#service dog organizations

[pensivebathtub]

evan and ranger blue <3

[k9protocol]

Hi! I decided to make a tumblr community that is a safe space for disabilities, lgbtqia+, poc, and most especially ramcoa/oea!

Feel free to join! PLEASE make sure to review the rules and look at my DNI.

-K9

[x22817]

I'm so grateful I have doctors actually listening to me for the first time in my life, but getting my blood drawn three times in one week has not been fun.

[teabookgremlin]

i want a puppy so much

[luulapants]

25 ways to be a little more punk in 2025

Cut fast fashion - buy used, learn to mend and/or make your own clothes, buy fewer clothes less often so you can save up for ethically made quality

Cancel subscriptions - relearn how to pirate media, spend $10/month buying a digital album from a small artist instead of on Spotify, stream on free services since the paid ones make you watch ads anyway

Green your community - there's lots of ways to do this, like seedbombing or joining a community garden or organizing neighborhood trash pickups

Be kind - stop to give directions, check on stopped cars, smile at kids, let people cut you in line, offer to get stuff off the high shelf, hold the door, ask people if they're okay

Intervene - learn bystander intervention techniques and be prepared to use them, even if it feels awkward

Get closer to your food - grow it yourself, can and preserve it, buy from a farmstand, learn where it's from, go fishing, make it from scratch, learn a new ingredient

Use opensource software - try LibreOffice, try Reaper, learn Linux, use a free Photoshop clone. The next time an app tries to force you to pay, look to see if there's an opensource alternative

Make less trash - start a compost, be mindful of packaging, find another use for that plastic, make it a challenge for yourself!

Get involved in local politics - show up at meetings for city council, the zoning commission, the park district, school boards; fight the NIMBYs that always show up and force them to focus on the things impacting the most vulnerable folks in your community

DIY > fashion - shake off the obsession with pristine presentation that you've been taught! Cut your own hair, use homemade cosmetics, exchange mani/pedis with friends, make your own jewelry, duct tape those broken headphones!

Ditch Google - Chromium browsers (which is almost all of them) are now bloated spyware, and Google search sucks now, so why not finally make the jump to Firefox and another search like DuckDuckGo? Or put the Wikipedia app on your phone and look things up there?

Forage - learn about local edible plants and how to safely and sustainably harvest them or go find fruit trees and such accessible to the public.

Volunteer - every week tutoring at the library or once a month at the humane society or twice a year serving food at the soup kitchen, you can find something that matches your availability

Help your neighbors - which means you have to meet them first and find out how you can help (including your unhoused neighbors), like elderly or disabled folks that might need help with yardwork or who that escape artist dog belongs to or whether the police have been hassling people sleeping rough

Fix stuff - the next time something breaks (a small appliance, an electronic, a piece of furniture, etc.), see if you can figure out what's wrong with it, if there are tutorials on fixing it, or if you can order a replacement part from the manufacturer instead of trashing the whole thing

Mix up your transit - find out what's walkable, try biking instead of driving, try public transit and complain to the city if it sucks, take a train instead of a plane, start a carpool at work

Engage in the arts - go see a local play, check out an art gallery or a small museum, buy art from the farmer's market

Go to the library - to check out a book or a movie or a CD, to use the computers or the printer, to find out if they have other weird rentals like a seed library or luggage, to use meeting space, to file your taxes, to take a class, to ask question

Listen local - see what's happening at local music venues or other events where local musicians will be performing, stop for buskers, find a favorite artist, and support them

Buy local - it's less convenient than online shopping or going to a big box store that sells everything, but try buying what you can from small local shops in your area

Become unmarketable - there are a lot of ways you can disrupt your online marketing surveillance, including buying less, using decoy emails, deleting or removing permissions from apps that spy on you, checking your privacy settings, not clicking advertising links, and...

Use cash - go to the bank and take out cash instead of using your credit card or e-payment for everything! It's better on small businesses and it's untraceable

Give what you can - as capitalism churns on, normal shmucks have less and less, so think about what you can give (time, money, skills, space, stuff) and how it will make the most impact

Talk about wages - with your coworkers, with your friends, while unionizing! Stop thinking about wages as a measure of your worth and talk about whether or not the bosses are paying fairly for the labor they receive

Think about wealthflow - there are a thousand little mechanisms that corporations and billionaires use to capture wealth from the lower class: fees for transactions, interest, vendor platforms, subscriptions, and more. Start thinking about where your money goes, how and where it's getting captured and removed from our class, and where you have the ability to cut off the flow and pass cash directly to your fellow working class people

[reasonsforhope]

"Tim Friede’s YouTube channel is home to a collection of videos depicting the Wisconsin-native truck mechanic subjecting himself to purposeful snake bites, blood slowly dripping down his arms.

For the past 20 years, Friede has been one of the most notorious “unconventional” medical researchers, undergoing over 200 bites from the world’s deadliest snakes — and more than four times as many — 850 — venomous injections. 

He did it all in the name of science.

According to the World Health Organization, an estimated 100,000 people are killed by snake bites each year, with countless more being disabled by the venom of the deadly reptiles. 

While life-saving anti-venom is available, very few countries actually have the capacity to produce it properly, given that most bites occur in remote and rural areas, and anti-venom requires arduous sourcing and accuracy. 

But Friede’s blood is now full of antibodies, following decades of strategic exposure to the neurotoxins of mambas, cobras, and other lethal slithering critters.

His blood is now the source material researchers are using to develop an anti-venom capable of neutralizing a broad spectrum of snake bites...

Friede started this hobby — which he is indeed adamant no one else tries at home — out of sheer curiosity in childhood. After playing with harmless garter snakes in his youth, he began keeping more dangerous species of snakes as pets. At one point, he had 60 of them in his home basement.

In 1999, he began extracting venom from his snakes, drying it, diluting it, and injecting himself with tiny doses — keeping meticulous records as he went.

He had one major hospitalization in 2001, when he was paralyzed and in a coma for four days. But instead of giving up, he doubled down. 

“In hindsight, I’m glad it happened,” Friede told The Times. “I never made another mistake.”

Jacob Glanville, an immunologist and founder of biotech company Centivax, stumbled on Friede’s videos.

Now, Friede is the director of herpetology at Centivax and serves as something of a “human lab” to Glanville.

“For a period of nearly 18 years, [Tim] had undertaken hundreds of bites and self-immunizations with escalating doses from 16 species of very lethal snakes that would normally a kill a horse,” Glanville told The Guardian.

“It blew my mind. I contacted him because I thought if anyone in the world has these properly neutralizing antibodies, it’s him.”

To develop the new anti-venom, Glanville and his fellow researchers identified 19 of the world’s deadliest snakes — in the elapid family — which kill their prey by injecting neurotoxins into their bloodstream, paralyzing muscles (including the big, important ones, like the heart and lungs).

The trouble is, each species in the elapid family has a slightly different toxin, meaning they would each require their own anti-venom.

But Friede’s blood contains certain fragments of each of these toxins; protein molecules seen across the various species. Because of his decades of service to science, his blood also contains the antibodies required to neutralize these toxins, preventing them from sticking to human cells and causing harm.

Combining the antibodies LNX-D09, SNX-B03, and a small molecule called varespladib that inhibits venom toxins, Centivax has successfully created a treatment effective against the entire range of 19 species’ toxins.

Their work, which was recently published in the journal Cell, will soon be tested outside of the lab. 

Trials will start with using the serum to treat dogs admitted to Australian veterinary clinics for snake bites. Assuming that goes well, the next step will be to administer human tests.

Researchers also believe that because the serum stems from a human, this should also lower the risk of allergic reactions when being administered to other people. 

“The final product would be a single, pan-anti-venom cocktail,” Professor Peter Kwong of Columbia University, a senior author of the study, told The Times.

Or, he added, they could make two: “One that is for the elapids, and another that is for the viperids, because some areas of the world only have one or the other.”

As for Friede, he maintains his affinity for snakes, though his last bite was in November 2018, when he said “enough is enough,” according to The New York Times.

By then, he had certainly done enough. His pursuit of immunity could feasibly save countless lives.

“I’m really proud that I can do something in life for humanity,” Friede told The New York Times, “to make a difference for people that are 8,000 miles away, that I’m never going to meet, never going to talk to, never going to see, probably.”

-via GoodGoodGood, May 2, 2025

[ketchuppee]

During the 2008 recession, my aunt lost her job. Her, her partner, and my three cousins moved across the country to stay with us while they got back on their feet. My house turned from a family of four to a family of nine overnight, complete with three dogs and five cats between us.

It took a few years for them to get a place of their own, but after a few rentals and apartments, they now own a split level ranch in a town nearby. I’ve lost track of how many coworkers and friends have stayed with them when they were in a tight spot. A mother and son getting out of an abusive relationship, a divorcee trying to stay local for his kids while they work out a custody agreement, you name it. My aunt and uncle knew first hand what that kindness meant, and always find space for someone who needed it, the way my parents had for them.

That same aunt and uncle visited me in [redacted] city last year. They are prolific drinkers, so we spent most of the day bar hopping. As we wandered the city, any time we passed a homeless person, my uncle would pull out a fresh cigarette and ask them if they had a light. Regardless of if they had a lighter on hand or not, he offered them a few bucks in exchange, which he explained to me after was because he felt it would be easier for them to accept in exchange for a service, no matter how small.

I work for a company that produces a lot of fabric waste. Every few weeks, I bring two big black trash bags full of discarded material over to a woman who works down the hall. She distributes them to local churches, quilting clubs, and teachers who can use them for crafts. She’s currently in the process of working with our building to set up a recycling program for the smaller pieces of fabric that are harder to find use for.

One of my best friends gives monthly donations to four or five local organizations. She’s fortunate enough to have a tech job that gives her a good salary, and she knows that a recurring donation is more valuable to a non-profit because they can rely on that money month after month, and can plan ways to stretch that dollar for maximum impact. One of those organizations is a native plant trust, and once she’s out of her apartment complex and in a home with a yard, she has plans to convert it into a haven of local flora.

My partner works for a company that is working to help regulate crypto and hold the current bad actors in the space accountable for their actions. We unfortunately live in a time where technology develops far too fast for bureaucracy to keep up with, but just because people use a technology for ill gain doesn’t mean the technology itself is bad. The blockchain is something that she finds fascinating and powerful, and she is using her degree and her expertise to turn it into a tool for good.

I knew someone who always had a bag of treats in their purse, on the odd chance they came across a stray cat or dog, they had something to offer them.

I follow artists who post about every local election they know of, because they know their platform gives them more reach than the average person, and that they can leverage that platform to encourage people to vote in elections that get less attention, but in many ways have more impact on the direction our country is going to go.

All of this to say, there’s more than one way to do good in the world. Social media leads us to believe that the loudest, the most vocal, the most prolific poster is the most virtuous, but they are only a piece of the puzzle. (And if virtue for virtues sake is your end goal, you’ve already lost, but that’s a different post). Community is built of people leveraging their privileges to help those without them. We need people doing all of those things and more, because no individual can or should do all of it. You would be stretched too thin, your efforts valiant, but less effective in your ambition.

None of this is to encourage inaction. Identify your unique strengths, skills, and privileges, and put them to use. Determine what causes are important to you, and commit to doing what you can to help them. Collective action is how change is made, but don’t forget that we need diversity in actions taken.

[makingcontact]

The Rise of the New Labor Movement

Brunswick cafe, Little Dog, where workers organized a union. Credit: Alex Spear, Bowdoin Orient The last few years have seen a wave of labor organizing as it becomes more and more clear to workers that their work is not expendable, but actually the heart of every business. From walkouts to unionization, workers at every workplace from Starbucks to Amazon to your local coffee shop have come…

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil! I’m an 18 year old Catholic high school kid coming to terms with the fact that I’m not heterosexual, and I’m struggling with the guilt of that because I want to love who I want to love, but God condemns it in the Bible so I’m scared. I’m crying while writing this so sorry for any typos, but you just seem like a safe person to ask about this. Please any advice at all? Idk I’m just scared and I don’t know what to do.

Also I like your dog he’s cute.

If there is a God who made you, they made you love who you love.

It is true that the Book of Leviticus tells us that men who lie with other men need to be put to death, but it says the same thing about men who have sex with women while they're having their periods. I don't know if this helps at all.

But mostly what I'd say is, you need friends, you need a support network, and you need people you can talk to and be safe around. Some of those people you may find online -- and a good place to start might be

And good luck...

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Towenda Choir Orchestra - Inspector Gadget 1983

Inspector Gadget is a media franchise that began in 1983 with the DiC Entertainment animated television series Inspector Gadget. It was co-created by Andy Heyward, Jean Chalopin and Bruno Bianchi, and was originally syndicated by DiC Audiovisuel and Lexington Broadcast Services Company. Since the original series, there have been many spin-offs based on the show, including additional animated series, video games, and films. The franchise follows the adventures of a sympathetic but dimwitted cyborg police inspector named Gadget as he investigates the criminal schemes of Dr. Claw and his organization, M.A.D., and fruitlessly attempts to stop him. However, neither side is aware that it is Gadget's niece, Penny, and her dog, Brain, who are truly responsible for thwarting M.A.D.

The original Inspector Gadget theme song was composed by composer Shuki Levy, and was based on Edvard Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King". The original French version has lyrics while the English and most dubs based on the English version are without. The theme is considered by many to be one of the most iconic and most recognizable theme songs in the world. Levy has been credited to the music of a huge amount of shows such as He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, She-Ra: Princess of Power, Digimon: Digital Monsters, Sylvanian Families, Heathcliff, The Super Mario Bros. Super Show! (poll #543), The Mysterious Cities of Gold (poll #545), and Lucky Luke.

Several early rap records sampling the Inspector Gadget theme song were released in 1985. The Kartoon Krew also released "Inspector Gadget" on ZYX Music, which contains vocal samples and quotes from the popular cartoon series, reenacted by the rap group for the song. East New York rap group Bad Boys & K-Love released a record on Starlite Records, "Bad Boys", featured on the UK hip hop compilation Street Sounds Electro 9. Following the trend, Slick Rick and Doug E. Fresh used samples from the Inspector Gadget theme song on their single "The Show". The theme song has been heavily sampled in the years since then. California-based punk band Lagwagon recorded a short instrumental cover of the theme song on their 1992 album Duh.

Go Go Gadget Score Results! 90,1% yes votes!

[frankenmouse]

I don’t get why only cheetahs get service dogs for their anxiety. I also deserve to have a chill doggo who comes with me to public places and whose presence reassures me and prevents me from engaging in anxiety-related self harm/general highstrungness.

[hannie-dul-set]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so you thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, attorney. How may we help you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a ring in your ears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The fuck? Hell, if I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong move. Very wrong move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Strike a nerve?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*‎

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ugh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—and he’s also somewhat your friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No way in hell.

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

Your brows wrinkle. You release a breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hell no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll do it. I can handle it.”

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

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

*‎

“How’s your Nalkkeuta case going?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get a grip.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See you in court, attorney.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*‎

(“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—!”

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

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

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

“Whoo! Safe!” 

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

“Hi, good morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. What the hell? “Why?”

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

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

So, you do. 

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

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

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

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

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

*‎

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

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

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

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

[betteroffdeceased]

Hello, I hope everyone is having a wonderful evening.

As some may know I go by Mars and I'm a black trans woman who is struggling to keep some stability in my life whether FINANCIALLY, MENTALLY, EMOTIONALLY, AND PHYSICALLY. I'm currently doing the best I can to provide myself and my pets, 3 cats and 2 dogs with food, comfort, water, and better housing conditions.

I've saved money to save up and move out of my city where I GET NO SUPPORT OR HELP even thru community service housing and public housing and other foundations in my area, and I have NO WAY OF PAYING OFF educational debt, medical debt, and even getting ALL THE MONEY for monthly bills and now I'm doing the best I can to assure my home doesn't fall and crumble down, I paid off like 7 to 8,000 already thanks to help from donations to my cashapp, paypal, and venmo, BUT now I need 3,000 more dollars in order to get my foundation and e fixed up and i was wondering if you guys could either donate or spread this post around for me so I can GET HELP TO SAVE MY HOME FROM BEING CONDEMNED and further destruction, it's very close to being condemned snd tumbling DOWN COMPLETELY.

This is a link to my Gofundme I JUST created below:

My cashapp:

My Venmo:

My paypal:

If you guys can kindly help me out and support me, it would be GREATLY APPRECIATED.

MY GOAL IS CURRENTLY - $3,000

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Fur-evermore

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds x F!Reader

Summary: Because you're Bucky's assistant, you, and your service dog, Juniper, head to the tower to give him some files as well as meet the rest of his new team...including a very cute and slightly awkward, Bob.

A/N: so reader has a service dog, but I didn't go into specifics as to why. also this is like 3k words so yeah. enjoy!

Juniper, or Juni, as you like to affectionally call her, walks by your side as you enter the resident floor of the Avengers Tower. Even though Bucky didn't need you as much as he did when he was a Congressman, your assistance made his life a little easier. You thought yourself to be like a hero for the hero.

"Who are you?" the young blonde woman, you learned to be Yelena, asks as you come into her view.

You stop and politely smile, "Oh, hi! I'm Y/N. Bucky's assistant. I have clearance to be here. I mean, obviously, since I wouldn't be here if I didn't have clearance."

The tall blonde man that you know to be John Walker, frowns, "Why does Bucky get an assistant and we don't?"

Bucky sighs and stands from his spot on the couch, "She was my assistant when I was in Congress and she's generous enough to continue working with me," he approaches you with a friendly smile, "What's up?"

"Well here," you hand him some files, "Are some files Val wanted you all to go through before your mission in two days. Also, Sam says you're not answering his calls or texts."

Bucky winces, "We got into an argument and I need my space. He needs to respect that." He bends down and lets Juni sniff his hand.

Juni looks up at you waiting for your permission. You giggle and say, "Go ahead, Juni."

With her release words, the golden retriever practically pounces on Bucky, causing him to fall onto his back. Bucky's laughing as Juniper smothers him in kisses.

Yelena looks at the sight, confused, "Didn't think he even knew how to laugh."

You snort, "Juni has her way of breaking down people's walls."

"Who's dog is that?" asks another blonde man that comes down the steps.

You look at him and raise your hand, "She's mine! Her name is Juniper, or Juni. My service dog." You pat your leg, "Jun Jun, come."

Juniper immediately leaves Bucky to sit at your feet, "So this is Juniper," you scratch behind her ear, "and I'm Y/N, Bucky's assistant." You look around the room and point out each member, "Yelena, John, Ava, Alexei," and you turn to the man who stands some distance from you, "And you're Bob, right?"

He shyly nods and smiles, "Yeah. That's me. Hi."

"Hi. You all will probably see me and Juni a lot. So don't be alarmed if you see me here at random times. Really all depends on what the old man here," you gesture to Bucky who sits up, "needs from me."

Bucky grunts as he gets to his feet, "I can fire you, you know?"

"But then your life would be in shambles. You need me, old man," you nod to the files in his hands, "Please don't forget to look through those."

He rolls his eyes, "I won't."

You look at each member of Bucky's team, "If you ever need to get a hold of Bucky and he's not answering, feel free to get in contact with me. I know how he likes to ignore his phone." You face him again, "Please talk to Sam."

You shoot a smile at Bob, "Have a good rest of your day, Bob!"

He watches as you and Juniper head to the elevator, "Yeah...you too," he murmurs, eyes stuck on you until the elevator doors close. He turns to Bucky, "She's really nice."

Bucky scoffs, "To you. She's a pain in the ass to me, but she gets the job done. Helps me stay organized. Juniper is a lot of help too when things become too stressful. Have you thought about getting one?"

"What?" Bob asks with a scrunch of his brows.

"A service dog or emotional support dog."

Bob shrugs, "Dunno. Never had a dog growing up. Don't even know if I really like them or if I can even take care of one."

"Well Y/N loves to educate people on service dogs. So if you ever have questions, you can ask her when she's around."

"Yeah. Sure, I'll-I'll do that." he glances back at the elevator before retreating to his recliner near the window.

__________________________

The next time Bob sees you is a day after the team has the mission. Because Bob has buried The Void inside him, he hasn't been much help. So he stays at the tower and does what he can to make everyone's lives a little easier.

This includes make food.

You exit the elevator and are immediately hit with the smell of food. You follow the scent to the kitchen to see Bob pulling out a whole roast out of the oven.

"Smells amazing!" he jolts in surprise and you giggle, "Sorry for scaring you."

He chuckles, "It's fine. Wasn't expecting to see anyone until later." He sets the roast on the counter to rest.

You sit at one of the high chairs, Juniper plotting down beside your feet, "You know how to cook?"

"Been learning since I can't do much else to help. Kind of became the resident cook and cleaner around here, but it's fine."

You nod, "I'm sure they're really grateful for you, Bob."

"Oh yeah, Yelena tells me all the time. Bucky and Ava too, sometimes. Alexei and John don't say it as much, but I can tell they are. But Yelena the most, especially when I experiment on cooking certain dishes. She gets to taste all of them," he smiles brightly and it makes you smile.

"You and Yelena seem very close."

"Oh yeah," he nods, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie, "She's helped me a lot with my...issues."

"Have you seen a therapist?"

"Yeah. I have sessions with them every other day, but, you know, some days are harder than others."

You give a hum, "Yeah, I know that all too well. I'm lucky to have Juni here to help me on those bad days," you look fondly at your furry companion.

"Yeah...Bucky said I could talk to you about having a service animal?"

Your eyes brighten and you straighten up, "Yes! I'm always willing to educate people and answer questions."

Bob rounds the kitchen island and sits beside you, "I'm just not sure I'm a dog person or if I'm capable of taking care of one. I can barely take care of myself sometimes."

"It's a partnership. You and the animal work together and create a harmonious relationship. Juni helps keep me above water and I provide her the basic necessities and lots of love." At the sound of her name, Juniper sits up and gives Bob a curious sniff.

"You can pet her, if you'd like," you say gently, "When we're out in public is when I need her to be more focused, but I'm more lenient when we're with a few people."

Bob holds out his hand to let Juni sniff him. Her tail wags as she steps toward him. Her cold nose touches Bob's hand as she sniffs him.

She immediately jumps onto her hind legs and rests her head on his lap. You hum, "She senses an uneasiness in you she's trying to help ground you." You slide off your chair, "Here, lay on your back on the floor."

Bob silently follows your orders. He slides off the chair and moves to lay on the floor. His back his pressed against the cold tiles.

Juniper immediately lays a part of her body on top of Bob. The weight and the warmth of her on top of him was comforting. So comforting, he felt himself tearing up.

You softly smile at him, "It's okay to cry, if you need to."

He sniffles, "I'm sorry. I just-"

You shake your head, "You don't have to explain. I know. I'll just sit here with you until you're okay."

So that's how you two stay for a time. Juni on top of Bob, Bob crying and letting himself feel whatever he's feeling, and you, just providing a comfortable silence.

After some time passes and Bob's cries subside, you call Juniper to you. She crawls off Bob and sits beside you, watching as Bob sits up. He wipes at his eyes, "Thank you. I didn't-I don't even know how to-"

"You're welcome," you help each other to your feet, "Is it okay if I hug you?"

"Yeah," he replies and stands there as you wrap your arms around him. He hugs you back, relishing in your comforting warmth and scent.

"You're not alone, Bob," you murmur in his ear.

He chuckles, "Yeah...slowly starting to really get that."

______________________________

You make an effort to see Bob when you were at the tower, whether it was just a quick "Hello" or a little chat as he cooks. You made sure to see him.

You've come to find that Bob was a really sweet and kind person. He had a rough past and wanted to make up for that. That's something he shared with the other Avengers.

So whenever you were around, he also made an effort to offer up his assistance if you needed it. Whether it was to help carry some of your things or even give Juni some water. Bob was always there to help you out too.

Because of that, you two started to grow close. Now it wasn't just Bucky you spent a lot of your time with. It was either Bucky on some days, Bob on other days, or both at the same time.

Bucky didn't mind it though, he understood where Bob was coming from and wanted to help the kid wherever he could. But he couldn't help but tease you when it was just you and him.

"Are you here for me?" he asks with a teasing smirk as he approaches the elevator.

You snort, "Aren't I always?"

He shrugs, "Dunno, you might be here for a certain someone."

You know what he's insinuating, but you don't take the bait, "I mean, yeah, me and Yelena are cool I guess."

Bucky rolls his eyes at you, "Alright, smart ass."

You smirk at him in victory, "Anyway, I scheduled you to have a meeting with a PR rep."

Bucky's face scrunches in confusion, "Why?"

"Because you suck at answering questions. All of those press interviews you've done were painful. You, obviously, need help. But don't worry, everyone else will be there too because Val and her PR team can only do so much."

Bucky groans and crosses his arms over his chest, "When is this?"

You check your watch, "In three hours."

"What if I had plans?"

You scoff, "Please, Bucky, I make your plans. So I know you don't have any."

The brunette walks away grumbling about how much of a pain you are, but you know there isn't any malice behind it. You look down at Juniper, who stares up at you with a smile, her tail wagging.

You chuckle and pat her head, "Let's go see our friend, hm?"

You head up to the second residential floor where everyone's rooms are located. You go down the hall to the very last room where Bob resides. You knock while also pushing in the door, "Hey Robby-oh."

You enter to see Bob shirtless, Yelena hugging him.

The scene looked...intimate.

"Sorry, I-Juni!" Juniper bolts into the room and jumps onto Bob's bed. Usually, she's a lot more behaved, but it seems she's gotten super attached to Bob.

Bob chuckles and pets the golden retriever, "Hiya, Juni girl," he gives her a soft smile.

"Juni, here," you command and she immediately rushes to your side. You clear your throat, "Sorry for interrupting. Just wanted to say hi."

Yelena smiles, "It's fine. We weren't doing anything."

"I'll see ya later, Robby," you give him an awkward nod and Bob just gives you a shy wave.

You and Juni leave, closing the door behind you. You shake your head and murmur to yourself, "I'm so stupid."

______________________

When the door closes, Yelena breaks the silence, "Soooo that was awkward."

Bob looks at his friend with pleading eyes, "I just-you see why I'm not good enough? She's so beautiful and kind and smart and...I'm a mess. I'm broken-"

Yelena shakes her head, "Hey. No, we don't go there, remember? And broken things can be fixed...sometimes. You're working on yourself and that's good. If Y/N can't see that, then you shouldn't be with someone like her. But I do think she likes you too."

Bob looks at her with wide eyes, "You think?"

"I'm very perceptive. I saw her look sad when she saw us hugging. You know what that means?" Bob shakes his head and Yelena answers, "She thinks we're a thing, which means she's jealous. Which means, she has feelings for you." She does a mindblown gesture and it causes Bob to snort.

He lets out a deep breath and scratches his chest, "And if she doesn't like me back?"

Yelena shrugs, "I don't think that'll happen, but, if, somehow, she doesn't like you back, then you move on. That's the only thing you can do." She gives Bob a pat on the shoulder and heads out, leaving Bob to think about what she's said.

__________________

You avoid Bob for the next few days after walking in on him and Yelena. You hate to admit how much it hurt to see him with her like that. You thought you two were getting closer, and maybe he even liked you. But, of course, you didn't stand a chance against someone as cool and as beautiful as Yelena Belova.

You were a little sad and insecure, so you did your best to continue to do your job while also trying to avoid the tower as much as possible.

Bucky caught on though, noticed you weren't coming by. So, after Bob asked for you, he decided to ask for you to come by the tower. He tried to make it seem like it was urgent, so you and Juni came storming onto the residential floor looking distressed.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" you ask as you approach a waiting Bucky.

"I'm fine, but I wanted to know if you're okay."

You shuffle your weight from one leg to another, "Yeah. Why?"

He shrugs, "Just noticed you haven't been around for the past few days...and Bob has been asking about you."

"He has my number."

"He wants to talk to you in person."

"Why?"

"I don't know, but, whatever happened, he wants to talk to you, Y/N. Take it from me, ignoring your issues won't make them go away."

You groan, "I don't-"

"Y/N?" you freeze when you see Bob on the stairs.

Juniper barks and you let her run to him. She jumps at him and he chuckles, "Hiya, girl."

You look at Bucky with pleading eyes, "Don't you-"

"I'll leave you to it," he gives you a wink and walks back upstairs, giving Juni a pat and Bob a nod.

You internally groan and slowly walk over to the base of the stairs where Bob sat, petting Juniper.

"Hi," you say shyly and he looks up at you, "Hi."

"So...you've been asking for me?"

"Well, you haven't been around. Wanted to see if you were okay."

"You could've just texted me."

"Yeah, well...I wanted to see you...to talk to you."

You sit beside him on the stairs, "I'm here so...what's up?" You avoid looking at him by petting Juni.

"I really don't know how else to say it and I'm not good at this stuff. But...I like you, Y/N. A lot. And, I know I've got my issues, but I promise I'm working on them. And I don't think I'd make the best partner or boyfriend or whatever, but I'm willing to try things out. With you," he clarifies at the end.

You're looking at him, eyes searching for any hint that he's lying or playing some prank on you.

You finally find the words to speak, "I thought you and Yelena-"

"We're just friends. That day you came into my room to see me, I was having a bit of a breakdown. She was helping talk me through it."

"I like you too," you say softly, "When I saw you with Yelena, I thought...yeah. So I did the cowardly thing and avoided coming here because I didn't want to potentially see you and her together."

Bob reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, "I get it. It's okay. Feelings are...scary."

You chuckle, "So scary."

"So? Do you think we can try this out? I can't guarantee I won't mess things up-"

"It's okay," you whisper, cupping his face with your free hand, "I wanna try things out with you, Robby. As long as we both stay on top of communicating how we're feeling and what's going on in our heads, I think we'll be okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you reply in a whisper, leaning in closer and closer that yours-

"AH! Young love!" Alexei exclaims as he and Yelena exit the elevator, "So beautiful and lovey! Congrats you two!"

"Dad, shut up!" Yelena scolds her father, "Sorry! Carry on!" She pushes her father back into the elevator to bring him somewhere else.

Bob chuckles, "Well that was-"

His words are interrupted as you grab his face and kiss him. He's taken by surprise, but kisses you back. It's a little awkward, but also endearing.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands until he just settles with holding your face instead.

You pull away with a smile and take in the hazy look that Bob's has in his eyes.

"Woah," he says and you laugh, and it's one of the most beautiful things he's ever heard.

You scoot away to give him some room to breathe, "So, um, do you wanna go on a walk around the city with me and Juni?"

"Yeah. Absolutely." He stands up first, helping you to your feet. You hand him Juni's leash and she sits at his feet while he attaches it to her collar.

He holds out his hand to you and you take it, both of you walking out of there with a buzzing sensation around you two.

[wordsofwhimsy]

─✧ 𝒞𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂 𝒐𝒓 𝑹𝒐𝒕 ✧═

Pairing: Retro!Mark Grayson x fReader

Warnings: None

Tags: Slow burn

Word Count: 2,007

Synopsis: You were the glossed-up, diamond-dripping queen of his empire—the only thing he ever treated gently in a world he tore to shreds. But lately? You’ve been feeling more like an afterthought than royalty. So after two many fights, you finally do what no one else in the multiverse dares: You leave.

You don’t slam the door.

You don’t scream.

You just roll your tiny suitcase across the marble floor like it’s a runway and you’re doing a final walkout in six-inch heels and Chanel gloss. And he—he—is standing there in the doorway like the apocalypse showed up early.

“Where the hell are you going?”

You adjust your sunglasses. Indoors. “Out.”

His jaw clenches. That stupid perfect jaw, carved like it was meant to be clenched. The goggles are still on his face even though he’s home now, but you can feel his eyes boring into you like lasers through your mini skirt.

“Out,” he repeats, voice low. Dangerous. “You’re not serious.”

You scoop your Pomeranian into one arm, brush a fleck of lint off your jacket. “Baby, I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says, low and cold, like the threat isn’t in his words but buried under them. “What are you even mad about?”

You pivot halfway, just enough to flash him a smile so sweet it curdles.

“Oh, I don’t know—maybe the fact that I haven’t seen you in eight days? Maybe the part where I had to Google whether you were dead or dismembered because you’re too busy playing Mortal Kombat with alternate versions of yourself to answer a damn text?”

He flinches. Just barely. But you catch it. And it gives you just enough juice to keep going.

“Or maybe,” you hum, adjusting your grip on your suitcase handle, “it’s the fact that the only person who touches me lately is my nail tech.”

His jaw tightens so hard it pops.

You step into the elevator like it’s a throne room. Gaze straight ahead. Not giving him the dignity of one last look. Not until—

“Stop.”

His voice hits you like a gunshot.

You turn, slowly.

He’s halfway to you. Gloved hands clenched at his sides, goggles still hiding everything but the rage. That seething, helpless, desperate fury that only ever comes out when you remind him you’re not his possession.

“You leave,” he says through his teeth, “and I’ll find you. Doesn’t matter where you go. Doesn’t matter who you’re with. You think someone else can give you what I can?”

You shrug. Innocent. Airy. Theatrical.

“I mean… maybe not the private jet,” you say, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “But, like, I don’t need that. I could be happy with something simple.”

He laughs. Short, bitter, and sharp. The goggles tilt as he shakes his head.

“Oh, sure. Something simple.” His tone is mocking at this point. “Like what? A two-bedroom condo in the suburbs? Sunday Target runs with some guy named Brad who drives a hybrid and calls you ‘babe’ while he loads organic groceries into the back of his Prius?”

Your smile widens. “Sounds kinda cute.”

His hands curl into fists.

You press on, basking in it now. “Maybe I’ll get a desk job. Something stable. Quiet. We’ll get a golden retriever. Host wine nights. I’ll get really into throw pillows.”

He steps forward. One slow, heavy footfall that makes the elevator creak.

“You. Wouldn’t. Last. A week.”

You giggle, like he’s complimented you. “You think I’m too high maintenance?”

“I think you’re full of shit,” he snaps. “You wake up in silk sheets. You don’t even own a microwave. You once cried because a hotel didn’t have truffle fries on the room service menu.”

“That was an emotionally vulnerable day,” you sniff, wounded. “And I missed lunch.”

He’s pacing now. Eyes blazing behind the goggles. Voice rising just enough to make the little dog in your arm tuck its ears.

“You don’t want ‘normal.’ You want worship. You want someone to carry your bags and buy you diamonds and treat you like a goddamn princess every minute of the day.”

You tilt your head, batting your lashes. “And yet here I am—unloved, underfucked, and walking out the door.”

The elevator shudders when he slams a hand against the wall.

You don’t flinch.

Because you know him. You built this man. And you’re the only thing in this universe he’d never lay a hand on—except to hold.

His voice is lower now. Hoarse.

“Tell me what you want.”

You meet his gaze, your own voice suddenly smaller. But not weak.

“Just you,” you whisper. “All of you. Not this half-assed, war-hungry ghost version that flies in and out like I’m some layover between battles.”

And that’s when you see it. The crack. Right behind the lenses. In his posture. In his chest. Like someone just took a crowbar to the armor and he didn’t even try to stop it.

His shoulders drop, just slightly. A breath punches out of him, and you can see it all now—the fear. The confusion. The twisted little knot of boyhood grief and grown man rage all tangled up behind those stupid silver goggles.

You’d feel bad for him, maybe. If it weren’t always you left holding the pieces.

“If you want me,” you say, soft but sure, “then act like it.”

You wait. He doesn’t move. So you nod. Just once. Like you’re sealing something off inside yourself.

Then you step back, gripping the handle of your suitcase before rolling it over the threshold of that elevator like it’s the closing shot of a music video.

“You’re not really going,” he says.

You pause. Turn just enough for him to see your beautiful lips curve upward—quiet, worn, and finally tired.

“I wasn’t really staying.”

The elevator doors begin to slide shut.

He lunges again—but it’s too late.

Too slow. It had to be intentional, didn’t?

The last thing you see is his silhouette.

Tall. Still. Lost.

The last thing he sees is you.

Gloss poppin’. Heels sharp. Gone.

—

TWO WEEKS LATER…

The walls are beige. The countertops? Granite. There’s a bowl of decorative lemons on the table and a man named Kevin humming while he washes wine glasses.

You’re in hell.

You sip from your oversized glass of “locally sourced” white wine and stare out the patio window of Kevin’s perfectly normal condo. It’s got a view of the community pool and a sad little grill he’s “meaning to use more often.” There’s an HOA newsletter on the fridge.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

Kevin walks up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist like he’s done it a million times (it’s been four days), and nuzzles into your hair.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I’ve been thinking... maybe we could hit that couples’ painting class I told you about. You said you like art, right?”

You smile. The kind that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“That sounds… sweet.”

Kill me, you think.

And outside? Just out of view? Hovering mid-air in a hoodie and not even a shirt?

Mark is watching. More wrecked than ever.

He’s been watching.

Every date.

Every dinner.

Every saccharine little handhold.

At first, he figured you'd come running back. Wait it out. Miss the lifestyle. Miss him.

But now?

You're wearing sundresses. Laughing at jokes. Acting like some housewife version of the woman he built a goddamn empire around.

It was driving him insane.

And tonight, you see him.

It’s subtle—a flicker of movement past the glass, a shadow too fast to be a bird. And you know. You feel it.

He’s here.

You straighten.

Fix your gloss.

And turn around like a woman with a mission.

“Kev, babe?”

He perks up immediately. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

You straddle his lap with the type of pointed purpose that would be obvious to anyone but him. Slow. Sultry. Ridiculous.

His eyes go wide.

“Thought you said you wanted art,” you purr, cupping his face. “Wanna paint a memory?”

Outside?

Mark’s already punched through the side of the building.

CRASH.

The drywall explodes in a burst of dust and splinters, sending Kevin yelping backwards so fast the recliner tips over. Your Pomeranian screams like a tea kettle from his little bed in the corner.

You stay exactly where you are—legs crossed on the couch, unbothered.

“Oh,” you say casually, blowing gently on your wine. “You found me.”

Mark steps through the wreckage like he owns it. Sweats flapping. Hair tousled. Chest bare and dusted with drywall. He doesn’t look at Kevin. Doesn’t even acknowledge him.

Just stares at you.

“You done playing house?” he says, low.

You raise your glass. “You gonna pick up the tab for the wall?”

He’s at your side in a blink. Not touching—but close enough that the air between you goes electric.

“You think this is funny?”

You sip. “A little.”

Kevin, somehow still alive, makes a sound like he’s trying to find his spine. “Hey—what the hell is your problem, man?! You can’t just—”

Mark turns his head once.

One slow, deliberate look.

Kevin’s mouth snaps shut so fast his teeth click.

“Go take a walk,” Mark says without even looking at him again. “Take your lemons with you.”

Kevin doesn’t argue.

The door shuts behind him a second later, and now it’s just the two of you. Well—three, counting the dog, who is absolutely trembling under a decorative throw pillow.

Mark doesn’t sit. Doesn’t pace. Just stands there like he might self-combust.

“You wanted me here,” he says. “Didn’t you?”

You set your wine down. Smooth your skirt. Meet his eyes. “I wanted you to care.”

“I’ve always cared.”

“Then show it.” Silence hangs for a moment, and you’re looking at him with an expectation to deliver.

He doesn’t disappoint,

“I tore a guy’s face off last week because he used your name like he knew you.”

You smirk. So pretty.

“...hot.”

Mark’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like a threat disguised as one.

“Come home,” he says.

You lean back, slow and deliberate. Cross your legs. Rest an arm on the couch behind you like this was just a casual discussion.

“And what happens if I don’t?”

He takes one step forward. Still not touching. But close enough for you to feel the warmth rolling off his skin.

“Then I stay,” he says. “I’ll sit right here. Watch every night you kiss him like you mean it. Watch every fake little laugh. I’ll rot this whole building if I have to.”

You stare at him, a quiet moment passing before you feel your  nostrils flare. You explode.

“NO!” Your hands fling up, all but levitating off the couch as you stomp your heel into the ground.

“NO, no, no, no, NO—what the actual hell, Mark?! That’s not what I wanted!”

His brows knit under the goggles. “You just said—”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID,” you screech, jumping to your feet and pacing in tiny rage laps. “But you’re supposed to be, like… mister tough guy!!” You whirl around and jab a finger into his bare chest. “CLAIM ME, DAMN IT! I’m not your ex, your coworker, your emotional support idiot—I’m the love of your psychotic little LIFE and you’re over here acting like I’m furniture you’re emotionally attached to!!”

He opens his mouth, but you barrel on before he can get anything out. “I left so you’d get MAD! So you’d come tear the sky apart looking for me! So you’d crash through a window and kiss me like you own me! Not sit in my ugly little rental like a depressed raccoon with boundary issues!”

“I broke the wall—”

“THAT’S BASELINE BEHAVIOR FOR YOU.”

Mark just stares at you. Then, slowly… that deranged little smile starts to stretch. “You wanted me to drag you back by your hair,” he says, low.

You throw your hands up. “YES!! Preferably onto a private jet, but I would’ve settled for a rooftop!”

He takes one step forward.

You step back.

He steps again.

You back up right into the arm of the couch—and stop.

“You really want that?” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You want… the worst of it?”

You swallow. “…Yes.”

Then his hands are on you.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Amazon illegally interferes with an historic UK warehouse election

I'm in to TARTU, ESTONIA! Overcoming the Enshittocene (Monday, May 8, 6PM, Prima Vista Literary Festival keynote, University of Tartu Library, Struwe 1). AI, copyright and creative workers' labor rights (May 10, 8AM: Science Fiction Research Association talk, Institute of Foreign Languages and Cultures building, Lossi 3, lobby). A talk for hackers on seizing the means of computation (May 10, 3PM, University of Tartu Delta Centre, Narva 18, room 1037).

Amazon is very good at everything it does, including being very bad at the things it doesn't want to do. Take signing up for Prime: nothing could be simpler. The company has built a greased slide from Prime-curiosity to Prime-confirmed that is the envy of every UX designer.

But unsubscribing from Prime? That's a fucking nightmare. Somehow the company that can easily figure out how to sign up for a service is totally baffled when it comes to making it just as easy to leave. Now, there's two possibilities here: either Amazon's UX competence is a kind of erratic freak tide that sweeps in at unpredictable intervals and hits these unbelievable high-water marks, or the company just doesn't want to let you leave.

To investigate this question, let's consider a parallel: Black Flag's Roach Motel. This is an icon of American design, a little brown cardboard box that is saturated in irresistibly delicious (to cockroaches, at least) pheromones. These powerful scents make it admirably easy for all the roaches in your home to locate your Roach Motel and enter it.

But the interior of the Roach Motel is also coated in a sticky glue. Once roaches enter the motel, their legs and bodies brush up against this glue and become hopeless mired in it. A roach can't leave – not without tearing off its own legs.

It's possible that Black Flag made a mistake here. Maybe they wanted to make it just as easy for a roach to leave as it is to enter. If that seems improbable to you, well, you're right. We don't even have to speculate, we can just refer to Black Flag's slogan for Roach Motel: "Roaches check in, but they don't check out."

It's intentional, and we know that because they told us so.

Back to Amazon and Prime. Was it some oversight that cause the company make it so marvelously painless to sign up for Prime, but such a titanic pain in the ass to leave? Again, no speculation is required, because Amazon's executives exchanged a mountain of internal memos in which this is identified as a deliberate strategy, by which they deliberately chose to trick people into signing up for Prime and then hid the means of leaving Prime. Prime is a Roach Motel: users check in, but they don't check out:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/03/big-tech-cant-stop-telling-on-itself/

When it benefits Amazon, they are obsessive – "relentless" (Bezos's original for the company) – about user friendliness. They value ease of use so highly that they even patented "one click checkout" – the incredibly obvious idea that a company that stores your shipping address and credit card could let you buy something with a single click:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1-Click#Patent

But when it benefits Amazon to place obstacles in our way, they are even more relentless in inventing new forms of fuckery, spiteful little landmines they strew in our path. Just look at how Amazon deals with unionization efforts in its warehouses.

Amazon's relentless union-busting spans a wide diversity of tactics. On the one hand, they cook up media narratives to smear organizers, invoking racist dog-whistles to discredit workers who want a better deal:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2020/apr/02/amazon-chris-smalls-smart-articulate-leaked-memo

On the other hand, they collude with federal agencies to make workers afraid that their secret ballots will be visible to their bosses, exposing them to retaliation:

https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/amazon-violated-labor-law-alabama-union-election-labor-official-finds-rcna1582

They hold Cultural Revolution-style forced indoctrination meetings where they illegally threaten workers with punishment for voting in favor of their union:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/31/business/economy/amazon-union-staten-island-nlrb.html

And they fire Amazon tech workers who express solidarity with warehouse workers:

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/amazon-fires-tech-employees-workers-criticism-warehouse-climate-policies/

But all this is high-touch, labor-intensive fuckery. Amazon, as we know, loves automation, and so it automates much of its union-busting: for example, it created an employee chat app that refused to deliver any message containing words like "fairness" or "grievance":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/05/doubleplusrelentless/#quackspeak

Amazon also invents implausible corporate fictions that allow it to terminate entire sections of its workforce for trying to unionize, by maintaining the tormented pretense that these workers, who wear Amazon uniforms, drive Amazon trucks, deliver Amazon packages, and are tracked by Amazon down to the movements of their eyeballs, are, in fact, not Amazon employees:

https://www.wired.com/story/his-drivers-unionized-then-amazon-tried-to-terminate-his-contract/

These workers have plenty of cause to want to unionize. Amazon warehouses are sources of grueling torment. Take "megacycling," a ten-hour shift that runs from 1:20AM to 11:50AM that workers are plunged into without warning or the right to refuse. This isn't just a night shift – it's a night shift that makes it impossible to care for your children or maintain any kind of normal life.

Then there's Jeff Bezos's war on his workers' kidneys. Amazon warehouse workers and drivers notoriously have to pee in bottles, because they are monitored by algorithms that dock their pay for taking bathroom breaks. The road to Amazon's warehouse in Coventry, England is littered with sealed bottles of driver piss, defenestrated by drivers before they reach the depot inspection site.

There's so much piss on the side of the Coventry road that the prankster Oobah Butler was able to collect it, decant it into bottles, and market it on Amazon as an energy beverage called "Bitter Lemon Release Energy," where it briefly became Amazon's bestselling energy drink:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/20/release-energy/#the-bitterest-lemon

(Butler promises that he didn't actually ship any bottled piss to people who weren't in on the gag – but let's just pause here and note how weird it is that a guy who hates our kidneys as much as Jeff Bezos built and flies a penis-shaped rocket.)

Butler also secretly joined the surge of 1,000 workers that Amazon hired for the Coventry warehouse in advance of a union vote, with the hope of diluting the yes side of that vote and forestall the union. Amazon displayed more of its famously selective competence here, spotting Butler and firing him in short order, while totally failing to notice that he was marketing bottles of driver piss as a bitter lemon drink on Amazon's retail platform.

After a long fight, Amazon's Coventry workers are finally getting their union vote, thanks to the GMB union's hard fought battle at the Central Arbitration Committee:

https://www.foxglove.org.uk/2024/04/26/amazon-warehouse-workers-in-coventry-will-vote-on-trade-union-recognition/

And right on schedule, Amazon has once again discovered its incredible facility for ease-of-use. The company has blanketed its shop floor with radioactively illegal "one click to quit the union" QR codes. When a worker aims their phones at the code and clicks the link, the system auto-generates a letter resigning the worker from their union.

As noted, this is totally illegal. English law bans employers from "making an offer to an employee for the sole or main purpose of inducing workers not to be members of an independent trade union, take part in its activities, or make use of its services."

Now, legal or not, this may strike you as a benign intervention on Amazon's part. Why shouldn't it be easy for workers to choose how they are represented in their workplaces? But the one-click system is only half of Amazon's illegal union-busting: the other half is delivered by its managers, who have cornered workers on the shop floor and ordered them to quit their union, threatening them with workplace retaliation if they don't.

This is in addition to more forced "captive audience" meetings where workers are bombarded with lies about what life in an union shop is like.

Again, the contrast couldn't be more stark. If you want to quit a union, Amazon makes this as easy as joining Prime. But if you want to join a union, Amazon makes that even harder than quitting Prime. Amazon has the same attitude to its workers and its customers: they see us all as a resource to be extracted, and have no qualms about tricking or even intimidating us into doing what's best for Amazon, at the expense of our own interests.

The campaigning law-firm Foxglove is representing five of Amazon's Coventry workers. They're doing the lord's work:

https://www.foxglove.org.uk/2024/05/02/legal-challenge-to-amazon-uks-new-one-click-to-quit-the-union-tool/

All this highlights the increasing divergence between the UK and the US when it comes to labor rights. Under the Biden Administration, @NLRB General Counsel Jennifer Abruzzo has promulgated a rule that grants a union automatic recognition if the boss does anything to interfere with a union election:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

In other words, if Amazon tries these tactics in the USA now, their union will be immediately recognized. Abruzzo has installed an ultra-sensitive tilt-sensor in America's union elections, and if Bezos or his class allies so much as sneeze in the direction of their workers' democratic rights, they automatically lose.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/06/one-click-to-quit-the-union/#foxglove

Image: Isabela.Zanella (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ballot-box-2.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en