pamphlet. There’s scrawl all over it. Red marker. Count your fucking days, attorney. Wow. Not very up for interpretation. Does this fucker think you’re fourteen?

“Hey.”

You flinch. You turn your head back. You’re not sure how long you’ve been standing here, but apparently long enough for Lee Haechan to gather a collection of blood and bruises as he tries and fails to wiggle out of Na Jaemin’s grip.

The latter isn’t even looking at him. He looks at you as he jerks Haechan back to his knees.

“What’s the matter?”

It’s only now that you notice your hands are shaking. You hiss out a swear and crumple the sheet in the tight lump and stuff it into your slack pockets. “Some bastard left their trash on my car,” you grunt, stomping away from your car and back up to them. “Anyway, are you two done playing? Unlike you two, I have a semi-normal job here and still have work to do.”

“Not until you declare the winner, attorney.”

Na Jaemin finally decides to let the poor guy go. Haechan gets dropped to the ground with a thump, groaning in obvious pain. You look down at him, sighing. “Why’d you even provoke him if you were gonna lose anyway?”

Yeah, you’re not giving Na Jaemin the satisfaction. Haechan lets out a breath and a laugh as he settles on the parking lot floor, propped up by his elbows. “I thought I’d stand a chance toda.” He cracks at you. “But it seems like my plan backfired. Too bad.”

Although you refused to declare Na Jaemin the winner, it seems like his fight with Haechan was enough to pacify him for a while.

Seems like the bastard had his fill. You didn’t get any phone calls from Mark or the station nor did you receive any more threatening death threats over the weekend. It’s great. You hit 10,000,000g in Stardew and will soon have the same amount in your bank account. Monday rolls around again though, and you have to spend the entire day out of office to join Mark and Jeno for the Daehgwang meeting. 

It’s so peaceful. The thorns in your side have been so well behaved. Haechan’s porsche got seized by the government because he forgot to pay last month, meaning he no longer has a vehicle to drive under the influence with. Na Jaemin hasn’t even gotten into another altercation.

At least not for the past three days.

On Tuesday evening, you get another ring from the station. 

“It was a 5v1,” Na Jaemin informs you, grinning with a new busted lip on top of his bruises from Haechan. “I won.”

This time, you drive off before he could even get into your car.

‎*‎

“I swear to god, Renjun, it’s like he gets off from getting handcuffed and ruining lives.”

Renjun is your favorite Nalkeutta member so far. Meaning, he’s the unfortunate soul that’s stuck with hearing your whines and complaints over a jenga game in his office. It didn’t take much to convince him into joining you to get paid for goofing around on company time— however, you didn’t exactly advertise having to be your unpaid therapist for the time being.

“Who are you talking about again?” he asks after pulling out a successful block from the tower.

“Na Jaemin.” You crane your neck, squinting at the remaining blocks for an opening. “Does he die if he can’t get into trouble with law enforcement once a week or some shit? God dammit, this tower is tight.”

You���ve always known he was a sadistic fuck since high school. But you thought that only extended to physical pain. Apparently he has a penchant for inflicting psychological pain as well. “Uh-uh, sure he got into messes before— try that one.” You prod on the block he points at until it becomes loose. “But he wasn’t always this bad.”

The block slides out. You put it back on top and sit straight. “Haechan said something like that too.” Your brows furrow. “What exactly do you guys mean by that?”

Renjun shrugs, poking around the block tower. “He’d usually get into fights outside the job like twice a month max.”

He pulls out the wrong block. The tower collapses on the coffee table.

“I think it was around the time you joined that he got worse.”

It clicks. You understand now.

“Hey, let’s play again, that was a— wait, where are you going?”

You storm out of his office and stomp into your own. Na Jaemin doesn’t get off from ruining lives in general— it seems like he gets a special kick out ruining yours in particular. Fuck’s sake. You thought he was just a lunatic for getting into bar fights thrice a week. Apparently being his high school alarm clock for two years wasn’t enough. He needs you to contract occupational depression too. 

Inside your office now. You bang a hand into your desktop keyboard because the printer is taking too long to vomit out the shitty piece of paper. You rip it out from its mouth and march into Ganghak Division, heels clicking against the tile— a sound most have already attributed to your presence, but this time so, so loudly that heads turn at each hollow clack— and the sound halts the moment you see one of his employees that you’ve flagged as a pushover the moment he’d been admitted here.

“Park Sion.” You grab him by the shoulder. “Is your dickhole of a boss in?”

He flinches and blinks his wide open eyes at you, gulping. “Y—yes?”

You grunt and push past him, printout in hand. You spot the door that has a frosted glass window in the middle. You make a beeline and kick it open with a loud bang!

“What in the name of fuck—”

The words get cut out from Na Jaemin’s throat the moment you lock eyes, and the pissed off expression on his face gets replaced by the cold splash of surprise and something you don’t give a fuck to decipher. 

“A—attorney.” He clears his throat and tries to scramble himself back together. “Wow. Came to give a little visit?”

There’s someone else in the room— another Ganghak high schooler, standing straight and firm and nervous before his desk with a deck of papers pressed to his chest. You click your tongue barrel forward, shoving yourself between them and slam the piece of paper on his desk, a huff escaping your nostrils as you stare him down with the animosity of a thousand suns. He’s still a little shell-shocked, brows uplifted and eyes blinking before he looks down and slides the paper up to him.

“I hate your fucking guts,” he reads out your message printed in Cambria 14. You smile when he looks up from the page to meet your stare. It hurts your cheeks. Then you spin your heels and may your merry way out of his office in the best mood you’ve ever been since getting here— and this change of demeanour is very much noticed by every single Nalkeutta member that you walk past, turning heads of both horror and concern as you hum back to Huang Renjun’s territory.

Renjun turns his head to the door when you knock and swing it open.

“Whew.” You fall back onto his office sofa, causing his newly built jenga tower to tumble down. “Shit, that was cathartic. I needed that.” 

He stares at his fallen tower, a somber expression on his face. “Are you gonna share it with the class?”

You do, in fact, share it with the class alongside your hypothesis that Na Jaemin hates your particular guts to the point that he’s actively making your living hell. Renjun is attentive throughout your whole rant session— nodding along to your cries and swears while he rebuilds your tower, and he places the last block on top just in time for you to finally run out of steam. “I swear to god, he has it out for me, Renjun” you finish off with a huff, sinking deeper into his sofa.

That in itself is bad, but apparently it could get worse.

“He could be doing it because he hates you, sure,” he starts, prodding into the newly built tower. “But have you considered the opposite?”

Because Huang Renjun injects a truly horrifying idea inside your head.

“What?”

He hums, locking into the middle piece at the very bottom of the stack. 

“I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but on the days you give Jaemin the slightest bit of tolerant attention he doesn’t act out.”

He, then, slides the piece out.

“And whenever you flat out ignore him for the entire day, I get a colorful text from you that Na Jaemin is in a holding cell again and you’re on the way driving to get him out.”

He takes it into his hand—

“Maybe he’s just doing it to get your attention.”

—and finally sets it on top of the tower to restart the game.

“Your turn.”

You’re frozen in your seat. You carefully think back to all the times you’ve been plagued to bail him out— the first time, which was the night of the recruitment bullshit, and you did talk to him then. Granted it was to insult his smoking habits, but that completely debunks Renjun’s theory right? How about the other times— like the day after the first incident and you were far too pissed to even give him the light of day— wait. Wait. 

No fucking way. Did you see him the day you left with Mark and Jeno to deal with the Daeghwang contract? You did pass him by, but why the fuck would you have greeted him? Shit. Oh my god. This is the most depraved shit you’ve ever been cursed to consider and you’d once debated offing a man just to win a court case. 

You don’t want to believe it. There’s no fucking way.

So, you put it to the test first thing in the morning to make sure that Huang Renjun is nothing but a delusional fuck who just wants you paranoid.

You walk out of Mark’s office with him after a quick discussion on how to strengthen their loan contracts. He asks if you’ve been getting enough sleep lately and the answer to the question is in the very same hallway that you’re passing through, walking the opposite direction as the both of you.

“Jaemin-ah, good morning,” Mark greets him. The guy only stifles a grunt in reply before turning his attention to you.

You look at him. Not at him, but on the silver chain hanging around his neck because you don’t feel very brave at the moment. “Good morning, Na Jaemin-ssi.” Then you immediately scuttle away, leaving a nonplussed yet still pleasant demeanored Mark behind to catch up with you and bounce for coffee.

That entire day, you wait for a phone call from the station to arrive.

Night comes. You’re about to go to bed. Your phone does not make a single buzz. Nothing. 

You’re horrified. You’re really, truly horrified.

Listen, you’ve never been dense to a man’s advances. You’re not stupid. You know when someone has a crush on your because always a standard operating procedure, the cut and dry tactics of trying to take you out for a meal or a drink, calling you pretty, or whatever the fuck. No one fucking flirts by violating the law multiple times a week just so you’d pick him up from the police station. So, you can’t exactly be blamed when you never saw this coming.

This singular thought plagues you for the rest of the week. So much so, that you don’t exactly trust yourself driving almost an hour over the weekend to Gyeonggi to meet up with some friends from law school, so you take public transportation instead. 

The problem is, you couldn’t even enjoy your fucking brunch because they kept asking why you quit JSS, so all you could think about is all the men that have plagued you to ruination— one bastard standing out in particular.

“Seriously, is he a fucking lunatic or something?”   

“Who’s the fucking lunatic or something?”

You’d been waiting at the bus stop on the way back to Yeongdeungpo when a convertible you don’t recognize pulls over, but the person sitting in the driver’s seat definitely is. Your face sours. Then dread washes over.

“Heard from Mark that you needed a ride,” Haechan tips down his sunglasses, smiling. “Hop in. Let me take you out for a spin on my new baby, attorney. It’ll be fun.”

Oh no. Fuck. Your days of relative peace from the police are over. You need to hire someone to wreck this orange-painted nightmare before you’re forced to deal with an inevitable hit and run case. This thing is an accident waiting to happen. It needs to fucking go.

Not right now, though. You do need a ride. 

“Mind stopping by a pharmacy first? I think I’m having fucking indigestion.”

You also need to know where he parks this thing. You take a few steps back and snap your phone camera at his license plate before hopping in the car. “Why? Shitty date?” he hums, starting up the engine. “I can do you one better, sweetheart.”

“Shut the fuck and drive or else I’ll be needing more than just antacids.”

“Gotchu.”

It’s not that being a stuck-up bitch is your default. It’s just that you know better than to get yourself entangled into Nalkeutta more than you already are especially when the one thing you’re looking for is an out. The both of you make a stop at the nearest pharmacy in Gyeonggi and you pick up your medicine. Outside the store, Haechan spots a small hotteok stand to bribe you to hang out with him a bit more before heading back to Yeongdeungpo.

Ugh. You don’t wanna get back in there. That’s where Na Jaemin is and lately he’s been mentally perturbing you more than pissing you off or scaring you. You take a bite into the warm snack and start talking with a semi-full mouth. “By the way. Renjun told me something interesting.”

“Yeah, what’s up?” he muffles out. 

“That Na Jaemin deliberately gets into trouble to get my attention,” you flatly say, looking at the syrup you just wiped off your mouth before licking it off. “I need a dissenting opinion or else I might actually go clinically insane.”

“Oh, you just noticed?” he says, walking back to his car and you follow. “Everyone in the office knows he has a crush on you. It’s pretty obvious.” 

Well. No dissenting opinion. Guess you’ll have to go insane.

“I thought bringing you to our fight the other day would distract his messed up brain. But apparently the sick fuck just got more excited knowing that you were watching. He got bored when you went back into the office. I really should’ve known better.”

“Wait, if you knew that your insane friend has a fuckied up crush on me, then why have you been trying to hit on me in front of his face?”

The both of you get back into the car. Haechan spares you a glance and a grin.

“It’s funny,” he cackles. The car starts moving. Slower than you expected. It’s surprising that this guy is actually receptive to feedback, but you appreciate it nonetheless. “I never get a reaction out of him otherwise. And, I gotta correct you about something, attorney. There are no friends in Nalkeutta.”

There’s a soft breeze brushing past your ears. You peer at him, a tug on your lips. “So, we’re not friends?” 

You almost snort seeing the way his shoulders flinch. The first time you speak to him without an ounce of venom, this idiot folds.

“I thought we’d gotten closer recently, Haechan.”

There’s no missing the way his ears flare up despite keeping his eyes on the road. God, this is pretty funny. The reason why you’re not as creeped out by the idea that another one of your co-workers harbors a petty crush on you despite the fact that they’re both demented and violent is simply because one has singlehandedly turned your last two years of highschool into a traumatic hell while also not giving enough of a fuck to remember the trauma he caused, and the other has not. 

Still, you’re not indulging Lee Haechan any more than this because you still have some self respect. You wanna continue dicking around with this newfound power a bit more, but your high is quickly shut down by a shiver down your spine.

You jolt in your seat. Your eyes flash to the rearview. There’s a taxi trailing behind. 

“Haha, have—have we gotten closer…? I thought you were more friends with Renjun, and—”

“Haechan, turn right.”

“What? That’s not the route ba—”

“Just fucking do it.”

With a concerned yet suspicious furrow of his brow, Haechan obliges your abrupt request, and what do you know— the moment you guys make a turn, the vehicle behind you does the same. “Now, make another right.” Your narrowed eyes remain fixed on the back mirror. “Left. Keep going.” 

Your companion isn’t dull. He notices the same thing as you do at the third nonsensical turn. You hear him click his tongue, feigning annoyance, but no form of play pretend could even attempt to hide the wicked grin sprawling on his face in excitement.

Ah, shit. You instinctively clutch onto the seat belt straps as if you’re holding onto your dear life. “Hey, attorney,” he starts, shifting pedals. “Hold on tight.”

What the hell does it look like you’re doing? 

The blazing hiss of rubber screeching against asphalt. This might very well be the day you die.

‎*‎

“C’mon, it’s been two weeks! Are you still mad?”

Yes. It’s been two weeks since your latest near death experience and it wasn’t even at the hands of your stalker, whom you managed to shake off thanks to Haechan, but the fact that these very past two weeks was spent trying to settle with his fucking hit and run victim has clearly pulverized any semblance of gratefulness you felt towards him.

Right now, he’s trying to win your forgiveness over by dropping a box of macarons from the new bakery in the district onto your lovely desk Savannah. You flip the box open as aggressively as you can and rip apart the unfortunate pink cookie with your teeth while you stare at him dead in the eye. He flinches. He tries to form a smile but it’s all crooked and nervous. “Sooo…are we good now?”

You finish up the remnants of your first victim and pull open your drawer, and Haechan watches as you take out a few staples pieces of paper before handing it to him.

“What’s this?” 

He opens his mouth first before reading. You marvel at the decline of man’s average intelligence.

“It’s a contract,” you hum. “Sign it, and I’ll hang out with you again.”

“Oh, sweet!” he enthuses and fishes out a pen from your variety assortment, setting the sheet down onto the polished mahogany surface. He’s already started the first stroke of his legally binding signature when he actually inquires into the nature of the contract. “You should’ve just given this to me days ago, damn I even went to— wait. What’s this about impounding my car?”

You quickly try to snatch the paper back, but Haechan may be dumber than you but he is stronger. He quickly flits back to the first page, squinting at the fine print very close to his face, and after a moment of realization, he jerks his arms down to release a horrified gasp.

“Evil! Evil woman!” He points an accusatory finger. “How could you attempt to do this to me and my Josephine?!”

His curses fall on deaf ears. You remove a bushel of lint from your blaze lapels and flick it off into a corner of your office. “I think it’s a fair agreement,” you languidly say. “We get to be friends for so long as you refrain from getting into another traffic accident. Otherwise, say goodbye to your dearest Josephine.”

“No!”

A knock on your door interrupts the tantrum you caused. It gets quiet. A head peeks in. It’s Mark.

“Are you two busy?” he asks, likely having heard your…conversation from outside. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Immediately, you shift your attention away from the high speeding demon and straighten your back towards your boss. “Not at all. What’s the matter?”

Haechan quietly greets him as well in a grumble, stepping aside in order to surrender his spot in front of your desk to Mark. “Oh, it’s not at all a source of worry,” he assures with a hum. “It’s just that, it’s been over a month since you’ve graced Nalkeutta with your expertise, but we haven’t even thrown you a welcome party yet. Things have indeed been hectic with our clients one top with our ongoing problem with Cheongang, yet these issues aren’t justifications to prevent your warm welcome.”

There’s a smile on Mark’s face. Oh no. You know where this is going and despair befalls over your face.

See, you’re not exactly against company dinners. Back in JSS, it was a regular opportunity to get your bosses and partners blackout drunk so they don’t remember you recording their not-very-proud moments. But right now, you’re not exactly keen on going home late considering your whole stalker death threat situation.

“I already booked a bar near the bridge. Let’s all take the evening off.”

Well. Now that there’s no way out of this, all you can do is hope that today isn’t your due date yet.

Evening comes, and you’re suffered to be in Na Jaemin’s presence again. He’s in the company car that Mark ushers you into, sitting in the front seat next to Jeno and you two make a split second of eye contact through the mirror before stumbling into the car seat with an annoyed grunt. God, you’ve been so busy these past two weeks that you weren’t even given the chance to stress about him. Now you’re trapped with him for the rest of the night with little to know chance to escape.

Throughout the drive, you contemplate faking sickness again but unfortunately you never got the opportunity to set it up, so you just come up with your roster of excuses in case the amount of men inside the lounge starts becoming noxious to you.

“Cheers!”

The moment drinks start rolling in, they’re cheering for your name and title—- under duress, maybe, because it was preceded by a late welcome speech from the big boss himself. Mark pours you a drink and you’re obligated to swallow it down, burning your throat. Ugh. 

Obviously, not every Nalkeutta member is here right now. Aside from Mark and his four executives, two to three lower ranking members from each division have also been extended the invitation. You recognize Zhong Chenle from Hyeongshin and Na Jaemin’s favorite lackey, Park Jisung, held hostage by his boss in a torture chamber of shot after shot after shot.

“How are you holding up?” 

Renjun settles into the velvet seat next to you— unoccupied for the last hour because Haechan is still throwing a tantrum after your attempted vehicular slaughter, Na Jaemin maybe, finally took the eloquently worded message that you delivered the other week to heart, and the rest of Nalkeutta’s members are too intimidated to sit near the in-house lawyer that regularly stomps around in a flurry of swears throughout the office and your heel clicks harbors fear.

“Fantastic,” you deadpan, bringing the god rush you ordered to your lips. “I’m tipsy and cold and want nothing more than to knock myself out via head injury right now. You think if I announce that my period just arrived, they’d be too uncomfortable to stop me from leaving?”

“You’d probably succeed, but I don’t exactly recommend you leaving by yourself.”

“This is Nalkeutta’s territory, what kind of fucking idiot would try to jump me?”

“Well, things are precarious with Cheongang right now, and—”

You’re interrupted by a meek “Ex—excuse me,” from a Daehyeon subordinate. Lee Jeno’s subordinate. You look up and raise a brow at him. The guy’s face is embarrassed and he’s holding out a jacket. “The…the boss told me to give you this.” Your eyes flit down to the article, hanging sleeves barely brushing against the bare skin of your thighs that your pencil skirt is failing to cover, and you look up across the room to see the said co-worker conversing with Jaemin, now in a compression shirt when you could’ve sworn he was more covered up earlier. 

Again, you briefly meet eyes with Jaemin. You cough and look away, accepting the jacket with a thank you before the grunt scurries away. Then you recall Haechan’s words. He’s a nice guy. Man, if only you went to Daehyeon in high school, you’d probably be a lot saner today. 

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Renjun continues. “It’s a little dangerous right now and those guys are just across the bridge. They could be loitering around nearby.”

“Hey, I’ll be fine, I don’t go around unarmed you know.” You adjust the newly acquired cover on your lap. “Well. Maybe I do have something to worry about considering there’s a creepy stalker threatening to kill me.”

It’s like the entire room screeches into a tense halt.

“What?” Haechan finally decides to grow up and talk to you, marching up to your side of the lounge with a knitted look. “What do you mean stalker?” 

The repetition of the word attracts everyone’s attention if your first utterance hadn’t already. Drinks stop pouring. You notice eyes on you— particularly from across the room, which you promptly brush off to entertain Haechan’s question. “Oh, you know the day you ran over that grocery owner? The one I had to beg just so he wouldn’t sue you?”

“Yeah, I fucking know, but what do you mean you’re being stalk—” It hits him. “Fuck. The taxi. I thought it was just another one of my enemies training me!”

“Attorney, is this true?” Mark finally enters the conversation, uncharacteristically concerned. “And did you say this person is threatening to kill you?”

You meant to say it as a self deprecating joke. You didn’t expect these guys to actually clock your words and take you seriously.

“Attorney?”

You don’t answer verbally. Instead you grab your purse and pull out the envelope that’s been cozying up in there since you first got it. You set its contents down on the table for everyone to see, followed by the mortuary pamphlet you retrieved from your windshield. “This one was attached to my car in the company parking lot, but I’m pretty sure it’s a personal vendetta and has nothing to do with Nalkeutta, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

It’s disappointing, but this is all you have. There are no texts or phone calls. You have nothing on this bastard but a letter and a note.

Mark’s holding up the letter. You notice the pamphlet wrinkle in between Haechan’s fingers. “When did you get this?”

“Uhhh, the day Na Jaemin beat the shit out of you?”

“God fucking dammit.” He tosses it back to the table and throws his hands in the air before stomping off in frustration. Renjun scolds him and gives the note back to you, and you promptly fold it to return to your purse, along with the letter Mark offers back to you.

“There’s security cameras there,” he says. “Have you checked them yet?”

“I did and he was masked and covered up. Same with the footage from my building. I checked in with my landlady the day after I received the note at my doorstep, and she wasn’t around when it happened.” 

“He knows where you live?!”

“Jesus,” Renjun breathes out. “You’re practically buddies with the cops at the station, why didn’t you report it?” 

You simply sigh in your seat and set your purse aside. Honestly, you’re getting annoyed. Do they think you’re fucking stupid? Do they think you’re just letting this freak run around because you want to? Fucking ridiculous. “There’s barely any evidence to identify him, much less to penalize him for anything more than a fine and a warning. I thought I’d wait until I have enough under my belt to ensure a final conviction.”

“And continue risking your life? Are you fucking stupid?”

It’s Na Jaemin who says that.

He’s still sitting in the same spot as earlier, unmoving from his seat across the lounge, staring at you with a weight that practically digs into flesh and bone. Your jaw clenches. You ignore his insult with a roll of your eyes and you down the remaining half of your cocktail.

“This isn’t something we can just take lightly, attorney,” Mark tells you as though he’s genuinely concerned, but you call bullshit. He just doesn’t like the idea of losing his safety net from the law. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Your brows twitch. You firmly set the glass down on the mess of a table. “It seemed personal,” you answer, pointedly. “I didn’t think it concerned the company. That’s all.”

There’s quiet. You don’t look up from your seat, pouring yourself another drink. There’s a ticking in your ear. You’re frustrated. A groan scratches out of your throat and you quickly try to wash it down with a lean glass of whiskey, but Renjun manages to snatch it out of your hands with a disappointed click of his tongue before you succeed with your attempt. 

You snap your head at him. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“Maybe you should call it a night,” says, taking out his phone. “What’s your address? I’ll book an Uber.”

“He’s right, but you shouldn’t go alone,” Mark interjects. You look at him like he’s vomiting out shit from his mouth. He ignores it and instead turns back— gaze directed to the set of seats across the room. “Jaemin, make sure she makes it back home safely.”

“What?” Your voice is a shriek. You jolt onto your feet. “I understand you’re trying to look out for your employee, but why does it have to be him?”

 Na Jaemin is already pulling on a jacket. Your bite down your lip. You already have one crazy asshole knowing where you live. You don’t need another one.

“He’s the only one capable and hadn’t had anything to drink.”

“What about Renjun!”

The man in question looks the slightest bit sorry and embarrassed. “Listen, I don’t wish upon your death, attorney, but if that threat comes tonight, I can’t protect you. I already told you that I don’t fight.”

Fucking hell. You deflate like a balloon. Mark takes your lack of further complaints as surrender and nods at Jaemin, who promptly starts ushering you out of the reserved room. “I already know that you fucking hate my guts, attorney, but now’s not the time to be picky.”

“Just take your damned orders as is like a good dog and don’t fucking talk to me.”

Frankly, you’re heated right now. That entire situation was patronizing. You can’t stomach being treated like some goddamn helpless bitch who can’t handle her own dirty laundry when you’ve been cleaning up for them for most of your fucking career. You just need time. You just need enough cards and opportunities to fuck this stalker over. It’s not beyond your capabilities. It’s not something you need a dysfunctional circus gang to fix for you.

Thankfully, your guard dog doesn’t try to pick a fight throughout the uber ride home. He’s garnered enough tact this past week to figure out your sour mood.

It’s just as quiet when you finally arrive at your building. Na Jaemin follows you all the way to the entrance. The key remains slotted into the doorhole, unturned. “What are you doing?”

You hear him scoff from beside you. “Doing my fucking job like a good dog. Your stalker left the love letter on your doorstep. You think I’d stop here?” 

“Ugh. Fine.”

Begrudgingly, you lead him up to your unit. The moment you reach the door, you spin your heels to look at him without exactly looking him in the eye. “Alright, we’re here and I’m alive and not dead. Now leave me al—”

You stop. You stop because just when you’re reaching out for your doorknob— almost relieved that you can finally rest and end the day with a shower and good night’s sleep— you notice dents on the metal that weren’t there before.

Na Jaemin notices the same thing. His brows are furrowed. He brushes your hand aside and the handle rattles with a twist. It’s unlocked. You didn’t leave it unlocked this morning. 

You remain glued to the hallway floor as you watch Na Jaemin open the door. 

The moment an opening cracks, he gets smashed on the head with your wooden counter stool and you let out a squeak and yell.

“Fucking hell!” 

“W—wait, you’re not—!”

He hisses in pain but takes less than a second to recover, grabbing onto one of the chair legs to jerk the entire thing back and reach out for the extended arm of the person wielding it before he could let go. You hear a fit of fighting grunts from inside. The chair gets dropped to the ground. Na Jaemin disappears into your apartment with the thrashing culprit, exchanging threats and swears, and it takes you a moment to get back to your senses, the thumping in your ears becoming less and less deafening, and you take your few steps inside.

To say the least, your living room is a mess.

The couch is tipped over. Your rug is in tatters. This fucker was gracious enough to spare your T.V., and your wide eyes immediately dart over to the center of it all— the sight of Na Jaemin pressing the struggling culprit against your once clean floors. 

“Fuck, let— go! Get the fuck off me! Agh—!”

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll break your fucking arms.” Na Jaemin nods his head up, not even budging. “Hey, attorney. You call the shots. What do you want me to do?”

You stare at the man underneath him— the man responsible for making the mess out of your apartment and everything that preceded this very moment. You look at his face, bunched up in rage and shame and frustration, and that’s when you recognize him: your last case at JSS. The sweet, sweet old lady you helped pen her will. The same will that disinherited her two prodigal sons. You met them before. Both of them, because your client wanted to break it to them personally even though she wasn’t legally obligated to, all because she’s such a kind person.

That same person gave birth to despicable trash like this one.

They weren’t happy to hear the news. And since their mother is still under the protection order you arranged, this guy decided that the next best thing to take his anger out on is the lawyer that helped his mother screw them over.

Na Jaemin is still waiting for your answer. The right thing to do would be to take him to the station, finally file the report so they could force an admission of guilt. There’s a CCTV camera in the hallway and even if he was covered up, there’s still clear evidence of breaking and entering on top of everything he’s done to torment you so far. That’s the right thing to do. The legal thing to do.

But right now, you’re simmering. 

No, fuck it, your blood is boiling. You shrug off your blazer and toss it as a new addition to your messed up apartment floor. You roll back your right shoulder. You take a few more steps forward, staring him down on the ground. “Hold him up,” you tell Na Jaemin. It takes a second for him to register your instruction. But when it does, you couldn’t even miss the wild grin that stretches on his face— even if you wanted to.

“Since you asked nicely,” he says with a lace of amusement, ignoring the bouts of protest from the guy when he lugs him up to his feet like a ragdoll, locking him in place with two arms, and leaving him open and vulnerable. 

The first thing you do is yank his chin up by the hair. It’s a sight to see— the sheer hatred and animosity someone is capable of mustering on their face, even when they’re at someone else’s mercy. 

It’s funny. You sneer. Then you grab the other side of his head and slam his nose into your knee.

“Fuck!”

“Son of a bitch.” You jerk his head back up, watching the blood dribble down from his nostrils. “Did you have fun pulling your dumb ass tricks?”

He lets out a pained groan, but still has the strength to shoot you a glare. You let go of his scalp to grab him by the collar so you can have a better grip of slapping him in the face.

Smack!

“Shit—”

“May life is already a living hell dealing with these Nalkeutta fuckers every single day—” 

Whack!

“And then your ugly ass rears in to make things all the more worse.”

Thwap!

“Your disinheritance is none of my fucking business.”

Slap!

“To think I was scared and paranoid for weeks and weeks and weeks because of some broke ass pathetic prick.”

Crack! Your bloodied fist draws back from his jaw. He sputters out a bubble of red. You’re practically holding him up by the stretched out collar of his shirt. 

“Hey,” you say, giving him a rattle. “What gives you the right to do all of that to me, huh? Huh?”

When he doesn’t answer, you feel a tick in your temple. You go in for another smack to his face, but it doesn’t happen.

“That’s enough.”

You’ve always thought that if Na Jaemin were to grab you by the wrist, he’d immediately snap it into two.

“You’re gonna regret it tomorrow.”

The shock from the gentle fitness of his grip sends you back to reality, and you finally feel the dull throb on the knuckles of your right hand, the sharp tingle on the skin of your palms that seeps into muscle and flesh. You let go of him. You see splotches of red all over, and the eventual sores and bruises that’ll show up by the morning. 

You call your landlady. Na Jaemin accompanies you to the station to turn your stalker in along with all the evidence you managed to acquire. Officer Jung questions the state of the perpetration, and when you chalk it up as self-defense, he doesn’t press further and simply wishes you a good rest. 

The moment you walk out into the lobby and see Na Jaemin waiting, you’re hit with an uncomfortable whiplash at the unprompted role reversal. You don’t fight him or anything when he takes you back home. All you could do was muster a quiet, “Thanks,” when he tells you that he sent over some Ganghak members to clean up the mess of your apartment in the hour and a half that you spent at the precinct.

“Mark says you don’t have to come in tomorrow,” he tells you before you go on.

“Wasn’t planning to,” is what you say before finally closing the door on him.

‎*‎

Unfortunately, Na Jaemin was right.

“Ow! Shit! Fuck me!”

You are, indeed, regretting your whole fit of violence right now— over your bathroom counter with your med kit sprawled open. Your hands are a mess. You bandage yourself up before attempting to make breakfast. The attempt ends with you hissing in pain every time you try to hold something with your right hand, so you end up ordering something to eat instead.

While waiting, you plop down on your down fixed couch to answer the flood of messages that had been coming in since last night. Mostly from Haechan. One text from Renjun checking in on you. The last few from Mark telling you to take as much time off as you need— paid, he emphasizes. His fluency in your way of communicating is starting to scare you. You tell him you’d be clocking in back to work tomorrow. 

A new notification comes in telling you that your order is almost here. You groan and peel yourself off the couch, grabbing a pair of slides from the entryway before twisting open your already unlocked door. 

The moment you breathe the hallway air, you’re met with another commotion.

“Get out! Go away!”

“Ma’am, I’m telling you I know the resident here, I’m just— ow!”

Thunk!

“Don’t you lie to me, I know Miss Attorney doesn’t have any friends or a boyfriend! Get out!”

You stop by the doorframe, taking in the sight of your middle-aged landlady beating the high and mighty Na Jaemin with a convenience store bought frying pan. He looks so distraught shielding himself with his arms, before finally noticing you, and his expression shifts. “Hey! Tell this woman to stop, I’ve been—”

Thwack!

 “Attorney!” your landlady greets you after landing another metal blow to Na Jaemin. “This weirdo has been loitering around your unit ever since I got here! Should we call the police?!”

Your eyes flit over to Jaemin. He looks annoyed and pissed and disgruntled, but apparently even someone like him won’t raise a hand against a woman old enough to be his mom. You stifle out a short sneer, then turn to your landlady with a smile. “Ahjumma, it’s alright, he’s my co-worker,” you assure. “He’s the one who helped me last night.”

You hear him scoff. “Oh,” your landlady gasps. “I’m so sorry, dear. You just looked awfully suspicious.” Then she quickly forgets about him to address you instead. “I already called a repairman to fix your broken door. They’ll be here before lunchtime.”

“Thank you. I’ll handle it from here!”

“Take care, dear. Have a lovely morning.”

When she goes off up the staircase, you look at the weirdo loitering around your unit. You cross your arms, brow raised. “What do you want?”

He stares you down, and you catch his mouth twitch when he lets out an incredulous huff. “Your damn landlady should get heating in the hallway. My back’s all sore and all I get in return is attitude,” he snarks. “Can’t believe you had a good night’s sleep even with your lock broken after the shit that went down. I don’t know if you’re brave or fucking stupid.”

You’re hit by a sudden pang against your chest. Oh. Oh. You notice he’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. You let his insult slide this time, telling him to follow you downstairs to pick up your food. It’s a good thing you ordered enough for two meals today. You don’t thank him. Instead, you invite him in for a doenjang-jjigae breakfast.

“Want coffee?”

“You gonna spit in it?” he chides from the dining table.

“Just say no, you prick,” you grunt, dragging out a pitcher of water from your fridge instead and slamming it down onto the table. You’re starting to second guess your act of gratitude. You should’ve just let your landlady beat him to death with the pan.

He pours water into the two empty glasses while you struggle to open the delivery bags and containers. You curse the plastic knot getting in the way of your doenjang-jjigae, hissing every time the plastic brushes against your still raw skin despite the bandages. Na Jaemin seems to notice your struggle because he clicks his tongue and snatches it from you to do it himself. Your face grows hot. Your pride is in tatters.

You two start eating in silence. God, this is so fucking awkward. “So, uh,” you try to crack it. “The food is…great…right…?”

“Cut the shit, attorney. Just spit it out.”

“Jeez, fine, alright,” you set your utensils down a little too aggressively, and you feel the sting deep within your palms. Your glare zeroes in on the spot on his head that you recall getting ambushed by your counter stool. “Is your head fine? It didn’t bleed or anything, right?”

He just shrugs and continues slurping down the soup. “I’ve had my head split open before. It’s no biggie.”

You stare at him. Was…was that supposed to be a brag? How many concussions has he had? Is that the reason why there’s a screw loose in there somewhere? He’s so fucking insane.

“You worried, or some shit?” He sets down his spoon to fish out a ply of tissue from the box on your table, dabbing away at the shit-eating smile on his face. “That’s cute. Does it mean you don’t hate my fucking guts anymore?”

The tofu you’re trying to eat stops midway into your throat. My god, you didn’t expect him to take that note so seriously. 

You swallow it down with water. “I just wanted to know if I had to reimburse you for any hospital bills,” you explain, somewhat defensive. “I still hate your fucking guts.” His past transgressions aside because he can’t even fucking remember them. “You were the shittiest and most stressful client I’ve ever had and I will hold this grudge until I die. I would’ve dropped your case if Mark’s very existence wasn’t a threat to my life.” All he does is cackle in response. You leer at him. “Fuck off, you treated me like crap then. I don’t get why you’ve been changing your tune lately. It’s throwing me off. Why the hell did you even help me?”

The ideas that Renjun and Haechan injected into your poor brain start to surface. Maybe he’s just doing it to get your attention. Everyone in the office knows he has a crush on you. You hope that’s not the case. You really hope it’s not— and now’s the opportunity to finally get the real answer.

Your heart is thumping like crazy waiting for Na Jaemin to open his dumb mouth. “Ah. The visiting room,” he starts, eyes wandering up like he’s reminiscing a pleasant memory. You don’t share the same sentiment and your expression sours. “I thought you were a pushover at first and it annoyed the hell out of me. Not a big fan of spinelessness and cowardice.”

Wow. You’re speechless. He’s this close to getting kicked out.

“But then you pulled me into that room during recess in court.” 

His eyes flicker over to you— forcing the eye contact that you’d always been running away from. The look on his face forces a lump in your throat. You gulp it down and feel a rattle in your bones. What is this? What’s his deal? Is he trying to fight? What in the name of—

“And then I realized just the kind of woman I was into.”

—fuck?

“Last night, too. But it would’ve been pretty inappropriate to tell you I was turned on considering the situation.”

You blink. You gape at him. You’re not sure if your face is steaming because of anger or embarrassment, so you chalk it up as both. 

“Get out.”

This is it. This is enough. It’s time to call it a day.

“Get out of my house.”

“I’m not done eating ye—”

You grab his glass of water and douse it over half-eaten stew, some of which spills and splatters over him. “Yes, you are. Out. Now.”

Na Jaemin lifts his brows and raises his hands up in surrender as he gets up from his chair without protest, an infuriating simper playing on his face, and it just all the more pisses you off. He makes a comment about your broken door lock before you tell him to fuck off and shove him out into the hallway, his cackles finally get muted the moment you slam the door into his face.

You press your back against the wood. You suck in a deep breath before releasing it as you slide down to the floor.

“This is nuts.”

Seems like you might need another day off. You text Mark that you’ll be coming in on Thursday instead.

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

[lilmarshie]

Hidden pt. 2 | The Winter Soldier x Reader

Bucky, aka, the Winter Soldier starts to open up to you about his past. This leads to sharing your vulnerability with him and comforting him. Bucky starts to slowly fall in love with you.

As you spend more time with Bucky, you begin to feel sorry for what he experienced during his time as the Winter Soldier. He is haunted by his past and tormented by his present. Bucky doesn’t know how to act. He doesn’t know how to feel. And he certainly doesn’t know how to react to his past actions. But that’s what you’re there for.

You’ve allowed him to stay in your attic as long as he does the chores and helps out around the house. You have no problem with that. You have learned to trust him and you don’t want him to use his past as a crutch. You’re helping him learn from his past to inspire his future. And Bucky is grateful for that.

“Hey, y/n. Thank you for trusting me. I know I’ve opened up a lot to you about my past. But thank you for listening to me. It means a lot to me.” He said, one late night after a long session of sharing his thoughts and feelings to you. “You’re welcome, Bucky. You know, I’ve grown to confide in you more and I feel like I can trust you more than anything. You understand me in ways most people don’t. So thank you.” You said with a smile, as you rested your hand atop of Bucky’s. He grasped your hand in his and smiled at you. “You’re welcome, doll. I’m an open book now. You know that. I trust you too, sweetheart. I mean I’ve told you my whole life story so far. And that takes a lot out of a guy like me.” He said, as he laughed softly. His eyes were bright and a huge smile lit up across his face.

You loved seeing Bucky so happy. It felt like a dream to see the way that he’s changed over the short amount of time he’s stayed with you. Being with you has healed him in a way. He’s spent time shared his vulnerable moments with you, and, you’ve opened up to him in ways you haven’t done before. Through this a deeper connection is forged between you both.

Throughout your time together thus far, you’ve helped to comfort him during his nightmares, and, seen the physical scars that he’s experienced. You’ve gotten to see a very different side to the Winter Soldier. Over time, you tend to his wounds both physically and mentally. Bucky allows you to care for him, which is something he hasn’t experienced for years at this point.

Through simple acts such as holding his hand, to making him breakfast, each of these simple acts help to heal his wounds. When he has nightmares, you’re there right by his side to hold his hand, and help him overcome them. Over time you’ve grown to fall deeply in love with the Winter Soldier. And you can see that he’s been feeling the same way because of the way he acts towards you.

Bucky is calm and patient with you. He doesn’t argue with you. He’s kind and respectful towards you. He makes you laugh at his jokes that aren’t harmful or offensive. It seems like you’ve tamed the beast that was trying to destroy who he truly is. That part of him that was cast aside as the Winter Soldier has been set free by your love and affection.

You have shared meals together on weeknights, and, Bucky is the one who mainly cooks. You’ve cuddled up together on the couch to watch movies or play games. Bucky has continued to help out around the house and you’ve noticed that his entire demeanor has changed. He has started to leave you little words of encouragement, and, small tokens of his appreciation such as flowers, small drawings, and love letters.

What was hidden by darkness and an overwhelming sense of fear has been transformed into affection and a blossoming relationship.

Bucky couldn’t be happier with how things have turned out.

While you are grateful that the Winter Soldier has arrived in your life in such a warm and peaceful way despite his portrayed attitude and demeanor.

[phyx-m]

Okay this is the most unserious thing I’ve ever done but I wanted to sketch out Rotwife and then Blobkuna jumped in there. Also tried a new brush, thought it would translate her decay dribbles well. Anyways…

[talenlee]

Game Pile: Civilisation 1 (Video)

Watch this video on YouTube

Script and thumbnail below the fold!

In 1991, Sid Meier released Civilisation, starting off a habit that didn’t really get kicked at any point after that. It’s kind of hard to underestimate the legacy of Civilisation as a game, as a genre.

It isn’t that no game of its ilk happened before, that’s not how history works. We rarely are given hard ‘starts’ for some thing, since, you know, there were all sorts of games being made by developers and never ‘released’ to a greater market, so instead we have to kind of point to places where specific, defined, observed events based, annoyingly, on markets and capitalism.

There were probably videogames about running countries before 1991, possibly games with even more elaborate structures and systems and different ideological perspectives, and they probably had wholly text prompts and were run on some truly abysmal software system like COBOL, Decay mention for the bingo card. The thing is, most of them didn’t succeed to the degree that Civilisation did as a commercial product, and the upshot of that is, generally speaking, it’s a common way to see Civilization 1 as the ‘start’ of the genre.

That’s kind of the nature of the game, too. There’s a lot of stuff that just starts in it, around the same time. If you’re not familiar with the genre –

HOW?

but in this game you play an immortal leader overseeing a cultural identity that expands across territory, builds cities, claims land, trades, researches, all that stuff, and eventually retires at a ripe old age of 6,100 years old. The game lets you play a civilization from a small selection of appropriate civilisations, which have their own personalities and biases. Anyone not covered by these options – Romans, Russians, Babylonians, Zulus, Germans, French, Egyptians, Aztecs, Americans, Chinese, Greeks, the English, Indians, and the Mongols – is just… barbarian tribes.

This makes it a game where you can build Jerusalem, Mecca, or Brisbane, but not be any of the cultures that actually founded those cities, it’s an interesting unintentional statement. Still I’m not here to retread the old conversations about how Civilisation views the question of ‘who gets to be a civilisation’ or even ‘what does it mean to be civilised.’ That’s something other people have done, often better than me, and with a broader context of other Civilisation games.

I haven’t really played any of the other ones after the first. I’ve installed them, I’ve run a few of them, and even played through the tutorial on one of the more recent ones – five, I think? but they all bore me and I just find myself wanting to come back to this one, with its systems.

Part of it is just mental headspace. I don’t think I’ve got it in me to care too much about the specifics of each new game, the way things are almost but not quite the same. It’s just too much and I don’t really feel the absence of those things in the game I like to play. And I do not really understand what’s in this game at all – my knowledge of Civilisation 1 is pretty patchy for a game that I’ve played this much.

What is remarkable about Civilisation 1 is how it scales. When you start playing Civilisation you’ll be introduced to its wide variety of systems without a lot of clear explanation.

You start with some starting technology, some starting units, and a starting location that may or may not feature free resources, units or good terrain and you’ve got to make the life out of it. For example, I literally just before reading this learned how the corruption mechanic works, and that the enemy units were doing things I thought impossible wasn’t because I didn’t understand how to do them, but because the game just cheats.

One thing I remember from my childhood years was that developing technology seemed the best way to ‘succeed,’ because that’s what gave you military units you could use to fight and protect. I had this weird sort of hypermilitaristic state where all my cities would endlessly produce just defensive units, until most cities had sometimes six or eight military units guarding a population of 2-3. Which you might be wondering ‘what’s the point’ or, more likely, ‘what do you mean?’ because you aren’t familiar with a thirty-five year old videogame’s intricate systems.

Cities can be built, they can be defended, they can grow, and they have populations, and all of those terms bring with them a new subset of mechanical information that can be expanded on further, and which brings with it a new layer in the very specific way Civilisation, the videogame, thinks of being.

I came back to it as an adult, as a sort of idle game I can appreciate in a small window while I’m doing other things.

And y’know what?

Civilisation turns out to be a startlingly easy game to break. Not even with cheats or exploits – the game gives every single city square a certain ‘base’ advancement, meaning that making a new city will typically yield more results than letting a neighbouring city develop that square themselves. You need some limit on it because you don’t want to go haywire but the general idea is that if you control an area, you can probably get a really good output of all the stuff you want by ensuring that about a quarter of that area is covered in cities, rather than giving those cities the much larger non-competitive territory they can hypothetically control.

The upshot of this is that you can leap up the tech tree at a speed that makes even the most optimistic monkey wonder why they ever bothered throwing the bone if you’re going to mock the teleology of technological progress like that. In one such game, I had access to superconductors before we even hit the Anno Dominis, just because the game doesn’t do anything to slow you down. And why should it?

It’s just trying to let you play with emergent systems. Anything else would be ridiculous.

There’s no inherent reason any given slick of land should have another civilisation on it, meaning to meet with other cultures and engage in the hypothetically important civilisational struggle, you have to develop both transport boats and the units you want to send, and have a civilisation that appreciates that kind of military adventurism.

Even if you just want to go say hi and discover other nations and see how they’re doing, you have to construct something that can fight to do it. Even a humble settler!

And each city can only support so much in the way of units and their presence in the world, meaning that you basically have to dedicate a city or two to supporting the task of ‘finding someone else’ when all you can gain out of it is an opportunity to smush some loser underfoot. Why bother? You can wind up in the later stages of a successful civilisation, with heavily developed technology and nobody to talk to.

Then at some point, a trireme shows up to your civilisation which is developing the cure for cancer and they wonder if you’d like to learn how to do pottery. This is in cities that are doing nothing but making caravans to contribute to wonders, or building barracks that you sell, because buildings need upkeep and only change your stats in that city, and if you’re happy with only making enough and not making everything, then you suddenly don’t care about giving yourself 50% extra happiness off your temples or whatever.

Suddenly you’re left with no real reason to want to build most of anything in a city. People don’t need a coliseum to be happy, they need more people in the city doing the important job of making entertainment and doing cool art.

The solution to every problem in a city, more or less, can be developed by just growing more, and that rewards growth more than anything else, and the systems that let you grow the most are the ones that discourage you from doing anything military, but that’s okay because going and finding people to fight is a pain in the bum.

But and this is where things get really interface-weird, you can’t just sit back, develop tech, and goof around until the space race kicks in, because the way you build things in this game is to tell your cities to build them, and you do that through a menu. This menu cannot handle a game state where you have access to every piece of technology to build with, or even most of it. It splits into two menus when the menus get too busy, but if there are too many wonders and nobody’s built them… it just stops. You open up the build menu to make something – like one of those wonders – and you get a blank menu of nothing. You have been locked out of all production for the rest of the game, or until someone else develops your technology level, makes some wonders, and shrinks what appears on that menu.

But the AI opponents aren’t likely to do this because wonder building is really slow and annoying and a lot of the benefits are transitory, especially if you’re the tech powerhouse of the world learning the hell out of everything. The game rolls dice on whether it makes a wonder, and it seems to avoid making wonders that aren’t useful any more – It’s fine to have a Great Wall of Newark but if I’ve already developed gunpowder, the game’s not going to bother taking it off my plate.

The game doesn’t actually play by its own rules. It feigns playing fair in a moment to moment, looking-at-the-enemy way, but the enemy civs just behave in really banana ways that replicate the appearance of following the rules, but really don’t. They build faster, earn more, and in some cases teleport to ensure they can oppose you. That’s not even accounting for the way the game can have technologically outmatched units win in combat against seemingly much more powerful things. Ever seen a phalanx with spears destroy a stealth bomber? The math says it can happen so the game lets it happen. There, the game is willinng to ‘play fair’ with its math.

That’s the funny thing about this game, to me. All these years later, as I play it, knowing the game now, the priorities of how to play have shifted. I could make it harder by avoiding this strategy, but I like playing this way. I like how silly it makes history. I like going to space with a civilisation that doesn’t know what a king, a pot, or a horse are. I like the distorted way it works and the mid-game challenge of making wonders quickly enough to not break the end game menu.

Basically, Civilisation wasn’t a game made that ever expected you to be good at it. In fact, Civilisation was a game with a lot of expectations and assumptions about what made the world work in the ways it did, and those historical assumptions are… a thing.

Look, this is not a new observation. Back in 2002, Matthew Kapell wrote in Popular Culture Review the article ‘Civilisation and its Discontents: American Monomythic Structure as historical Simulacrum.’ It’s a short article, not really a paper proper, but it’s a good analytical examination of the game and assumptions that are evident in the text, particularly as they relate to how you tell the story of history and whose history you’re telling.

Kapell talks about the idea of CIvilisation telling a fundamentally American style of history, and not just history but mythic history. In Civilisation 1, know where the game talks about slaves across all the cultures it represents? ‘Cos I don’t, and I’ve played the game a lot.

What Kappell describes in Civilisation that many have observed since is that the vision of games Meier poplated around this time was fundamentally a treatment of the world as a frontier. There is free land and resources waiting for the person to take best advantage of it, and you do so only in competition with other equal parties trying to do the same thing. It is a place for capitalism, free enterprise, and a spread of progress.

This vision of the world as frontier, and the civilisation as a simple relationship to resources and one another does a great job of feeling like it’s about history while skirting around all the murder and genocide. That’s why monomythic: This is the story of America that America tells itself. All history becomes part of this, all of the story is not about representing the world as a place for America to be but rather a world that looks the way America needs it to for it to be correct in how it views itself. The leader of America in Civilisation 1 is Abe Lincoln, not George Washington.

I don’t even necessarily want to talk about civilisations and identity in this though. The thing that stands out to me about this game is the fascinating ideology underpinning how it thinks governments are run and the weird moments of cynical realism it expresses in that.

In this game, you can run your country under a specific system – despotism, monarchy, republic, democracy, or, supposedly, communism. These all have special rules that change the way you relate to resources in your cities.

To unlock Communism, you need to research Communism, which you get to after Democracy and Philosophy. Communism then gives you the government system of Communism, which works identically to Monarchy, but with a special, unique perk: Your people can be oppressed with military presence in the city, and, corruption is omnipresent and equal in all cities.

This is a vision of communism that is not about Communism – the description even takes time out to explain that it hasn’t improved lives for workers – but is really talking about specifically, Stalinism – and like, Stalinism of maybe the 1950s, which had a shelf life of Not Long because Stalin himself didn’t exactly rack up a high score in getting through that decade.

Oh and once you have Communism, you can unlock Labor Unions. Labor Unions let you build a tank.

That’s it.

That’s all labor unions are for, in the idea of Civilisation 1.

But let’s roll back and look at that world that breaks the game.

I’m building as many places as I can for people to live in. When populations grow, I make a new place, and immediately connect it via infrastructure. I don’t build military units at all – unless a place is being attacked, military units are bad, and I don’t want them. If I do have them, I can’t use them to go on military adventurism, sending them out to go beat people up, because that makes the people who are supporting them unhappy: my people don’t support a military exploratory force.

I don’t make money. My tax rate is zero, because I want to work on science instead. Cities grow close together so when the population gets too big, they can’t process more of the land around them, and instead are limited to only about 4-5 squares around them and everyone else in the city takes on jobs of being entertainers, artists, or scientists. And I’m not building the buildings that demand more resources to maintain; people are left with their own goods, so they can use them in their own community. If people are mad about the government for more than one turn, that government collapses.

It’s very hard to argue that the ‘democracy’ outlined here is anything like the democracy the game was sold under. Can you imagine if being mad for a year resulted in an overhaul of everything? Can you imagine being able to impact the military operations in your country and indeed, discourage them? Can you imagine a society that only turns to expressions of force when someone else comes in and takes over a city, turning it into a temple-building military outpost? Can you imagine a place without police where people vote and throw parades and have a nice time? Can you imagine a community that doesn’t know what kings are?

The irony is that the optimal strategy of this frontier strategy is a peaceful anarchism that both does no harm and takes no shit.

No, it wasn’t intentional. But that doesn’t stop it from being funny.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[cultkinkcoven]

hello hello!!! i was wondering if you could offer advice... some words of encouragement... something, you know? but its totally okay if you cant, id just like to know your perspective i suppose

so, im a fairly young practitioner. im closing in on my first year of practicing with deities, this november will be my anniversary of when i started. and, in the span ive been working with deities, according to them and my friend who practiced witchcraft for 6 years, ive made a shit load of progress.

my deities kept telling me over and over how everything will be alright, how eventually i wont look at someone else's path and think "i wish that was me", and ect. i've had multiple deep heartfelt discussions on my jealousy issues and my deities try their best to comfort me, reassure me, and so on. but its like... i dunno... when i see someone online who has such a fruitful relationship with their deities, who seems so well established in their life and practice, it just makes me feel a bit... inadequate in return.

one of the reasons im coming to you specifically is that - well - i heavily admire your work and relationship with your deities. you seem able to be so completely comfortable with your path and your loved deities, and i cant help but read how smitten you and your deities are for each other, the experiences, the altars you make, the knowledge you have on so many diverse and interesting topics and... truthfully, i end up crying sometimes because i feel as if ill never live up to the type of wizard that you are. i know its stupid, itll most likely fade with time as i gain more experience with my deities, and its not as if what we have is not amazing. i love them and i absolutely wouldnt trade what ive gone through with them, but i just... i just wish i could speed up time. that i could see into the future and know if im ever going to be half of what you are.

i do tarot readings for myself and my friend has done them as well, they always come out saying ill be absolutely wonderful as a witch. that ill be so happy and fulfilled, but it just takes time, it takes living out my tribulations and reading each sentence of my book instead of worrying about the last page, but im just... i just cant seem to tell myself that. i know that no matter how much my deities will gently hold me and kiss me with reassurance, that no matter how much my cards will give me the most vivid descriptions of my future that they can, none of it will actually do anything if i do not believe it myself. and i know it sounds silly, but since youre one of the individuals that i look up to the most, i thought youd be able to help.

im sorry for the long rant, and youre free to trash this ask or something. ill totally understand. thank you for reading this far anyway. <3

This ask is from so long ago but it feels very relevant now. You’ve probably already dealt with this so I’m just gonna yap.

I always find messages like this funny when they’re directed at me, I’m always flattered and surprised that people view my work and relationships as exemplary.

It’s funny because I still have this exact same sense of yearning and jealousy at times towards other people’s craft. There’s someone I’m friends with on here that’s really close and chummy with Lord Hermes. And I’ve always felt like “damn he’s never so friendly with me”. Like he’s great, but he just doesn’t talk to me the way he talks to them. But on the flip side, that person doesn’t know Lucifer nearly as well as I do.

A year or so ago I felt the exact same towards Lord Lucifer. There was a witch I was following on Instagram that had just such a beautiful and cozy relationship with him, and I wanted that.

It’s funny looking back in hindsight from where I am now. Funny because, near the beginning of our relationship, the dynamic between Lucifer and I felt far more romantic and classy. It was very controlled, affectionate, playful, he was always sweet gentle and kind.

Now Lucifer is still all of those things, but he no longer has to worry about dazzling me as much. We get into petty stupid little arguments, we had one last night. He gets frustrated with me when I don’t listen, and I get frustrated with him when he ignores me. He bothers me sometimes, I annoy him sometimes. He doesn’t approach me with the same “hello! hello! my dear! you’re here! this is so exciting!”, though he does still express pleasure in seeing me, it is far more casual now.

I don’t think the me from a few years ago would envy how our dynamic has evolved, but this is not a bad thing at all. People see the chocolates, the flowers, the kind messages. I think that for most practitioners, once you get to this stage in the relationship where intimacy and love are not pursuits, but affirmed and constant elements, things in reality start to be more complex than how they appear. And for the person in that position, things just feel extremely normal.

Don’t get me wrong, I am beyond blessed to be in Lucifer’s presence at any time. But, for example, the relationship I have with Aphrodite is far more polished and clean, light, fluffy and pure than the one I have with Lucifer. Aphrodite and I don’t bicker ever, I’ve never been frustrated at her, never felt the need to talk back to her. But I don’t know Aphrodite nearly as well as I know Lucifer. Lucifer knows me so well he knows exactly how I am going to react to his words. So he chooses them deliberately, sometimes to intentionally piss me off, i’m a way that Aphrodite never would.

I guess the tldr of this is basically, once you do get to that point, the point you admire in others, you probably won’t even notice it. You’ll have become so comfortable in your relationship that you too will be surprised when someone else mentions how nice it seems.

Because it is nice, I love Lucifer. But it’s not a fantasy, it isn’t all positive and it isn’t all easy. But what you’re observing is true. It is definitely worth it. There is no cure to the feeling you’re feeling except continuing to grow, not in spite of your fear but because of it.

[owl-nerd-13]

I’ve been thinking about this more, and how I imagine it playing out.

-As with the Scar and Zazu shenanigans, Bellini is kept in the Vatican, still a Cardinal, but demoted to a lesser, essentially pointless role. He’s pretty much there so Tedesco (or whatever his popesona would be. Pius? Let’s go with Pius) so Pope Pius XIII can go antagonize him into a fight whenever he’s bored. Thomas is also there, because he feels so guilty about not preventing Tedesco’s election that he feels the need to stay and do damage control.

-Vincent returns to Kabul. Tedesco all but drives him to the airport. He likely has an inkling of why Tedesco is allowing him to return, but he must go back to his flock as long as he has the opportunity.

-Vincent lasts a couple months, which is longer than Tedesco thought he would. (Pope Pius XIII can barely keep the frustration out of his voice when he asked for updates from Kabul) But then the attack finally comes. Maybe there’s a bomb, maybe there’s a shooting, I don’t know. But when the dust clears there’s debris, an awful lot of blood of the ground, and an empty space in Kabul where there used to be a good man. Even if there’s no body, in the awful looming absence what else could have happened?

-Tedesco outwardly mourns and inwardly gloats at the success of his plan. He pulls out the speech that will in the same breath proclaim Benitez a martyr and on the path to sainthood, and call for vengeance; the one he started writing before Benitez’ plane left the Italian tarmac.

-But then there’s a leak. Lawrence, in the midst of his grief realizes that something isn’t right. Something doesn’t add up. While visiting the turtles and weeping enough tears to refill their pond, he bids Agnes and O’Malley to investigate. And the good Sister, and good Monsignor come through as they always do.

-And oh, is the evidence they find damning. Maybe not in so many words, but it paints an undeniable picture of man sent away with the expectation and anticipation of his martyrdom. The residents of the Vatican, the College of Cardinals, and the greater Catholic world do not take it well.

-Long story short, by some miracle this is the thing that gets all the Cardinals to work together and they essentially coup Pope Pius XIII. Force a resignation. Tumblr looks on with glee.

-And another conclave is called. Lawrence, still weeping a good body weight in tears every day will have to run it. O’Malley, Agnes, Bellini (free from his metaphorical ribcage prison), and a few others have teamed up to routinely force fluids down his throat so he doesn’t literally shrivel up like a raisin.

-Turning our focus back to Kabul, guess who isn’t dead! I couldn’t bear to actually kill off Vincent. He survived the attack, albeit badly injured, and managed to crawl away. He couldn’t go to a hospital because those were probably being watched. However, what Tedesco never counted on, was that Vincent had spent years simply making connections with all the people around him, like he does wherever he goes. And that means there is a large group in the city who care about Vincent Benitez very deeply, and are willing to go to great lengths to help him hide and heal.

-Eventually, once he is well enough, he continues his ministry, albeit very discreetly. He's not better by any stretch of the imagination, but he can move and work well enough. He is still essentially in hiding. The thing keeping him safe is the fact that most people assume he’s dead, and as such, he isn’t sure if it’s safe to reach out to the rest of the world. At night he prays very hard to try and reconcile what was done to him, and to forgive. Not his physical attackers- that came easily enough. But Tedesco. What is he to say? Forgive him Lord, even though he knew precisely what he was doing? He prays lying flat on the floor- one on his legs was badly injured and he is unable in kneel. Despite the turmoil within him, he continues forward.

-The Cardinals gather once more in the Vatican. Second conclave in less than a year! No one is excited. Many of them probably feel the specter of Cardinal Benitez hovering over the proceedings. It is generally assumed Lawrence will be the one elected.

-And then, in what seems like a ghastly parody of events not too long ago, Monsignor Ray O’Malley hears a knock on the door. He is confused, and quite certain everyone expected has arrived, but it’s not quite six o’clock yet, and there were a few that were unsure of their attendance, so he goes to open the door. And sees a dead man smiling wearily at him.

-Ray pulls a Rhoda and slams the door in Vincent’s face out of pure instinct, then turns and sprints to get Thomas, leaving Vincent to pull a Simon Peter, and keep awkwardly knocking to be let in.

-Ray finds Thomas, who is talking quietly and sombrely and teary eyed to a group of Cardinals and Nuns, and can barely manage to get a few words out. Thomas is only just able to make out “at the door” and “I can’t believe -” before he finally asks Ray to just lead him to whatever caused him so much distress, and the rest of the gathering sort of trails behind, because this has got to be good.

-And there is still someone knocking on the door. Thomas turns to Ray, but the poor man looks just this side of fainting, so he goes to open it himself.

-And there’s Vincent Benitez, in the flesh, looking even more tired and wayworn than when he showed up at the last Conclave, maybe leaning on a crutch because his leg is still messed up in a way that will likely follow him for the rest of his life. There he is. Alive. Breathing. Apologizing that he is going to have to borrow a choir gown again. Is he permitted in?

-Everyone gasps. Several people scream, which of course attracts even more attention. Someone faints. Thomas Lawrence, true to his namesake, refuses to believe this is actually Vincent standing before him until the man pulls up his shirt to show him the surgical scar. At this point Thomas collapses weeping, only this time, they are tears of joy. Eventually Vincent is ushered inside, provided with proper attire, and presented to the rest of the conclave at dinner, much to their astonishment.

-Vincent is elected Pope Innocent XIV after only two ballots. Tumblr goes insane.

-Tedesco is probably sent to live in a remote monastery or something, which is really a very loosely disguised prison. Innocent does finally forgive the man, and decides not to excommunicate him. However, even if it isn’t officially declared, if he ever did find a way to escape his captivity, no one is letting him into the Vatican again.

Okay, so in an au where Tedesco is elected, I don’t think he would defrock Bellini or Benitez. Instead I think he would allow Benitez to remain a Cardinal, and would allow him to return to Kabul, anticipating his being assassinated upon returning, because being able to spin a Cardinal as a martyr would make great fuel for him to throw on the Holy War fire. You know, Vincent being a sacrificial lamb, whether he’s elected or not, only this time under far more malicious circumstances.

As for Bellini, you know in the Lion King when Scar becomes king, and could 100% kill Zazu, but instead imprisons him in a rib cage and forces him to be his entertainment?

Yeah, that.

[truncheonsdressedinhats]

So here’s a thought… I’ve seen a few theories that the song Balaclava is about Alex wearing a johnny, but upon more listens, I don’t think it’s as superficial as people make it out to be. Personally, I see the imagery of the balaclava representing the performative way Alex has to act in front of his fanbase. Here’s what I mean:

Running off over next door's garden

Before the hour is done

It's more a question of feeling

Than it is a question of fun

Opening the song mid-flee, it already sets a tone of ‘guilt’ and a need to hide or run from whatever accusation is catching up with him. The ‘question of feeling’ could point to him doing what feels right, (i.e. how he explores his sexuality, maybe hinting to his early inner turmoil when it came to figuring himself out?), and that he’s not in it for the fun of it.

The confidence is the balaclava

I'm sure you'll baffle 'em good

Will the ending reek of salty cheeks

And runny makeup alone?

I think this could denote the mask or facade Alex puts on to the public, the ‘balaclava’ being the performative masculinity that keeps his slate clean, fooling his flock of teenage indie fans to keep the lads interested and the girls swooning. While he’s keeping his secrets from the public, this could mean that behind closed doors things aren’t as simple as they seem. While exploring his personal side, he’s breaking some hearts while doing so.

Or will blood run down the face

Of a boy bewildered and scorned?

Or you'll find yourself in a skirmish

Where you wish you'd never been born

Here’s where it starts to get interesting. As an afterthought to his previous lines, he knows that not only has he broken the girl’s heart, but the regret that comes after knowing the damage he’s caused to the other lad (I think we all know who), is really showing where his priorities lie here.

You tie yourself to the tracks

And there isn't no going back

And it's wrong, wrong, wrong

But we'll do it anyway 'cause we love a bit of trouble

The undertone of guilt is set throughout the song. This could be reminiscent of the old internalised homophobia, or maybe the inner regret of being unfaithful in favour of figuring himself out? Either way, in a juvenile fashion, he admits that he doesn’t regret it, even though he knows it may be objectively wrong.

Are you pulling her from a burning building

Or throwing her to the sharks?

Can only hope that the ending is as pleasurable as the start

The poor girl in this scenario is in a funk. Is he saving her or using her as a cover? He’s trying to see both sides of it from per point of view. On the one hand, he’s effectively saved her by admitting that she’s not the right one for him, but on the other, the man she once thought had loved her has revealed his true self. Is it a blessing or a curse? The end of their relationship is inevitable, so he has to hope that it’s not so messy that it taints the pleasure of finally finding himself.

The confidence is the balaclava

I'm sure you baffle 'em straight

And it's wrong, wrong, wrong

She can hardly wait

Though there have been some uncomfortable happenstances, he knows that the ‘balaclava’ is still there to protect him.

That's right, he won't let her out his sight

Now the shaggers perform

And the daggers are drawn

Who's the crooks in this crime?

‘Shaggers perform’ could point to the performative sexuality he puts on to the public, drawing ‘daggers’ that ultimately leas to emotional damage. He’s having trouble coming to terms with if he’s really at fault here, is he really in the wrong for falling for someone he shouldn’t have?

Well, you'll be able to boast

Of the day of the most

Flawless heist of all time

At the end of the day, he wants to be able to show off the one he really admires. He knows that breaking hearts is part of the process, but the final goal is being happy with who he really is and who he ultimately wants to be with, and being able to ‘boast’ about it like he’s pulled off a flawless upgrade.

You knew that it'd be trouble

Right before the very first kiss

Quiet, unassuming

But you heard that they were the naughtiest

This isn’t a metaphor - this is the moment. The point that feels so good, even though you know some may look down on you, you do it anyways. The ‘quiet and unassuming’ kind, could be the ones he’s least expected to go for, in others’ eyes, or even could point to the shy personality of his muse; Alex knows that they have a darker side to them.

She pleaded with you to take it off

But you resisted and fought

But sorry, sweetheart, I'd much rather

Keep on the balaclava

Here’s the row he was expecting. Of course he knew it’d be messy - the girl obviously wants him to embrace every part of himself, though he knows this is not a feasible outcome. Ending the song with the conclusion of him keeping on this performance, or mask, he knows this is what’s best for his career in the public eye.

[zubzooks]

I posted this on bluesky but I will also post it here.

I will no longer be providing work for or supporting the creation of Doll Eye, and I have decided to quit Dreamsteed. I wish to no longer be associated with any of it.

Twisted Doctor knowingly lied and withheld disturbing information about his past of grooming children online not only from those working for him, but even those closest to him. The information that’s present in the most recent callout document, which I will provide the link for, only came out from the victims stepping forward, upon which Twisted Doctor continuously downplayed the severity of what he had done or continued to not take full accountability even after all of the information came to light. I was not aware of even a fraction of what is in this document in the years I’ve provided work for Doll Eye. I am enraged and disgusted at what I have learned about someone I thought was honest with me.

I wish I could have gotten a statement like this out sooner. These past couple of weeks have been stressful as I've tried to process everything that's been uncovered, and I have been doing what I can to support the victims. I am deeply sorry that I had unknowingly been supporting someone who would do these things, and who would go on to lie and misdirect attention away from it. This matters heavily to me as a victim of online grooming, and as someone who has friends who have been affected by this issue.

Please continue to support the victims.

[wayiiseetheworld]

a birthday conversation

Summary: Aila's birthday is coming up. Jack and her talk about plans for it. Part two coming.

Warnings: Jack Abbot x OC!Wife. Established relationship. Age gap marriage. Domestic Fluff. Romantic Fluff.

Word Count: 717

Author Note: I am obsessed with Jack Abbot, and The Pitt. Slowly going to post my stories from A03 on here. || Not my gif.

A03 Link | Masterlist

The soft glow of the morning, a little before eight am, sun seeped through the curtains, casting a warm light across the cozy living room. The TV is paused on one of her reality shows she watches when Jack is working. Jack stepped through the front door, the tiredness from a long day at work melting away as he was greeted by the familiar scents of home. On the plush couch, Aila lounge comfortably, her legs tucked under her, her broken elbow propped up by a pillow that’s borrowed from their bedroom, a glass of red wine is in her good hand and a cold beer in a pint glass resting on the side table  She looked up and offered him a gentle smile.

"Hey, griz." She greeted softly, setting down her drink as Jack dropped his keys on the table and sank onto the couch beside her, grabbing the pint glass from the side table.

"Hey, sunshine," Jack said softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"Long day?" she asked, noticing the tired look on his face.

Jack let out a sigh, shrugging slightly, his smile tinged with fatigue. "Yeah, you could say that. But coming home to you and an ice-cold beer makes it all worth it." He draped his arm casually over the back of the couch.

“Pot Pies are in the oven. Should be done in the next twenty minutes.” She chuckled, leaning into his touch. "I'm really glad you're home. I missed you."

Jack’s expression softened into a warm smile. “I missed you too. I know being off work because of your elbow is pretty boring, and being stuck at home isn’t much fun. But it’s only a few more weeks…”

Aila nodded, her gaze contemplative. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do for now since I’m not going back to the bar.” She hesitated slightly. She knew he didn’t want her to go back to the bar, she almost died in the alley. It scared her, she knew it scared him, recalling what she’d overheard at the hospital after her surgery.

Jack took a breath, then offered gently, “My friend who owns the veteran bar still needs a head bartender. He said the job’s yours. It's a safe gig, and it’s only a block and a half from the hospital.” He paused, giving her a reassuring look. “No pressure, but I thought it might be something you’d want to consider. I mean, I would like it if you take that job.”

She would probably accept the job, he thought silently, feeling hopeful. 

To shift the conversation, Jack cleared his throat and smiled softly. "So, your birthday’s coming up soon, only two weeks away." He paused, then added with a playful grin, "I already got your present, so no peeking." 

Aila raised an eyebrow, amused. 

Jack continued, his tone turning a little more serious. "And I’ve officially been notified that I’ll have the whole day off, well, forty-eight hours, actually. No work, no interruptions." He looked at her with a gentle spark in his eyes. "But what I really want to know is, is there anything special you’d like to do that day? Anything you’re hoping for?"

Aila paused, lost in thought for a moment, then shook her head softly. "Honestly, Jack, all I want is this, just a day at home with you. Maybe a little spa session, drinks flowing all day, watching some romcoms? The Red Velvet cake from the bakery downtown - what is it called, Sweet Street? And maybe you can whip up your famous steak? We haven’t had steak in so long." A faint blush crept onto her cheeks. "Is that too much to ask? I mean we don’t have to do all that. The most important thing is to spend the day with you.”

He leaned in closer, gently resting his forehead against hers before softly pressing a kiss to her lips. "Not too much, babe. It’s your birthday, your special day. You’ve got it, every bit of it. I will plan it all out for you, okay? We’ll make it just for us. I can’t wait."

She leaned into him, leaning into the kiss, her eyes shining. "Me neither. Thank you for always making me feel special.”

[i-cant-swim-actually]

This is gonna sound like some kind of bizarre interrogation, but how old are you and when did you pick up watercolor art? I’ve seen and enjoyed your art and the work of other watercolor legends like Heikala and Margaret Morales and since I was in middle school. Seeing you in the same fandom I’m in now is really heartwarming while also making me feel brittle and old LOL. I love watercolor art but sometimes I feel like it’s too late for me to pick up lest the bones in my wrist explode like a character out of The Boys.

Anon I’m holding ur old tired hands in my crumbling hands deteriorating joints and obliterating tendons tenderly

Listen to me: watercolors are MAD easy to get started in. The entry barrier is low. Hell, I started wcs bc i had no money and Mark Crilley, our OG YouTube art teacher lord & savior, was out there using a no.2 pencil and wcs.

They’re fun, they’re cheap, they’re forgiving. The absolute barebones-minimum you need is a collection of 6 colors (warm-cool pairs of red, yellow, blue), watercolor paper, and a paint brush. I still have some of the original nylon brushes i used when I first started painting like 2 decades ago. They were one of those fun little craft packs with clear colored acrylic barrels.

The paper I’m still currently using for a lot of things is a 90lb paper i got in a box of 250pcs for a $20 from am*zon. I’d recommend you use whatever the equivalence of canson xl paper you can get easily.

wcs are fast and easy and fun. It’s easy on the hands and joints and wrist. U don’t have to wait for things to dry. I use a heat craft gun to blast my paper and then after i’m done painting i iron it flat. Whatever mistakes you make, you can most likely scrub out easily. Whatever you can’t scrub out, that’s what phot*shop is for.

Relax, have fun, go in with no thoughts in ur head and no care in ur heart. I love u & i’m proud of u for trying & u’ll get better as u get used to ur tools & ur UNFATHOMABLY cooler&sexier than the loser who uses genA¡ 😌🫶

[allmyhomieshatelawns]

DC X DP Prompt:

For years, Danny had been flipping between tearing apart the realms to find his beloved, and languishing in his castle when every single lead turned to be nothing. What was he supposed to do? How could he find Jason?

They had been having a normal time in the Infinite Realms. Jason had been telling Danny of the books he had helped Ghost Writer add to his collection. Something about dimensional differences making rarities. Danny had been more focused on the voice than the words.

He had been King of the Infinite Realms for about a year, when a boy just popped up in the middle of his court, shocking everyone with his presence. The boy, Jason, had been wearing a rather bloody outfit, yet on top there was a sash like a prince might wear. Jason had been sad at first, to learn he was dead, but curious about what was going on.

Clockwork was frowning, which was never a good sign.

“His Time is wrong.” The Ancient of Time said, head tilting as he shifted forms.

It took a year or so, but we found out what he meant. Jason wasn’t supposed to die yet.

“That means he can be brought back to his body.”

“But he was dead for a year in the living world! How could he possibly have gone back to his body? Surely his spirit is just lost somewhere.” Danny didn’t want to believe it. Jason couldn’t just be gone.

“It isn’t. Since you began your search, I have taken the liberty to look amongst the living. I finally found him.” Clockwork shocked Danny into silence for only a moment before the king leapt up, and immediately started to rip open a portal to the living realms.

“Ah, no. I’m afraid he’s not from your home dimension. I can get you to the right one through my dear friend, the Lady Gotham.” Clockwork stopped Danny before the over-eager king could scour his Earth.

“Your Majesty, it is an honor to know you have chosen one of my prince’s as your consort.” Lady Gotham rasped, her throaty voice alluring despite the fact it also sounded like she smoked two packs a day. Her hair was tightly curled, arranged in a glorious pouf around her head like a cloud, hiding yellow, glowing eyes. She curtseyed, her dress made of smoke and changing eras with a shifting so slow it took you a moment to realize it was different.

“Please, just help me find him. He told me the man who murdered him was never brought to justice. What if he tries again? The cruel thing about coming back to life, is having to die all over again.” Danny took Lady Gotham’s hand, and she opened a portal into her city.

Danny stepped in.

…

What was going on? Where was he? Who was he? Why was the air so thick, and everything so heavy?

Nothing felt right to Jason anymore. Which, made sense since he had been dragged out of some supposed afterlife, just to dig his way out of his own grave. His own body didn’t feel like it belonged to him. Why did it age? Why did it heal? Why was its heart still beating?

Worst of all, was just a nagging wrongness about where he was. Something was missing. Something important. But what?

[idkwhatimdoingbutslay]

The Hitler and KKK jokes were never funny tbh

[infinitie]

“You're right.” Satoru murmurs. “There’s nothing I don’t know about you.” It’s just… maybe he was expecting something different – a little reciprocation.

There’s an unexpected pang in Satoru’s heart. “I didn’t expect you to.” Satoru says so, mostly to convince himself. 

He stills when Suguru reaches for his belt, and he allows him to pull it off. His need rises to a fever pitch, and he nearly hisses in disappointment when Suguru leaves him hanging, though he has just enough self control left in him to not chase after his touch. Because of course he would. Satoru’s gone and fucked up – made this more charged than it needed to be. That’s what happens when you wear your heart on your sleeve: it’ll inevitably get broken and you make things awkward. 

He can’t walk into this expecting to appeal to Suguru’s sensibilities the way he used to, but like a fool, he still wants it to be the case. Maybe there was a chance that Suguru would take him in – maybe he could be his, for just one night. 

He wishes he could be shocked by the way Suguru is being so cold to him because in a way, he’s right. There were so many times that he could’ve reached out in the last ten or so years. Satoru was just a coward like that.

It’s then that all the restraint in Satoru slips and a mess of vulnerability comes pouring out. It’s unbecoming, it’s ugly, but raw. 

“Is that what you wanted me to do? To come here and beg for you to come back to Jujutsu society with me? You know that's what I would've done if I had reached out to you even once – we know you would've rejected me each time. Maybe you would’ve liked watching me grovel for you – because I can’t kill you. I could never kill you. I couldn’t even kill you now.” Maybe he would’ve done it each time, anyway, because that’s the kind of man that Satoru was for Suguru. To him, he left Suguru alone to respect his wishes – Suguru left for a reason. Even though Satoru couldn’t wrap his head around the reason in question, he thought he might’ve done him a favor by letting him go. Of course, he’s probably not doing him any further favors in failing to kill him. If there are any old wounds getting picked at, Satoru can’t tell with those cold eyes gazing back at him.

“Fine. If that's what you want… fine.” Satoru lowers himself to pick up his belt. “I’ll leave because that’s what you want me to do.” But every part of him wanted to stay – ached to be in Suguru’s presence and let him have his way with him. Satoru doesn’t exactly have the most self-respect right now as is. But he’s true to his promise, drawing in a shaky breath and turning to leave. “But I want you to know that I’ve left you alone all this time because I cared about what you wanted.” Even if it was utter bullshit to him.

@lustraveil

With Satoru's hands hovering, rising to the straps, he doesn't stop him. Suguru allows it. Fingers slip beneath the intricate ties, watching him as the topmost later slips from his shoulders. Satoru unfastens it gently, and he hates that he knows how to touch him there. To strip him down, literally and figuratively. Even so, Suguru doesn't stop him. Not until he spills the words. A request, asking for all of him.

His eyes narrow in an instant, lashes lowering as his mouth forms a tight line. The warmth from the kiss earlier is now long gone. Suguru exhales, more a release of irritation than a sigh. It's not even the fact he's asking for too much. It's his entitlement. As if he's owed. Like any of this could be softened by nostalgic sentiments. "There's nothing to show you, Satoru," he answers flatly. "You already know exactly what this is."

With that, Suguru's hands drop to the belt at his waist. As if he's about to continue without any false illusion of romance. His fingers move with ease, although, the sound of a metallic buckle loosening is by no means invitation, or seduction.... it's a warning. "I'm not here to walk you through your feelings," he adds, colder now. "and i'm certainly not interested in playing a part in whatever fantasy this is." tugging the leather loose as it slides free from the loops, and then –

'Just… don't leave me again, Suguru. Not like this.' Satoru says. There it is. The belt in hand falls with a dull thud onto the floor. Suguru stares down at it, away from him, chest rising with a slow breath. Then, he slowly lifts his gaze, devoid of any softness in his features. All that remained is now gone. He stares at Satoru for a moment, nothing like the man who had kissed him only moments ago. "These are a lot of demands," his tone razor sharp, "for someone who didn't bother to reach out even once in the last few years." it isn't with irritation or anger. It's worse. It's said with utmost clarity. His expression hardens as he steps back, creating more space now. Not so much figurative, but final.

"It's been years, Satoru. You want to know what this is?" his jaw tightens, "This is you, showing up with a breaking heart, and expecting me to hold it for you." Like I haven't been through hell and back by myself every day since that last day. He has nothing more to say to him. His eyes flick briefly to the sight of Satoru's hand clinging to him,

"You want to stay?" another step back. "Then let me be clear." his eyes narrow, "I want you out."

Not because he hates him, but because this vulnerability is something Suguru cannot allow himself to touch or receive. Not now. Not when he's come this far. And especially not from the man who has the power to destroy him.

// @infinitie

[anna-scribbles]

h-how do you ever finish any of your work? genuine question because you seem to be productive despite your agreste syndrome and I need to learn your ways. but also how do you ever finish any of your work

unclear. last night i stayed up and finished a report worth 25% of my grade at about 5am, arrived on time for my 9am lecture, and spent about half of it zoned out while thinking about seventeen year old emilie agreste. and i was one of the most active participants in the class discussion