#street sharking is not a crime

[tithsokphanny31]

Who remembers Street Sharks?

[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.

[batmansbasement]

Fic Idea For Tim Drake And Jason Todd, and the Drake Family Dynamic

TW: Mention of drug abuse, overdose, infidelity, genetic addiction, general socialite behavior

The fics where Jack and Janet Drake are terrible parents who neglect and abuse Tim do make for good found family angst, yes.

However.

I propose to you something new and much much better. Yes, Tim's parents may not be winning any parent of the year awards, but they did teach their son how to be ruthless in the face of insults to their name. Together, Jack and Janet Drake are known as the sharks of the socialite world. You bleed a drop of blood and they'll sniff it out and sink their teeth into it, tearing you wide open.

Janet is a known social climber, she started at the bottom of the food chain and made her way to the top through coldness and apathy, using her mind to snap back at people when they dared to insult her or her family. Jack had been raised in the socialite world, and knows the ins and outs well. He knows that every smile is fake and every person is putting up a mask, and he knows how to see behind them.

This being said, I add in another popular fic trope. Young Tim and Jason meet at a gala, but Janet and Jack do not care that they talk, they actually encourage it. They always taught Tim not to take advantage of the way he was raised, or to think of himself as better because of something he was born into such as his wealth. When the Drakes found out that Brucie Wayne had taken in another boy, and that he was from Crime Alley, they did not believe a single thing the papers said, and promptly did not think much of it.

They were a little confused when their son developed an obsession with the Wayne's boy a few months later, but Tim had always been a little odd, and had always been fascinated by the Wayne's, what with seeing Dick Grayson's final performance, even if it was tainted by the awful events that occurred that night.

Of course a welcoming gala is hosted for the new son, Jason Todd, a couple months later. And of course the Drake's will make their appearance for it would be rude not to do so. They would be seen as prejudiced if they did not show, for they are welcoming this poor orphaned boy who lived on the streets and is now taken in by a rich man! How could you be so cruel as to not welcome him!

(The rich love to seen empathetic and thoughtful. It makes them feel better about how terrible they to those who need help)

(The Drake's, again, do not care much. The boy is just like any other, and they have a lovely son already. However Tim is so very excited, and the couple already knows the cruel things that will be said tonight, so they suppose it would be refreshing for Jason to talk to people who were not faking sympathy for his situation)

That's not to say that the Drake's were not sympathetic, just not in the ways that the surrounding crowd was.

At one point, Janet nearly scoffed after hearing some old bat tell Jason that "she truly felt for him. Truly, his situation was just awful, how could a mother set that kind of example for their child? He must feel so lucky to be living with someone as amazing as Brucie Wayne now. Not living on those filthy, disgusting streets anymore."

The poor boys face had turned so red Janet thought he might blow a gasket, and his expression was one of disgust so plain she felt she had to help him. How people could just assume the way they did, she would never know.

She looked down at her son, who was also watching the entire situation play out, and felt her lips upturn slightly. Tim had taken to watching people like a fish took to water, he was a natural at gathering information and reading people, as well as telling them what the wanted to hear.

Janet squeezed his shoulder and whispered to Tim, "Go, he looks like he needs a friendly face at the moment."

Tim's smile is bright and happy as he bounds over to Jason, and as they strike up a conversation, Jason's face slowly goes back to a normal color and he starts to form a smile of his own. Tim had always been bright and aware, and she was proud to call him her son. He was empathetic without giving pity, something she knew she hated receiving after talking about her own upbringing.

Satisfied with how things turned out, she leaves the two boys be, and turns to the crowd to find her husband. No doubt he's stomping down rumors left and right at the moment, he never did stand for the lies that circled the socialite community, no matter if they were about his family or someone else's.

Jack and Janet are talking to an older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Eldine, when they hear affronted gasps from a small gathering towards the other end of the ball room.

Jack and Janet both seem to realize at the same time that their son is presumably still with Jason. Jason, who has been called many names throughout the night, many unfavorable. And their son, their lovely Tim, who they taught to never hold back when insulted, or when someone he cares about is insulted.

To say they rushed to the center of the crowd was a bit of an understatement.

Sure enough, in the middle was a small clearing, and there stood Tim, shielding Jason with his body, and Eli Barnum, a man who was as sleazy as he was rich. Barnum stood red in the face, looking livid. Tim looked proud and defiant, and Jason looked shocked and worried.

Janet and Jack were at the boys' side swiftly.

"Timothy, could you please explain the meaning of this?" Jack's voice was strict and punishing to unfamiliar ears, but upon hearing it Tim relaxed minutely.

"He-" Tim was cut off before he could even start.

"Your son," Barnum spat, spittle flying from his mouth in his rage, "is the most disrespectful brat I've ever seen. You ought to teach him a lesson in respecting his elders, before someone else does it for you."

Jack tensed, and Janet's nostrils flared dangerously.

"Mr. Barnum, it would treat you well to not interrupt my son when he is speaking. It is impolite and frankly barbaric. Timothy, tell is what happened." Janet sounded every bit as terrifying as the tabloids said.

Tim looked from his mom, to Mr. Barnum, to his dad, to Jason, then back to his mom. He then looked back to his mother, eyes flashing with barely concealed rage.

"He called Jason a street rat. I was merely reminding him of what a rat really is."

Janet Drake smiled down at her son and nodded, while Jack looked back at Jason and tilted his head in question. Jason nodded shyly to confirm that this is what happened.

After the confirmation, it seemed as if the entire Drake family became a stone wall blocking Jason from the putrid man in front of them.

Janet pursed her lips, somehow managing to look down her nose at Burnam while being shorter than him.

"Is this true, Burnam?"

Burnam sputtered, his face turning impossibly more red.

"It's not like I'm wrong! Kids a gutter rat, shouldn't be mixing with people like us. We all know his mom was a druggie! And we all know how that is, runs in the blood! He's bound to end up just like her, useless and doped out by the time he's sixteen! Not to mention the diseases he probably carries from his time on those filthy streets, he's like a stray dog, probably riddles with fleas and pestilence!"

Janet hummed, felt her blood pressure rise beyond what she thought possible, and it worsened when she heard the heavy breathing coming from behind her. Jason appeared to be hyperventilating.

She knew how horrible people could be to those who were raised in less than favorable positions. She'd experienced it first-hand more than enough to last a lifetime, but to see it directed at a child, who had already been through so much at such a young age, sparked an anger in her so bright she felt as of it would burn her alive.

Or she would burn alive those who she directed it at.

She could tell her boys felt the same way. Tim was stiff as a board under her hand on his shoulder, and his breathing was nearly as bad as Jason's. Jack's body was poised like he was bracing for an impact, ready to attack.

"If I do remember correctly, Eli, your mother and father divorced after your mother found your father...ah...how did you put it...doped up? With another woman in his bed, and here you stand. Your hands are shaking, your face is hallow, and your teeth are the most horrendous shade of yellow I have ever had the displeasure of looking at. Perhaps it runs in your blood?"

Barnum's face dropped, paling at a rapid rate. The surrounding crowd was so silent you could hear a pin drop, and Janet's voice seemed to echo off the walls.

Then her son spoke up.

"Oh, right, it must be a familial connection, I'm sure of it, mother. It is his father's business that he inherited. It's the same business that is suspected of 67% of illegal opioid dealings in Gotham! Remember that, mother?"

Janet smiled cruelly, "Yes, Timothy, I do."

Jack clapped his hands with force, "Well then, we must have this man escorted off the premises immediately! How could someone such as him be around our children! What a terrible influence! Security!"

Burnam was dragged out kicking and screaming while a crowd of paparazzi surrounded him, and the Drake's looked down at him like he was little more than scum on the bottom of their shoes.

After all was said and done, Tim turned back to Jason, only to find he was taking to Bruce using wild hand gestures and looking about one breath away from a panic attack.

Then Jason looked up at caught Tim's eye, and smiled widely before dragging Bruce over to The Drake Family.

"Dad. Dad, these people are the coolest people I've ever seen in my life. That was the most insane thing I've ever witnessed. Oh my god."

Bruce smiled at the Drake's, and everyone could tell it was Bruce, not Brucie. They had found a secluded enough corner, and most of the attention was still on the paparazzi and the new gossip, so they were mostly safe from being heard.

"Thank you, for standing up for my son."

His smile was sincere, and Janet felt her heart melt just slightly, but didn't let it show on her face.

"It was stupid to leave him alone like that, Bruce, you know full well what these people are like."

Bruce nodded in agreement, "Yes, that was quite idiotic of me, I must admit, and I can assure you it will not happen again."

"Be sure that it doesn't" Janet snapped, before softening slightly.

Jason watched the conversation like a tennis match, head bouncing back and forth, before grinning up at Janet like she hung the moon.

"You are a total badass, Mrs. Drake."

At those words, Jack let out a loud chuckle, trying to stiffle it but failing, and Janet felt her lips quirk up.

"Jason, laguage!" Bruce admonished, but Jason didn't seem to hear him.

"And Tim! That was so cool, dude! How did you know about the whole drug thing? Even Bruce was shocked when he found out!"

Tim felt himself freeze up slightly. Batman was shocked about something he found out? He was totally going to freak out about that later. But not now. Robin is talking to him.

"It was really easy to put the pieces together after looking at the company stocks. There were too many suspicious transfers to unknown places, and after hacking a couple security cameras, I found out where he was spending his free time. Or, I guess how he was spending his free time."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at the young boy. "You hacked security cameras? Is that not illegal?"

Tim stared him head on, not backing down, ans Janet couldn't help but be proud of her little dragon.

"You've never done anything illegal, Mr. Wayne?" Tim's voice was sweet, his eyes wide and innocent, but the threat was loud and clear.

Bruce froze for a moment, and Jason's draw dropped to the floor. No way this kid new.

(The kid definitely knew.)

Jack shook his head, grabbing Tim by the shoulder and squeezing warningly.

"Sorry, we made the mistake of teaching him about blackmail, and he got a little obsessed. Timothy here probably has dirt on the entire high society at this point, and probably many more people that his mother and I are aware of."

Tim nodded in agreement.

Bruce took this in for a moment. "And you're both okay with this?"

Janet chucked slightly, "Truly, Bruce. I'd like to see you try and stop him."

Tim smiled something feral. "You can try, but I promise you'll fail."

Slowly, Bruce nodded, and Jason let out a laugh.

"Hey, Mrs. Drake, can you teach me that really scary glare you did at that man? In case there's someone else like him in the future?"

Janet looked down at the young man and felt incredibly fond. It was impossible not to, with his gaping smile and his boyish attitude.

She nodded, "Hm, yes, it's best you learn the art of intimidation sooner rather than later. However, for right now, if anyone acts even remotely the way Burnam did tonight, I want you to find Tim, who will find Jack and I, and we'll deal with it, sound good?"

Jason nodded quickly, while Jack looked down at his watch.

"Ah, darling, we should be getting home. It's nearly two in the morning!"

Janet nodded, and looked down at Tim, who looked sullen about the prospect of leaving but nodded nonetheless.

"Well then, it was an eventful night, but I cannot say I'm sad to see it come to an end."

Bruce chuckled at Janet's statement, humming, "No, I can't say I'm too disappointed either. Again, thank you all for tonight. Tim is welcome anytime at The Manor, I'm sure he would fit right in with my boys."

Jack nodded, "Thank you, and of course the same goes for Jason and your other young man, Dick, correct?"

Bruce nodded, "Yes, that's him. I'll see you all around"

Jack and Janet nodded, and Jason and Tim said goodbye to eachother, exchanging numbers and arguing about something, (all the adults heard was something about Wonder Woman and a toaster), before heading their separate ways.

The night all together didn't go as horribly as it could have.

Tim made a new friend, and Jack and Janet felt less worried because of it. They knew their son was odd, and although they loved him dearly, the knew not everyone felt the same amount of affection towards his more terrifying habits.

So all together, it was a success.

As Jack and Janet settled in for bed, they didn't hear their sons window open down the hall, or the sound of him exiting it.

Tim made sure to be absolutely silent, and as soon as he entered the city, he disappeared into the shadows completely.

He had some birdwatching to do, after all.

Fin.

PLEASE FEEL FREE TO WRITE MORE FICS BASED ON THIS OR GIVE RECS🙏 I NEED MKRE GOOD PARENT JACK AND JANET PLEAAASSEEE

[sunlight-shunlight]

yeah!! like the veil going up should really be the equivalent of a mass extinction event, almost... by the time the games start there's been a few thousand years for stuff to readjust, but that's still not long enough for the environment to actually flourish after such a big change. especially with the blights haha. i think the first blight lasted literal centuries? so that should REALLY have an effect. not even just from the direct effects - people would be unable to farm from the blight, there would be tons of displacement, and they'd be basically hunting anything big enough to eat into extinction.

i like to think solas was doing the equivalent of constantly looking up youtube tutorials in his first year haha. like just phoning his spirit friends every 5 minutes like "what's that plant. what's that animal. can i cook this-". so he probably was fine but hated almost every minute of it. those orlesian frilly cakes were the only time he wasn't suffering, alas.

one thing about ancient arlathan i wish vg had gotten into (along with any other interesting details besides being vaguely desaturated haha) is that: the ecology should've been pretty crazy? i think it's hinted that spiders get really big in places where the veil is thin. and with all the ambient magic before the veil existed, surely there'd be tons of cool megafauna?? plus ghilan'nain was going ham with bioengineering stuff, there should be all kinds of things running around.

plus modern thedas has survived multiple rounds of blight, which would logically kill off tons of species and lead to a lot of places being turned completely barren... what would it have been like before that? it would add an interesting element to solas' nostalgia if the world is quite literally different in that way.

[missmaymay13]

serendipity - m.celebrini w.smith

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

m.celebrini x fem!oc | 2.5k

Summary: the two young sharks rookie decide to have an adventure before a game and end up getting lost. desperate and with no way back to the arena, they enlist the help of two girls who happened to be at the right place at the right time.

a/n: let me know if you guys would want a pt.2!

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The bus wasn’t even supposed to pull in for another two hours, but apparently, someone had either seriously messed up the schedule—or more likely, Will Smith had just misread it entirely—and now the San Jose Sharks found themselves standing awkwardly early outside Climate Pledge Arena. They looked like a group of over-dressed teenagers dropped off way too early for prom, loitering around the team bus in full game day suits, checking their phones, yawning, and stretching like they were about to step into a cage match instead of a professional hockey game.

"We are so painfully early," Macklin Celebrini muttered under his breath, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt like it had suddenly become sentient and was trying to strangle him. His gaze slid sideways toward Will, who stood a few feet away with the unearned enthusiasm of someone who clearly hadn’t gotten the memo that it was still barely morning.

Will’s eyes were practically sparkling with the energy of a golden retriever that just saw its leash. "This is fate," he announced dramatically, stuffing his phone into his pocket and turning to face Mack with a grin that could only mean trouble. "We’re exploring. There’s this TikTok-famous coffee shop, like, two blocks from here."

Mack raised an unimpressed eyebrow, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. "You mean the one that’s always packed and impossible to find?"

Will’s grin only widened, that dangerous little glint in his eyes shining brighter. "Exactly. Come on, we’ve got time."

Mack groaned audibly. "We’ve got pre-game in two hours."

"Exactly!" Will beamed. "Time for a little adventure."

Against every rational thought in his brain, Mack followed him.

Thirty minutes later, the adventure had devolved into a slow-moving disaster. Will was spinning in circles on a cracked sidewalk like a malfunctioning GPS, pointing at random buildings. "I swear it was right here! This is exactly what it looked like in the video."

Mack, already freezing in his too-thin suit, tugged his jacket tighter around himself and leveled a withering glare at Will. "That video was probably filmed in 2022. There is no coffee here. There is no cozy aesthetic or magical TikTok oasis. There is only windburn, the smell of questionable alley hot dogs, and the creeping terror of being late to warm-ups."

Will waved him off with the blind confidence of a man who’d never admitted fault in his life. "We’re close, I swear. I’ve got this whole mental map."

"Your GPS skills are a hate crime," Mack muttered. "You've pointed at three identical brick buildings in a row and said 'it’s definitely that one.' I’m beginning to think you just want us to die before the game starts."

Will spun around, scanning the street again like it might suddenly reveal itself if he blinked hard enough. "Look, if we just take one more left—"

"You said that three turns ago. We’ve taken more lefts than a Nascar driver."

"Okay, rude, but fair," Will replied, unbothered, still leading them deeper into architectural nowhere.

Mack sighed deeply, the kind of exhale that carried the weight of regret and frostbite. "I’m never letting you near a map again. Ever."

Will glanced down at his phone and frowned. "Okay... Uber says the nearest ride is thirty minutes away."

Mack inhaled deeply, slowly, and said, "I hate you."

Will patted his shoulder like they were on a sitcom. "You love me."

"In the most begrudging way imaginable."

And then they turned the corner—and walked straight into fate.

Or rather, directly into two unsuspecting women holding coffee cups.

"Oh my god—are you kidding me?!" the taller girl yelped as she stumbled backward, miraculously managing not to spill a single drop of her drink. Her friend, a petite brunette with the sharpest blue eyes Mack had ever seen, caught her arm to steady her and immediately zeroed in on them with an unimpressed look.

"Dude, watch it—Jesus," she said, squinting up at Will and Mack like she was already ranking them on a scale of stupidity.

There was a silence. Not the regular kind. The kind that was drawn out, socially awkward, heavy with the weight of two people realizing they just knocked into two complete strangers while wearing thousand-dollar suits.

Will blinked. Mack looked like he wanted the sidewalk to swallow him whole.

Then Will tilted his head in a very exaggerated, very obvious way. Mack gave him a death glare. Will widened his eyes meaningfully. Mack sighed like a man who had resigned himself to whatever chaos was about to happen.

"Are you guys... having a stroke?" the short one asked, brows raised high.

Will grinned with zero shame. "Slightly. But actually—we were wondering if maybe you were headed near the arena? Like, soon?"

Mack practically hissed, "Dude," under his breath.

The taller girl, who was now regarding them with skeptical eyes, narrowed them even further. "This is a bad idea."

"We’re going to the game anyway," the shorter one—Issy—shrugged. "I mean, if you don’t mind sharing a backseat full of gym bags, thrifted records, and like, three water bottles that may or may not be from last week."

Will clapped his hands like she had just offered him a golden ticket. "You’re angels. Literal angels."

"This is how people get murdered," Mack muttered as they followed the girls toward a tiny hatchback parked nearby.

The inside of Issy’s car was best described as... lived-in. The backseat was an eclectic jungle of bags, clothing, a yoga mat, and something suspiciously glittery. Will, of course, had called shotgun before the door even opened. He was already playing with the aux cord, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

"Issy," he said, dramatically turning to her as she buckled in. "Do you believe in the unifying power of early 2010s pop?"

"Only every day of my life."

Mack climbed into the backseat, folding himself like a pretzel. Ari slid in after him, careful not to knock over the chaos occupying most of the seat.

"Sorry about the mess," she whispered, cheeks already turning pink.

"It’s fine," Mack replied quickly, eyes fixed on the back of the front seat as if avoiding eye contact would help his ears stop burning.

Issy peeled out of the lot like she was trying to qualify for NASCAR. Will screamed.

"DEAR GOD, USE YOUR BLINKER!"

"I LITERALLY DID!"

"THIS IS HOW I DIE!"

In the back, Mack gripped the side handle like a man on a rollercoaster. Ari tried to keep herself steady, but when Issy made a particularly sharp turn, she toppled sideways, colliding gently into Mack’s shoulder.

They both froze.

"S-sorry!" Ari stammered, pulling herself upright with comical speed, only to find her hand accidentally landing on his.

Her fingers touched his.

Time paused.

Her head snapped up, her eyes locked with his, and for a moment, the entire car disappeared. Then she yanked her hand back, face flushed to her ears, and turned to stare at the window like it had personally betrayed her.

Mack, meanwhile, was trying to remember how to breathe.

"You’re bad at directions," Issy said casually, breaking the moment from the front seat.

"You’re bad at driving," Will retorted.

"You screamed when I made a legal U-turn."

"Because you did it in front of a semi!"

Ari let out a soft laugh that warmed something in Mack’s chest. He glanced at her again, and when she looked back at him, they both smiled—shy and slow.

"You guys are something," she murmured.

"That’s one way to put it," he said, voice quiet, amused.

They screeched into the arena parking lot with a minute to spare. The boys practically fell out of the car, straightening their ties and brushing down their suits like they hadn’t just risked their lives for a cup of coffee that never even existed.

Issy leaned out the window, grinning. "You’re welcome for the worst Uber ride of your life."

Will winked. "Five stars. Would almost die again."

Mack turned to Ari, who was brushing crumbs off her lap. "Thanks... for not judging too hard."

She smiled, teasing. "Too late for that."

They laughed. It was quiet, awkward, and warm.

Then, as if coordinated, the boys whipped out their phones.

"Instagram or Snapchat?" Will asked.

"Both," Issy said, already pulling out hers.

Ari blinked. "Wait... are you—"

Will cut her off, voice smug. "If we win tonight, it’s because of this."

Ari rolled her eyes. Mack was still watching her.

She looked away.

He smiled.

The game hadn’t started yet.

But something else had.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The arena buzzed with pre-game energy, a low rumble of chatter and anticipation rippling through the crowd as Arabelle and Issy found their way to their seats. They were a few rows up behind the Kraken bench, with a perfect view of the ice and, more importantly, the chaos that was bound to ensue once the puck dropped. Issy flopped dramatically into her seat, taking a massive sip of her soda before turning toward Ari with a smug grin.

"Sooooo," she sing-songed, eyebrows waggling. "You and the Macklin were pretty cozy back there."

Ari didn’t even look at her. She just rolled her eyes and muttered, "Pretty sure that’s because we were jammed in next to a yoga mat and half your closet."

"Uh-huh," Issy said, all knowing. "I saw the moment. You touched hands. There was eye contact. Blushing."

Ari groaned. "Oh my god, you were watching us? No wonder we were swerving all over the place—you were too busy spying instead of looking at the damn road."

Issy burst out laughing, unapologetic. "Guilty. But seriously. Did you think he was cute?"

Ari hesitated for a second, then sighed. "I mean... yeah. Obviously. He’s gorgeous."

Issy turned, fully facing her now with wide, expectant eyes.

"But he lives in San Jose, Iss," Ari added quickly. "He’s an NHL superstar. I’m just some random girl who gave him and his buddy a ride because they were too dumb to plan ahead. He probably has a thousand girls throwing themselves at him every day. He’s not interested."

Issy snorted, but before she could respond, the lights dropped and the arena erupted in cheers.

The game began, and with each shift, Ari tried to keep her focus on the action—on the Kraken, the fans, anything that wasn’t the fact that every single time Macklin Celebrini skated near the bench, he looked up. And not just a passing glance. It was direct. Intentional. Like he was checking to make sure she was still there.

And every time it happened, Ari felt her cheeks heat up in an embarrassing, impossible-to-ignore way. She’d duck her head, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, but Issy noticed. Of course she noticed.

"He’s looking at you again," Issy whispered.

"Shut up."

"You shut up. I think he just smiled."

"Issy."

"I’m just saying!"

The game ended in a tight 3-2 win for the Kraken, and as the final buzzer sounded, Ari clapped and cheered with everyone else. But there was a little pang of disappointment she wasn’t expecting as Mack disappeared down the tunnel.

"We are not going home yet," Issy declared, grabbing Ari’s hand as they exited the arena. "There’s this bar like two blocks away that always has cheap drinks after home games."

"I’m not even dressed to go out."

"Neither are half the people there. Let’s go."

Ari, too emotionally drained to fight it, followed.

The bar was cozy, crowded, and loud—the kind of place where conversations happened over thumping bass and neon signs. About an hour in, they were nursing cocktails and split fries when the door opened with a gust of cold air and a sudden shift in energy.

A group of men stepped in, all tall, all effortlessly cool in jeans and jackets. And very, very familiar.

"No. Way," Issy whispered, her eyes locked on the door.

"What?"

Issy reached for her phone, typing furiously. "That’s them. That’s like—half the Sharks. Oh my god."

Ari’s stomach flipped as she scanned the group. Sure enough, there was Will, laughing about something, and right behind him—Macklin.

Before she could fully process it, Will spotted them. He grinned, said something to Mack, and the two peeled off from the group, heading straight toward their table like this was totally normal.

Will dropped into the chair next to Issy without hesitation, throwing an arm across the back of it like he belonged there. Mack approached more slowly, still a little cautious, and took the seat next to Ari.

"Hey," he said with a shy smile. "Didn’t expect to see you here."

"Seattle’s a small town," Ari replied, her heart doing somersaults. "Or you’re just following us."

"Maybe a little of both."

Meanwhile, Issy and Will had already descended into a whirlwind of laughter, bickering about music, road trips, and something about cheese fries.

Ari and Mack sat in their own little bubble of quiet. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly effortless yet either. After a few beats, Ari leaned in slightly.

"You played great out there. Sorry you guys lost."

Mack shrugged, smile sheepish. "I knew what I was signing up for when I signed that contract. Sharks are a work in progress."

"Still," she said. "You looked good."

He looked down for a second, then back up at her. "Thanks. That means a lot."

The conversation started to flow from there—easier, looser. They talked about Seattle, about the road schedule, about how exhausting it was to live out of hotel rooms. They talked about Ari’s job, her favorite places to eat in the city, how she used to play rec soccer before an ankle injury sidelined her. Gradually, they leaned in closer, shoulders brushing now and then, smiles wide and easy.

Then—WHACK.

A large hand clapped Macklin’s back, nearly sending him face-first into the table.

"There you guys are!" William Eklund, clearly a drink or two in, leaned heavily on the table. "Come play pool. We need more people. Come onnnn."

Will was already dragging Issy toward the tables before either girl could protest.

"You in?" Mack asked, glancing at Ari.

"I guess I don’t have a choice."

They stood together at a nearby high-top as Will and Eklund went head-to-head in a truly chaotic round of pool. Ari and Mack stayed close, still chatting, their laughter blending easily into the noise around them.

Ari glanced up at him, his face lit by the neon overhead light, smiling in a way that felt entirely too dangerous.

Oh god, she thought. This is not good.

She couldn’t catch feelings for a guy who lived thousands of miles away. Who belonged in a different world. One where cameras followed him, fans adored him, and his time wasn’t really his own. She was just... Ari. A girl with a beat-up car and a spontaneous streak. This couldn’t be anything.

Right?

As the night wound down and the crowd thinned, Mack leaned a little closer, his voice low.

"I really enjoyed getting to know you tonight."

Ari’s breath caught. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, trying to play it cool. "Me too."

Before anything more could be said, Will and Issy reappeared, cheeks flushed from laughing.

"Ugh," Issy groaned. "Why does the night have to end?"

Will turned to the girls. "What are you doing in February? During our All-Star break?"

Ari blinked. "We’re going to Boston. Visiting a few friends. Probably going to the Beanpot."

Will and Mack exchanged a look and smiled.

Ari squinted at them. "Why are you smiling like that? It’s weird."

Mack tilted his head. "We’re going to be in Boston too. Watching the Beanpot."

Issy gasped. "Shut up."

"Seriously?" Ari asked.

Will nodded. "Guess we’ll see you there."

Before the girls could even fully process that, Mack added, "We’re doing a quick golf trip to Arizona the next week too, during the break. You guys should come."

Issy looked at Ari. Ari looked at Issy.

The look said everything: Why not?

They grinned.

"Sure," Ari said. "Why not."

Whatever this was—it was just beginning.

[goodlucktai]

hold the world to its best (1/?)

rottmnt word count: 2k pairing: raph & OC, raph & leo title borrowed from light by sleeping at last part of the archer au

for @soldrawss who wanted the deaged gio arc we've discussed to death in the group chat to finally become canon in some way shape or form 🩶

(next)

x

It takes all of six minutes for a family outing to the Hidden City to go completely off the rails. Raph would be mortified, except that’s not even breaking their record.

He has no idea how Gio got there as quickly as he did. One minute he’s sandwiched between Mikey and April at a stall selling little whimsical glass figurines that moved and changed color, fully prepared to fork over an absurd amount of money for the sizeable stack of them they had picked out so far, and the next he was on the other side of the market, shoving his way between Donnie and the witch that had snuck up behind him.

Raph was already in damage control mode, but now it swiftly shifts gears from the more harmless ‘convince Gio not to spend a cool two hundred dollars at the drop of a hat just because Mikey and April got suckered by some kitschy souvenirs’ and moves into the more immediately imperative ‘stop Gio from breaking someone’s arm for the crime of approaching Donnie with a look on their face that Gio didn’t like.’ 

It’s a task in and of itself to carve through the crowd without bulldozing over the yokai just trying to do their evening shopping. Raph tries to be mindful of his size on a good day, but he has a bad feeling. It doesn’t take much for anxiety to stir in the back of his mind. Every foot between himself and his brothers feels like a mile. 

Whatever happened in Witch Town three years ago, Raph is beginning to think April and Donnie only gave the rest of them the spark notes version, or else why would the witches still be nursing a grudge?

“Hey,” Leo’s voice pipes up at his elbow. Raph looks down into a smiling striped face as Leo hefts the bags of food he’d collected from Hueso’s victoriously. “Got dinner. Where’s the fire?”

“Twelve o’clock,” Raph replies, and decides he’s had enough mincing around. “Hitch a ride, kid.”

Leo whistles low, clearly impressed by the amount of trouble their siblings must have caused to warrant the urgency, but doesn’t hesitate to hop up on Raph’s shell, maneuvering around the spikes with the ease of a lifetime of practice. His leg has healed to the point that he no longer carries the foldable neon blue crutch on outings, but Raph gives him an extra breath to settle anyway. Then he straightens his shoulders and stands up tall and the crowd parts for him like water around a stone. 

The witch is hissing between her teeth, the mane of fur framing her face bristling with resentment, needle-point fangs poking out from beneath her top lip. Gio is meeting her glare with one of his own, the soft expression he’d been wearing not even a full minute ago, watching April ooh and ahh over a tiny crystal shark swimming in midair, a thing of the past. Donnie looks offended and he’s already running his mouth over Gio’s shoulder, because he’s never met a fire he wouldn’t throw gasoline on. 

The next few seconds seem to stretch into hours and also shrink into an instant. The witch lifts her hand and blows something out of her open palm that glitters in the lantern light like broken glass. It hits Gio’s face with the force of a slap and Donnie’s startled yelp is audible to Raph’s ears over every other sound on the street and a thick plume of smoke obscures all three of them. 

Leo’s weight disappears from Raph’s back. When the smoke has cleared and Raph has shoved himself the rest of the way there, Leo has the witch pinned against a storefront wall with his sword to her throat. She is very carefully not moving an inch. Donnie is digging frantically through a pile of loose clothes on the ground. Gio is nowhere to be seen at a glance. 

Raph’s immediate thought is one he’s not proud of later, but in the moment he thinks if Gio’s gone I’ll let Leo kill her. 

“What did you do to my brother?” Leo says with a smile that cuts as easily as any one of his blades ever did. “In ten words or less. Don’t waste my time.” When she only stares at him, quivering like a mouse under the cold, calculative eyes of a bird, he adds pointedly, “My arm’s getting tired.”

“Okay!” she blurts. With a pang, Raph realizes she can’t be that much older than Mikey. “Okay okay! It’s not permanent, it doesn’t even hurt, I’m not allowed to use spells that harm until I pass my A-Levels! I just wanted to ruin his day!”

“What’s going on?” Mikey says, brow furrowed as he and April join them. “Is that Georgie’s scarf?” 

“OKAY NOBODY PANIC,” Donnie interjects in a significantly panicked tone of voice, the scarf in question clutched in his hands. “We’ve found ourselves in a situation that I am very much not equipped to handle, so I am tapping out and tagging Raphael in. That’s your cue, brother dearest.” 

What Donnie could possibly be under-qualified for that Raph isn’t, he has no idea. And he has no idea what he’s going to see when he steps over to Donnie and looks down at what Donnie is hovering uncertainly in front of, what his bulky battle shell has blocked from their siblings’ collective view. 

“Oh my fucking god,” Raph says without thinking. 

“Raphael!” Donnie hisses. “I’m implementing a swear jar and you’ll be receiving my Venmo request imminently.” 

“How the turntables,” Mikey mumbles behind them, kept from crowding close to look by April’s arm thrown out in front of him. Just in case it’s something bad. Something he can’t unsee. 

“Is he okay?” Leo calls over. There’s a thread of tension in his voice that only the people who love him would be able to hear. “Someone tell me if I need to add to my Hidden City arrest record.” 

The witch’s eyes widen, and she looks like she’s about to risk wriggling her way to freedom, sharp sword against her neck be damned. 

“He’s okaaaay,” Donnie says in a not-reassuring way, tone lilting uncertainly at the end. Leo’s body language rockets past worried and straight into alarmed. 

“Stop,” Raph says, putting firmness in his voice but not raising it, hyper-aware of Gio’s eyes tracking his every move. “He’s fine, Leo. We’ll call Barry and get him sorted out. But I think it would make you feel better to come see for yourself, so get your new friend’s contact info and cut her loose.”

Leo scoffs, but sheaths his sword over his shoulder. “Gimme that,” he says without an ounce of charm, pointing at one of the bangles on the witch’s wrist. 

Her yellow fur is sticking straight out at this point, but she works the bangle off and all but shoves it at Leo without a word. Leo doesn’t bother explaining why he wants it, what purpose it will serve. Raph knows that Mikey, an earnest student of mystic arts ever since his arms healed from the invasion, would be able to track the owner of a personal item through hell itself and out the other side. 

The witch doesn’t know that, and doesn’t ask questions. She lingers one second, then two—then, when it’s clear Leo isn’t playing a trick on her, takes off at a dead sprint and disappears into the marketplace crowd. A few yokai have lingered to watch the show, but for the most part business has carried on as usual. Raph loves and hates the Hidden City in equal measure for its quasi-lawlessness and customary chaos. 

Mikey is all but climbing over April at this point, and she has both her arms looped around his middle to bodily haul him back, since no one’s given her the clear to let him go yet. Leo joins the cluster of his big brothers and, to his eternal credit, the state of their eldest sibling only stuns him into stillness for a moment.

Then he smiles the way he’s only ever smiled at Michelangelo and folds his legs underneath himself and says, in a voice so unlike the one he spoke to the witch with that he might as well be a different person, “Hey, you. Do you know who I am?”

A tiny spotted turtle with Hamato Yoshi’s brown eyes looks up at them, absolutely swimming in Giorgio’s dark clothes and gear, the compound crossbow on the ground beside him laughably big in comparison. The bead art ladybug keychain clipped to the bow stock is the only thing that makes sense for this tiny baby to have near his person. He can’t be older than four.

The baby turtle looks surprised that Leo is talking to him. He scoots his arms and legs a little closer to himself, hands curled into fists that he hides in the folds of the coat Gio had let Splinter tuck him into two hours ago. 

Eventually, very carefully, he shakes his head. It must come as a blow. Gio spoils all of his siblings recklessly but he dotes on Leo most of all. 

“Aw, that’s okay,” Raph interjects, talking to them both but looking at Gio. He’s keenly aware of how much bigger he is than this pint-sized version of his only older brother, practically towering over him, and he’s quick to crouch next to the twins. He’s still in damage control mode, even if now it’s taking a tone that reminds him vividly of his childhood of being the de facto babysitter and the one responsible for breaking up screeching fights over the Wii remote and soothing hurt feelings. “Do you see how we’re all turtles like you?” he asks. 

Gio’s nod comes slightly quicker this time. He doesn’t uncoil from his tight little ball, but he doesn’t seem overly fearful. He just watches them with huge dark eyes, absorbing everything. 

“Well, his job is to make sure little turtles aren’t hurt after big falls,” Raph says, patting Leo’s carapace. “Does anything hurt anywhere? Do you feel an ouch?” 

Gio’s face is round and soft and young, with spots he hasn’t grown into yet that crowd for space on his cheeks and forehead—so to see him wearing that serious expression they’re all so familiar with at this young age will be both funny and cute just as soon as Raph is capable of finding anything funny or cute about the situation. 

Mikey, who finally breaches containment and lifts himself over Donnie’s shoulders to see, has no such compunctions and coos audibly. 

“He’s so precious!” 

“Michael,” Donnie says at length. 

“What, are you going to tell me he’s not?”

“Of course not. I’m a man of science, and it’s an indisputable scientific fact that baby turtles are adorable. But it’s not the time or place for selfies so put your phone away.”

Mikey scoffs, but slides his phone back into his pocket. Raph is about to lose what little is left of his cool. While the peanut gallery is sniping back and forth, Leo has inched closer, and Gio is agreeably allowing him to check him over. Aside from a tender spot on his knee that will bruise tomorrow, presumably from his rough landing, he’s perfectly fine. 

Leo still puts an unnecessary Barbie bandaid on the sore knee with a silly amount of fanfare, and then pokes Gio on his spotted cheek playfully, and earns himself a tentative, inching smile. 

They’re holding up traffic, but Donnie and Mikey turned and stared down the one person who dared clear their throat at the inconvenient turtle roadblock until that person got uncomfortable and silently walked around them, and no one else bothered them after that. But Raph still wants to get home sooner rather than later. He feels vulnerable, like his heart or a lung is on display out in the open, where anyone with cruel intentions might step on it or steal it away. 

So he mentions dinner, as if he’s thinking out loud. Leo looks guiltily over his shoulder at where the Run of the Mill takeout is probably laying in a heap on the street, but Mikey is quick to jump in.

“Oh, Georgie, let me make your favorite! Whatever you like to eat! And you can help me cook, how ‘bout that? I bet you’re a good helper!”

“That does sound fun,” Raph says. “What do you say, buddy? Does that sound good?”

Gio nods, the fastest response they’ve gotten yet. Then he surprises the hell out of Raph by lifting his arms, the universal sign of a child that wants to be picked up. It’s not a big, enthusiastic want, it’s more hopeful than anything—two little hands that still know how to reach out, that haven’t been taught otherwise yet. 

It bothers Raph that Gio is so comfortable with strangers. That he hasn’t cried or fussed even though he clearly doesn’t know where he is or what he’s doing here. That he tucks himself into a quiet little ball and just lets things happen, like that’s what he’s used to doing, and there’s no point trying to raise his voice to be heard. 

But Raph had a seventeen year streak of being the oldest brother, and he’ll always be the biggest, so it’s muscle memory to scoop the baby turtle into his arms. The tiny curve of Gio’s black, white-spotted shell is a perfect fit in the crook of his arm. 

The faded friendship bracelet that Raph has never once seen Gio without is comically big on his thin wrist and in danger of falling off at any second. Raph carefully removes the bracelet and pockets it for safekeeping, and Mikey passes over the prized ladybug keychain for Gio to hang onto instead. Donnie and April have Gio’s clothes and gear and bow bundled haphazardly in their arms. Leo is holding a sword down by his side, standing close enough to Raph that Gio probably can’t even see it.

“Do you want to see a magic trick?” Leo asks Gio in a sneaky tone that has, historically, always rallied other turtles into running headlong into mischief and trouble with him. 

Sure enough, Gio nods again, maybe even eagerly this time. 

“Close your eyes,” Leo says. 

Gio obeys, even pressing his little hands over them, ladybug and all. The ground at Raph’s feet glows blue, a disk that spreads wide enough to encompass all six of them. When Gio opens his eyes again, they’ll be home. 

[willtheweaver]

Ways to punish crimes that aren’t prison

• A society that doesn’t believe in prisons instead makes all offenders teach middle schoolers (the greater the crime, the longer they have to remain a teacher)

• “Your sentence will be commuted if you can survive listening to the High Priest’s five hour long lecture and sermon about worms, and his new tabletop game (don’t know how they are related, but whatever).”

• All criminals become game show contestants, and the only way to earn their freedom is to win.

• “It’s your choice. Two hours of either Nickleback, Baby Shark, or The Song that Never Ends.”

• Fate is left to the hands of the wheel of (mis)fortune

• All Karens are required to become retail workers for at least a year (cannot quit or intentionally get fired)

• Cut down a tree? Replant it. Illegally knock down a building? You have to rebuild it.

• Criminals must recite a poem about their crimes in the town square. The number of verses is equal to the severity of their crime.

• Can’t pay the fine? Become a street performer in order to pay off your debt.

•Congratulations! You are now in charge of the local animal shelter/ alms house.

Edit: Cannot believe I forgot this one: “The sentence is that you must write the book you’ve been putting off for years now. You must have the final draft completed before you can go free.”

[ephemerensis]

Steamroller // Tim Drake x GN! Reader

happy new year! little enemies to lovers kind of thing kind of (theyre just like on opposite ends and they don’t really know it). stalker update for all interested parties: i think he’s starting to lose interest and give up 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️! also i graduated! yippee! NOT proofread.

—

Your favorite nights were ones like these, windswept and carefree as you sped down an empty street on your motorbike. With the last of your tasks wrapped up for the week, it was smooth sailing until the next rotation. Or so you thought before you heard a familiar grating voice bark at you, swinging into the view of your side mirror and chucking something at you.

Switching lanes, you narrowly avoided the batarang that came whizzing by. This guy again. Swinging your bike back around, you pushed the brakes to screech to a halt.

“Nice try bat rat, maybe aim next time!”

If it wasn’t so dark, you’d see the scowl plastered on his face as he stalked towards you. Red Robin hated you, and that was an understatement. Which was fine, you didn’t like him much either.

“Didn’t need to,” he spat. Pressing a button on his suit started up something like the sound of metal scraping pavement behind you. Before you could react, the sharp little object he threw at you came reeling back where it came, and the wheezing sound of your back tire losing air came with it. He threw a grappling hook at you.

“You’ve got to be joking.” In a way, it was your fault for taunting the guy. But this was the sixth encounter this week, if he wasn’t constantly out to get you, you’d think he were in love.

“What were you doing at the rendezvous point Penguin set up?” He stalked towards you, for what you weren’t sure. Sometimes he just wanted to provoke you, other times he’d just go for the swing. But you didn’t have time for that today.

“Intel, not that it’s your business.” You ripped a patch out from your utility belt, slapping it on the tire he just rudely tore a hole in before applying pressure to see if it’d last the way back.

“I’ll decide what my business is.”

“You stalking me everywhere says otherwise.” The tire sank more than you would’ve liked, but it would do. He stopped ten feet in front of you; looks like he didn’t want to fight tonight either. You rummaged through your pockets for good measure.

“I am not stalking you. You’re just where trouble happens to be.”

“Yeah. If that helps you sleep at night.” When your fingers brushed against the smooth plastic you were searching for, you mounted the bike again, turning on the headlights and adjusting your mirrors. It’s important to drive safe. “Anyways! Move.”

“What-“ Before he could finish his thought you pushed on the accelerator, watching him dive out of the way. It’s a shame his reflexes were so fast, if you ran him over he’d be out of commission for at least a month.

You tossed the plastic discs behind you as you sped off, leaving a flush of smoke behind you. He was good, but he wouldn’t be able to trace you with this.

Mercenary work never really was for you, let alone vigilante work. But growing up poor in Gotham and constantly grappling with loan sharks and the other unsavory groups your parents brought upon your family taught you a few things. And you found out you were pretty good at getting things done, the sneakier stuff: spying, stealing, occasionally taking out single targets, the quiet things. It felt bad but being hungry felt worse, survival of the fittest or something like that.

You were so good you paid it all off, and made a profit; enough to get yourself and your brother through college, and give the ol’ crime lords the slip. And things were good.

You liked your 9 to 5 office job, sorting through papers and typing on your laptop. You liked talking to your neighbors and inviting them over on the occasion for taco night. You liked your partner and the cozy apartment you lived in together.

Until your useless brother threw it all away, talking to the wrong people, getting into debt again, throwing around your name where it would mean anything, and it was square one.

So now you’re here. Running from some vigilante freak that has it out for you when you haven’t even done anything all that bad; it’s the people you work for he should be worried about. Instead he wants to breathe down your neck every night of the week, and he fails, every time. Maybe that was why he got so mad, as if there aren’t bigger fish to fry.

When you got back to your apartment, it was almost three in the morning. Slipping in as quietly as you could manage, you breathed a sigh of relief to find all the lights still off. Your boyfriend, Tim, always sleeps with a night light on, something about being scared of the dark. Lucky for you, he worked ungodly hours which made sneaking around a lot easier.

You’d just slipped into your pajamas when you heard the front door open and someone flicked the lights on. You could tell Tim was frustrated by the way he walked, brisk and heavy as he tugged off his coat and tossed his tie into the abyss. But he softened when he saw you, stopping in his tracks with an almost guilty look on his face, like he was sorry for feeling anything but joy in your presence.

“Oh hey, were you waiting up for me? I told you not to.” You shook your head, making your way over to press a kiss to his cheek and hold his hands. They were still cold from outside, the walk from the parking garage must’ve been treacherous.

“Are you okay?,” you asked, running your thumbs over the back of his hands. They were rough hands, surprising for a rich boy, but in your palms they were always so gentle.

He let out a breath, laughing a little before settling into a rueful smile, “I can’t get anything past you, can I? I’m okay. Just work stuff.”

“What kind of work stuff?” You tightened your grip on him, tugging him over to sit with you on the couch. He complied, leaning on your shoulder as he sunk into the cushions.

“Just something I can’t quite… resolve.” He sounded so tired. Business always went well, and Tim was a genius, it was a wonder how he ran into so many problems in the office. Sometimes you wanted to reach into that pretty skull of his and take a peek into his brain, maybe he was just overthinking things, or maybe you’d finally understand that you could never understand. Both would soothe you.

“Yet. Everything works out in time, and you’re the best I know. Can I help?” You felt him tense when you ran your hand over his shoulder, pulling away immediately to check on him. But before you could manage to ask he reached for you, shaking his head.

“No. It’s sensitive material. I’m okay,” he insisted, leaning on you again as he perched his arms neatly where they would fit around you. “Can we just stay like this for awhile?”

It was a good thing he never asked for anything malicious, because you’d say yes to just about anything he asked.

“Yeah.” You’d never known power so intimately before you held his skull to your chest. The way he surrendered himself and was whole, shedding the burdens of his responsibilities entirely to be vulnerable for a moment. But it was coupled by an intense fear, that his trust was rare and very easily abused or misguided if you weren’t careful. And if you weren’t, it felt as if he wouldn’t ever be vulnerable again.

“Thank you, and I love you,” he whispered. Your tired, hardworking boy.

“I love you more,” you answered.

It turns out the “I’m okay” business was a massive tri-colored bruise that bloomed on his left arm. He was careful to hide it, and if you didn’t wake up a little earlier than usual you would never have known. You didn’t ask, clearly he didn’t want you to, but you were concerned— and moreso curious. He did spar with his siblings, this you knew, but they’d never do something like that to him. Maybe he was sleep deprived and got stuck between the elevator doors somehow, you wouldn’t put it past him. If you had time later, you could check in while he’s in the office, drop off dinner or something to make sure he wasn’t getting picked on.

You got up an hour after him, as you always did. There was a rhythm to your morning routine that you adored, it was comfortable; reliable. Tim made the coffee, and you made breakfast. When you first moved in together he’d offered to cook, being the one to get up first and all, but he was hopeless. Anything beyond instant noodles was a fire and food safety hazard. And you made a mean scrambled egg.

You cooked so he did the dishes, a compromise you never objected to— it was your least favorite house chore. You’d loop his tie for him when he was done, and he’d kiss you on the forehead to leave first. Your job started a little later.

At least it would if you hadn’t requested a temporary leave of absence while you worked for Gotham’s worst. You had to report whatever intel you gathered yesterday night to Black Mask. He’d have another assignment for you after, you were sure. But if you were efficient with these things, it could all be over in a month or so.

That’s what you told yourself as you waved him out the door. Thursday nights Tim usually got back at a human hour, if you could wrap up business early you could be home by the time he was too.

Black Mask was waiting for you by the time you got there, unsurprisingly. It never got easier looking at him, freakish and impossible to read, behind his skeletal metal teeth.

“Penguin’s plan?” He’d asked before you had the chance to fully enter the room, eager as ever to maintain his grasp on power. Breathing isn’t worthwhile unless you’re winning he told you once.

“He wants to spread some influenza with his birds. It’s not serious, but the cure he’s selling is. It’s highly addictive and one of a kind. I got photos on this drive.” You placed it on the man’s desk, pushing it towards him as far as you’d dared. “He’s colluding with the woman who runs the second biggest pharm-tech company in the city. It has a six week timeline, some of it was in motion last week so five from here out.”

“Okay.” Without missing a beat he’d already decided your next assignment, “get me the cure.”

“Four people have access. A team or a raid would be better suited.” You took a breath to answer him. This wasn’t possible, at least not easily. It wasn’t a job you wanted to take, and it wasn’t practical. Money wasn’t Black Mask’s pursuit, it should’ve been enough just to thwart his enemies, not profit from them.

“I don’t pay you to argue.”

You had to swallow the fear that crept up your throat. Fear of death was always within reach, that much was obvious when you took on mercenary work, but the fear Black Mask brought on was a little more primal. Something instinctual you had to ignore.

You couldn’t take this job. The both of you knew it would go over the hours you were signed for, anything that could arouse suspicion from your normal life was carved into stone as off limits. Tim couldn’t know, that was the rule. And this assignment could take you weeks, “…it breaches our contract.”

“I pay overtime. And let me remind you, you’re in no position to say otherwise.”Disagreeing twice was a hefty endeavor and the man was right, you had your brother to consider. It’s always funny, the way you think you have any say in things. “Get me the cure.”

You didn’t have time to pack up, leave a note, or meal prep dinner. It was burdensome to disappear, at least a little. But Tim would be okay; hurt, but okay. It’s not like he’d miss you terribly, he was working over-overtime as it was, and you hoped he would forgive you when you got back.

So you vanished. It was quiet work, mostly tailing people to get a lead, working to worm your way in to the right social circles, sorting through files while people slept.

Red Robin was looking for you, or at least investigating your activity. He’d have caught you a few times now if you weren’t more focused on working during the day. Not that he knew what was going on, that much was evident. Not that he would be able to do anything if he did run into you again anyway, that boy just kept losing. Or maybe he didn’t want to win.

It was hard to know what his objective was. Just that he thought you were bad news and made things harder than they needed to be. But he did intrigue you. Righteous Red Robin never fought dirty and it was a little flattering how he was insistently so hot on your trail. Maybe you’d tease him about it after this whole ordeal and he could throw another grappling hook at you.

It only took two weeks to gather enough standing in Penguin’s sphere to have access to his office. With all the snooping you’d done, you knew every possible password and key you’d need to access the files for Black Mask. If you broke in tonight, you’d be by daylight. Theoretically.

So you took to it. It wasn’t hard to break in once you knew where everything was. Nothing was terribly discreet, just about as hidden as valuables would be in someone’s home. Getting into the main computer was a breeze, you’d talked up enough patrons and underlings for them to spill every access code they knew. As you slipped in a USB to transfer the remaining files you needed, a familiar set of footsteps sounded behind you.

Brisk, decided, and determined to be quiet, you knew he was lurching forward with a right hook before you had the chance to turn around. You jerked your body out of the way before he could make contact, putting as much distance between the two of you as you could manage. Thankfully the file transfer already started before he rudely interrupted your heist, you just needed to buy time.

“Can we not do this today?” You couldn’t help the annoyance creeping under your skin; Red Robin’s timing couldn’t have been worse. If he’d shown up ten minutes later you would’ve been gone. Of all the times to barge in, he chose to when you were just about done.

But he was faster than he usually was, before your thoughts could finish flowing through your skull he was throwing something at you again; muttering a sharp, “shut up,” in tandem. A gasp left you as it grazed your cheek, he’d never drawn blood before, even so minutely.

Before you had a chance to react he was on you, swinging his staff with enough force to kill a man. It was all you could do to avoid it before the next swing came, overbearing and deadly, unlike you’d ever seen from him. Any ounce of annoyance left in you evaporated in favor of fear and adrenaline, he was angry.

“What is your problem? If this is about running you over, I knew you’d dodge it!” The knives you had tucked away in your boot straps were useless, you didn’t have time to reach for them and even if you had them there were no openings to intervene. With a stroke of luck, he hit the wall hard enough for his staff to get stuck, giving you enough time to make a run for the window. The files would have to wait.

Just as you were reaching to pull up on the windowsill, a batarang caught the fabric of your shoulder, pinning you to the wall. Another grazed your outreached hand, distancing you further from your escape route.

If you were scared of Black Mask, you were terrified of Red Robin. Or at least, this state of him. You’d never noticed before how the whites of his mask looked like headlights, barreling towards a sundered deer. With whatever cognition you had left, your uninjured hand reached for the dagger in your boot, but you were slow and he wasn’t feeling gracious. He grabbed your wrist with one hand, pinning it next to your shoulder, and with the other he jerked you forward by your collar.

A glimpse of metal hanging on your neck made his scowl deepen and you winced for whatever he would throw at you next. But instead of a punch or getting hit with a blunt object, you felt the release of pressure when he snapped the dainty silver chain from you.

“Where did you get this?” he barked. There was something off about the way he said it, untethered. The necklace in question wasn’t something controversial; a chain with a pendant Tim had inscribed with his initials next to yours.

It wasn’t particularly valuable, nothing anyone would steal, but it meant something untouchable to you. Exactly eight months into dating he told you he loved you for the first time and presented you with it. The letters were rough around the edges from mistakes in sanding and carving when he etched the metal for you himself. And now it was being dangled in front of you, a reminder of all you could stand to lose if things went wrong. So easily snatched from you, as if they never belonged in the first place.

“Give it back.” You moved to sweep your leg under his feet, kick him, whatever you could to get it back and get out. It wasn’t fair in the slightest, he should know it wasn’t something to steal. But he just tightened his grip on your wrist and kneed your ribs once hard enough for you to keel over and stop moving.

“Where did you get this?” His anger was building, you could hear, but you didn’t care much anymore. He didn’t have the right.

“It’s mine,” you spat through gritted teeth.

“Liar.” A pang of confusion hit you, as if this were something to lie about. He was in your face now, and you glared back behind your own mask. If he didn’t back off soon you had half a resolve to bite his nose off. “What did you do to the owner? This is your last chance.”

Like Red Robin could do anything to you. You felt like a dog backed into a corner, sure enough. But upper hand or not, no one wins in a fight against a rabid dog, even if you manage to put it down.

“And I’m telling you for the last time, it’s mine.” But if you get put down, you can’t crawl back. The courage behind your words was starting to sound like desperation. “My boyfriend gave it to me and you need to give it back.”

And then your resolve was gone altogether, a plea more than a demand, for absolution. Your voice quivered on the last few words, maybe it was for the better, it seemed like that was the only part he heard anyway.

The blood in your wrist started flowing again as he let go of it, looking at you with something akin to terror. Swallowing lead, you considered taking the chance to run; rip the sleeve that was caught and book it. But something held you there, vulnerability? Or some deviant of the terror he was feeling. Your legs wouldn’t move now.

He was slow in reaching for your mask. You must’ve been slower, because you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t do anything at all, not with the way your heart was pounding in your ears. Everything in you was screaming all at once, but you couldn’t understand a thing they were saying and it was getting hard to breathe.

You squinted to adjust your vision once the mask was off, and something wet slid down your cheek. Dust must’ve gotten under the thing, you weren’t one to cry.

“Y/N?” He’d caught you and you let it happen. You heard the chain clink on the floor, and you were so sorry to Tim that you let it happen. Soiled something he put time into. Maybe it was fitting, you always took that boy for granted.

You flinched when he reached for you, pressing your eyes shut. But Red Robin didn’t cuff you like you expected. Knock you out, threaten you, chain you to a street lamp outside for the police to collect. Instead you felt arms wrap around you, hefty and secure, a welcoming warmth in juxtaposition to the cold, stagnant office air. And you knew these arms, and you knew this feeling, and you knew this scent.

“Tim?” It came out like a squeak, you didn’t intend that.

And then his head was buried in your shoulder again, his spot as it’d always been. “I thought someone took you.”

He took the liberty of freeing you from the wall first, and you dropped to the floor. Your knees felt like jello. It made sense, some of it. The late nights and the injuries.

“Without a ransom note?” you murmured. You didn’t know what else to say. It’d been Tim the whole time.

“Don’t joke.” He knelt beside you, tucking a stray strand behind your ear. After the shock, the guilt came barreling in. You caused his injuries. You got in his way. You ran away without saying anything. You’d been hurting him the whole time.

“I’m sorry.” You squeaked for the second time. After the guilt was the confliction. You didn’t know to do. Half reaching for him, half shying away.

So Tim grabbed your hands, stilling you completely with just that. He pulled a strip of cloth out of his belt to wrap around the palm he cut moments before. It was shallow, nothing that would scar.

He was probably as confused as you were, quiet to sort out the events as they’d unfolded— and the before. There was a lot to ask and a lot to explain, you wouldn’t know where to start. And if you did start, you didn’t know if you could stop. It was too much. You were tired. There were time constraints. The first bit of reality slipped itself into your mind, the two of you weren’t the only two in the world and you were here on a job. “Please don’t ask, I’ll tell you when I have the heart but please don’t ask. I might cry. I’m sorry.”

“You’re already crying.” His thumbs brushed your tears away as if just to prove it. But they stayed after, running the pad of his fingers over your cheeks for as long as you’d let him. A soothing pattern.

“Am I? I’m sorry.” Your eyes were locked onto him, and you knew he was looking back even if his eyes weren’t visible. The longer you stared, the more the tears seemed to flow. And you couldn’t fathom why you were crying.

“For what?” He said it as if nothing were wrong, and that’s all it took for the dam to burst. Flinging your arms around him to cry your worth into his shoulders. You didn’t deserve this boy.

“I love you,” you sobbed.

“I love you more,” he answered.

[doomtrooper77]

Meet Gusieppe "Joe Murder" Murderetti. Mob Boss's Mob Boss

It had been a couple of weeks since he had been back to the Dungeon gym. He got his workout in at the gym at work, but this place was made for growing. The Dungeon was mainly a private gym. Most people didn’t know it existed, and those who attended liked it that way. From the outside, it looks like an abandoned warehouse. You might also think so if you just paid attention to the unpainted walls and steel girders above your head. Graffiti on the walls. Look at what the gym contained: a sea of free weights, benches, racks, and machines to lift big. The only cardio was the fighter’s section in the far corner. Full boxing ring, a full-size MMA octagon, mats galore for jujitsu to karate. The other side of the building was for recovery. 3 full Saunas, 3 shower areas, Cold Plunges, 4 huge Japanese heated Soaking tubs, and massage rooms. This place was a lifter's dream. But there were no influencers here. Nobody is setting up their camera for Instagram or TikTok. The place was clean from top to bottom. Members didn’t pay, you had to be invited.

I had decided to bring my college buddy who was in front out of town with me. He was still in pretty good shape even though 10 years later, he spent most of his day behind a desk. I told him I knew a place where we could workout like we used to in college. He didn’t think much of the place until we got inside, and he grinned like a kid in a candy shop. We changed, and I told him no phones were allowed outside the locker room. He objected and said he had a deal he was working on, and he had to stay in touch. I told him it could wait an hour or two. We worked out together for about 30 minutes, and he said he wanted to work arms, and I told him I needed to do some legs. So we split up.

 I had my headphones on and was on my 3rd set in the squat rack. When I noticed everyone in the room was looking at something behind me. I racked the weights and turned to see my buddy in fucking Joe Murder's face. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

Joe Murderetti, aka Joe Murder, was not a local mob boss; he was THE MOB BOSS. Not the flashy one, he was the Mob Boss the flashy ones were terrified of. He was the one authorities knew had his hands in everything, from drugs to extortion, loan sharking, casinos, financial crimes, and murder for hire. They had come at his 10 different ways, and each time, not only did nothing stick, but people disappeared. Judges, lawyers, prosecutors, politicians, witnesses, and cops. He was called a wizard of the fucking underworld because impossible things happened when he was involved.

Joe Murderetti was also the person who invited me here to this gym. His gym.

My buddy was in good shape for your average guy. He was 6’2 "and 270 lbs. He looked solid and hadn’t lost much of a step since our college days. I was 6’3" and 290 lbs. I was a beast; I had to be when I was on the streets.

Teddy was running his mouth and putting his finger in Joe Murderretti’s face! He was always an arrogant hot head and when he got this way he never paid attention to the world around him. He didn’t see the fucking sea on monsters headed his way. Joe Murder owned this place. Most of the people who came here worked for him—either part of his day-to-day crew or one of 20 others who controlled most of northern Illinois.  At least 15 guys were converging on the two. Not one of them was under 300 pounds. Hell, Joe himself tipped the scales at 340-350.

 I flung my headphones and started trotting over. I got within 10 feet when I felt a big hand clamp on my shoulder and neck. My training and instincts kicked in, and I grabbed the hand and arm holding me and started to judo-throw them over my shoulder. Under normal circumstances, that person would have been slammed to the ground over my shoulder, and my knee would be in their neck. Instead, the big hand holding my shoulder grabbed my wrist, twisted it, and kicked my legs from under me; when we hit the floor, it was my face slammed into the rubber mat, and a massive knee was in the center of my back. Air rushed out of me, but my training kept me attempting to move. I tried to twist, but not only was the weight on my back too much, but the person holding my arm twisted it further and pulled it up toward my head. The pain was excruciating. I was only able to twist my head to the side and yell out, “Mr. Murderetti, Mr. Murderetti!” Another shadow passed over me, and a big, lugged boot sole stepped on my head and neck, pushing me further into the ground. I stopped struggling.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Teddy and Joe Murder looking over at me on the ground. Teddy's eyes got big, and he started moving in my direction, but two more massive guys grabbed him. Teddy's only training was from football when we played in college.  One guy had him wrapped in a chokehold, and the other had slammed his fist into Teddy's gut twice already. Before he could hit him a 3rd time, Joe Murder casually held up his hand, and the chokehold loosened, and the puncher stood at the ready.  Joe Murder was still looking at me.

His dark eyes locked on to me, and he said, “David, what does this have to do with you?” His voice was deep, yet he had the south-side Chicago Italian accent. This was the voice of the mobster on the street. I had heard that voice speak in a boardroom executive tone to north side charity dinner smoothness. Today, it was the voice of the man who owned the streets.

“I’m sorry, Teddy didn’t know who you were. We came in for a quick workout, but I wasn’t paying attention. This is my fault.” I said. Joe Murder made another small gesture, and the two monsters holding me down pulled me to my feet. They did not let me go.  By this time, there were 10 other massive guys surrounding us. All of them looked as if they wanted a piece of us. Everyone else in the gym disappeared.

Joe walked over to where the two men held us and absently said to them, “Let him go.” Both men let me go but didn’t move away. Joe stepped up to me, and an aura of menace surrounded him. Each of the guys on either side of me could have twisted me into a knot. But something about the man standing in front of me made them seem like puppies in comparison to a tiger.

Joe Murder was 2 inches shorter than me, but damn near a foot wider. He made you feel like the closer he got, the more you shrank into yourself. “Your buddy has a loudmouth and seems interested in business that’s not his,” Joe said. Teddy spoke up, “Dave, tell these knuckle draggers to let me go! Tell them you’re a cop, and they just fucked up big time. You’re gonna drag them in and put them under the fucking jail!” The last sentence cut off as Teddy got another shot to the gut. His legs crumpled under him, but the guy held him up.

Joe Murder’s eye twinkled dangerously, and then he said mockingly, “Under the jail! Yeah Dave, tell me how you’re putting us under the jail.”

Over the next week, I will post a member of Joe Murder's crew daily.

[hannie-dul-set]

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

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. preview: 2.8k | this will be a chaptered fic. TAGLIST. open. send me an ask/dm/reply.

NOTE. this is the side effect of having a clinically insane brain that has to make a fic out of everything, including the law readings that i am subjected to every day. i have also been re-reading weak hero and i’ve projected my favorite feral dog (keum seongje/wolf keum) to the sweetest man alive (na jaemin). i’ve also based their org structure to the Union’s, just for full disclosure. meaning, a whole lot of dream 00 line (criminal) shenanigans are underway. 

this intro note has become a mouthful. anyway, hope you enjoy! 

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.

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

[riken-leather-co]

Psycho Magnet (1)

Serial Killer AU

Pairing: In-ho x Gi-hun, implied Sangwoo x Gi-hun

TW: Depression, Attempted SA, Murder

————

“That loan shark actually lent you 500,000 won?” Jung-bae’s voice dripped in disbelief. “What’d you do?”

In the sky a blanket of dark, heavy clouds stretched out as far as the eye could see. The sound of rain echoes around them, droplets pelting the awning above and the ground around them. It was quiet other than that. Jung-bae’s pub wasn’t on any of the main streets, so when weather like this arose, it made for poor business. Gi-hun grunted. His hands - and the rest of his body - shook as he tried fruitlessly to light the cigarette clenched between his teeth. The damp, ratty jacket he wore did little to actually protect him from the elements.

“Uh - I asked him? Obviously. Stupid piece of shit -,” he muttered, glaring down at his lighter. Occasionally, it managed a flicker of a flame, but nothing strong or lasting enough to light his cigarette.

“You’ve gotta stop that, you know.” Jung-bae chided, elbowing Gi-hun in the side. The jolt startled him enough to drop the lighter. When it clattered to the ground and chipped, Gi-hun rounded on Jung-bae with an incredulous look.

“What’d you do that for eh?! Now it’s broken!”

“It was broken before,” Jung-bae muttered sullenly. His eyes were heavy and disapproving as he looked Gi-hun over. Before Gi-hun could continue laying into him, he fished his own lighter out his back pocket.

“You’re an angel.” Any and all complaints died on his lips as he shuffled forward. The second his cigarette was lit, he took in a deep breath and blew out a puff of smoke. The earthy smell of rain clashed heavily with the sharp scent of tobbacco. Gi-hun found himself quite fond of it. Opposites attract, or something like that. “Now uh. What’re you talking about? Stop what? You’re not going to lecture me about gambling now are you?”

“We’re going to the race track after this, why would I do that?” Jung-bae leaned against the outer wall of the pub and Gi-hun mirrored him. Together they watched the rain from their little bubble of safety. “No, I meant attracting the people you do.”

“You have a habit of drawing in psychos, like moths to a flame.” Jung-bae snatched his fist in the air, as if he was grabbing a handful of bugs. He stared at Gi-hun for emphasis. Not that it helped. Gi-hun stared at him blankly, feeling nothing but a rousing bout of confusion.

“You’re not confessing to a crime are you?” Gi-hun accused. He shook his finger and shuffled a few inches away from Jung-bae. He glanced furtively at the front door to the pub. “Where’s the wife, eh? What’d you do to her you sick -”

Gi-hun yelped as pain blossomed in his shin. He barely managed to keep his cigarette in his mouth as he hopped and clasped his leg. Jung-bae, the culprit, lowered his leg and went back to leaning against the wall. Like he hadn’t just kicked his shin. Asshole.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Amusement lit up in Jung-bae’s eyes as he watched Gi-hun rub his leg. “I’m talking about that loan shark. Sang-woo. Your ex-wife. What’s next, eh? Some questionable business man with a killer smile?”

“Jung-bae, what’re you on about huh?” Gi-hun asked, exasperated. “They’re not psychopaths. And all I did was ask the loan shark nicely, I can be nice, you know.”

“Uh-huh. And what about Sang-woo, hm? All your history and what you did for him and he can’t answer your calls. All that praise about how dutiful and nice he is all while going off to college and leaving you in the dust. Didn’t you say he had some issues in high school too?”

“That’s high school, come on.” Gi-hun scoffed brushing the comments away with his hand. “That’s in the past. And he’s a busy doctor, you know! He talks to his mom, sometimes. Maybe he just doesn’t have the time to talk to me.”

“Sometimes,” Jung-bae parroted. “And a real friend could make a little time to at least send a text. How about your ex-wife then?”

“Watch your words Jung-bae…” It’s true the love was long lost between the two of them, and that Gi-hun wasn’t necessarily the best role model, but he didn’t like speaking ill of his ex-wife. He didn’t want that to rub off on Gayeong in any way.

“I’m just saying, isn’t it a little suspicious how she kept rising up the corporate ladder so quickly? I mean, really, all those higher ups stepping down for one reason or another…“

“She didn’t have a hand in any of that,” Gi-hun muttered, frowning. The cigarette smoke was doing little to raise his mood. The whole conversation was killing any hope of that. Really, what was Jung-bae trying to say, huh? That he had shitty taste in company? That he was a magnet for bad mojo? That he had too much faith in people?

There was no way Jung-bae hadn’t noticed his sullen expression on his face. He heaved a heavy sigh and threw an arm around Gi-hun’s shoulders, jostling him as he pulled him close. “Forget it. Don’t worry, ya? You got me, and I’ll be an asshole to your face. I don’t have time for going behind peoples backs.”

“As if you could, anyway. I’ve seen you playing cards, you’re a shit liar.” Gi-hun bumped shoulders with him. “You get this shifty look in your eyes and stutter over your words.”

“I do not!”

Gi-hun snorted and stepped out of Jung-bae’s grip. He took his cigarette and knocked off some ashes, then used it to gesture to the street. The rain was beginning to clear up. Judging by the look of the clouds it wouldn’t be too long before it stopped entirely.

“Hurry up and see if your wife needs anything. Rains clearing up so I wanna check out the horses.” He only had the bills the loan shark had given him. The date had one of his lucky numbers so he had high hopes for turning a profit today.

The man just muttered something unpleasant under his breath before dropping and stomping out his cigarette. He disappeared into the pub, the bell clinking as it swung shut behind him. As silence descended over him the thoughts of their conversation did as well. Gi-hun took a deep breath, trying to drown it out by imagining the cigarette smoke filling his lungs until there was nothing left. When the smoke cleared all that took it’s place was a fleeting image of Sang-woo and his ex-wife. The crinkle in her eyes when she smiled, before the very act became scarce. Sang-woo during his college years - because Gi hun found it difficult to imagine him past that (when was the last time he’d seen the man face to face? Screw the phone calls.) The exhaustion of classes weighing heavily on his shoulders, and yet he’d still manage a smile when Gi-hun saw him. Gi-hun found it difficult to imagine them doing anything unforgivable.

Or, a tiny part of him whispered, that he’d forgive them no matter what. Even if others didn’t. Was it because he was close to them - or because Gi-hun genuinely thought kindness could never fully flee a human being?

Gi-hun found himself absently pulling his phone out his pocket. He stared down at the screen, thumb hovering over Sang-woo’s contact. At the bottom was a red carpet that mocked him for still trying. Before he could press the button, the door behind him chimed, and Gi-hun was overcome by embarrassment that caused him to quickly shove his phone back where it belonged.

“You’ve got me for four hours max.” Jung-bae said, shaking out his jacket as he walked out. “Let’s go.”

If Jung-bae noticed Gi-hun’s smile was tighter than normal, he, thankfully, didn’t say anything. Instead they started their trek to the horse races. With the rain clearing, more people were slowly filtering out onto the streets. Him and Jung-bae made a few personal bets on which one of them would make more money. Jung-bae had long since lost faith in Gi-hun’s instincts. The horse races were busy as usual and Gi-hun saw his fair share of familiar faces. Gi-hun gave an extra kiss of good luck to his bills before the bets. He won. He lost. Won another. Lost more than he won. In the end his throat hurt from yelling just as bad as his wallet did from being empty.

“Here buddy.” Jung-bae’s smile was smug as he placed a few bills against Gi-hun’s chest, patting them for good measure. “For the good company.”

“Tsk. I don’t need your pity,” Gi-hun snapped. Still, he quickly snatched and pocketed the bills before Jung-bae took them back.

Jung-bae rolled his eyes as he walked away. He waved over his shoulder, “Don’t spend it all in one place Gi-hun! Seriously!”

Gi-hun ignored his stab, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His brushed against his phone. When he pulls it out, he realized it was dead. Of course. It’d been low battery when they first arrived at the track, so god knew how long it’d been off. A little tendril of worry wormed it’s way into his head.

What if his mom had needed something? What if Gayeong had tried to call? (Not likely.) What - he groaned and slapped himself in the head.

“No use worrying about it,” he tried to tell himself. The words did little to calm himself. Even so there was still a little extra pep in his step as he made his way home. He kept an eye out for any loan sharks along the way. The walk was, thankfully, uneventful. When he saw his house in the distance, he let out a slow breath, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. He climbed the front steps, carefully toeing off his shoes before pushing open the door.

“Mom!” he called out.

No response. That was fine. It was late but maybe the shop was busier than normal. No need to worry.

He was worried.

Gi-hun tried to shake it off, but he couldn’t. Sure, his instincts may be shit but sometimes he was right. Their place was big so there was no way his mom was hiding, why would she be anyway? Nothing seemed out of place. The door had been locked and untouched so there couldn’t have been a break-in. Gi-hun plugged his phone into the charger, then sat on the couch, trying to wait as it powered up. His leg bounced restlessly, and he gnawed at his nails, each second feeling heavier than the last. It got to be too much, so he tried to be busy and feel useful - cleaned up some of the mess in the kitchen, took the trash out, and -

The phone’s screen lit up and Gi-hun stumbled over his own feet rushing for it once he realized.

Two missed calls. One voicemail. Gi-hun clicked on the voicemail.

“Hello, is this the voicemail for Seong Gi-hun?” (He really needed to fully set up his voicemail.) “This is Dobong-gu Community Health Center calling in regards to your mother…”

The words hit him like a freight train - he hardly heard the rest of the phone call. There was a buzzing overtaking his hearing and every breath felt suffocating. His mother had collapsed at work.

They’d taken her to Dobong-gu because it was less expensive, but her condition was still uncertain. They were considering a transfer to Hanil Hospital but needed his permission. She was unconscious, and they needed him. And he hadn’t been there because his phone died while he was fucking gambling -

He couldn’t have known.

It still didn’t stop the nauseating feeling of guilt that rolled through him as he rushed out the house. The voicemail came an hour and a half ago. Not long. It felt like far too long, so much could happen in an hour and a half. His thoughts spiraled.

What if - no. They wouldn’t let her die. They needed permission but they wouldn’t let her die. They were doctors. They couldn’t do that.

They wouldn’t. Would they?

Gi-hun made it to the Center in record time, cutting the usual travel time in half. The travel was a blur. A jumbled collage of star-speckled skies, passing streetlights, and shoving through startled pedestrians. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his jacket. He felt a few pairs of eyes snap to him when he slid in through the front doors. Gi-hun ignored them and zeroed in on the front desk attendant. She watched his approach with tired, nervous eyes.

“Seong Gi-hun,” he blurted, his words tumbling over each other. “My mother was admitted here around two hours ago? I have the voicemail - her name is Mal-soon -” His voice cracked, and he forced himself to slow down, though panic still tinged every syllable.

The attendant stared at him a second longer before her eyes slid to the computer in front her. Her fingers moved across the keys with practiced ease. Whatever she needed to find, she found it. She pushed herself up from the chair, grabbed a clip board and nodded at him curtly. “Follow me.”

Gi-hun fell into step beside her, struggling to keep up with her brisk pace.

“Mal-soon was admitted after collapsing at her shop, one of her regulars apparently accompanied her here.” he attendant explained, her voice even and professional, with just a hint of practiced empathy. Her heels clicked and echoed off the walls around them. A few more nameless doctors and nurses passed them in the halls, a constant distant mummer of conversation filling the air. Gi-hun hunched his shoulders, trying to shrink into himself, his nerves fraying with each step.

“She was conscious for a while,” the attendant continued, her tone neutral. “But she went under before the doctor could fully evaluate her condition. The doctor is with her now, determining the best course of action. Please wait here.”

She stopped abruptly outside a door, gesturing to a row of chairs against the wall. There was a window by the door, but the blinds were drawn, leaving him nothing to focus on but his restless thoughts. Gi-hun nodded mutely, his throat too tight to speak, and sank into one of the seats. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his thighs and glanced up at the attendant. His foot bounced uncontrollably, his thoughts spiraling back into the same anxious refrain.

Gi-hun swallowed dryly. “How long do you think it’ll be?” he asked, his voice barely steady.

“It shouldn’t be too long,” she assured. Then she turned and went back the way they’d come.

Gi-hun watched her retreat, then let his eyes wander. There wasn’t much in the sterile corridor to hold his attention. Watching the staff hurry past only made his chest tighten further, their weary faces a reminder of the constant struggles unfolding here. The ticking clock on the wall opposite him was no better, each second stretching the silence into something unbearable. He was almost glad when a door nearby opened. A little girl shuffled out the room, looking around, before spotting him. She took a seat a little bit away from him. Behind her an older couple stepped out - paying her little mind. They turned to each other, their low voices carrying an edge as they argued in tones meant to be hushed. In the stillness of the hall, however, their words seemed louder than they likely intended. Gi-hun winced and shifted his gaze back to the girl, unwilling to intrude on their dispute.

The girl clutched a doll, absently stroking its hair as she stared into the middle distance. Her eyes, ringed with dark circles, made her look far older than she should. The sight tugged at something in Gi-hun. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but no words came. Comforting people wasn’t his strength. Even with Ga-yeong, he’d mostly relied on hugs or clumsy distractions to help her feel better.

His hand drifted to his pocket, brushing the few crumpled bills he had left. It wasn’t much—barely enough for a vending machine snack—but what good would they do him now? Maybe, just maybe, it could brighten her day, even if only for a moment.

Gi-hun opened his wallet, staring at the few crumpled bills inside. For a moment, doubt gnawed at him—was this enough? But before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed the notes and held them out to the little girl. Her wide eyes flickered between his hand and her parents, who were still embroiled in their quiet argument.

"Here," Gi-hun said, his voice soft but steady. "Why don’t you go get some cookies? And there’s apple juice in there too."

The girl hesitated, glancing nervously at her parents yet again.

"Don’t worry," Gi-hun reassured her, giving her his most confident smile. His eyes flicked briefly to the couple. "If they notice, I’ll distract them, okay?"

“…Thank you,” she whispered. She took the crumpled notes and hopped off the bench, scrambling to the nearest vending machine.

Gi-hun got distracted watching her, smiling softly as he pictured Ga-yeong. They didn’t seem far apart in age. He stayed lost in the moment until the sudden sound of a throat clearing jolted him from his thoughts. He whipped his head around, his gaze locking onto a man who had been standing nearby—watching him for god knows how long.

The man was a few years older than Gi-hun, though the years had been far kinder to him. His presence was composed, with a pair of dark, heavy set eyes that seemed to look right through him. His hair was neatly trimmed, parted to the side. Gi-hun, who didn’t consider himself unattractive, couldn’t help but feel the stark difference between them.

“Are you okay?”

Gi-hun blinked, realizing the man was speaking directly to him. “Oh—yes—sorry, it’s been a long day, you know?”

The man nodded, his expression unreadable. He sat down beside Gi-hun on the bench, and for a moment, they both found their gazes drawn back to the couple, their voices rising in the quiet hallway.

“…She’ll appreciate it, I’m sure,” the man murmured, voice deep and quiet. Gi-hun followed his gaze to the little girl grabbing a bag of cookies out of the machine. “They’ve been here awhile.”

Gi-hun nodded. He hesitated for a moment before asking, “Are you a doctor, or just visiting?”

“Visiting, not a patient, but a worker.” The man settling back on the bench, clasping his hands in his lap. ““It’s her older sister in there. An attack. Apparently, by a classmate from her college. She’s on life support—fighting, but they don’t have high hopes.”

Gi-hun felt a chill run down his spine. He could hear the grief in the man’s voice, even though his tone remained measured. The words “life support” settled heavily in the air between them.

“Life support…” Gi-hun echoed, wincing. The weight of it hit him harder than expected. He glanced at the door to the room beside him. The doctor was still inside, but the pit of dread in his stomach was already gnawing at him.

The man sighed as if agreeing with his sentiment. “And despite all the evidence, the assailant is apparently getting off scot-free.”

Gi-hun’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

The man looked at him, his eyes hardening with a quiet frustration. “Some police error. They messed up the investigation, and now they can’t hold him.”

“What?” Gi-hun repeated, his mouth going dry as shock flooded his system. “So they’re just… letting him go? After what he’s done to that family?”

“It wouldn’t be just—” The man practically spat, his dark eyes flashing with anger.

“Just?” Gi-hun echoed, his own voice rising in response. “It’s not just to let him go! How is it their fault our police are shit and can’t do their job, huh? Tsk, honestly! At this rate we’re going to have to start taking matters into our hands. How else are we going to keep criminals from flooding the streets -”

The man was staring at him now, his gaze sharp and unreadable. Gi-hun’s words faltered under the weight of that look. He wasn’t sure if it was judgment or something else entirely, but it made him uneasy. His mouth snapped shut, and he cleared his throat, quickly averting his eyes.

The man’s lips twitched upward, barely noticeable, but it caught Gi-hun’s attention.

“Not that I’m implying that… you know…” Gi-hun stumbled over his words, trying to backpedal. “I just mean—”

“No need for excuses.” The man leaned in slightly, his posture casual but imposing. Gi-hun glanced at him, and though the man was a bit shorter, his presence made it feel as though he towered over him. “Say what you mean.”

Gi-hun opened his mouth to respond, but he was saved from further embarrassment by the sudden creak of a door.

“Seong Gi-hun?” A doctor stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, his gaze sharp.

Gi-hun blinked, relief washing over him. “Excuse me,” he muttered to the man, then quickly shuffled after the doctor.

The door clicked shut behind him with a quiet finality, sealing him into the sterile, hushed space of the hospital room. His eyes immediately found his mother, small and frail beneath the stark white sheets.

A lump rose in his throat. He stumbled forward, his vision blurring with tears, and gently took her hand. His heart pounded painfully in his chest as he pressed her knuckles to his lips

The doctor cleared his throat before speaking gently, “As we discussed with her prior, her diabetes has been worsening—”

“Discussed with her? She knew she had diabetes - how long -” His mom had never told him -

“…Yes, your mother has been seeing us for some time,” the doctor continued, his voice slow and measured. “Her condition has worsened, and despite our recommendations, she denied further appointments at Hanil because of financial concerns. We listened, but unfortunately, there’s nothing more we can do for her now.” The doctor’s voice softened as he prepared to deliver worse news. “Her kidneys are failing.”

Gi-hun’s mind went blank, his gaze frozen on his mother. His eyes traced every detail of her face, every line and every freckle, as if he could imprint them into his memory. The doctor’s words settled like cold stone in his chest, their weight unbearable. Her kidneys were failing. She’d known she had diabetes and hadn’t told him, too worried about finances.

And here he was, a son too distracted by gambling, too wrapped up in his own failures to even notice.

Gi-hun couldn’t even give her his, the last doctor's appointment he’d ever had already talked about how shit his was. A tear slid down his cheek. He shut his eyes and bowed his head.

“…How long?” He whispered. A steely determination fighting to overcome the grief within him. Gi-hun couldn’t just accept this. Gi-hun wouldn’t accept this, not just because she was all he had left, but because she deserved more. She deserved better than this. At her age, she should’ve been relaxing, watching grandchildren play—she should’ve been cared for, not him.

“Sir?”

Gi-hun’s voice was rough, but he pushed through the lump in his throat. “If I agree to transfer her to Hanil so they can monitor her until a kidney transplant—how long can you keep her until I can pay up?

The doctor’s gaze faltered, his eyes lowering as he processed the request. He wet his lips, his fingers tapping nervously on his keyboard. “Normally, we’d give two weeks. But... I know someone. I can extend it to three—”

Gi-hun jumped at the chance, not wasting a second. “That’s all I need.” He turned abruptly, releasing his mother’s hand, and grabbed the doctor’s with both of his. “Please. A month, just a month. I’ll get you the money, whatever you need—please, she’s all I have left.”

The doctor pulled his hands free gently and placed them on Gi-hun’s shoulders, his voice calm but firm. “Calm down. We’ll transfer her. I’ll do what I can. You’ve got a month. Plenty of time.”

Gi-hun nodded quickly, his chest tight with urgency, but his resolve hardening. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

The doctor gestured toward the door. “There will be paperwork at the front counter. Make sure it’s handled.”

Gi-hun didn’t need any more direction. He turned on his heel, still clenching his fists as he walked briskly toward the door. He glanced back one last time at his mother, his throat tightening with emotion.

“I love you, Mom. I’ll fix this, okay? I’ll be back.”

With those words, he strode out of the room, his determination only growing. He didn’t notice the man on the bench, eyes following him with quiet interest. The walk down the hall felt like it lasted an eternity, but Gi-hun’s mind was numb, detached from the world around him. The weight of his task, of the stakes, was too much to process.

At the front desk, his hands shook slightly as he signed the papers, his mind moving on autopilot. His actions felt mechanical, his body running on instinct alone.

Every step he took outside felt heavier than the last, each one dragging him further down an uncertain path. He wasn’t sure where he was headed, but the weight of the promise he’d made to his mother was heavier than anything he’d ever carried before.

[theoutcastrogue]

"A frenzy of absolute disclosure": what post-WWII Europe needed and never got

Naples, Italy, 1955 [x]

Then Lila, drying her tears with the back of her hand, asked “Who are the Nazi Fascists, Pascà? Who are the monarchists? What’s the black market?”

It’s hard to say what Pasquale’s answers did to Lila. I’m in danger of getting it wrong, partly because on me, at the time, they had no concrete effect. But she, in her usual way, was moved and altered by them, so that for the entire summer she tormented me with a single concept that I found quite unbearable. I’ll try to summarize it, using the language of today, like this: there are no gestures, words, or sighs that do not contain the sum of all the crimes that human beings have committed and commit.

Naturally she said it in another way. But what matters is that she was gripped by a frenzy of absolute disclosure. She pointed to people, things, streets, and said, “That man fought in the war and killed people, that one beat people with a stick and poured castor oil down their throat, that one starved his own mother, in that house they tortured and killed, on these stones they marched giving the Fascist salute, on this corner they beat people up, these people's money comes from the hunger of others, this car was bought by selling rotten meat and flour laced with marble dust on the black market, that butcher shop came from stolen copper and vandalized freight trains, behind that bar is the Camorra, smuggling, loan-sharking.”

— Elena Ferrante, My Brilliant Friend

Note: I was gonna quote the official English translation and get done with it, but it was BAD. It had vocabulary like "administered castor oil", "inflicted beatings", "adulterated with marble dust", and I couldn't stand it. This is formal register, not how a teenager would casually talk to her friend. It's maybe how she'd write an essay for school, but that's the whole fucking point: school doesn't cover this, formal register is not applicable. We're in Italy in the 1950s, and the establishment pretends all this doesn't exist, and in turn the girls' families and neighbours pretend it doesn't exist, everyone shuts their eyes and mouth because they don't want any trouble. That's the point. Lila has read the entire school library, and she still wouldn't know what a Nazi is if the communist kid hadn't told her.

Post-war Italy – like most of post-war Europe and especially countries that had fascist movements and/or were under occupation, and ended up on the NATO side – forged a comforting narrative where everything bad that happened was of external origin or in the past. When the war ends and the dust settles, the people involved are still around if not more or less in power, everything's still in shambles, no rights have been wronged, with a handful of exceptions fascists and collaborators have kept the fortunes they made on other people's misery and walk around unbothered, and no one talks about it.

[nthspecialll]

Uncle's truth

Uncle is a liar, he is a story teller and the most untrustful of the gang when it comes to his past because he tends to say things that are pretty obviously lies, like being a king in a forgein country or being a one shot kid, but there is one time where he seems to be telling the truth.

It is during a camp interaction with Pearson where Pearson is complaining about life at sea being hard and Uncle listening in, replying that life at sea isn't hard, it is a dream. You can heard the slight sorrow, the longing for something he didn't have but wished he did, he tries to keep the mood cheerful, but he realises quite fast that he can't and his voice falls flat.

It is pretty obvious what Uncle is about to say is truth, it is the only time I can tell he isn't lying. He talks about being nine years old, an orphan and living on his own in the streets of a city side by side with scumbags.

Also something interesting to note is that he was "living on his wits," he was nine years old and smart enough to survive in a place of crime and live through a lot of shit. He says "sharks ain't nothing compared to human beings." It is a reminder that even though he is a jolly old man, he is a man who lived his life with the worst from the beginning, he most likely has seen a lot of unease and troubles.

[unpredictable-probabilities]

The Prince Returns || Chapter 1: The Immortal and The Confidant

Summary:

Hob aimed for a peaceful life this century. But when he learns that a group of street kids is planning to rob Fawney Rig and release a prince who’s rumoured to be kidnapped, he knows that the only way to keep all of them safe is to join them.

Word Count: 3,263

Chapters: 1/4

[Read on AO3]

---

The smell of warm, freshly-baked bread wafted from the paper bag in Hob's arms as he walked down the street.

Everything was in order at the book shop, and he wanted to have an early lunch before going back there and helping run things. Fridays usually brought in quite the crowd, and he might not have time to eat for hours once the afternoon rolled in.

He reached his front door and took the key out of his pocket—

“Robert!”

Hob turned to the sound of the voice accompanied by rushing footsteps.

A man with a faded top hat and patched up cloak was running towards him in full speed with a panicked look on his face and what looked to be four children behind him. The cane in his right hand swung wildly as he sprinted.

“Robert!” the man stumbled to a stop in front of him, steadying himself with a hand against the wall. “We need a place to hide, just for a few minutes.”

Hob lifted his eyebrows and looked at the children—street kids, now that he could see them properly. Four of them in dirty and patched clothing, the oldest-looking ones two teenage girls, and a boy and a girl that looked younger by a few years.

“What is it this time?” Hob asked the man. “And with children as accomplices?” he said incredulously.

More rapid footsteps sounded from the next street, making their little group more restless.

“Please!” the boy said. “The Confidant said you would help us!”

Hob looked at the man. “You’re still making people call you that?”

“Just a few minutes, Robert!” Thomas kept looking over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t leave these poor kids to be caught by guards now, would you?”

“Guards? What did you—” Hob sighed and unlocked the door. “Alright, in you go, quickly now,” he opened it and stepped aside, letting Thomas and the kids rush past him.

Hob went in and locked the door behind him just as the sound of boots hitting the pavement went past his house.

The kids let out a breath of relief and the youngest girl started giggling, causing her friends to do the same.

Hob looked at Thomas sternly. “You drag children into your petty crimes now?”

“We’re not children!” the boy piped up, pushing a lock of brown hair out of his eyes. “I’m only three years younger than Yuliana and Inna!”

“Exactly, good boy, Lev!” Thomas glanced at the boy over his shoulder before turning back to Hob. “And Yuliana’s turning 16 next year!” he added as if he genuinely believed it was a valid argument.

Hob just gave him an unimpressed stare.

“I’m 10!” the youngest girl with mousy brown hair grinned.

“Are you really Robert Gadling?” asked the teenage girl with the black hair tied back in a ponytail, tilting her head curiously to the side.

“Yes he is, Yuliana,” Thomas answered, taking off his hat. “I wouldn’t bring us to the wrong house.” He fanned himself with the hat, catching his breath after running for who knew how long.

“When The Confidant described you,” said the teenage girl with the blonde hair, “I thought you’d be… I dunno, scarier?”

“Inna’s right,” the boy—Lev—squinted at him. “The Confidant said you saved him from getting beat up by three loan sharks back then. I thought you’d have huge muscles and a beard.”

“And you have loads more books than I would have expected of a thug,” Yuliana looked around at the bookshelves on the living room walls.

Hob chuckled. “Well that’s because I’m not a thug, and I actually run a bookshop. I have to know if my products are good before I sell them, eh? Now, you lot take a seat wherever you like, and we’re going to prepare lunch,” he clapped Thomas’ shoulder before pulling him towards the kitchen.

“Food!” the youngest girl said hopefully, smiling at her friends.

“Here you go, Milica,” Yuliana pulled a small bundle of cloth from her pocket and unwrapped it to reveal half an apple. “While we wait.”

Milica gasped softly and grabbed the fruit, humming in appreciation as she took a bite.

Something twinged in Hob’s chest and he wondered how long it had been since those skinny children had anything substantial to eat.

Hob pushed Thomas through the kitchen doorway. “Alright, start talking. Why were guards after you?” He placed the bread on the counter and went to the fridge.

Thomas cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. He placed his hat on the counter and fidgeted with the handle of his cane. “The kids were just playing outside, and I suppose some of them got a little too close to that manor’s garden. The guards came to shoo them away.”

Hob frowned suspiciously, carrying the egg tray to the counter beside the stove. “There aren’t any manors nearby, Thomas. Guards wouldn’t chase you for blocks just to shoo away a few street kids.”

“One of the guards… may have recognised Yuliana as the thief in the marketplace a week ago,” Thomas said slowly. “They thought we were going to steal from the manor so they ran us off.”

“And weren't you?” Hob raised an eyebrow at Thomas as he cracked the eggs into the pan.

“Ehhh… not today.” Thomas crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “We were scouting the place first. And before you say anything—” he held up a finger. “We only steal from rich wankers who have much more than enough to get by, and at least if we take their money it would actually feed the poor instead of going into their sleazy businesses.”

Hob sighed as he put mushrooms and shredded cheese into the pan. “Still, using kids as— Hold on, they aren't your kids, are they?” They're all alarmingly close in age.

“Christ, no!” Thomas at least had the decency to be taken aback. “I found them in the streets some time last year, shortly after you and I met. They had nowhere else to go so I took them in and now we work together.”

Hob raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You purposely took in four extra mouths to feed? I had no idea you were so charitable.”

Thomas scoffed. “It's not like that. I found them because Yuliana was the first and only person to this day who has ever successfully pickpocketed me. I would never have noticed if I hadn't thought to reach for my wallet to buy fish from that stall. I saw her already turning the corner when I looked around for it. I shouted at her and she disappeared.” There was unmistakable pride and fondness in his voice that Hob hadn't been expecting.

“That sounds more like they found you,” Hob said as he lifted the pan to flip the omelette.

Thomas chuckled. “I asked around and eventually found the abandoned house where they were staying. I didn't expect there to be so many of them, mind, but I proposed a… let's say a business partnership. That would benefit all of us.”

Hob turned off the stove and covered the pan with a lid before getting the bread. “You'd organise their crimes to get bigger scores and you all share the profit with minimal legwork for you?”

“I'm not getting any younger, Robbie, my legs aren't what they used to be,” Thomas tapped his legs with his cane.

“They carried you well enough here,” Hob said as he began slicing the bread. “Either way it seems like those kids were better at avoiding cops before you joined their team.”

“Hey! Those guards at Fawney Rig are just jumpier than I expected. Most coppers don't chase thieves for that long.”

Hob looked up with a frown at Thomas. “Hang on, what did you say?”

Thomas' eyes widened and he kept his mouth shut.

“Fawney Rig?” Hob's voice rose and he made an effort to keep it down. “You took actual children to steal from a cult leader’s house?”

“How’s it any different from other manors?” Thomas said defensively. “The kids aren't in any more danger there than other houses. It's not like any of that magic stuff is real!”

Hob closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. He couldn't exactly tell Thomas that he was almost 600 years old and it meant that at least some form of magic was pretty fucking real. “It's not even about the ‘magic stuff’, Thomas. You know that they found a woman in the basement of one of those cult members a while back. Magic or not, those people are known to be kidnappers and won't hesitate to hurt women or children.”

“That's exactly it, Robert,” Thomas was suddenly excited and he walked closer to Hob. “You've heard the rumours that the old Magus has the devil in his basement, right? Now obviously that's a load of bollocks, but I also heard that what he's got locked down there is actually a prince. One of my informants told me that one of the maids who used to work there caught a glimpse of the prisoner. Human as you and me, and the Magus called him a prince of stories or whatever. So I'm thinking that the old man is holding him there for ransom or maybe some kind of ritual that requires royal blood. You know how dramatic these cults can get.”

Hob narrowed his eyes. “And? What does that all have to do with your little heist group?” He already dreaded the answer.

“We're rescuing the prince!” Thomas declared and opened his arms with a flourish.

“Ridiculous,” Hob said and went to get the butter from the fridge. “All that trouble for a wisp of a rumour? Not your smartest move, and that's saying something.”

Thomas shook his head when Hob returned to the counter. “I talked to two different guards myself, those that are in the rotation for guarding the basement entrance. If nothing else, I’m absolutely certain that it’s a human man down there, and a handsome one, if those guards are to be believed.”

“They just told you that information?” Hob asked doubtfully as he began putting butter on the slices of bread.

“A few drinks and some choice words, and a man will tell you anything. Besides, everyone wants to talk to The Confidant,” Thomas grinned and gestured towards himself.

Hob fell into a thoughtful silence. As tacky as Thomas’ self-imposed title was, it wasn’t inaccurate. The man was good at getting people to tell him all sorts of secrets, and information he received were rarely wrong.

If it was true that Burgess did have a person in his basement, they had to get him out. It didn’t sit right with Hob that a person should get captured just because a certain group thought so highly of themselves. The witch hunts had long since ended, but Hob could never forget the terror he felt once they got him, even knowing that he couldn’t die. He always prioritised laying low since then, but this was one thing he knew he couldn’t brush off.

“What’s in it for you?” Hob asked Thomas. “Or am I supposed to believe that you’re freeing this prince out of the goodness of your heart?”

“I do have children to feed, Robert,” Thomas put a hand to his chest. “I think it wouldn’t be too much if I were to ask the handsome prince for a handsome reward? After all, we’d break into a cult leader’s home just to save his life!”

“Extorting the kidnapped man, of course.” Hob brought the plate of sliced bread towards the stove and took out a second pan.

“That’s such a harsh word,” Thomas said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “It’s more like… a fee. After a job well done.”

“Alright, I’m in,” Hob said evenly as he toasted the bread.

“What?” Thomas said in surprise.

“You’re a wily man, Thomas, but bringing four children into Fawney Rig isn’t something to be taken lightly,” Hob told him before returning his attention back to the toasting. “Next thing you know you’re all strung up with the prince and then I’ll have to break in by myself to keep Burgess from using the children in a blood sacrifice of sorts. Best save us all the trouble from the beginning.” He carefully transferred the last of the toasted bread onto the plate.

“You’re joining us? Brilliant!” Thomas slapped the countertop. “Those guards won’t know what hit ‘em!”

“I’m not just going to be your muscle,” Hob said pointedly as he put the omelette onto a plate. “I want to know every detail of your plan and ideally it won’t involve much hitting of the guards. The stealthier we are, the better.”

“Of course, of course,” Thomas nodded. “We’ve got a wonderful team, you won’t regret joining!” he grinned.

“Right. First, we need to feed your team. Pick up that plate of bread and help me bring these to the living room,” Hob gestured to the food.

“Oh, great! I’m starving.” Thomas quickly got up and went to take the plate.

Since Hob lived alone, he decorated his home to have more space in the living room compared to the dining area which was more of an extension of the kitchen. So they brought the food, plates, and cutlery on trays along with a pitcher of water and glasses, and headed back to the living room.

As they approached, Hob could hear the kids talking.

“Lev,” said Inna’s voice sternly. “The Confidant said not to steal from Mr. Gadling.”

“I know that! I’m just lookin’ at it. It’s pretty.”

They stepped in the living room and Hob saw Lev looking at something on one of the shelves.

“Oh Mr. Gadling!” Lev said when he saw them. “What’s this, then? Marble?” he squinted at the small white horse statue.

“Yes, an antique souvenir of sorts.” More specifically an impulsive purchase in 1889 on the day after his Stranger walked out on him. “Anyway, here’s lunch. Grab a plate and help yourselves.”

Milica immediately went to the large coffee table where Hob and Thomas had set up the food. Inna took a plate and helped Milica get some bread and omelette, while Thomas began piling food onto his plate.

“It’s carved from stone, then. Like those gargoyles we see at the church,” Lev said, still looking at the statue. “Right, Yuliana?”

“Grotesques,” Yuliana said absentmindedly without looking up from the book she was reading on the couch. “Gargoyles are connected to water pipes. Grotesques are just statues.”

“Yeah, yeah, those,” Lev nodded and glanced at the coffee table. “Oh lunch!” He ran around the couch and joined his friends.

“Yuliana,” Hob called her attention. “Don't you want to eat something while you read?”

Yuliana looked up at him in surprise as if just realising he was there. “Oh, um, I wasn't— I wasn't reading. I can hardly read. Just…” she quickly flipped the pages of the book. “Just looking at the pictures.” She lifted the book and showed him a page with an illustration of the Greek god Apollo with a lyre. Then she stood up and returned the book to the shelf behind her before joining them at the table.

“Here,” Thomas gave Inna the plate he was holding.

Inna took it but gave him a questioning look.

“You're the brains of the operation, you need to eat a lot so you can properly explain our plan to Robert later,” Thomas answered and got a plate for himself.

Hob got his own food and looked around at their little group. Lev was talking to Inna about sculptures through mouthfuls of omelette, Yuliana was teaching Milica how to properly use a fork and knife, and Thomas was pouring water in the glasses and placing them in front of the kids.

“I thought you said you were starving,” Hob pointed out. “You've not eaten a bite yet.”

“Just getting everyone some water first,” Thomas said after giving all the kids a glass.

“Never thought I'd see the day when you'd become a father,” Hob quipped.

Thomas scoffed. “No, mate. I'm not cut out for that kind of thing. These kids take care of themselves.” He picked up a piece of toast and took a huge bite.

Half an hour later, everyone was in much better spirits. The coffee table was cleared, and the plan to break into Fawney Rig was discussed.

The plan, as it turned out, was much more sound than Hob had expected. The kids had been scouting Fawney Rig for more than a month already, and they had noted down the schedule of the guard rotation as well as which windows were the most vulnerable as entrance and exit points. They knew the times when there would be the least number of people in the house, and just how far to park the getaway vehicle where it would be near enough but not be suspicious.

There was only one part of the plan that Hob had taken issue with.

“You're not even going in with them?” he looked at Thomas in disbelief.

“Someone needs to be ready with the car and I'm the only one who can drive!” Thomas said defensively.

“Why not leave the car hidden somewhere nearby?”

“I'm only borrowing the car, and there's only a very specific timeframe where we can use it.”

“‘Borrowing’ the car?” Hob raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, and I have to return it to the house where it's parked before the owner notices it's missing! I can't just leave it somewhere and risk it being stolen.”

Hob ran a hand over his face. “Alright, fine. You're our escape route, and I'll go in with them.”

They smoothened out a few more details, and eventually they decided that the best time to attempt the break-in would be tomorrow afternoon. The only thing really left to do with the plan is to execute it, and they were worried about what could happen to the hostage if they didn't free him soon.

Thomas and the kids were going back to their house, and tomorrow morning at breakfast they would all meet back here and go over the plan one more time and prepare everything they might need.

As Thomas' group headed out the door, Hob stopped Yuliana for a moment.

“Take this,” he handed her the book she had been reading earlier, A History of Greek Gods.

Yuliana looked surprised and shook her head. “I can't read.”

“But you like looking at the pictures, right?” Hob replied, knowing as well as Yuliana that there weren't that many illustrations in the book. “And if you want to see pictures in other books, you can take more tomorrow,” he nodded towards his bookshelf.

Yuliana paled like she had been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to.

Hob gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I won't tell anyone. But you should read as much as you want.” He knew what it was like to pretend to be less skilled than he was in order to blend in, and it wasn't his business why Yuliana was pretending to be illiterate.

Yuliana slowly took the book and nodded. “Thank you,” she said with a small smile before following the others outside.

Hob straightened up the living room a bit more before going out and locking his front door again. He still wanted to help out at the bookshop, and he should let them know that he would be taking the day off tomorrow.

---

Chapter 2 ->

(Chapter Index)

(Masterlist)

[sloshed-cinema]

Red Rooms [Les Chambres rouges] (2023)

There is something to be said for an uncomfortable silence. Whether in the courtroom of the trial of the Demon of Rosemont or in groupie Kelly-Anne’s high rise apartment, this masterpiece of tension relies on the tone of the room it’s in. Every mundane detail, small gasps or coughs, emphasizes the banality of the courtroom as the prosecuting attorney puts forth her opening statements, laying bare the shocking scope of Ludovic Chevalier’s crimes. It’s gut-churning in its directness—eyeballs slit, limbs severed, guts dug out—and all the more so for the subtle hum of air in a space from which all oxygen has suddenly been removed. Returning to her home when not sleeping on the street to be close to the courthouse, Kelly-Anne is content to sit in darkness, nothing to break the silence but the clack of keyboards or the occasional input of Guinèvre, her Alexa-like AI assistant. But as the trial goes on and Kelly-Anne spirals into ever more naked psychosis, the world becomes too much. Sound explodes, overbearing and harsh, almost too much by design. Sound is our only avenue into the snuff films that form the dreadful centerpiece to the trial, screams and cries and the buzzing of power tools or the sharpening of knives. The coup de grâce comes when Chevalier finally notices Kelly-Anne, the woman dressed up in a grotesque cosplay of one of the victims, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, wearing a school uniform and faux braces. The music explodes into a passion, blended perfectly with the screams from the video, a combination of pleasure and pain that the monsters consuming this sort of filth and dreck crave. It’s as close to histrionics as this film ever gets, breaking the stillness and chilly demeanor for a moment of mutual recognition through glass.

It’s perhaps this lack of shock value which makes Red Rooms such a gutting film to experience. Juliette Gariépy has shark’s eyes through the entire film, harsh and blank, utterly lacking in empathy. She watches the same video that shatters groupie Clémentine’s perception of her hero, both of their faces bathed in red, one woman’s sobbing, the other’s barely even blinking. Decisions, moments, acts, are all portrayed in a matter-of-fact light that grants the viewer an intimate look at Kelly-Anne’s life while keeping them at a remove from the internality of the model and poker player. She describes to Clémentine how she succeeds in online poker by exploiting the weak, taking all from them, and she approaches the stalking and home invasion of one of the victim’s families with the same blank demeanor. Aside from a growing sense of paranoia at being caught for her illicit activities on the dark web, the only emotion that Kelly-Anne ever betrays externally is when she wins the auction for the snuff film of the final girl. This is a shattering look at the heart of internet darkness and solitude that makes any Fincher film look like baby shit.

THE RULES

SIP

Someone says 'Rosemont' or 'dark web'

Dual monitor action

An online poker game starts

Arthurian reference

BIG DRINK

Faces bathed in red

A news report begins on the television

The DuckDuckGo home page gets pulled up

[unsoundedcomic]

When it comes to gangs I feel their influence and abilities to pull of a crime probably a better showcase than a gang war. Under that lens who is the greater gang. The frummagems or the Tanners? Both has pulled major political assassinations.

They're pretty different. The Frummagems and other Sharteshanian gangs are almost a public utility. Their smuggling provides a lot of hard-to-find items to the locals, their loan sharking is all half the population can afford to bank with, their protection services stand in for what's otherwise a pretty corrupt and useless police force, and their territorial control can actually keep the streets a little safer, because there are things they will not tolerate. Then they do the usual thievery, kidnapping, and begging. Not a lot of pointed elimination work goes on outside of retribution. Nary was useful for assassinating Rilursa BECAUSE the Frummagems aren't assassins. They were hard to trace and had no connection to Beadman.

The Tanners are assassins. They don't steal - they kill for coin. In fact they're a very punctilious organisation, one that enforces order in its neighborhood, and one that runs two very legitimate, aboveboard businesses (the killing is a third one, much less aboveboard).

So they're really difficult to compare. You're gonna meet the Tanners and be like, wow, these are the kindest and coolest Alds ever! And the Tannery is such a bright and merry spot of colour and fun in drab old grim Durlyne!

Just hope no one ever pays them to visit your house at night.