#and there aren’t many people willing to bat for him now either | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

snackhobi · 4 years

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min yoongi is the best shot in the business. you’re the best gunsmith in the city and the only person he trusts to programme his tech; to make his gear.

he likes your work. it’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t like you.

pairing: yoongi x f!reader / word count: 14.3k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+), cyberpunk!au, smut, frenemies (?) to lovers

warnings/etc: hitman!yoongi. black market dealer/gunsmith!reader. cursing/explicit language. whole lotta tension, sexual and otherwise. mentions of injury/violence. minor character death (no one important, don’t worry, this isn’t an angst fic). brief hurt/comfort. reader has tattoos. sexually explicit content. oral; fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation (f). unprotected sex (please take the necessary precautions irl). rough sex?. choking. creampie. brief mention of aftercare. I think that’s everything but please lmk if I missed any!

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to both @hobi-gif and @morndas for beta reading this and being so supportive, ily both so much and I owe you my life 🤧💕 as always what was meant to be a short fic turned into a huge one. also this is technically for my 1.1k milestone but it’s a billion years late, oops!

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You needle him all the time, dig your fingernails in and squeeze, revelling in the way he sets his jaw, the muted spark of irritation in his eyes. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, throw it back whenever you laugh and reveal the easing column of your throat, dragging each interaction out with a kind of sadistic pleasure that has him gritting his teeth. Because you love annoying him, getting under his skin, tapping your fingers against the soft swell of your bottom lip as you eye him up, taking your time before you speak.

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

It’s unfortunate, really, because you’re unavoidable.

Jungkook had asked, once, why Yoongi doesn’t just go elsewhere. They’re more than familiar with the underbelly of this heaving city, underneath all the neon lights and shimmering holograms and towering skyscrapers and legal tech; the scuttling seams of back alley traders and illegal goods, tech or otherwise. There are plenty of black market dealers, after all, plenty of other vendors he could go to to get the equipment he wants. Plenty of other skilled crafters, artificers, artisans, people who would be more than happy to create the things that Yoongi asks for, that he needs. People who can get their hands on anything you want. For a price.

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

“She’s the best there is,” he’d said, and that had been that.

Because it’s true. You might be exasperating, maddening, laughing in Yoongi’s face where others might cower or genuflect, but no one is as good as you. All of Yoongi’s gear has been crafted by you; each and every single one of his weapons, his tech, the headpiece that fits so perfectly around the back of his skull that Yoongi often forgets that it’s there, hidden in his hair, unfolding across his eyes whenever he lines up a shot to make the kill—there’s evidence of your work across every inch of his body, hidden away under his clothes, day in, day out. Even when he’s not on a contract Yoongi never leaves anything to chance.

(A walking armoury, Namjoon had called him once.)

(You’d phrased it differently.

You’re always packing, hmm? you’d hummed, rapping your fingernails in a steady beat as you’d leaned back in your chair, smiling with teeth. There was laughter in your words and your gaze, no attempt made to hide your amusement, but after your goading you’d made him a collapsible sword anyway. It’s a beautiful thing, this folding blade, bristling with plasma and energy if Yoongi needs it, lethal and deadly. One of his most prized possessions, something that’s gotten him out of multiple corners, and he owes it—you—his life.)

There’s no one on par with you. You’re a Renaissance woman, a fiercely talented polymath who doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to create the things you create. Low-tech, high-tech, no tech—you make everything from scratch, programme things yourself, hunched over each project in your own workshop with nothing but your mind and your own two hands.

It’s the only reason he puts up with you and your antics, the sharp jibes, the shameless flirting; you’re the most infuriating person he knows, but there’s no one else he would trust with the work that you do.

Unfortunately.

Which is why Yoongi finds himself here, again and again, as familiar with this studio as you are—he watches you work, sometimes, watches you sketch up blueprints and drag your fingers across your array of displays, your world cast in shifting shades of cyan and electric blue from all the tech in here, humming and alive. He likes to see how his equipment is made, after all. It can mean the difference between life and death. He takes this seriously.

It’s the one time you might be quiet. Might be quiet, because you still talk even when you work; flick your gaze between Yoongi and whatever’s set in front of you, that ever present smile spread across your lips, smug and amused. You’re only silent during the hardest jobs. Like right now, you’re intense and focused, a furrow dug between your brows as you survey his sniper rifle—almost shorn in two. (It had been the only thing to hand when he’d had to block a blow from a guard he’d somehow overlooked, no time to draw any other weapons before they’d started to brawl.)

You’d been unimpressed. You’d raised your eyebrows with all the severity of a disappointed mother, bitten words out at him with molten snideness, dripping heat and snark.

“It’s a gun, Yoongi. A gun. You know, something you shoot with? Pew pew? Blammo? I’m not sure what sort of shields and body armour you’ve seen in the past but this isn’t either of those things. Do you want me to sketch some diagrams up for you? Or maybe I could write you a book. Baby’s First Arsenal, Chapter One: The Difference Between Things That Are Guns And Things That Aren’t. Would that be helpful?”

No one else talks to Yoongi like that. No one else would dare. It’s only a rare few that know his birth name and it’s not often that he hears it, more used to the sound of Agust D falling off people’s lips. But that had been part of your price, part of the agreement when he’d first met you and asked for your services: his real name.

Yoongi had let it wash over him, had endured your tongue-lashing before putting the gun down with a heavy finality and thrust it over at you, tired of all your talk.

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

“As always, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” you’d said, taking the rifle from him.

The D-2 Shadow isn’t just a weapon. It’s a piece of art, clean edges and slick lines, and Yoongi is grateful to have it back in his hands. There’s no other sniper rifle like it, made of super lightweight alloy and easy to handle; thermal scope, enhanced stabilisers for accuracy; superior kinetic coils for better shot penetration. Yoongi had asked for the best and you’d delivered. Gone above and beyond, crafted a weapon the likes of which no one else possesses, modified in ways other people can’t even fathom.

And you’d fixed it when he'd almost let it get destroyed. Made it better than new, even, layered it in more alloy to make it stronger without making it heavier, a new material of your own design. If he hadn’t known you as well as he does he’d have worried that it was beyond repair, knows that other gunsmiths would have taken one look at its crumpled body and shaken their heads, but you hadn’t.

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

You charge him a pretty penny for your work, make him pay through the nose for everything he asks of you, but Yoongi is more than willing to do so. More than capable of paying, coffers lined with more money than he might need, one of the best contract killers there is—the real price he pays is with his sanity, worn away each time you open your mouth. He can’t help but rise to your bait, as derisive as you are; it’s only the smallest things, a sharpness to his otherwise even tone, an angry spark in his eyes, but you pick up on it all.

He’s not your only customer. You don’t extend your services to many, only to the people you want to—Yoongi’s not sure what set of harebrained criteria you have that lets you choose who you’ll sell to and who you won’t but he can’t make heads nor tails of it. He knows he’s not part of your clientele because he’s got the credits to pay, nor is it because he’s one of the most highly regarded hitmen in his line of business.

You don’t just choose people who can afford to pay or people who have a level of power and influence in this dark underworld you inhabit. You really don’t care about those things. You just pick and choose on a whim.

(Once, back when he’d first met you, Yoongi had discovered that you’d concocted an entirely new security system—practically incapable of being hacked, crawling with tech, a level of complexity even the richest elites could barely afford—for some small artist who’d worried that their paintings might get stolen. He was an unknown at the time, this V, squirrelled away in one of the dark corners in the lowest levels of the city, and you’d all but given him some of the best work you’d ever done, undercharged him something chronic.

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

Yoongi isn’t your only customer but he’s certainly the only one you seem to treat the way you do. There’s a level of irreverence in everything you do, self-confidence settled across every inch of you like the obnoxious stench of a teenage boy’s body spray, but you seem to take particular pleasure in Yoongi’s displeasure. He’d brought Namjoon along, once, inquiring after an imitation greenhouse, how someone might set up the tech to raise tropical plants that wouldn’t survive otherwise (mostly above board, even; Namjoon might grow illicit plants, poisonous and prohibited, but he likes pretty flowers, too). And there had been none of the mocking that Yoongi receives. None of the wind ups. You’d been pleasant, despite your incessant snark, agreeing to take the job with a smile on your face that Yoongi never gets given.

(It had been infuriating, to know that you’re capable of not being an ass, but you just choose not to be. For fun.)

Yoongi really, really doesn’t like you, but he respects your work. Respects you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

You keep your word. You don’t supply his competitors, although you claim it’s not loyalty to him and it’s only because they can’t pay as well as he does—winnings go to the highest bidder, you’d said sagely, as obtuse and irritating as always.

But Yoongi knows other sellers will provide anyone who’s willing to pay, freelancers who peddle their wares regardless of affiliation or alliances. You’re beholden to no one and yet Yoongi knows you would never double cross him. Never supply anyone who challenges his work, even if they have the money, even if he’s on good terms with them (it’s not personal, it’s business; Yoongi has no issue with other hired killers as long as they stay out of his way). He knows he can rely on you, which is something to be treasured in these back-crossing back-stabbing backstreets.

So when he makes his way to your door, the details of a new contract still fresh in his mind, he instantly comes to a stop.

There’s something off. He can tell immediately, years of instinct causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, every part of him on edge. Everything looks normal, is normal, but there’s a burning in his gut that has Yoongi’s finger itching for the trigger even though there’s nothing to shoot.

You’ve granted him the privilege of access to your workshop, to the other rooms, entered the scans of his hand and eye and voice into the security systems, keep him updated on the varying passwords you cycle through, so he can enter whenever he needs to.

(He’s woken you up on more than one occasion, roused you from sleep for last minute supplies before he leaves for another contract, appearing in the dead of night like a spectre of death, clothing dark and eyes darker, overflowing with weaponry. A looming silhouette edged in strokes of cyan and magenta from the ever present, low-level neon light in your room, so much darker than the bright lights of your workshop. Intimidating.

And you always just roll your eyes and sigh and tell him to keep a better eye on his cache of equipment and climb out of bed for him. You’re so at odds to him in your sleep rumpled clothing and mussed hair, still unafraid even when he’s fully geared and ready to kill; shirt slipping off your shoulder, swathes of bare skin in the place of Yoongi's all-encompassing outfit, shimmering black light tattoos visible on your legs and arms and bare skin of your collarbones, geometric lines in the palest of blues and greens. You hand over whatever he needs and tell him the creds he owes you.

“I’ve already given you a key to my apartment and you haven’t even taken me for dinner once,” you sigh—dramatic and melodramatic—even as you hand over a bundle of crossbow bolts. The synthesised toxin inside the darts is your own concoction, of course, courtesy of the plant matter provided from Namjoon’s greenhouse.

“I’d literally rather be shot in the head than willingly spend time with you,” he replies.

“You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid,” you say, and just laugh in the face of his unimpressed deadpan. As insufferable as always.)

So he doesn’t need your permission to enter. He’s silent, light-footed as he makes his way inside, scanning each inch of this familiar interior; nothing’s wrong, not yet, but Yoongi can sense something in the air. Something heavy, settled bitter on his tongue, coating the back of his throat.

And then he walks into your workshop.

You’re meticulous. Even when you’re overrun with gear, with parts that have yet to be used, everything has its place. You prefer paper over datapads, too, tack sheets of designs and notes up on the wall, have clipboards and stacks of sheets set neatly in their place, a throwback to a time before tech ruled everything. Yoongi knows the layout of this room as well as he knows his own home, a mental map of straight lines and unwavering coordinates with you in the centre of it all.

Upheaval. Those neat lines of organised cartography have been pulled apart. Ham-handed work, to be sure, more of a statement than anything else; intent to instil fear rather than to destroy (although, Yoongi sees now that one of the monitors has been smashed, display sparking white and blue as it bleeds out electricity.). Even in the darkness of the room—overhead lights off and only emergency lighting on, painting things in shades of dark crimson and pink—Yoongi can tell that whichever interlopers have done this are already gone. The room is empty.

Then the sound of a clatter breaks the silence and Yoongi’s already got his pistol out, drawn without a thought as he approaches the sound that comes from the back room, fleet-footed and silent as he raises the gun and rounds the corner—

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

There’s a first aid kit on the floor. Packs of medi-gel and rolls of bandages and other supplies scattered around your feet. You haven’t even spotted Yoongi yet, in despair at the mess in front of you; he’s never seen you like this, never seen anything other than your veneer of enraging smugness and never-ending energy.

“Y/n?”

You flinch even as your head snaps around, eyes wide—but the second you see Yoongi you visibly relax, even though he’s still holding a gun in your direction.

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

“Ah, Yoongi.” The smile that paints itself across your lips is almost convincing despite the dark flower that’s unfolding on your skin, blood rising to the surface and painting it in hues of pain; you wince, a little, when the smile makes your wound ache. Soldier onwards as you act as though nothing is wrong. “I know you’re always desperate for my attention but do you mind giving me a second? I’m kind of indisposed at the moment.”

Yoongi’s lips are set in a thin line. He only has one question on his mind.

“Who did this to you?”

Your gaze flickers before you break eye contact, staring at the first aid supplies on the floor. “What, this? Have you never dropped something before?”

Yoongi ignores your deflection. It only takes a few moments to reholster the pistol, to step over to you, to grasp your chin and tilt your face towards him.

“Who did this to you?”

Yoongi’s tone is quiet and low, firm and undeniable. For the first time since he’s met you it seems as though you’re lost for words, lips parted around a silent sound of surprise as you’re subjected to the full force of Yoongi’s gaze, cutting through you; past every layer of self-inflated narcissism you put on, past every deflection you might make.

There's a beat of silence.

And then you slowly but irrevocably fold underneath the weight of his stare.

You let him lead you, sit you down, bowing to his hands and his directions. You’re silent throughout, lips an unfamiliar shape as they’re pulled down into the slightest of frowns. He’s only ever seen you smile, seen you laugh, self-assured. Never like this.

You seem surprised, startled when he sits across from you and cracks open a pack of medi-gel. Yoongi’s surprised too, although he doesn’t show it, lets his instincts take over and settles into auto-pilot as he reaches for your face. He’s never seen your eyes so round, so wide, watching the hand that descends on your cheek with all the single-minded intent of a man about to fillet a fish—careful and practiced but menacing, maybe. (He doesn’t like you but you don’t deserve to have been hurt and Yoongi can’t just stand by and not help.)

And you don’t shy away. You stare at him as he stares at his fingers, layers the gel evenly across the pain of your bruise, cool and soothing.

It’s only when he’s reached for more medi-gel and touched your cheek for the second time that you finally speak.

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

Yoongi goes still, fingers resting across your skin, slick with purple gel.

“One of the cousins?”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. But—and God knows what he did wrong in a previous life for this to be true—you’re one of his inner circle, one of the very, very few people he trusts. You’re not friends and he doesn’t like you, but he owes you, owes you a hundred times over, owes you for every successful kill, every silent infiltration, every averted detection. All thanks to your tech and the work you put into it for him. He’s indebted to you.

Yoongi always pays his debts.

“I didn’t even catch his name.” You sound dismissive. Normally you’d laugh, deride the person you’re speaking about, but instead you just sound tired. “One of the low down ones. New kid on the block; someone I didn’t recognise, with some lackeys or similar. Trying to make a name for himself, I think. He demanded that I build weapons for him. I said no.”

The Tang family is a big one, a criminal empire that has its tendrils dug in everywhere. You don’t deal with them, have no interest throwing your lot in with them intentionally or not; it’s a big, formidable family, but it’s not the only one around. You’d be dumb to get involved in that mess of generational, cross-family conflict. You’ll sell things to the highest bidder, shift illicit high-tech stock, build generic modifications that people can buy—but you don’t make bespoke weaponry for just anyone.

You don’t even sell to the heads of the Tang family directly, let alone to some back-alley sewer rat who probably barely has the faintest ties to the family, a single vein of Tang blood in his body, just enough to give him an in.

Whoever this cousin was he must be really fucking stupid to not know that. Stupid to think he could demand anything from you. Stupid to think he could hurt you when you laughed in his face and said no. Anyone with half a brain-cell should know not to fuck with you, know that it’s an honour to even be allowed inside your workshop, that to be told ‘no’ by you is a privilege.

Stupid to think that he wasn’t going to pay for that stupidity.

The pack of medi-gel is empty, the deflated pouch forgotten on Yoongi’s knee as he stares at you. The flecks of biomatter in the gel catch the light, sparkling like glitter in the lavender that’s seeping into your skin; all the surprise is gone from your eyes and instead you’re just watching him, stolid and steady. Analytical.

(You’re smart. Yoongi knows you are. For all that you talk shit and play foolish, he never forgets about that fierce intelligence. Never underestimates you or how perceptive you are. He only wonders what’s on your mind right now; what it is that you see in front of you.)

“Next time don’t let someone in unless you’re certain you’re going to sell to them.”

You scoff in his face. “Alright, Dad. Do you want to update my curfew while you’re at it? Make it ten p.m. instead of eleven?”

Yoongi blinks slowly. You’ve got both eyebrows raised, surveying him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief that he’s trying to tell you what to do (because no one tells you what to do; they wouldn't dare). But you don’t pull away, your knees still touching his, body bowed towards him from when he’d coaxed you closer so he could reach your face—so he knows you don’t mind. Not really.

(Knows you don’t care about anyone’s opinions or rules, only sticking to your own. The fact you’d been shaken from that place of confidence by some thug—even for a moment—doesn’t sit right in Yoongi’s belly. That bitter taste is back in his throat and it’s ice cold, icicles prickling through his blood.)

(He doesn’t like you but you’re one of his people and no one fucks with Yoongi’s people.)

The bruise is still there days later, after you’ve rearranged your workshop back to the way it was, sourced a new monitor to replace the one that was broken. You’re back to smirking, already ready for his request, more bullets for his weapons and super-charged plasma to recharge his sword, but the bruise is a stark reminder of what you’ve been through. So is, too, the new blueprint he spies half finished on your open displays: an automated security system that scans thermal signatures, guns unfolding from the ceiling whenever aggressive movement is detected from an unfamiliar person. Anyone who’s not listed as familiar in the security logs.

(Yoongi used to wonder about that. Why you didn’t have security mechs set in place, programming their AI to protect you, but you don’t like to use mechs. Don’t like to use them, even if you could afford to build them, because you compare it to forced servitude. You’ve never needed them before now, anyway. Safe in your reputation, knowing that you’re in a position of power, that people come here because they know you’re the best of the best.)

(But it seems like you don’t trust that any more. Don’t feel safe.)

Yoongi keeps as silent as always, bites his tongue when you cut him off mid-sentence with nothing more than a raised finger.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, wagging the finger back and forth like the slow pendulum of a grandfather clock. “No more crafting requests. I’m still working on the concentration mod you asked for and I’ll let you know when it’s ready. I don't rush for anyone. Patience is a virtue, baby. Did no one ever tell you that?”

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, handsome.” Your reply is instant, unruffled, and Yoongi grits his teeth.

But still. For all that you’re acting like normal, workshop set back into place, white lighting shining overhead, as neat and presentable as always—Yoongi can read uncertainty in the way you move. Discomfort. You don’t feel safe in your own space and it’s obvious, even if you don’t realise it.

“Come back any time,” you say coyly, and Yoongi, as always, ignores you. Transfers the creds he owes you in silence before he takes one last look at the bruise that’s still painted across your skin, dark eyes touching yours for the briefest moment before he turns and leaves.

For the first time since you met, Yoongi buys from someone who isn’t you.

It’s not bad. Well made, decent tech, Predator pistol sitting easy in his hands when he brings it to the light and watches it unfold from its holstered state, the way plasma bursts to life in the barrel; weaker than bullets but easier to reload in the field. It’s no surprise that the Yeom family gets their stuff sourced from here. The body armour, too, isn’t bad, engraved with the family crest and cast in their colours.

It’s not bad, but it’s not as good as it could be. Not as good as Yoongi needs his tech to be, demands it to be—but quality doesn’t matter. Not today. He has a job to do.

It’s easy to find his mark. Scum gathers in stagnant water, in the dirtiest and dankest places, and this is where Yoongi finds Tang Lee. Finds him spilling beer and money in the backroom of some grimy strip club where the holograms flicker from age and the strippers are tired, trying their best to scrape a living from the seething riverbed of filth that runs underneath the bright neon lights of the skyscrapers in the levels above.

Lee isn’t alone but it’s so easy to take them out it’s laughable, men drunk from cheap alcohol; Yoongi catches one in a chokehold, smashes another’s face into the glass table with enough force it shatters, faces Lee once they’re the only two standing. The music outside is too loud and the room is sound proofed for privacy and so Yoongi isn’t interrupted as he brings Lee to his knees, thrusting his face into a smear of blood that drips from his now-broken nose, courtesy of a quick jab of Yoongi’s right fist.

It’s not a quick kill. It could be. Yoongi could have ended this in moments, caught Lee off guard and ended his miserable life almost effortlessly—but he doesn’t. He takes his time, makes it count, teaches him a lesson, has Lee on his hands and knees as he sobs out apologies and snivels for mercy before he takes the pistol and blows his brains out. Yoongi doesn’t feel sorry for the man, eyes the body impassively, not even worth his disgust—he only feels sorry for whoever finds the chaos of the room and the bodies inside, the distinct plasma burns he purposefully leaves in the wall with the Predator pistol, the entire scene he’s created here: a scuffle gone wrong, fast.

You’re not the only person Tang Lee has crossed but you’ll be the last. Yoongi checks the pulses of the other two men, finds one dead and the other still alive, barely, just like he’d planned—and his work is done. It’s the Yeom family’s problem now, any fall out from Lee’s death pointed at them, a repayment of a slight Lee had made to a Yeom supplier only a few weeks ago. (Yoongi wagers that neither family will care, will draw a veil over this moment and let this settle without raising arms, no one important enough to go to war over.)

He discards the pistol and armour once he’s done, incinerates it all, no interest in keeping subpar equipment. It’s not even worth dismantling for parts. Hoseok finds him in their basement, eyeing the blue flames that lick their way around the discarded armaments; he just watches Yoongi, inscrutable and calm as he eyes the blood on the clothing before it bursts into flames.

“Not a contract,” Hoseok says. (It’s not a question.)

“A job.” Yoongi replies, watches the cloth turn to ash through the thrumming display of the incinerator. “Something that needed to be done.”

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s done. There’s no point in it. Yoongi decides something needs to be done and he’ll do it, whether that’s building a new chair for Jungkook after he broke his old one or killing a man who hurt you.

The next time he sees you your bruise is practically gone, faded into your skin. You’re intent on something on a monitor but when you notice him you turn, swivelling in your chair in one smooth motion as you lean back and put your hands behind your head, cross one leg over the other, dripping self-satisfaction, your smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Ah, Yoongi.” You look so smug that Yoongi has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Welcome, once again, to my laboratory. Is this visit for business or pleasure? Either way, you know I'm happy to oblige.”

“I’m here for the mod you promised me,” he says bluntly, and you just keep smiling, even as you hold out a hand for the sniper rifle, handling the D-2 Shadow with as much reverence as Yoongi does as you affix the mod.

It’s perfect, of course. All that Yoongi asked for and more. The software links with his eyepiece, biometric sensors that help him find his target, software to adjust to his pulse and breathing.

“You can even change the colour of the HUD,” you say, as if it’s some sort of buy-one-get-one-free offer, some fun little feature, rather than another helpful piece of software that you’ve created. Dismissive. An afterthought.

(You act like you take nothing seriously. Yoongi is your stark opposite, weighing everything in his hands and treating it with the level of attention it deserves, intent and focused.)

He’s staring down the scope when you speak once more. Light and easy, for once, rather than loud with your usual exaggerated exuberance or silken with unnecessary suggestiveness.

“I hear that they found a Tang family member dead.”

Yoongi just hums in response. Keeps his eye on the scope, wills the colour from dark green to white using the affinity link he has synced with his headpiece, watches the lines of the heads up display of the scope repaint themselves without even a single flicker, transition smooth and effortless. (Perfection.)

“It seems like the Yeom family did it,” you say, tone still conversational.

“Is that so.” Yoongi sounds disinterested, face impassive as he draws the gun away from his face, eye piece automatically folding away from his eyes. “Can I ask about other mods now that this one is finished?”

One of your brows rises, a perfect curve of discontent. “Say thank you first, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes cut into yours but you don’t back down, watch his blank face as he eventually says: “Thank you. Now I need more mods.”

You throw your head back as you laugh. “You’re insatiable,” you say, but you don’t say no. “What do you want now?”

(It’s not that you never say no to Yoongi. Because you have, and you do, and you will. But never because you can’t make what he asks for—and only because you refuse to make things that might endanger his safety, illicit bio-mods that other hired hitmen use, things that degrade the body from the inside out.)

Yoongi’s just holstered the Shadow, ready to go, when you speak one final time.

“Yoongi?”

He’s never heard you say his name like that, soft and quiet.

“Thanks.” You’re staring at him, regarding him steadily, solemn in a way that he’s never seen. You’re smiling, as always, but the expression is lightyears away from what Yoongi is used to—just the barest hint of an upturn to your lips.

Yoongi stares back at you. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Your smile grows, a warm thing, unfurling like a flower. Almost affectionate. “Sure,” you say. “Of course. Silly me. Slip of the tongue.” And then, as if your brain’s only just caught up with what you just said, the smile turns salacious. “On the note of slipping the tongue—”

“Bye.”

Your cascading laughter follows him on his way out, cutting and shining with amusement.

Yoongi’s been getting more contracts. He’s finally buckled under Jungkook’s insistent whining and has agreed to get gear for him, too, to train him how to shoot. Hoseok has more than enough contacts in the underworld to get jobs for them both—he’s the most powerful information broker around, after all, sitting in the centre of a web he’s woven after years of work, all that sharpness and darkness hidden behind his deceptively bright smile.

(Yoongi’s lucky to consider him a friend and not an enemy.)

So that’s why he’s here with increasing frequency. That’s why he finds himself at your door more often than not. To get those orders in place, to make sure they’re progressing as fast as they need to.

You never react when Yoongi steps into your workshop. Well, you do, you lean into your hand and smirk at him, pursing your lips around each snide remark, each suggestive comment—but you never question his appearance. You just go with the flow, unbothered by his presence, even when there are other people there—other customers who eye him with unveiled curiosity and confusion (some Yoongi recognises, some he doesn’t, well-known faces and unknowns alike; none of them know who he is, though, unrecognisable as Agust D without his battle gear on). Yoongi keeps a close eye on their stances, any unchecked aggression or hostility towards you. Keeps a watch on the tension of your shoulders and spine, because of… habit. Battle instinct. Nothing else.

“You know my policy, Yoongi.” You’re analysing something in your hand. It looks like an antique spyglass, something from the decades before technology overtook the world, but it’s jammed full of tech; it doesn’t just magnify to a terrifying degree, it also amplifies sound, connected to an earpiece that’s sleek and easy to overlook. ‘A small project’, you’d called it, as if it isn’t something that people would pay a fortune to own. “If I’m making something for someone I have to meet them first. If you want me to make anything for this ‘JK’ then it’s not happening until you bring him here. Just like with your friend RM.”

Yoongi is lolling by your monitors, half-asleep in your chair (which had moulded to the shape of his body the second he sat in it, designed to be too comfortable for its own good).

“I know you can’t pull yourself away from me,” you continue, glancing up from the scope. “But you have to spend time with your friends sometimes. I know they’re not as pleasing to look at as me—”

“Stop.”

You shift the spyglass to one hand and lean your chin on the other, regarding him with sharp eyes and an amused quirk to your lips. “I love that you think you can tell me what to do.”

Yoongi resists the urge to make a noise at the back of his throat, opting to keep mum instead.

He’s too tired to argue with you. He’d come straight after a contract, blood still on the edge of his sleeves (not his), watched the way your eyebrows had risen when you’d casually taken in the state of him before offering to wash his jacket. You know the reality of this world you both inhabit, operating in the shadows, survival paid for in blood; you might not be on the high ground, lining the shot up to take the kill, but you craft the trigger that Yoongi pulls.

(You might be aware of this reality but you’re far removed from it, shaken by violence on your own door. You never should have been faced with it. You’re an inventor; a creator. Not a killer. Not like Yoongi is. He’s not going to let that happen again. He doesn’t like you but you shouldn’t have been subject to pain—shouldn’t still have your motions edged with a held breath, as if you’re waiting for it to repeat itself.

No matter how well you hide it, Yoongi knows that there's a part of you that's still scared.)

“I know you think you’re too important to need to remember things, but we’ve worked together for long enough that you know that I’d ask to meet JK first, Yoongi,” you say. “Did you really have to come straight after murking someone just to be reminded about that? Not complaining—you know I love seeing that pretty scowl of yours—but I just figured you’d rather be resting right now. Don't tell me the infamous Agust D missed me and decided to come here instead.”

“You were on the way.”

(He’d circled around, taken a longer route, descended into the familiar maze of the lower city. To throw off the scent of any potential pursuers. You just happened to be nearby, pure coincidence and convenience.)

You retract the spyglass, collapsing it in your hands. “Either you leave right now and go to your own place to sleep, or you’re going to sleep in my bed. Your choice.”

(If Yoongi took the time to think about it, really think about it, he’d notice that the words aren’t shrouded in suggestion or insinuation. Your brows are raised and you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do—unimpressed at how tired he is, how he’s come here instead of sliding into his own bed for the rest he so clearly needs.)

Of course, Yoongi leaves. He returns home without his jacket, strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in this safe place, this base, sheds pieces of his body armour as easy as anything (you’d designed it to be lightweight and easy to don and doff, the perfect defence for someone who relied on stealth and speed); he’s just removing the last greave when Hoseok appears, rapping his knuckles against the open door.

“You’re finally back.”

Yoongi looks up. Hoseok is dressed for work, Hope Broker persona in place, tailored suit that sits perfectly with the lines of his body, handsome and stylish and entirely put together. He oozes poise and power. Elegance.

“Yeah.” Yoongi lets the greave drop, silent as it falls to the floor. “Job’s done.”

Hoseok smiles. It’s a genuine one because it’s for Yoongi. “I know,” he says, even though scarcely any time has passed since Yoongi put a bullet in the back of the target’s skull. Nothing happens in this world of theirs without Hoseok finding out about it, always sooner rather than later. “Just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

“All good.”

“Good.” Hoseok is used to Yoongi’s blunt nature, his short responses when he’s tired. “Get some sleep.”

Hoseok’s elegant even as he adjusts his cufflinks. It’s just the briefest of moments, the crisp edge of his perfectly white sleeve contrasting with the shining silver, the design inlaid in them—but Yoongi recognises that design immediately.

Because it’s yours.

It’s the same emblem on each piece of his gear, small and understated, hidden away, easy to miss—but Yoongi knows it intimately. He doesn’t say anything. Lets Hoseok leave without a word. Each one of the men that Yoongi considers family, the tiny collection of people that stay in this same home as him, know that he only gets equipment sourced from you—but Hoseok had never mentioned that he’s been in contact with you, too.

It’s not important. Hoseok might be his friend and a staunch ally but there’s plenty that he gets up to that none of the others are privy to, trading information to the highest bidders, head of a huge network that Yoongi can use to his advantage but isn’t technically a part of. The people Hoseok deals with—buys his information and resources from, keeps perfectly balanced in comparison to his own power—is his own business and not Yoongi’s.

Yoongi moves to gather his armour, the hardsuit he wears like a second skin, and spots that insignia that he knows so well branded into it. To have Hoseok wearing it at his wrist—the Hope Broker, renowned trader of secrets—is a statement. You could have made the cufflinks plain and unadorned. But you hadn’t.

When Yoongi climbs into bed that night, he finds that his sleep is restless.

The smile on your face fades. “You know I don’t talk about business with other customers.”

Yoongi’s staring at you across your workbench, the light from its surface going dim as you take your hands off it, disassembled stun mine forgotten.

No one knows about his genuine friendship with Hoseok, but they do know that Agust D and the Hope Broker have an agreement; a professional working relationship. “I know the Hope Broker,” Yoongi says.

Your eyebrows rise so far they seem to threaten to ascend into your hairline, you’re so incredulous. “Everyone does. What’s your point? Do you expect me to give you information about everyone you ask about? I get paid to keep people’s privacy, Yoongi. Do you think I sell the information of your equipment, how to dissemble every defence you have? Do you think I give your name out to everyone who asks?”

There’s no touch of amusement to the line of your lips, no sparkling irreverence in your eyes. You’re genuinely displeased.

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

You scoff. “You wear my symbol too. Why, are you jealous? Your armour has exactly the same technology. Better, even, because I can fit more tech in there.”

The cufflinks generate a kinetic barrier, then, a layer of invisible shielding that lays just atop Hoseok’s skin. But no one sees Yoongi’s armour; no one sees the workmanship of your weapons, no one except him. Your insignia isn’t emblazoned on his wrist for all to see.

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

“Hope is a powerful man,” you continue. “Everyone knows that. Even people who haven’t met him know that. Even people who aren’t sure he exists know that. If I want to sell to him then that’s my business.”

Everyone who’s anyone recognises your logo, no matter how rare it is to spot it (you only craft for a select few, after all). And Hoseok’s influence is far reaching and powerful; no one would dare cross him, dare to cross anyone who’s associated with him.

“I’m looking for a new workshop.” You rise, moving away from your workbench to your monitors, touching a display with your fingers to bring it to life. Ignoring Yoongi’s presence, not even looking at him. “I haven’t got the space to modify the systems in this one as much as I want to. The walls are already full enough as it is. Do you know how hard it is to find somewhere with the specifications I need?”

Yoongi realises, then, why you’re doing this. The bruise is long gone and your skin is unmarred but you still don’t feel safe. You’ve always worked alone. Until now. Now you’re making moves to settle down, settle in, make a statement of allegiance to someone who can offer you a level of protection with their influence.

Someone who can offer you somewhere new, away from this inadequate place you’ve outgrown.

Hoseok laughs lightly when Yoongi asks about it, mentions it in passing as the two of them drink soju side by side, Hoseok in his suit and Yoongi girded in the armour under his unassuming clothes, both in the upper city for work; they stare down at the myriads of tall buildings and huge holo-boards and rainbow array of neon lights, far above the place they call home.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, utterly relaxed (and faintly amused). “I know you respect her work so I thought I’d reach out. I’m surprised she can make the things she does in that tiny workshop. You’re right; she’s very good.”

You are. The next time you meet, you give Yoongi his usual shipment and more besides, more than he’d ordered, reflected in the amount of creds he has to pay—because he won’t be able to just drop in for a while, your workshop dismantled and scraped empty in preparation for the move. Where to, he doesn’t know, but you say you’ll pass on the information once everything is up and running again.

“If you break any of your gear while I’m gone then you’re on your own,” you say. “I’m not shipping anything before my new workshop is finished.”

Two days later, Yoongi spies a new watch on Hoseok’s wrist. It looks low-tech, old style, metal strap and round clock face—but he sees the silhouette of your logo under those ticking hands and knows there’s more tech in there that meets the eye.

He looks away.

It takes a week for the message to appear, encrypted: your new location. Levels above your former workshop, one of the higher strata of the lower city—still hidden and out of the way but away from the dirt and darkness.

Yoongi goes. He finds the door panel, scans his palm, leans forward for the light to flit across his eye, murmurs a word, watches the door slide open. He’s already programmed in. New workshop, new security system, but he’s still allowed in, still one of the people you consider familiar, trustworthy.

(He doesn’t know of anyone else who fits that category. Has only ever seen you manually allow people inside, granting your permission each time, rather than giving them free run of the place. No one has as many complex orders as he does, he’s certain. It’s for ease and practicality’s sake.)

He’s unfamiliar with the layout of this new building, first corridor already longer than he’s used to; he pauses for a moment but then hears something, faint—your laughter. Follows that sound, makes his way forward, through polished corridors with lines of light underfoot, leading him down some stairs and towards the sound of you.

Your new workshop is beautiful. There’s enough room in here for everything, no need for a backroom: a central worktable, benches lining the walls, tech displays built in, everything edged with lighting, dark surfaces shining bright, large floor panels underfoot emitting a low glow. Your former home had been that underground workshop and a locked door to a ladder to your micro apartment up top, tiny kitchen and single bed in a small room with a shower cubicle in the corner. Yoongi already knows that this building is far, far bigger, and you have more space than you’ve ever had before; you’d never been discontent with your smaller home, comfort from familiarity, until that comfort had been stripped from you.

You’re smiling. The snark woven into your words that Yoongi is used to is muted, light comment falling from your lips as you sit on that central table, perched on its edge. And Hoseok, he laughs, grinning so widely his teeth are on show—he’s wearing a suit but his jacket is resting on his shoulders, tie undone and cast around his neck. A stance of relaxation, one Yoongi’s never seen from him, not when he’s working. Not when he’s The Hope Broker and not Hoseok.

He’s still smiling when he notices Yoongi, the two of you looking over when the hitman speaks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Hoseok.”

That ever-present smirk freezes on your face for a split second, eyes widening at the sound of Hope’s real name. Hoseok just takes it in stride, his smile not dimming even for a second.

“Hey, Yoongi.” His greeting is as warm as it always is. “Just checking in. Have to make sure everything is up to scratch. What’s the verdict?”

You’ve hidden your surprise, wiped it off your face, eyes on Hoseok as you answer him. “It’s perfect.” A pause. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Sure. Yoongi is an old friend of mine.” Hoseok is still smiling, looking at Yoongi with creased eyes. Unafraid of revealing this information to you, still at ease despite the tension that’s bubbling in the air, Yoongi’s impassive face. Hoseok is always an unshaken pillar of positivity. “I didn’t realise he was coming. Am I interrupting an appointment?”

You stare at Yoongi. “No, you’re not. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

(You’d sent the message less than an hour ago. Yoongi had taken one look at the address, memorised it, pulled on his jacket and headed out; clearly you hadn’t anticipated how fast his arrival would be.)

“A happy coincidence, then.” Hoseok sounds like he genuinely means it, is pleased to see Yoongi here, his smile unwavering. There’s a languid set to his body, the easing line of his spine, hands in his pockets. A glittering in his eyes. (No one ever gets the drop on Hoseok, never surprises him, catches him off guard, no matter what they do.) “But I’ll let you conduct your business and we can catch up another time.”

He takes a hand out of his pocket as he walks past Yoongi, pats his shoulder amicably. His palm is relaxed against the tense set of Yoongi’s shoulders before he ascends the stairs and disappears out of sight, the sound of his polished shoes fading until he’s gone, one of the monitors on the wall flickering to indicate the front door is shut once more.

You’re still staring at Yoongi. The atmosphere had been heavy, even with Hoseok there—and now that he’s gone there’s nothing to alleviate that pressure, nothing to dissolve the strange twist to the air.

“Who,” you start, measured but sharp, “do you think you are?”

Yoongi returns your stare, looks back at you with his dark eyes. Doesn’t respond to your question; an unnecessary, unprompted thing, razor-edged for a reason he can’t discern.

“Can’t you hear me?” You slide off the table, stalk towards him. “I said—” you raise a hand— “who? Do? You? Think? You? Are?”

You emphasise each word with a sharp jab to Yoongi’s chest, driving your finger forward with so much force it must hurt. You keep it in place, keep it dug into the centre of his ribcage. There’s no laughter hidden in the corner of your lips. He’s annoyed you again, somehow, a familiar guest turned unwelcome interloper.

“You say that you know Hope and yet I just watched you treat him like dirt.” Your eyes are piercing, cutting through the soft frame of your curled lashes, boring straight into him. “You come into my workshop as if you’re meant to be here; like there’s something you’re owed. Do you want me to treat you like a child, send you to your room? Not let you back in here? Because I will.”

“You sent me your address,” Yoongi points out.

You let out a bark of laughter. “Please.” Your hand drops back to your side and you turn, stepping away. “I’ve sent this address to all my business associates. I can’t sell or buy unless people can find me. You’re the only one who’s taken this as an invitation to just turn up and waltz in. At least when Hope turns up he warns me beforehand. Oh, and he doesn’t say stuff like he’d rather blow his own brains out than be forced to see me. I know you just love being contrary but has it ever occurred to you to be more polite to people? You’d make a terrible waiter. You’d get fired on your first day.”

You’re in front of one of your cabinets. You reach inside for something, hefting it in your hands before returning, handling it in a way that’s completely unceremonious, dropping it to the bench at his side like you want to be rid of it. Like you don’t even want to hand it directly to him, to interact with him. “There. Nothing but a pleasure doing business with you, Yoongi, even if your customer service still needs improving.”

It looks like a flat, hexagonal panel, the same colour and material as his armour. Something to be locked into it, wired in, trailing veins of unattached tech spilling from it. He’s seen you working on this for a while, seen you draw up blueprints with a bruise fresh on your cheek, seen it turned in your hands as that mark had faded and left your skin.

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “Auto medi-gel distributor. It syncs with your armour and senses when you’ve been hurt and disperses gel in the affected area. Your armour’s always been too lightweight to have extra mods on but I’ve been working on this for a while.”

It’s an astonishing piece of tech. Usually one that’s reserved for heavier armour, restricting and hard to move in but easier to mod—but this thing is slim, compact, the same technology crammed into a smaller package without losing any of its punch. He doesn’t know what materials you’ve had to use to circumvent this, the level of tech you’ve layered into this, the amount of time and thought you’ve put into this.

“How much is it?”

The wrong thing to say. The smile that spreads itself across your lips is an echo of its usual curve, brittle and flaking around the edges, a baring of teeth.

“It’s a gift, Yoongi. Usually when someone does something for you, you return the favour.” Your lips are still upturned but your eyes are unsmiling even when your tone seems whimsical and light. You’ve got on your usual flippant façade, but there’s a pointed undercurrent to it. “You know, I don’t understand you at all. You remind me that you don’t like me but then you always hang around. You kill someone who threatened me and pretend that you didn’t do it. You say you don’t like me, but I thought you at least respected me, and yet here you are. Lying to me and treating me like I'm a fool.”

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says.

(Because he does, and as much as he would hate to inflate your ego, he doesn’t shy away from telling the truth.)

“Sure you do.” An unimpressed eye-roll, cutting under his words, knocking his feet out from underneath him. You don’t care to believe him. “This is my fault for not treating you the same as all my other business associates. Next time you come in you’ll have to have an appointment, just like everyone else. It’ll minimise the amount of time we have to spend together.”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. He finds, though, that he likes the sound of this even less; finds it pulling at his brows, his mouth, impassive expression turned to one of disapproval.

And his mouth opens. The word falls from his lips before he has a chance to think—years of battle intuition, years of following instinct, moving as he needs to in the moment.

“No.”

A raise of the brows. A purse of the lips. Incredulous. “No?” you parrot it back, mocking. “Oh, okay, sure. Never mind. You’re welcome to come in whenever you want and act like you have free rein of the place. There’s nothing I enjoy more than your scowling presence.”

Sharp tongued, sharp eyed, narrowed at him: a confrontation. For all that you needle him you never mean it, really (even if it’s still infuriating, aggravating). But right now? Right now each of your words is barbed, your sarcasm a defence, an offence. You’re running your mouth not just to rile him, but to ward him away.

“You’re really not as smart as you think you are, Min Yoongi.” You wield his name like a weapon. “You tell me right now why I should listen to you. What do you come here for? And don’t say it’s for my work because it stopped being just that a long time ago. And if it is just for my work then take it and go. Then I’ll take you off the security system and we’ll only see each other as much as is strictly necessary. In fact, you could pass your orders along via Hope—then we won’t have to even see each other at all. ”

“And then he’ll be the only one allowed free rein?”

It comes out before he’s even really thought about what he’s saying, which isn’t like him at all. Yoongi is two parts: pure, honed instinct, and careful, wary vigilance. He’s not like you, saying the first thing that comes to mind—not normally, anyway—but the words jump from his lips, from some near-silent part of him that balks at the idea. Of Hoseok stepping into your space the way that Yoongi does, appearing without warning, to be greeted with a curled smirk and glittering eyes.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that you’re not the only person with security clearance. My God. You’re infuriating. Seriously? I didn’t realise you were genuinely this dense. You’re the only one I’ve ever allowed in without prior agreement.” You emphasise this statement with another jab to his chest, your finger a sharp knife that cuts into him as you stab it forwards.

He catches your wrist. His grasp is firm but there’s no pressure to it; doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his fingers, just holds you in place. You’re staring at him with a challenge in your eyes, one that he finds himself rising to match, never one to back down.

“Is that so?”

Your hand unfurls, fingers splayed across his chest; he’s still holding your wrist, shifting with your movement. “Don’t be obtuse.” An irritated exhale. “Normally you complain whenever I talk and now you’re trying to get me to repeat myself. Again with the inconsistency, Yoongi. Make up your mind.”

He could do what you do whenever you’re feeling particularly aggravating. Play dumb, ask more questions, drag out the interaction until you’re bordering on snapping—but he doesn’t. He looks at the set of your jaw, the way you’re staring at him. Unflinching. You’ve never been scared of him, and you aren’t now, not with how he’s got a hold of you, how close he is to you.

He toes the line. Shifts closer. Notes the way your pupils dilate, how the tips of your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt; how the air grows heavier, a frisson of electricity crackling through it. Yoongi doesn’t like you, but he likes that feeling—how the tension in the air shivers from indignation into something different.

Because you’re still staring at him, and there’s still that hard set to your jaw, but there’s not just anger in your eyes. There’s that warm thing he’s grown used to seeing, smouldering in near silence until he’d coaxed it to full flame, thrown gasoline onto the coals when he’d shot plasma into the back of Tang Lee’s skull. He’d protected you even though he hadn’t needed to, doesn’t need to, but does anyway—because he trusts you and there’s no one else he trusts to keep you safe.

And there’s no one else you trust, either.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi says, like he so often does—but there’s no irritation in it, touched instead with a simmering heat, the faintest edge of a bite.

You tilt your head. There’s a provocation etched into the twist of your mouth, the way your lips lift. Because no matter how much you needle him, dig your fingernails into every crack of his armour and twist—no matter how annoying you are, how angry you make him—you know that he’s not mad. Not really. Not in a way that makes you afraid, but in a way that thrills you, makes you want to see him snap, to wipe away that level facade he maintains.

“Maybe you should shut me up, then,” you reply, a murmur. A challenge.

A beat. Yoongi’s fingers tighten around your wrist. A warning.

And in response?

You just smile.

The way your eyes widen just seconds later is delicious, though, when Yoongi lets go of your wrist—because he’s moving faster than you expected. Your surprise melts into delight, a spark of glee that says you’ve gotten exactly what you want when Yoongi threads his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back to bare the column of your throat. He holds you firmly in place, crowds you back against the workbench so hard its edge must be digging almost painfully into your back but not once does that glee dim, written over every line of your smile, eyes bright and teeth sharp.

Yoongi likes to take things slow. There’s the part of him that never steps into a situation without knowing every angle, every escape route, each one of his kills planned meticulously. But, he thinks, the two of you have been waiting long enough, and he’s never been patient around you—has found his composure worn thin faster than anywhere else, by anyone else. It’s this part of him, frayed into non-existence by you, that rises to the surface now, makes him move as quick as he does.

And you respond just the way he knew you would. When he presses his mouth to yours you kiss him back like you have a point to make (you always do), fast and almost reckless, all lips and teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse to it. When he presses his tongue into your mouth you part your lips so prettily, let him take his fill, slide your tongue against his and tilt your head to get even deeper—and just like always, you're vocal, letting out small noises that are caught and muffled in the kiss, lust filled. But when you try to nip at his lip with the edge of your teeth Yoongi tightens his grip in your hair and swallows down your gasp before he pulls away, holding you in place so you can’t chase after his mouth. Your lips are kiss swollen and under the bright lights above they shine, slightly parted, pupils blown as you stare at him.

(You look good like this.)

Your eyes slide shut when Yoongi lowers his lips to your neck, across your throat. There’s nothing gentle about it. He moves with single-minded intent, lips and teeth harsh against your sensitive skin—and you take it all, little sounds falling from your lips as Yoongi drags his teeth towards the hollow of your neck. And when he takes his hand from your hair, takes both hands and digs his fingers into your waist and lifts you, you go so easily; a mimicry of your earlier position when he’d stepped in, perched on the edge of the table. Legs spread so Yoongi can stand between them. He’d be surprised at how pliant you are if it wasn’t so obvious that this is exactly what you want: lifting your hips so he can strip your lower half bare.

Your bare thighs press against the surface of the workbench, tech displays coming alive under your body heat. You’ve shrugged your cropped jacket off and you’re just reaching for your top when Yoongi stops you; splays a hand in the centre of your chest and presses you back, slow but undeniable. You’re not the one setting the pace. He is. He’s the one in control, with you spread out in front of him, only a thin layer of fabric keeping you from being completely bare—thin cotton underwear, dark and damp between your legs, betraying your arousal.

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

Your retort stutters on your lips when he drags his fingers upwards over your slit, barely dulled by the material in the way. “No shit,” you say, and then suck in a breath when he presses the pad of his thumb across your clit.

It’s no good, the fact you’re still talking. But that’s okay. Yoongi’s planning on changing that.

It’s lewd, the way your legs are spread, parting further at the urging of his hands. Your hands slide across the bench, papers scattering, palms flat on the work surface and white light shimmering on dark blue in reaction to your touch; an unnecessary distraction that you both ignore. There’s nothing graceful about this, the peel of underwear away from your core, already slick even with the barest of attentions; he drags his fingers down the inside of your thighs, all that soft skin, and then under, urging your hips up and towards his mouth. No foreplay to this foreplay, no dragging out this moment—he bites at that soft skin of your inner thigh, sinks his teeth into it and listens to the way you gasp in surprise—and before you have a moment to ground yourself, he presses his mouth to your cunt.

You’re wet and warm under his tongue and the smell of you surrounds him, musky and heavy, and he feels how your entire body goes tense as you arch your back. He’d normally take his time with this, have you strung out and begging, but he has different plans today—knows exactly what he wants from this, sucking your clit between his lips and feeling your thighs tighten around his head, legs slung over his shoulders as he listens to the way you moan. Each sound shudders out from your mouth like you tried so desperately to keep it in but couldn’t help it. Yoongi loves eating pussy anyway but this is even better, the way all your witty ripostes die in your throat before you can shape them on your lips, turned into breathy gasps instead.

The taste of you fills his mouth and it’s so fucking good. You’ve been watching him, how his head moves between your legs, but he can tell you’re close; you’ve given up, eyes shut as you lean into the sensation building up in you, and Yoongi thinks he likes you better like this. Forced into speechlessness under his hands and tongue. Your pretty mouth softened from sharpness into urging noises of pleasure. He slides one arm across your stomach and holds you in place, a hard line that you can’t overpower and you’re left squirming in place, hips trying to kick up each time he draws his tongue over your slit, every part of you sloppy with your own arousal and Yoongi’s spit, flushed and lovely. One of your hands is in his hair and you’re pulling, pulling hard, unaware of how tight your grip is as you try to buck your hips and sob.

You’re so sensitive, and it only takes one, two fingers pressing into you and curling just right as Yoongi slides his tongue over your clit before you’re cumming, hot around his fingers as you come apart all wet and messy. He’s never seen you so undone, back arched as you ride out your orgasm, hair swept away from your forehead as you throw your head back. Keeps his mouth open on you, feels you under his tongue, until you’re flopped on your back and your chest is heaving, legs untensed and loose over his shoulders.

You shift an arm. Your fingers barely brush the medi-gel mod you’d made him, a loose sheet of paper sliding away and joining the others on the floor.

“Just moved in and it’s already a mess,” Yoongi says, and he doesn’t just mean the paper; fingers and chin and mouth covered in your slick, your core soaked. He’s still knuckle deep and when he curls his fingers again your entire body jolts, your mouth parting almost wantonly before you seem to struggle back to reality, surfacing from a haze of arousal and post orgasmic bliss.

“That’s your fault,” you say, voice weaker than usual. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”

“Mm. Not my fault you’re a messy girl.”

“Fuck you.” The blunt words are softened by your breathlessness, your bonelessness; the way your breath catches in your throat when he calls you a messy girl, even if you try to hide it. Trying not to let him in on exactly how much power he holds in this moment.

“I was planning on it,” Yoongi says, as calm as ever, even if arousal is simmering through his veins and gathering in his gut—has been this entire time, the taste of you on his tongue and the heat of you under his lips and the sound of you in his ears. “Want to make your workshop even messier?”

You dig your balls of your feet into his back, legs still over his shoulders. His fingers shift inside you and you shiver. “I don’t think so,” you say. “Bedroom.”

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, although the noise you make when he finally pulls his fingers out of you is more than enough to satisfy him. He’s still fully dressed and you’re only half so, and it would be comical if the sight of your bare legs and slick on your inner thighs wasn’t so hot, barefoot on the glowing and pristine (papers notwithstanding) floors as you reach for his hand and lift it to your lips, sucking his fingers into your mouth and licking your arousal off his fingers with your tongue, warm and wet, before you grab his wrist and pull.

He watches the movement of your hips as you lead him, your bare ass. Shameless as ever. Confident in yourself, even now. It’s not until you’ve stepped over the threshold and into your new bedroom that your tattoos become visible, as bright as the low lights in the room, those geometric lines and stylised circuitry on your legs shifting as you step forwards.

Even with the relative darkness Yoongi immediately notices something. Cast over the back of a chair near the bed, there’s his jacket, blood stains at the edge of the sleeves gone. Cleaned. Yoongi shifts his hand so you don’t have your fingers wrapped around his wrist any more. Instead he’s the one shackling you, holding you in place as you look over your shoulder.

“Were you ever going to return that to me?” He tilts his head at the chair.

You pause. Glance over. Look back at him, all amusement and provocation, recovered from your earlier breathlessness. “But Yoongi, I get so cold.”

There’s something about the idea of you in his clothes, clothes that you know he’s worn when he’s been getting his hands dirty—he ignores the curl to your lips and moves you towards the bed, ignoring the sound of your self satisfied laughter when he reaches for your shirt and pulls, with you lifting your arms to help him, grinning at him the whole time. Even when he’s thrown your bra aside and kicked his boots off and pushed you onto the mattress, trapped you underneath him, completely naked against his completely clothed body you’re still smiling, like the cat who got the cream.

You’re stunning. There’s no doubt about it. You always have been, annoyingly so, even when Yoongi’s wanted to wring your neck; not just because you’re pretty but because you’re intelligent and confident and in control, staring up at him without a lick of fear or concern, even now. Never with him, never. He can see your tattoos in all their glory, nothing hidden away from his gaze; he sees one he hasn’t been able to see before, a sunflower bursting across your ribcage, curved under the swell of your breast, glowing red and orange in the midst of all your other cyan and teal lines, glowing in the black light. He’s pressing you down, trapped under his body, and you’re just waiting. Waiting and still smiling, smirking, letting him take you in, preening under his attention.

He wants to eat you alive.

So he does just that. Shifts back down the mattress on his knees, keeping his hands on you, pulling his hands down the easing lines of your ribs and waist and hips, before a firm tug has you lifting up—your smug facade shakes when you’re left with only your shoulders and head against the bed, the rest of your body pulled towards Yoongi’s waiting mouth once more, held in place with fingers that dig into your hips, thighs soft against his ears, your hands scrabbling at the linen underneath you when Yoongi’s lips press into the crease of your thigh, off balance.

“Safeword?” He murmurs into your skin, and you pause.

“Hoseok,” you answer, and Yoongi responds by biting into your thigh again, soothing it with his tongue when you squeal.

“Shameless.”

You’re still wet from before, slick with cum, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate before he dives back in. He can hear more than he can see the way your fingers curl into your sheets and rumple them in your hands, anchored helplessly into place by Yoongi’s mouth and the fingers cupped under your ass, digging into the soft skin, undignified and at his mercy.

“Yoongi!” You gasp, almost a whimper as a breath gets caught in your throat. “Y-Yoongi—”

You’re so helpless like this. It’s a little hard for Yoongi to breathe, your legs tightening around him, but it’s worth it for the way he can see you shaking apart. He presses his tongue as deep into you as he can, sucks your swollen pearl between his lips and circles it with his tongue, notices the way you jolt at those wet kisses, still sensitive from before, and he doesn’t let up. Keeps going and going and going until you’re gasping for air, sensations rippling through your body as you buck and writhe; you’re trying to keep yourself together, he can tell, but you’re unravelling, smirk wiped off your face and your mouth in a pretty little circle whenever you choke out oh, oh.

You cum faster than he expects, shoulders lifting away from the mattress as you arch your back so far it must hurt and tighten your legs and he feels the way your pussy throbs under his tongue, practically gushing when you reach your peak. Your eyes are unfocused when they flutter back open but you’re reaching for him, for the waistband of his trousers, trying to touch the hard length of his cock—he’s been ignoring it, how he’s leaked so much precum he can feel how wet it is in his boxer-briefs.

He keeps ignoring it now. He catches your hands, stops you in place, stares you down with an unimpressed tilt to his brows.

“What,” he says levelly, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Want you in my mouth,” you say. You seem almost desperate for it, fingers flexing in his hold, letting your tongue linger against your lips longer than necessary. “I want your cock in my mouth, Yoongi.”

He tightens his grip around your wrists. And then, for the first time all night, he smiles.

“No.”

You look stunned. Just for a moment. Then you’re squirming in his hold, but you’re trapped, nowhere to go. “What do you mean, no?”

Yoongi’s still smiling, mirroring the self satisfaction that had been written all over your face earlier. “I mean no. You don’t get what you want. You get what you’re given.”

There’s nothing he’d like more than to sink into that wet heat, to see your smart mouth put to good use, lips spread over his cock, but this is better. Seeing the genuine frustration and disbelief written across your features.

He doesn’t give you time to line up another angered retort on your tongue. Doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s flipping you over, the wings of your shoulder blades and curve of your spine emphasised by the lines that are traced symmetrically and shining across your skin. They shift when you move, hips lifted from the mattress by Yoongi’s hands, on your hands and knees as he fumbles his waistband and zipper and pulls his cock free. He’s painfully hard, flushed head with precum that beads at the tip, and when he tugs you back he watches the way the head drags across the curve of your ass, leaving a shining line of wetness on your skin.

And when he sinks into you he barely gives you time to adjust, barely has time to adjust himself, to all this hot tight wetness after his cock’s gotten no attention at all—you let out a moan that almost sounds like you’re singing, long and high with pleasure, the slide eased from all your cum.

You take it so well, always so good to him no matter how irritating you are, so lost in the sensations that you don’t say anything about the hard edges of Yoongi’s clothes whenever he drives his hips forward and it presses into the soft skin of your thighs. It’s messy and choppy and fast and you slump onto your elbows, entire body shaking as you take everything Yoongi is giving you. Caged underneath him when he follows you forwards, presses his front to your back, feels the way the sweat on your skin is caught against the fabric of his clothes. Grinds his hips deep and feels the way you gasp, sucking in a shaking breath, your entire body lost in it. He bites his lip and keeps his own sounds caught behind his teeth, not letting you know how you’re pulling him towards his own edge.

He’s not done with you yet.

Your clit is slick under his touch when he lifts his fingers to touch you, to layer another sensation on top of the cock inside you, and you’re sobbing. You don’t ask him to stop, never know when to quit, face every challenge thrown at you—and Yoongi can tell that you love it even if your body is crying out, that you love this oversensitivity, pulled taut and strung out. You’re beyond speech, words slurred, barely recognisable as his name and pleas of more, please, more. He can feel when you’ve crested the wave of too much sensation and fallen back into that rippling sea of pleasure, and when you cum it’s with a soundless moan, mouth wide open but no noise escaping. No more sharp retorts, no smart words, fucked into incoherency, trembling and quivering as you go tight around him and Yoongi struggles not to lose himself then and there, in your scorching, wet cunt, fluttering around him.

The noise when he pulls out is slick and lewd, just like all the other noises that have been filling the room, the slap of skin on skin temporarily halted when Yoongi rolls you onto your back. There’s sweat beading on your skin, shimmering, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes and glistening like tiny jewels in the multi-coloured low light of this room. Your lips are parted and your gaze is bleary and you’re everything Yoongi has never seen from you before, fuzzy and quiet, entirely pliant. When he reaches for you again, runs his hands over the rise of your hipbones and down the side of your thighs, you whimper.

“One more,” Yoongi says. “One more, you can give me one more.”

You’ve never known when to quit, and now is no different, even if you’re on the verge of being entirely fucked dumb. Those tears pool in your eyes and stream down towards your hairline, but you let Yoongi move you, try to help by lifting your hips but almost too gone to move at all. Yoongi almost cums when he sinks into you, your willing body; he thinks you’ve never looked better than you do now, smelling like sweat and sex and so soft under his hands, taking his cock like you were made for it, and you’re so gorgeous when you’re falling apart.

The attitude you wear normally—the one that chafes at Yoongi’s nerve-endings—has been entirely wiped away, forced out of you by mindless pleasure. But still, you know what you want, even now, even when you’re barely coherent—Yoongi feels your hand slide across his and pull weakly, guiding it across your chest and up, circling his fingers around your neck.

He swears. Snaps his hips forward hard, watches the way your eyes roll back when he gives an experimental squeeze around your throat. Yoongi’s choked people before, knows exactly how much pressure to give, how much it takes to cut someone’s airways completely or how to just leave them reeling; he lets you linger on the edge of breathlessness, feels the way you go tight around him. When you orgasm it rips through you, your thighs tightening around Yoongi’s hips as you hit your peak and cum hard, and the feeling of it has Yoongi cursing and bending forwards to shove his face in your neck and kiss the salt-sweat taste he finds there as he falls off the edge. He cums wet inside you, keeps rolling his hips through it all, lets his cum mix with yours and watches the way you just keep taking it, even when your whole body is trembling from how much it is.

And when Yoongi calls you a good girl, you don’t snap back like you normally would, don’t deride his praise. You bask in it, as tired as you are, letting out a soft noise when he pulls his softening cock out of you, unbothered by the wet patches on your sheets and how the whole room stinks of sex. When he moves to lift you, to get you clean, you go easily and without argument, every one of your honed edges dulled, and you make no move to sharpen them again, to drag them over Yoongi in the way he’s so familiar with by now. Even when you’ve lifted out of your haze and you’re back in the moment, the way you watch Yoongi is no less calm than normal, but still different.

“Stay.”

He’s in the middle of reaching for his boots, discarded on the floor, a discordant note on the clear floor. You’re wearing clean underwear and a loose t-shirt and you’re looking at him with something verging on surprise, like you hadn’t expected to see him moving to pull his shoes back on to leave.

He hadn’t been planning to.

“Just moving them out of the way,” says Yoongi, putting them upright by the base of your chair, and then he makes his way back to you. You don’t attempt to hide your pleasure that he’s listened to you, pulling him onto the bed despite the fact he’s still dressed.

“I don’t cuddle,” he says, even as you tuck yourself into the crook of his arm, and he shifts to make it more comfortable for you.

You press your face into the hollow of his neck, touch your nose against his throat, breathing in the smell of sweat that still lingers—because you’re shower soft and fresh but he isn’t, and weirdly enough, you seem to enjoy it. Seem to enjoy that contrast, the one that’s always existed between you, Yoongi immersed in blood and sweat and tears while you’re away from it, one degree of separation from it all. “You know, I like it when you do things for me.”

Normally he’d protest, say that he doesn’t do things for you, but the truth is that he does, even if he’s only just admitting it to himself.

“Like that time you killed someone for me,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers tighten, soft skin of your waist yielding under his touch.

“I kill a lot of people.”

You let out a laugh against his skin, quietly amused. “Just admit it. You like me, Min Yoongi.”

A pause.

Then: “Against my better judgement, I do.”

And he does. Even if you’re irritating and maddening, he does like you, and not just because of the work you do for him. He thinks that even if you weren’t so good at your job that he’d find himself here anyway, caught in this push and pull you have, magnetised.

“No need to sound so begrudging,” you say, but there’s no real annoyance behind your words.

Yoongi finds that he likes that note in your voice, like you’re indulging him and his stubbornness and you’re unmoved by it. He hums in response. Feels the way you shift back, lean on your elbows to look down at him, lips curled up at the corners.

“Kiss me.”

Not a question. A demand. Yoongi stares you down, just for a second, before he lifts a hand and weaves a hand back into your hair, tilting your mouth against his. He can feel your self satisfied smile against his lips and he doesn’t mind it at all, sees it spread across your face when you eventually pull back, all flushed lips and warm eyes.

You’re still sharp, a weapon in your own right, but you willingly hand yourself over to be held in his skilled hands, let yourself be worn smooth by his touch. He weaves his fingers between your own, your palm soft and warm against his, and he likes this. That you’re unafraid of what he is, that the fact he’s a killer isn’t something that scares you or thrills you.

Yoongi likes your work. He likes that he knows he can trust you. He likes that he knows of your loyalty, to the people you choose and to yourself, your unwavering principles, as unpredictable as they might seem. He likes that you’re unashamed to be yourself and to be confident, no matter how people react to that cockiness.

What he likes even better than all that is this, though: the way you’re pressed against his side, evidence of his touch written into your skin. The feeling of your hand in his. Despite all the odds, all the months of drawn out and simmering exasperation and tension coming to a head like this, Yoongi likes you.

“I’m not going to give you a discount, you know,” you say suddenly, and for the first time since you met, Yoongi allows himself to laugh at you.

“I’d be offended if you did.”

(You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You love to irritate him just for the hell of it, because you think it’s funny and you love knowing that you can rile him up—but he can rile you up too, and you both know it.

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

tagging: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove @gyukult @swinginpicklesuitcaseapricot @kpopheart2 @loveyoongles @muzikabijou @katbonv @jaxx-7 @yeojaa

#btswritingcafe #houseofddaeng #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #btsguild #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi x you #bts #bts x reader #yoongi #yoongi scenario #yoongi imagine #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #let's see if this appears in the tags this time! fingers crossed!#wow can you believe I wrote like 4k words of smut or something close to that

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rainy-day-coffee · 3 years

Note

Vice dorm leaders with a fem!s/o who doesn't care about her, but cares hella for other people? She is someone extremely lovely, but doesn't care for go to extremes to help someone?

Make sure to take care of yourself everyone! Go drink water! Or tea! Or better yet, coffee! Go eat something too!

If this isn’t exactly what you wanted, don’t hesitate to send in another request! On an entirely different note, I just realized that if I wrote a confession scenario for Jamil it would contain a ton of angst, with some ending fluff in an attempt to heal the wounds. Or maybe more angst to squeeze lemon juice in said wounds.

Vice dorm leaders with a caring fem!s/o who does not care for herself

Trey knows the feeling of burnout at the expense of others. He doesn’t tend to put the needs of others before his own, but he is used to leaving them for later if the situation calls for it. As vice dorm leader, he always has a steady stream of stress flowing all around him. It’s one of the last things he would wish upon anyone.

His dorm always seems to have a new source of trouble. You always try and lessen his burden even when he tells you it isn’t necessary. It melts him on the inside!

He’s thoroughly heart-broken when he realizes you care for everyone but yourself. He knew you had a tendency to prioritize others, he just hadn’t thought it would be this severe.

In his free time, he’ll sit you down and have a long talk with you. He needs to know why exactly you feel the need to do this and what he can do to help. If you aren’t confident enough to tell him, he’ll respect your wishes.

If you thought he radiated parent aura before, he’ll radiate nearly twice as much now. He sends you text messages throughout the day to remind you of things! For example, “If Ace and Deuce get into trouble again, let them. Riddle can chew them out later”

He’ll gently pull you away from draining situations you put yourself in. If you so desire, you can return to them later. For now, how about you help him bake a bit? It’s a great way to relieve some stress!

Your thinking and way of being is almost the exact opposite of his. Why are you willing to give people everything and not take anything for yourself? Why do you push your own importance to the bottom of the list? That is, if it’s even there in the first place. You absolutely baffle him to no end.

Growing up in the slums taught him to put his needs first. He acts solely to benefit himself, or so he says. That mindset carried on into your relationship too. For the long run, you both will learn from each other. Ruggie will teach you that it’s okay to think about yourself. Everything you do will benefit someone important to him, you. You’ll teach him that not every act of kindness needs something in return. He won’t be indebted to anyone, especially not to you.

Every time you offer to help him with anything his heart explodes with happiness! It’s a strange feeling, but he loves it nonetheless!

He does get a little jealous when you help others. He knows it’s in your nature but he’s a little on the greedier side.

The moment Ruggie sees you biting off more than you can chew, he will sit you down and make you rest. You’ve done this countless times for him, it’s only fair if he does it for you too.

He’ll help you with absolutely everything you ask! Your happiness is something that makes him happy too. It’s well worth the investment!

He’s guilty of exploiting you. Long before your relationship blossomed into what it is today, he would ruthlessly watch you diligently completing tasks for others. Even he would give you things to do! You were always willing to help after all. It didn’t matter if he threw a tsunami of different chores at you, you’d always do your best to complete them. It amused him greatly. A caring hard-worker with no strings attached? How excellent.

That way of thinking changes a bit when he starts to develop feelings for you. It changes even more when you two start dating.

Loves that you support his club activities! He likes inviting you to help him too. The Mountain Appreciation Club now has two members!

If he sees people dump their problems on you, he’ll send his dear brother after them. While Floyd has fun squeezing them, Jade will invite you to take a nice long break with him instead.

He knows that talking sometimes isn’t the best way to get things to happen. He’s aware that changing the way someone thinks is also something that will take time.

If you refuse to put your needs first, he’ll request things from you whilst simultaneously canceling all other plans. Those requests will simply include things he knows you enjoy doing and things he knows you need to attend to. You’ll do it for him no doubt, correct?

You managed to worm your way into a cold eel’s heart, you now must deal with the “selfish” love he gives. Though that love doesn’t seem all that selfish.

At first he was very hesitant to let you into his life, much his less heart. People who were “kind” to him always hide their true intentions until the last moment. Usually, they would only be kind to him to get to Kalim, something Jamil always had to be wary of.

He’s used to people asking him for his services, not someone asking to help him with them. Although Kalim is always willing to help him, Jamil can never accept, not that he wants to in the first place. It’s a different case with you.

Mainly, he’ll give you tasks the two of you can do together. It’s a way to squeeze in more time with you! Apart from that, he prefers to do his work by himself. He doesn’t want to rope you into his life as a servant.

Jamil isn’t the best at speaking about emotions and such. When he realizes just how little you take for yourself, he feels pained but he won’t say anything about it. Instead, he takes it upon himself to help you just as you’ve helped him.

As hypocritical as he thinks it is, he wants you to take care of your own needs and desires too. Ever since Kalim granted him more freedom, he’s been trying to do the same. Although you two are different cases, it’s a lesson both of you can learn together.

The moment you become his girlfriend, he technically starts to stalk you. He used to do so before the relationship started as, but whether you knew that or not is a subject for another day.

After watching you for a while, he starts to notice a pattern. Not one he likes either.

Rook sees the beauty in everything and everyone. He has a way of convincing people to see that beauty too. He’ll slowly make sure you extend that kindness you give to others to yourself. As eccentric as he is, he’s also a very patient man.

He’ll verbally remind you and ask what you really want to do. This includes the topic of his requests too. If he ever asks for something that you really don’t want to do, he’ll drop it. He tells you it’s your right to put your needs first.

“Mon amour, all people in the world are important and worth loving. That includes yourself. If you ever find yourself forgetting this, I will be here to remind you every day!”

He’s a very giving lover himself! He goes out of his way to do many things for you!

He doesn’t want you to change who you are, he just wants you to be kinder to yourself!

More likely than not, you’re some sort of friend to Idia. You probably met him through Ortho!

He’s very grateful to you, you’re one of the first real-life people who has tried to befriend Idia. You’ve probably tried to get Idia to practice some more healthy eating habits and the like too. Apart from that, you also try to understand both of them.

Ortho sees you as a best friend, maybe even an older sister! He doesn’t like to see such negative thoughts concerning your well-being.

Just like he does for his older brother, he tries to get you to practice some healthier habits. More specifically, he makes you promise to help yourself! It’s his way of showing that he cares for you greatly.

Be wary, he pops up randomly during the day to remind you to take care of yourself! If he sees you helping a friend, he will help you himself. Afterwards, he’ll drag you to rest! You spend lots of energy both physically and mentally, you need to recharge! Not even Ortho can run for forever without recharging his battery!

Lean on him! He’s very reliable, his brother has given him many different features!

He’s met people such as yourself before. Right off the bat he knew how you handled yourself.

As much as he appreciates the amount of effort you put into helping him, he most likely will shoot you down from trying in the first place. He’s an old one, he can do such work easily you can rest assured!

He constantly tells you to enjoy your youth. Go on! Do crazy things! Be selfish!

Lilia will be your personal cheerleader on your journey!

In all seriousness though, he’ll have a talk with you about this. Among other things, he’ll gently encourage you to push yourself forward. Though it will be a long process, stamping out the thoughts of needing to help others without helping yourself is the first step.

Nobody dares to ask too much of you. The vice leader of Diasomnia may look cute on the outside but he does have an intense aura surrounding him when he wants to.

He likes to rope you into spontaneous adventures in the great outdoors! It’s a perfect get-away from the stress at school. It also gives you some time to sort out your thoughts.

Slowly but surely he’ll make you realize your worth is just as-if not even more-important as those around you.

#twsited wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst headcanons #trey clover #trey clover x reader #ruggie bucchi #ruggie bucchi x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader #jamil viper #jamil viper x reader #rook hunt #rook hunt x reader #ortho shroud #lilia vanrouge #lilia vanrouge x reader

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mk-wizard · 3 years

Text

Hellboy Films: Why animated did better than live action

Hello, friends

Many of you may not know this, but out of all the superhero comics, Hellboy is my favourite. What can I say? As a little girl, I was a misfit, so a misfit hero like Hellboy was right up my alley and the concept of someone being born to be bad to turn out so good because he had a loving father to show him the way is beautiful. My introduction to Hellboy was the first live action film in the 2000s and at the time, I liked it, but then I started reading the comics. Once I got to know the real Hellboy and series, the more I fell in love with the comics yet at the same time, the more I go to not like the live action films and not just because I found the sequel and reboot in 2019 bad. There are many problems with the three live action Hellboy films which rub me the wrong way and not simply because they are live action. Most superheroes started off as cartoon drawings, but were well done in live action, but Hellboy missed all the notes. Now as a mature adult woman who is experienced at storytelling as well as analyzing, I rewatched some of the live action and I took time to watch the animated films. The difference in quality is night and day (no pun intended and I will give links to the animated films because they are stunning). I will now tell you all where the animated films went right and how live action went all wrong.

1- Hellboy’s design was better in the animated films. - I am more than willing to be forgiving when it comes to taking artistic liberties. Sometimes, the results can be beautiful, but in the case live action Hellboy, it was all wrong and I have to blunt, we can do so much better with graphic design now than just simply taking a tall buff man, putting make up and props on him. I hate sounding mean, but both versions just look like a guy wearing a cosplaying as Hellboy. It would have been much better if Hellboy was completely and entirely CGI or perhaps even an elaborate puppet costume like the ones used in the Jim Henson films. It may sound like enough to give the hero red skin, a stone hand, horns, a tail, cloven feet (which are covered), amber eyes, pointed ears and be very tall. He STILL looks too human compared to the comic and compared to what movie makers can do, it’s lackluster.

Now, we turn to the animated version which did more than just the obvious. Hellboy isn’t inhuman looking just because of the said traits before. He is inhuman because of his proportions and shape especially his face. It is a confirmed fact that he is not just not human. He is ugly and animalistic looking. His features are the combination of a satyr and gorilla especially when you look at how thin his legs, jaw, shoulders, posture and so on. Also, his eyes aren’t just amber. He has no pupils, no schlera (the white part) and no irises. The entire eye is nothing, but amber which makes them disturbing to look at. He cannot simply cover his face, tail and hand, then simply blend in. He cannot even wear most human clothes hence why Hellboy is always shirtless and his hooves are exposed. In other words, animated Hellboy looks like Hellboy.

2- The animated plot was clean, to the point with no filler. - While I admit the first live action film kept it pretty simple, I find that it still had a lot of filler and too much subplot. If you ever read a Hellboy comic, you will know right off the bat that Mike Mignola is a master at the art of pacing without fluff. Yes, he respect that character development and buildup takes time, but he doesn’t drag things. Ever. And he does not make everything so angsty either. Yes, he hints that the characters have issues, trauma, emotional pain and at times, depression, but he did so without making them into whiners. For the most part, the cast and hero would pick themselves up and do what they had to like adults. If anything, they were also each other’s emotional support and they don’t hate people. The animated version captured that completely and even showed us that the cast did not consist of malcontents who played the “poor me” card to death. In the beginning of Blood and Iron, Abe, Liz and Hellboy were happily talking about a bakery they had found once which reminds us that with all their hardships they do seek and accept joy in life even from something as simple as good pastries.

Moreover, the plot of the film was to the point with some amount of subplots, but without getting complicated and without the subplots contradicting each other. Everything had a way of coming together neatly and even though we did sometimes get surprises, they didn’t feel like filler. They felt like things that were always there, but now, we are aware of them. Most importantly, there was no cheap or silly selling point tactics like relationship drama or the stereotypical father-son bickering (more on this later). Hellboy is not that kind of story.

3- The subtle messages and morals in the animated films were deeper and better. - Being the mature adult I am now, I can say that the first Hellboy really was just Beauty and the Beast while using the Hellboy cast instead and it presented in the message in all of the outdated and bad ways. Don’t get me wrong, I find the idea of Hellboy falling in love romantic and I admit that underneath all of the darkness and action, everything about Hellboy comes back to love. However, it is not romantic love where the end all be all is to be accepted by humanity by getting into a relationship with a human, then turning into a handsome prince even if only metaphorically. The deeper and more important kind of love Hellboy tries to teach is self love how you are regardless how strange people deem you. If you have done something with your life and made something of yourself, then it is ok to be you and are already more loved than you realize. The other kind of love that has always been important to the series is family unity. You see, Hellboy, Liz and Abe are like siblings to each other and Prof. Bruttenholm is an incredibly loving father figure to all of them namely Hellboy who he raised since he was a baby.

He made the big red guy into the man he is today. In fact, even as an adult, Hellboy and Bruttenholm are a very sweet and kind father and son duo. They are not at each other’s throats, they don’t snark at each other or are incapable of agreeing on anything. There is no spite, there is no anger, there is no resentment and there is no ingratitude. There is only love and honestly, THIS is the love that ought to be showcased more in the films.

With that all said and done, the animated films also had their subtle deep messages which we not only understand clearly, but we also appreciate more. In the first movie Sword of Storms, it was all about finding a balance between persevering and knowing when to let go. In other words, keep doing what you must if it is still relevant and making a difference, but if it isn’t and is the reason you’re stuck, by all means quit. There are many roads to closure. In the second one Blood and Iron, it was clear from the beginning that the message was to not underestimate the elderly. They may not be as strong as they once were, but their experience and wisdom gets them and you out of tough spots. They have been through everything before and know what to do. By all means, aid them and help them, but don’t treat them like helpless babies. I also have to say that when I look at the messages the two animated films were telling us, they are not only clearer, but pretty underrated ones too. In the case of the live action films, the messages were muddled if not done before.

In short, I look at the animated films and I’m impressed. If another live action Hellboy does come along, I hope that this time, it will be done right and I really don’t want to see relationship, gore fests, snark or family drama again. Of course, this all my opinion and I would love to hear all of yours.

Thank you for reading and stay safe.

EDIT: Wouldn’t you know it? I forgot the link to all things Hellboy Animated. Here it is https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hellboy_Animated

#hellboy #mike mignola #abraham sapien #liz sherman #abe sapien #professor bruttenholm #kate corrigan #roger #dark horse #comics #animated #film #movie #love #quality #demon #half demon #hero #superhero

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ezzydean · 3 years

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“ i could have lost you today! do you know what that would have done to me? ” - Peter & Stiles

Stiles manages to hold his tongue until they’re safely tucked away in Peter’s apartment. Away from their enemies and allies alike. Away from the world that seems so determined to take every last bit of Stiles’ happiness and chew it into mush before spitting it out to dissolve on the concrete of the abandoned strip mall parking lot that is his life, complete with weeds struggling to survive as they spring up through the cracks and crawl across the pitted concrete.

So maybe he needs to take a few deep breaths and step back from the cache of flowing words and artful descriptions his creative writing class has tucked away in his mind.

It doesn’t matter what words he uses. He’s angry and frustrated and on edge and the way Peter is looking at him like he wants to pin him down and gobble him up is not doing anything other than make him even angrier.

“That was dangerous, Peter. Dangerous and stupid and ridiculous and if I’m saying it was stupid? Me. The undisputed king of doing stupid shit without thinking it through? You know it was fucking stupid.”

“Oh please.” Peter rolls his eyes as he saunters towards his bedroom to change out of his dirty clothes. “I’m a werewolf, darling. There is very little in this world that can even leave a scratch that doesn’t heal within a few hours.”

“Yeah and one of those things is a band of pissed off hunters who have gone rogue, no longer follow a code, and are systematically taking out smaller packs one by one.” Stiles doesn’t bother to raise his voice. One: because he’s tired. Two: because he knows that Peter can hear him no matter where he is in the apartment, even if he whispered.

He throws himself on to the couch, spreading out over it so Peter will have to either move him, sit on him, or sit in the chair off to the side when he comes back. Yes he’s being a little bit petty. But he had just watched Peter throw himself into a fight with a bunch of off the rail hunters who were hellbent on destroying anything and everything supernatural that they could. It doesn’t matter that Peter managed to not get hurt this time. It doesn’t matter that Issac and Derek had swooped in with an almost eerily synchronized move to pull the attention off of Peter.

Stiles had still seen it. He had seen the blade oozing with the twisted version of wolfsbane these particular hunters had been known for. He’d seen it centimeters away from Peter’s chest before he had been grabbed by Isaac and yanked out of the way. A millisecond later and that blade would have been in Peter’s heart. He’s going to be having nightmares about Isaac being too late for weeks. About Isaac reaching out and the blade already in Peter’s chest. About Peter on the ground bleeding and gasping and fading away because this particular wolfsbane blend is made to be quick and vicious and damn near impossible to burn out of a werewolf’s system.

Stiles is good. He can do a lot of shit. And maybe, maybe, if they were mated or bonded or had claimed each other or whatever he’d be able to save Peter even on the brink of death.

But they’re not.

He appreciates being the one to warm Peter’s bed and he knows that neither of them are with anyone else. But they’re not really even with each other so it’s only a small consolation.

Peter looms over him and Stiles peels his eyes open and glares up at him. He doesn’t let his eye rake over Peter the way he wants to. Doesn’t let himself give in to these instincts to curl around Peter and protect him.

Peter doesn’t want that. Peter doesn’t want Stiles to take up that position in his life. In his bed? Sure. On his side in a fight? Definitely. By his side in life? No thank you. Peter’s made it pretty clear where Stiles stands in that regard.

He gestures for Stiles to move his legs and when Stiles refuses Peter raises his brows. “What has you in such a mood? I barely even got a scratch on me and the hunters were put in their place. Everyone wins. Except the hunters, who are dead now.”

“Barely got a scratch?” Stiles hops to his feet, rage flooding him so fast that Peter actually leans back when Stiles leans towards him. “Barely a scratch? You were, quite literally, a hairbreadth away from death, Peter. If Isaac hadn’t grabbed you when he did you wouldn’t be here now.”

“But I am. Here and unharmed.” Peter reaches out for him and Stiles bats his hands away. “It was a risk, Stiles. We all take them every time we go into a fight.”

“Not all of us take unnecessary risks, Peter. You’re the one who taught me that unnecessary risks are just that: unnecessary.” Peter crosses his arms across his chest and takes a step back from Stiles.

“Be that as it may I still don’t see what has you so upset about this whole thing. So I took an unnecessary risk. What is the big deal?”

“The big deal? The big deal is that I could have lost you today! Do you know what that would have done to me? What losing you would do to me?”

Peter stares at him for a moment, words sinking in, before he scoffs and looks off towards the windows.

“You’d survive just fine without me. I’m sure you wouldn’t even miss me for that long. There are plenty of others out there who would fall over themselves to be with you,” Peter says quietly.

“I don’t care. I don’t want any of them. I want you, Peter. I don’t care how many people out there would be willing to be with me. I didn’t choose any of them. I chose you.”

Peter’s lip curls as he lets out a growl. “Oh, please. I’m not a choice. You know it. I know it. Hell even the hunters who come to try and kill us all know that I am, at best, a convenient fuck for you.”

Stiles’ mouth is already open to snap back when the mention of hunters makes him snap it shut. The hunters had been talking amongst themselves just before Peter had leapt into the middle of them and the whole plan had gone out the window. Is that what they had been talking about? Is that what they had said?

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“Peter.” He waits until Peter drags his gaze from the windows and looks at him. “You’ve been my choice since before I even knew you were an option.”

“What?”

Well. This was either going to end in some really amazing sex and a new stage of their whatever they’ve been doing or it was going to ruin the best thing he’s ever had. But he is the undisputed king of doing stupid shit without thinking it through after all.

“You’ve been my choice since before I even knew you were an option,” he repeats. “The only reason I haven’t given in to my spark’s need to bond with you, to claim you as mine, is because you’ve never seemed to want anything more than a convenient fuck out of me.”

Peter’s eyes widen at ‘bond’ and ‘claim’ even as he winces at having the ‘convenient fuck’ part thrown back at him. He stares at Stiles and Stiles knows Peter is listening to his heartbeat and subtly scenting the air to measure the truth of Stiles’ words. Stiles learned a long time ago how to control his heartbeat and mask his scent but he had promised to never do it while the two of them were alone and fuck Peter is so blind if he can’t see all the ways Stiles bends for him where he’s steel for everyone else.

“You’ve never wanted that,” Peter finally whispers. “You’ve never—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “No.”

“I’ve wanted it since the day you gave me a key to your apartment and told me you trusted me with it. You. Peter Hale. Trusting me with the key to your apartment. The key to your safe—”

Well shit.

Peter was blind to how far Stiles was willing to bend for him and Stiles was blind to how much Peter had already bent by him by giving Stiles his trust.

“As much as I loathe to admit it about myself,” Peter says softly as he reaches out for Stiles. “We’re both idiots when it comes to each other, aren’t we?”

Stiles collapses into Peter’s arms with a laugh. “Yeah,” he huffs as he buries his face against Peter’s neck. “But I’m your idiot. And you’re my idiot. So I guess it works out in the end.”

“I guess it does, darling. I guess it does.”

#teen wolf #steter #stiles stilinski #peter hale #wolfy writing #steter fic #prompt #cattatonically

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river-bottom-nightmare · 3 years

Text

zatanna said the word anchor point, and that's where she lost dick. anchor points and multiversal constants and universal stability. galaxies shattering into pieces behind his eyelids before swirling together tighter and more whole, before dick would inevitably wake, the lights from that goddamn recurring dream still flashing in his mind.

constantine was looking at him with sympathy, pity. dick wanted to wipe that look off his face with bleach. with acid. he normally wouldn't consider fighting john constantine, since he's always been able to sense the sheer power bubbling under the man's drunken and sloppy exterior. though, apparently, that ability to sense was what could possibly give him the edge in the fight he was imagining, but would never happen.

there were only a few people in the room, but someone would rip him off the man. maybe clark, whose features were painted with worry and concern. that, and the lights from the galaxies outside the watchtower windows, the eternity of the galaxy covering the entire room in a gentle wash that dick had been able to ignore for all of his life, excluding the past couple of hours. maybe diana, who was starting to look at dick with a bit of fear. not of him, but for him, and for everybody else. dick couldn't blame her. she had more than enough experience with powerful men who made themselves god. the only difference was that dick would rather let himself burn up from the flame that was inside of him before becoming whatever they said he was.

it's not about becoming, raven whispered in his mind. her presence was gentle, familiar. it took a certain length of self control for dick not to latch onto her, about the length of rope needed to make a noose. you already are. there are no new powers or abilities or anything that will happen to you. you always were a nexus being, and you always will be. it's just a part of you.

"just a part of him." just a part of him? like how wally's slowly failing heart had just been a part of him? or how jason's pit-induced fits of rage were just a part of him? or how cass' assassin training she fell back on no matter how hard she tried to override it was just a part of her?

bruce hadn't said anything. actually, zatanna had stopped talking, not that dick had been fully listening in the first place, and everyone was lost in their own quiet thoughts. but bruce's silence had been the most stomach-churning, the most horrific.

dick knew bruce didn't like metas. knew it because of the sighs he used to make due to the league's foolishness back when dick was robin, running a hand through dick's ruffled hair and telling him he was so glad you're not like them, dick, they're exhausting. he knew it because of bruce's fury every time someone powerful fought in gotham and destroyed the city, rubble on the ground as they went off, completely unconcerned of the damage they left behind. he knew it because of the extensive files in the batcomputer detailing each league-affiliated and known meta's weakness, or how their strength could be flipped like a playing card, until dick was almost convinced being a meta made one weaker. (according to bruce, it did.)

bruce didn't like metas. and dick wasn't a meta, but no one knew what he was anyway. no one but the magic users, whose vague explanations told them they weren't really sure what he was either.

"you're connected to the universe, dick," zatanna sighed. "the multiverse comes together in you. and as much as i don't like it, we need you."

all eyes were on him. dick was looking at his feet, but he could still feel them. that was one of his new "powers," right? knowledge of the multiverse? a gross misuse and bitter accusation, dick knew. but he couldn't get the fear out of his mind, and fear left unchecked grew fuzzy with mold until it disintegrated into anger.

"you need me?" dick said hoarsely. "the multiverse, what, comes together in me? you do realize what utter bullshit that sounds like?"

"i know it don't seem all that good, but trust me," constantine said. "it's a thing. it's real. you are one."

"you said these people are supposed to be beings of power," dick argued back. "so why aren't you a nexus being? or raven? or fucking ra's al ghul. i'm sure as hell not a being of power. i'm human."

"i suppose that's exactly what makes you one," diana murmured. "i have met many powerful men in my life. i've found the ones that i respected the most were the ones that were most in touch with their humanity."

this was crazy. this was crazy. dick felt like the particles that came together to make him were blowing away in confusion until he was one big cloud of unrecognizable light, before he was scattered in every direction. how the hell was he supposed to be one of the things that kept the universe together when he couldn't even keep his own damn self together?

avoiding bruce wasn't working. dick just felt like he was about to fray at the edges. so, gathering up his courage, dick turned to face the man and quietly, in a voice more delicate than china, said, "b?"

batman didn't look at him. batman didn't even look up. but batman did speak.

"alternate universe superman. he called you the multiversal constant. the one thing he could depend on."

out of the corner of his eye, dick could see clark nodding a little.

bruce continued. "you named yourself after a mythological figure who was known as the catalyst of change. or the great rebuilder. and kryptonians we've met have said how well you embody the role."

"it's...it's just a name, bruce."

"you, of all people, know it's not," clark said.

"so what am i supposed to do, huh?" dick whirled around. "fight this battle zee's recruiting me for that's entirely above my skill level. become some sort of, what did you say, universal anchor? i don't know the first thing about this shit, and i don't know what it'll do to me!"

"you're scared," bruce said, always willing to cut right to the chase with everyone but himself.

dick didn't answer.

"raven, establish a mental link between me and nightwing."

raven nodded, then with a flutter of her hands, dick felt a presence inside his head. it scared him to realize how easily he accepted it, how easily he had always accepted it. he never understood how unusual that was until now.

of course i'm scared, dick whispered into the mind link. i've gone my entire life knowing exactly who i was, what i could do, what i strive to be. and in the span of one day, that's all gone.

then what do you plan to do about it? bruce asked.

he said it so simply, so easily. like discovering something this monumental about himself was just another tricky case or difficult puzzle to solve. dick would have an easier time plucking each and every star in the galaxy and making a mosiac out of them.

raven's hood was lowered, but dick could still feel her eyes on him. constantine's features were still dripping in pity, zee looked imploring. diana was looking at him with hesitating acceptance, bruce was unreadable as always.

but clark. clark was looking at him with steady eyes and and a kind smile. he looked knowing, quietly vindicated. it was as if he'd known there was something...off about dick. something two hopscotches and a backbend away from "special," but close enough. something that had led to clark giving dick a piece of his people's legacy, and trusting him to fulfill it to the best of his ability.

clark wasn't scared of him at all. but clark couldn't make up for bruce.

"will you help?" zatanna asked.

everything inside dick was itching to say yes. jumping at the chance to help his friends, aching to be useful. it was a response he'd carefully cultivated years ago, and pushing it down was an almost physical ache.

but the stardust behind his eyes wasn't so easily forgotten. the hook behind his navel that seemed to drag him into the fabric of a universe that dick couldn't comprehend still dug into him. the world was spinning and the stars were turning and the earth was tumbling over itself, all of them in an effort to stop their twisting and turning and to right themselves once and for all. but dick wasn't moving. dick was completely, utterly still.

"i don't know," he said.

Dick Grayson Anniversary Week ‘21, Day 6: Universal Constant

"i don't know," the author says, because she truly has no idea what the fuck she just wrote. i started imagining nexus dick grayson and this just spilled out onto the page. it makes absolutely no sense, but there are some nice sentences in there that i don't want to get rid of, so hopefully yall can somewhat make sense of this ramen soup of a fic.

tag list: @woahjaybird @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan @screennamealreadyused @subtleappreciation @bikoncon @catxsnow @pricetagofficial @maplumebleue-blog-blog @sundownridge @thatsthewhump @dickgraysonweek

#scribbles from the swamp #dickgraysonweek2021 #dick grayson #nightwing #nexus beings #nexus dick grayson #dick grayson headcanon #dick grayson fic #nightwing headcanon #nightwing fic #nexus beings headcanon #nexus beings fic #nexus dick grayson headcanon #nexus dick grayson fic #dc #dc headcanon #dc fic

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chibiwritesstuff · 3 years

Note

Hey! I'm the one that asked for the Lilia and Malleus ask. I love what you wrote so much man! (My poor heart died 😂) I am a big sucker for happy endings tho. So when you get the time can I ask for a happy ending ?

Ha, my laptop thought they won against me but I came out victorious (even though I took literal months to publish this.) In my defense, all the versions I’ve written for this didn't suit my tastes (not that this is any good either.) Hope this makes justice for such a long wait. Here’s the sequel/good ending for the angst fic.

Now, let’s enter this twisted wonderland~

Walking past the now dying garden that used to flourish in Ramshackle dorm, he sighed as he reminisces about the times you two stroll and spends time together. It's been years since you’ve left NRC, He and Lilia are about to graduate tomorrow, Silver will be a fourth-year student and the new vice-dorm leader while Sebek will be in his third year and the dorm leader much to the said fae’s surprise. He chuckled at the memory of how honored and tearful the young fae is upon being selected as its prefect.

“I have so much to tell you, (y/n).” He whispered at the wind.

“Hey, Tsunotarou!” The familiar voice of the tanuki cat being called that long-forgotten name.

“Hey, Tsunotarou! Are we going on a walk again tonight?” You smiled at him, your hand extended as an invitation.

“Grimm, wasn’t it?” He crouched down to pet the said creature.

“Hey! I’m not a pet!” The flames on his ears flared, responding to his emotions. “What are you doing here, anyway? The roses are all dead.”

A wave of sadness flashed in his eyes as another memory resurfaced. Returning his gaze towards the dead flowerbed, he let the memory linger.

“Thanks for the seeds, Tsunotarou!” You excitedly began digging and planting said seeds. “To commemorate our friendship, these roses will be our friendship roses!”

“Yes, they are…” His hand ceased from moving before sitting down the ground. “It’s all gone…”

“By the way, I never managed to get the courage to ask you but why did (y/n) went back home crying that time?”

“I was but a foolish man…” The young heir steered his gaze towards the night sky before closing his eyes. “Had I just enjoyed the present than worry about the future, perhaps they would still be here and smile brightly like they always had.”

“I’m sure if you say sorry, they’ll forgive you.” Grimm responded nonchalantly. “They said saying sorry is the first step to forgiveness… or something like that.”

He chuckled and stood up heading towards his dorm. “If things were only that easy…”

That night, he slept and dreamt about you two walking in the bed of roses you’ve grown at Ramshackle. Loving every single moment that you two get to spend subconsciously knowing that once he wakes up, he’ll return to the harsh reality of you not being by his side.

“Tsunotaro, I think I have fallen for you.” You quietly said warmth spreading across your cheeks. “Will you let me stay by your side till the last breath I take?”

This is all but a dream… so I can keep dreaming, right?

“Yes, only if you’ll let me do the same.”

“Really?!” Joy showed throughout your being which made him smile back. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow! Happy graduation!”

He woke up gasping for air. That dream sounded too good to be true and yet… he can’t help but be hopeful. Putting on a happy face, he got dressed on what Lilia laid out for him and this time, everybody remembered to tell him the time of the celebration. He can’t help but laugh just thinking what your reaction would have been about the changes of the students' behavior towards him after he tried to socialize better. Heading towards the stage getting his diploma as odd as it is, he acted formally as he mingled with the rest of the dorm leaders until a voice echoed throughout the area.

“Tsunotarou!” Receiving a hug from the back as the voice caught him off guard, he turned still not believing what he’s seeing. “Congrats on graduating!”

“(y/n)?” His voice faltered, overwhelmed with so many emotions. “How? Why? I –”

“Uh-oh… Lilia! Your king here is having an information overload!” You called which made the said fae laugh out loud.

“How are you here?” He finally managed to ask. “The mirror –”

“Ah, that would be my doing…” Idia whispered but managed to catch everyone’s attention. “It was an accident! I was messing around to make a teleporter so I can just teleport to the store than having to leave the dorm but it ended up making people travel through dreams then I managed to talk to (y/n). Then we both decided we might as well try to make travel here and back to their world possible.”

“Looks like you did meet me once upon a dream, yeah?” You grinned at the joke about his ancestor’s song.

He merely hugged you, savoring each second of being around your arms. “I don’t have anything ready but if you’ll give me a second chance…”

He lets go and kneeled on one knee before looking up to you once more. “Will you be my spouse till the day you draw your last breath?”

Time is but a blink of an eye for fae and before he knew it, the Star Sending is happening once again. He was happy when Silver and Sebek were chosen to be Star Gazers albeit the mentioned students aren’t. He strummed his electric guitar with no particular music in mind as he lets his mind wander until his gaze dropped on a familiar mug.

“Happy Birthday, Lilia!” You grinned as you handed him a mug that said “No. 1 Gamer Dad” on it. “Hope you like it!”

His lips curled into a faint smile as he remembered that day. It's been a year since you left and yet it felt like it was just yesterday. Letting go of the instrument, he walked towards the mug and lifted it intending to fill it with tomato juice.

“How have you been, little one?” He spoke towards the image of you in his head. “I hope life is treating you better in your world.”

Without me in it… he sighed as sadness filled his chest. If I could change the past, or at least be given another chance… will you give your love to me once more?

“Old m –” Silver cleared his throat before entering. “I mean, Lilia. I’m here to take your wish.”

He took a deep breath before putting a huge smile to face his son. “Ah, yes of course! You know my wish. I wish for both –”

“Stop.”

This surprised the old fae as his son never raised his voice on him. “We both know that that’s not your true wish.”

“Silver, do humor me and just let me finish my wish.” He pouted, swirling the tomato juice in the mug before drinking it.

“Father, we all know how much you love them.” The young knight sighed before taking a seat on a nearby chair. “You always gush about them whenever we eat or do anything.”

“Oh Silver, I appreciate the concern but sometimes you got to let go.” A forlorn smile graced his lips.

“And sometimes you have to be selfish!” Both of them looked surprised at his outburst yet Silver regained his composure and continued. “You love them, right?! Then why not be with them? You took me in out of love, right?”

“There’s a big difference here, Silver.” Lilia rubbed his temple as stress starts to build up.

“What’s the difference? We’re both humans with a short lifespan so you can't use that as an excuse!” His silver eyes narrowing as he gazed upon his father before widening. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

He let out a defeated chuckle before nodding. “You’ve grown so much, Silver. I’m so proud of you, you know?”

“Why? You could have been happily living with them.”

“Because I’m afraid to witness her death if we ever do start a family together.” At last, the older fae began letting his tears fall in front of his son. “I don’t think I’ll be able to survive seeing her pass while I still live on. I want it to last for all eternity but to remove her mortality is too inhumane.”

“I-I’m sorry…” Silver lowered his head, having a little understanding of what he meant. “I didn’t mean to –”

“So, for my wish this Star Sending…” After a pathetic attempt to control his tears, he gulped and continued. “I want to be given another chance to be with them… and this time, I’ll bear the pain of losing them when the time comes.”

A shine of light filled the wishing star confirmed his wish inside the item. Silver walked towards him and let the man cry his heart out in his arms. He both felt sad and honored that Lilia is willing to cry in front of him. He truly hopes that his father’s wish is granted. Bringing out the wishing star, he proclaimed his wish.

“I wish (y/n) can return in twisted wonderland once more.”

“Silver, you didn’t have to waste your wish for this…”

“I don’t mind having a parent like them.” He smiled before heading towards the door with both wishing stars at hand. “They’re a much better cook than you anyway.”

“Hey!”

The day of Star Sending has arrived and everybody is once again by the huge tree behind NRC. It went well without a hitch and Lilia’s phone filled with recordings of Sebek and Silver dancing in perfect sync towards the taiko being played by Jack of Savanaclaw. As all students began returning to their dorms, the bat fae decided to stay a little longer and was given privacy by the rest of the Diasomnia students.

“Catch me, Lilia!” A voice screamed from above.

Turning his attention to the voice’s origin. His eyes widened before extending his arms ready to catch the person. A huge smile on his face as you landed safely into his arms. You let out a sigh of relief as you steadied yourself in his hold.

“Do not question why I was up in the air.” You huffed, glaring at the sky. “Safe landing my ass! I was dropped off 50ft up in the air!”

“My oh my, did you fall in love with me all over again?” He teased as he covertly wiped his tears.

“I saw that and maybe but I would still prefer a much safer landing.” You huffed before smiling at him. “What happened to the ‘I wish for world peace between all creatures’ wish, huh?”

“How did you know?”

“My coworker and I were trying to make a portal to get me back here because I forgot some stuff here to grab and funnily enough those wishing stars became our fuel source to open that portal.” You pulled out your phone and confirmed your arrival with a whole long spiel on how the landing would have killed you if you weren’t caught by Lilia. “But by your wish I assume there’s no need for me to get packing away from here?”

“Yes, if you’ll give me another chance.” He held out his hand, a makeshift flower ring on his palm. “Will you give me the honor of being your significant other?”

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wonderwomanfantasy · 4 years

Text

Internet Hottie

I have no clue what made this fic pop off the way it did but here you go a part two

part one

Enji Todoroki x Camgirl!Reader

warnings: smut, Sex work, cam show, masturbation, cum play, sugar daddy themes, black mail(ish), size kink, dd/lg,

word count: 3,000 (about)

summary: Enji is more than willing to pay the price of a private show if it means he gets to see how cute you are when you moan his name again, little does he know having the real deal right in fornt of him is only a chace encounter away.

“You know most people turn on their cameras for private shows, let me see you too,” you teased slowly running your hands over your arms feeling the fabric of the soft pink cardigin, raising it back up over your bare sholder.

Normally you were a little more careful with accepting private shows, but this pertuclar intrested you. You saw his username pop up almost every show, and he paid a lot of money too, but he never commented, normally guys that finatical about your shows would at least comment hello, or something nasty to get your attention. Not him though. So you were a little curious what exactly he was into, besides, you knew this one wasn’t going to skimp on the payment.

You had approved his request in just a few hours, even if you were still sore from the Endevour toy you’d ridden earler tonight, it wouldn’t kill you to do a little more tonight. You’d just have to makeup some excuse about pulling a muscule picking up heavy boxes or something to your day job.

what if I don’t want to show my face?

The message poped up on screen making you laugh. “ah you think I want to see your face handsome? I’m after something a little lower actually,” you teased.

Suddenly the camera of the mistery man flashed on the cammera pointed at his crotch. You gasped seeing him. He was naked, which wasn’t supprising. but his cock. good lord his cock was huge, bigger than any toy you had, thick around the base with a flushed head such a dark shade of red it was almost purple. his testicles were heavy-looking rested against his thighs wich were easily bigger than your head and coated with corse red hairs.

Are you just going to gape at me?

anouther message to distract you. You snapped your mouth shut and regained your compouser. you were the star here he was the fanboy you couldn’t let the dynamic shift.

“I’ll have you know most guys have to pay good money for me to ogel at their cocks like that, I’m a pretty girl you should feel honored, Do you have like a horse quirk or something?”

I am paying good moeny

fuck. you were still to distracted to come up with anything good. “you can unmute yourself, I want to see if there is a pretty voice to match that goregous cock,” you purred changing the subject. Hopefully, his voice was high pitched or annoying so you could stop drooling over him

“you’re no fun,” you pouted.

Are you always such a brat?

That made you smile, You were getting on his nerves. good. you batted your eye lashes and covered your face with your hand, pretending to be embaressed. “Sorry daddy, I didn’t mean to misbehave what was it you wanted me to do again?”

Enji fidgeted trying to get comfortable in his office chair, painfully aware you could see his smallest movements. your eyes trained on the computer screen, this was far too exposing for his tastes, he didn’t know how you could stoumach thousands of people looking at you like this.

But it was thrilling knowing that it was his cock that made you go completley silent for a few moments. It was his cock that you couldn’t take your eyes off of, maybe that’s what spurred you on. Then againt the moeny didn’t hurt either.

You were so pretty, and soft as ever in a too large pink sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder almost revealing your bare breasts but never doing so fully.

you settled on your knees and lifted the sweater up for him to see the soft skin of your upper thighs and your soft gray cotton panties. They were much less flashy than what you would normally where for a show but they were making Enji go feral.

It felt almost real, like you really were his little girl showing off your honyed cunt just for him. he couldn’t help but wonder if those were the kind of panties you wore in your day to day life. God what he wouldn’t give to breath in the musk of your scent right now.

“you’re cock is twitching so bad Daddy, why don’t you stroke it a little bit?” you prompted. It was true, his cock was painfully hard, begging to be touched,

Are you trying to tell me what to do?

He snapped back and watched you flush and mess whith the hem of your sweater nervously.

“That’s not what I ment, I just wanted to see you touch yourself,” you mumbled. He decided to appease you, he reached down wrapping one large hand around the base of his cock squeezing and causing precum to oze out the top before dibbling down his inflamed head. Like a good girl you watched with wrapped attention as he bobed his hand up and down easing some of the tension in his gut.

“you’re cock is so big, I don’t know if I could fit both of my hands around it,” you breathed

Who’s camming for who here? he typed

“Right! Sorry! what do you want me to do,” It was cute how egar you were to please

take out the Endevour toy and start jerking it off

Your eyes went wide “you aren’t going to make me ride it again are you?” He smiled to himself, where you scared of him? Scared about how much his cock was going to hurt as it ripped through you?

Just jerk it off for now and tell me how good it felt while it was inside of you.

Obedently you centered the toy in front of you and wrapped both your hands around the length slowly working your hands up and down, matching his pace, your small hands could wrap around the tip just fine but parted towards the thicker middle.

“It hurt a lot-” you admited. “-but it was so big it hit all the spots inside of me at once with out even trying, I’m supprised I didn’t squirt it kept hitting my G-spot over and over again. You can’t really see it but theres this vein right at the bottom that bumps my clit when I put it inside,” you described while Enji contuied to touch himself.

From this angel he could see clear down your top, he didn’t know if it was intentional or not but he could see your soft tits bounce and shift with each of your movements and it was hard to focus on anything else

Take off your panties

you pulled away from the toy and slid the soft gray fabric down your thighs. You crossed your legs blocking your soft pussy from veiw. He grunted with agrivation.

show me

“show you what? can’t you see all of me?” you asked sweetly.

show me your pussy or I’ll leave

“don’t leave,” you begged, your eyes went wide and instantly your legs spread showing him your drooling pussy.

“slut,” he mumbled to himself. “you didn’t even bother cleaning up your sopping pussy in between shows,” he growled his hand moving faster as you slid your figners over your lips parting your folds for him to get a close look

Pretty.

“Thank you? should I keep touching the toy or...”

hump it

You laid the Dildo down and carefully straddled it nessling it between your peach fuzz lips. You rested your hands on the bed and slowly started rocking back and forth, your clit rutting against the silicone veins.

How does it feel?

“I bet your cock would feel a lot better, Your cock is warm and moves, and if I was on your cock I get the rest of you. It feels good but at the end of the day plastic is plastic,” you sighed making his cock jump in his hand. it was hard to keep his composure like this. The image of you, real and in his arms slowly rolling your hips against his groin while you looked up at him with those perfect glittery eyes wasn’t helping

And what wold you do with ‘the rest of me’?

“I like kissing,” you muttered, the innocent answer almost took him by surprise.

“but I also think your hands are pretty big, I’d want you to finger me- or you know,”

I don’t know spell it out for me.

“choke me,” you admited. suddenly the fantasy in Enji’s mind dhifted, now you were grinding on his cock with tear filled eyes while he cut of your breathing, his tounge forcing it’s way into your mouth, fuck he wanted to taste you so bad. You had stated clearly and many times that you didn’t do in person meet ups, even if it was just for a date, but there was a chace you’d do it for the right price, and he was willing to pay any number you named right at that moment.

He pulled away from his cock at the last moment to keep himself from cumming too soon. again. His prick flowndered for a moment, searching for friction. you whinned losing your own personal show, but you kept riding the toy like a good obedent little slut.

Cum for me. then show me the mess you make.

You panted and started rutting your hips faster, your eyes glazing over as you chased your release, your mouth formed an O shape and a breathy moan fell from your parted lips as you came. you stayed there for a moment, gathering yourself agian before sitting back and puling up the sweater so he could see the transperent slick coating your thighs and sex.

play with your clit.

you whimpered and reached down between your legs stroking the sensitive bud causing your legs too twitch. must be hard on your poor pussy, going through three orgasums in one night.

He leaned closer, so close his warm breath fogged the computer screen and started fisting his cock again. he really did feel like a teenager, one finding poor for the first time and revleing in that unique voyerisum. It wasn’t long until his own cum was splattering his chest, again.

You watched as it happened with open facination. almost like you’d never seen someone cum so much before. Enji wouldn’t be supprised if he had a more semen than the average man, He was glad to have impressed you.

Leaving was far more awkward than in a live show, you didn’t just decide to close the streem instead he told you he was finished, paid his tab and left the call.

Enji grunted seeing the time. He had spent far to mch time toying with you tonight, there would be hell to pay tomorrow morning when he’d missed out on so much valuable sleep.

It had been a week and he hadn’t tried contacting you again. Not becuase he hadn’t wanted to, he had just been too busy to even entertain the notion of anouther private show.

But today was Wednesday which meant not only did he get off of work early today but also, you would be streaming tonight and he could blow off some steam. Just one more meeting with Hawks and he was free.

Endevour turned the corner heading twards his office when he froze. A familiar frame caught his attention. He trailed his eyes over your form. completely different from what he was used to seeing you in, you were dressed smartly in a black suit and skirt ensemble with sensible black pumps. your hair neatly slicked back from your face. but there was no denying you were the same person.

he watched your knock once on the door before entering. Through the widnow he saw you cross to where Hawks was sitting and hand him a cup of coffee. He had known Keigo was bringing his pa, a woman endevour had never met before, but he should have mentioned his personal assistant was a fucking cam girl. No wonder your schedual matched his so neetly, you were running on hero time.

Enji squared his shoulders and marched in. there was no way you would recognize him. He would stay proffecinoal and do his best to imagine you with clothes on.

“Here, keigo, four cream and seventeen sugars just how you like it,” you said handing your boss his redicoulous coffee order. he smiled and took a sip

“Thanks babe, perfect as always,” he cooed happily and you took a seat beside him waiting for Enedevour to arive.

“those things are going to kill you some day,” you commented watching him take anouther sip of coffee.

“I highly doubt the sugar is going to kill me before the bad guys do,” he teased then the door slamed open and the man of the hour walked in.

“Do you always barge into people’s offices like you own the place Hawks?” Endevour growled before sitting at his desk. You tried not to stare and be unprofessional but it was hard not to. He was just so big, his bulging muscles showed even under his clothes. You thought to last weeks live when you had used the toy themed after him and how sore you were after that. you were right, if you ever fucked him he’d brake you.

“not my fault you were late,” hawks shrugged. The older man glared, he looked about ready to hit your boss. an understandable feeling.

“whatever, lets get started. The-” Just as endevour began to speak Hawks’s phone rang. His work phone. He jumped and answered.

“sorry I have to run- (y/n) rescedual for me? maybe something tonight? yeah okay bye,” then he was gone. you sighed and turned to Endevour, who looked as pissed as ever.

“I’m sorry about that, but I’m sure you understand duty calls,” you apologized bowing slightly.

“Is he like this with everyone or does he enjoy annoying me particularly?” he asked making you laugh lightly.

“I think he likes to get under your skin, you should feel speical,” He was supprisingly fun to tease, you wouldn’t dare needle him the way you did Keigo but it wouldn’t hurt to rib him a little bit.

“A meeting later tonight won’t work for me,” he stated, knowing that you couldn’t make it either. If you had been planing on cancling the live he would have gotten the notifcation by now. you smiled polietly and nodded.

“okay let me check when we’ll be avalable again,” you said relaxing in the chait, before he could ask what you were doing, your eyes turned completley white, the iris and the puple both clouding over with a milky film.

“this friday at nine pm, does that work?” you asked, your eyes turning back to normal. Could you really see hawks’s full scedual in your mind? what a useful quirk. He wondered if he could buy you out, although it was a dangerous game if you worked for him. neither of you would get much done that way.

“is there anything else I can do for you, Sir?” you asked, standing and smoothing out your skirt.

“yes atcually, I have a couple questions for you,”

“I’ll do my best to answer,”

“Does Keigo know he hired a porn star?”

Your breath caught in oyur throat and you almost choked. You’d been recognized in public before, but never by someone with status, no one who knew about your day job.

“He does,” you answered supprised at how calm you sonded. you just had to breath and remeber. You were star here, Endevour was just another creep who watched you. The thought of Endevour watching you while you made yourself cum sent a jolt through your body.

“if I’m not mistaken, he’s even watched a few of my shows,” you added just to gage his reaction. It had been legally required of you to disclose any other sorces of income you had, Hawks had just laughed it off and assured you that it wasn’t a big deal, after threatening to subscribe to your OnlyFans that was. A threat he’d never followed through on.

“did he see the show where you screamed my name while fucking yourself?” Endevour asked standing casually and crossing over to the office door. one by one he drew the shudderes. Meaning no one could see into the office. your heart was hammering now, as you guessed where this was going.

“And what if the public knew that the woman behind the number two hero was secretly showing off her pussy for the whole world to see? what then?”

then you would lose your job you thought but instead you called his bluff.

“It would be a scandel I’m sure but it would be easily smoothed over, Hawks fans are younger more progressive, he’d probably get a lot of praise if he openly supported sex work and gave an interview where he talked about how he respects my bodly autonimy and my intlect.” you said with false confidence. in reality you knew the commision would rather throw you to the wolves than let you keep your job, but maybe Endevour didn’t know how disposable you really where.

“it would be another sotry if say, your fans found out you were watching my videos.” you said. he raised an eyebrow at you

“how so?”

“You’re audience is a lot older, more consrvative the’d be horifed at the thought,” you explained.

“To me it sounds like you’re lying,” Endevour said crossing over to you He lifted you up by the waist seting you down on his desk his harge arms caging you in.

“it souds to me like we both have pretty good reasons to keep quiet, the only question is what are you willing to give to buy my silence?” he purred reaching out and undoing the butons of your blazer, slipping the jacket off of your shoulders. His skin was so warm, his breath was beating down your neck. His eyes freezing you in place. you could barley speak he was so close.

“how about a private show?”

#mha endeavor #endeavor x reader #endeavor x reader smut #enji todoroki #enji todoroki x reader #enji todoroki x reader smut #my hero academia #my hero acadamy #my hero academia imagine #my hero academia head cannon #mha pro heroes

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yan-twst · 4 years

Note

please take care of yourself! if it's not too much trouble, can i please request yandere riddle, ruggie, azul, and epel with a darling who confessed to them before they could even think of kidnapping/murder/etc? thank you very much!

warnings: general yandere themes,mentions of blood, mentions of death, non consensual drug use

riddle rosehearts

he’s taken off guard, at first. riddle is one to plan out everything, to make sure he has a guideline and follow it- his sudden obsession is no different

perhaps it’s early enough he can still tell himself his emotions were simply a crush, simply the kind of romance others speak of; after all, his darling just waltzed into his arms before his heart could provide thoughts of keeping them to himself, before he could grow jealous of anyone who spoke to them

and yet, instead of the newfound relationship putting a halt onto his tendencies, it does little but speed them up

his plan might have changed, but it will have the same outcome. the way riddle loves is controlling and possessive, by nature; having his darling so available and already close to him just fuels the fire

already being in a relationship just makes his heart grow all that much twisted. as his darling’s boyfriend, he feels entitled to their obedience, to their attention

after all, riddle craves control. he’s been controlled all his life, carefully regulated to be someone his mother wanted him to be; it’s only natural he fights to have absolute control now that he’s free, and this absolute control is just intoxicating when it comes to his darling

perhaps the fact they began to date him before he could develop his true colors makes it even harder for them to accept the relationship is rotten. after all, it began so sweetly- it’s hard to accept the way riddle’s behaviour morphs slowly, the way he forces them to follow his rules, how he tries to monopolize their time; after all, that’s just... that’s just him being him, right...?

it’s so difficult for his darling. they’re in too deep- riddle feels entitled to their everything: after all, it was them who asked for his love, right? as much as he’s tyrannical, he’s also desperate for the affection his own mother never gave him.

he thirsts for power, affection, and reaffirmations; the way he drank up praise and smiled when his darling followed the silly heartslabyul rules at the start of the relationship slowly degrades into his demands to receive affection met by harsh punishment if denied, degrades into him placing so many rules it’s almost impossible for his darling to go a day without being yelled at for their “disobedience” no matter how hard they try

azul ashengrotto

one would think that being confessed to first would soothe azul. his insecurities are his achilles’ heel, after all; growing desperate at the thought of not being enough for his darling, putting on his usual act to impress them. but if they come to him first, even before he can start forging plans to rope them in, then- it should be fine, right?

but it’s not. it’s not fine, and his darling might realize so once it’s too late to escape the octopus’ grasp.

azul is greedy by nature. he wants more money, more contracts, more power over students, more notoriety. it’s not just enough to be dating his darling, not after a while

it’s so easy to fall back onto bad habits for him, questioning if he’s truly enough, if they’re just with him out of pity; soon enough it only takes him spotting his partner smiling to someone else for him to convince himself they’re cheating on him because he’s not enough, for him to assume any moment they aren’t with him they’re actively trying to get away from him

and it’s just painful for his darling, really. it’s not as if they didn’t know azul had a softer, insecure side- but it’s exhausting to deal with him. emotionally draining. to reassure him every time, to have to prove they’re loyal, to prove their love... it’s almost just easier to spend every moment with azul to avoid him making assumptions

and it’s not like they have much of a choice either. if a relationship is 50/50, then azul thinks his darling’s half should be to not worry him and stay by his side at all times, something he’s eager to bring up. after all, refusing him is just begging for him to either get angry or fall off one of his many insecurity spirals; and both scenarios usually end up with his darling getting dragged away by the twins to “fix” azul

a relationship that started off fine is now just toxic. azul is desperately codependent and controlling, and this isn’t even as bad as he can get; really, his darling gets a front-row seat to see how he’s slowly enveloped in his obsession with them

it’s not hard for azul’s darling to fall out of love, not like this. the azul they knew at the start, the one they fell in love with is mostly gone by the time the three month anniversary rolls around- them trying to break up with the merman is almost a given, and yet that’s probably the straw that breaks the camel’s back and just makes azul fully succumb to his obsession

kidnapping, blackmailing, contracts, killing, violence; azul brings in the big guns once his darling tries to leave. he sees it as his insecurities and fears having been ‘correct all along’- he has to take control, has to make things work by force if it has to be so; after all, it’s clear his darling won’t stay anymore, so... he’ll just have to keep them by force, won’t he?

ruggie bucchi

ruggie might often appear quite relaxed and friendly, but he doesn’t hold himself too high. he sees himself as a slum cat, a no-good opportunist with not too many redeeming features, so when his crush confesses to him just a few days after he himself realized he had a crush is almost mind boggling

perhaps it’s that what keeps the “honeymoon” stage of the relationship alive for so long. the sheer disbelief and joy that he’s getting his way, that life is aligning itself for him to have something nice without having had to work for it

but the honeymoon stage isn’t eternal, don’t you know? everything that goes up must go down- in some relationships that might mean one loses interest, or grows bored, but in ruggie’s case it’s differnet.

he grows paranoid, grows selfish. his darling is finally his. he finally has something that’s entirely his own- no hand me downs, no stealing, no pity gifts; his darling was the one to come to him, they’re his, and they’re not for anyone else

“something of his own” is perhaps a good way to just see all the ways ruggie’s brain is fucked up on this; his darling is something he owns, more of a belonging than a person. oh, don’t get him wrong- he loves them, he thrives off the attention (he needs it, almost, desperately begging for it) they give him- but in the end of the day, they’re his so they should do as he says, right?

he’s grown up knowing to hide and protect valuables, that everyone else is out to steal other’s precious gems; he comes from a dog-eat-dog world, and that sort of thinking poisons his heart. he can’t stand people even glancing at his darling, spending time with them; his heart says they’re trying to steal them, why wouldn’t they? isn’t his darling just the most precious thing? but they’re HIS precious thing- and it’s his duty to make sure nobody takes them away, right?

it’s so easy to get rid of people with his unique magic. it’s so easy to clean up any mess, with how used he is to cleaning. it’s so easy to hide remains in the vast sands that extend in the distance of the savanaclaw dorm

and it’s so easy to show his darling his work, to make them aware of how hard he works for them- of course, this is nothing short of using fear to control them, but hey, if it works, it works, doesn’t it?

after all, his darling is just that much more willing to stay nice and put in his room while he’s out if the memory of ruggie’s bloodstained clothes is engraved in their mind, and it’s so much easy for ruggie to get the attention he craves so badly if his darling is still processing the news of their close friends’ bodies not being found

epel felmier

epel is not a complete stranger to being approached with a confession- although tragically, more than once it’s been some idiot student who somehow mistook him for a girl, only leading to bitterness and anger. so of course, when he’s finally confessed to by someone he likes- confessed to by someone who knows him, who is close to him- he’s over the moon

of course he’d worried about his crush not liking him due to his appearance; after all, he doesn’t like how fragile and lithe he is, so it’s hard to imagine others liking it (despite how annoying vil can be about how his form or whatever is perfect)

even though he knows his lover fully supports his endeavors to grow stronger, he knows that they’re weak to him. not in the way someone relies on a strong person, but because they love him- they’ll say yes to anything he says if he bats his eyelashes and speaks sweetly

and at first he doesn’t care. he won’t swoop that low- if his darling doesn’t want to do something he wants, fine. but then he starts craving for things he shouldn’t; he feels clingy and possessive, not wanting to see his darling smiling and laughing with others, not wanting them to wander alone- and suddenly he’s not above using his charm to make them give in

the fact epel wasn’t even aware how dark his desires could go just goes to show how unprepared his own darling could be. after all, at first it seems like innocent things; spending more time with him, not hanging out with students that are too flirty. it’s normal, it’s just small sacrifices needed for a working relationship

but isn’t it curious how all the sacrifices come from his darling’s part...? after all, it’s them who have to cut off contact with certain friends epel deems “too touchy”, it’s them who have to wait for epel to escort them between classes, it’s them who have to spend their free time and days off in epel’s room- but it’s so hard to call epel out. he’s so innocent and adorable; surely they’re just approaching things from the wrong angle, surely the relationship doesn’t have that big of a power imbalance, right...?

he’s a bit scared of himself, in all honesty. surely, not all relationships can be like this- surely, not all love can feel like this, can it...? he’s never been in love before, but he’s quite sure not everyone feels murderous urges to get rid of anyone who even looks at their partner, that not everyone gets as much satisfaction from seeing their partner cry as they do from a kiss from them. it’s not normal, but it’s his way of love- so surely he can’t be wrong for just giving into whatever his heart says, can he?

but epel isn’t fully in control until he brings in fear. love and affection are what he wants, yes- but those can only get him so far. he isn’t fully in control until his darling understands he’s the one in charge, he isn’t fully in charge until his darling is woozy off potions slipped in their food by him- potions that make them sleepy, giggly and obedient, that let him easily shove them into his room and perhaps attach a chain to their ankle, with them just hazily giggling about the situation instead of screaming, not able to comprehend the situation they’re in- the fear can settle in once the potion fades, after all

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #riddle rosehearts #azul ashengrotto #ruggie bucchi #epel felmier #yandere tw #death ment #blood ment #drug ment #Anonymous

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olivia-anderson-fanfic · 3 years

Text

Stalker X Stalker, Part 5

First

Perma tag: @nathleigh

Stalker x Stalker taglist: @aespades @jayjayspixiepop @blueslushgueen @fan-written @seraphichana @nerd-nowandforever

Marinette listened in on Tim for three days.

Not actively, of course, she didn’t hang onto every word he said. She just let her consciousness drift in and out of the conversations he had while she worked on finishing up the outfit she had designed for Audrey...

And, yeah, she was getting to the point where she was willing to bet on him being an okay guy. Better than okay, even. He was just so… genuine?

The first two days he had come in sick. She knew the signs of working while sick by heart, the trudging around and the groaning and the constant banging your head on the desk when you pass out randomly, and damn she was pretty sure even she wasn’t as bad as him. He probably shouldn’t be working at all, to be honest, he was CEO and there was nothing stopping him from taking the day -- or even just a few hours -- off. But, no, from the sound of it he was drinking ungodly amounts of coffee and calling it okay.

And despite the fact that he seemed absolutely miserable, he hadn’t taken it out on anyone. She had yet to hear him be impolite to anyone, not even the people that worked under him. His secretary had made a scheduling mistake and he had not only assured her it was fine but didn’t even require her to fix it.

Even when he was talking to himself while working he never once said anything questionable. And he talked to himself a lot. It was like a podcast, honestly, just hearing him rattle off numbers and weird business terms she hadn’t learned because she was self-taught. He talked almost constantly and he should have slipped up by now, yet here she was three days later with nothing to show for it except for a whole lot of guilt.

Marinette hadn’t thought much about it on the first day, everyone had their good days from time to time. On the second day she said ‘oh, it’s a coincidence’, but on the third day she had to call it: her paranoia had been a little unfounded.

Literally the worst thing about him so far was that he didn’t seem to care much about his own health… and that wasn’t really a bad thing about him as much as it was a bad thing for him.

So, yeah, it looked like she had no real reason to listen in on him anymore.

… but…

Something about him was nagging at her. He was a nice guy and she’d like to be his friend… it was just that, sometimes, she could swear she recognized his voice.

And it wasn’t like there were a lot of people she knew in America, she knew who he probably was.

Her hand itched towards the tiny device hidden under her window seat. One click (and maybe a little researching) and she’d know for sure who the bats were. The only thing stopping her was the knowledge that, if she did know their real names, she’d accidentally call them by them once and immediately get thrown either into a cell or out of Gotham. She was a meta (kind of), she was already on thin ice. She didn’t need the paranoid idiots that were the bats being more wary of her than they already were.

So, she left it alone.

She kept the bug, though. Mostly just because she wanted to hear it directly from him rather than just guessing by his voice. After all, voices can be similar. If he were to directly talk about bat business while she was listening in, though… that would definitely be a point towards her theory, to say the least.

And, yeah, she knew it was kind of messed up. She could be listening in on some innocent guy for all she knew, but it was… morally kind of okay? The whole thing about stalking is that it makes your victim feel unsafe. If he was Red Robin then he had found the bug and hadn’t felt unsafe enough to remove it and if he was a civilian then he would never know about the bug and therefore couldn’t feel unsafe. Therefore, it wasn’t stalking, not really.

… yeah, that makes sense.

She glanced at her sketchbook and yawned. She really needed to get a new outfit idea soon. Good thing Tim said he was taking her out tomorrow --.

Shit, Tim was taking her out tomorrow.

She jumped up from her spot at the window and ran to her closet. What to wear, what to wear...

Frenchie: where are we going tomorrow

Spiderman: It’s a surprise.

Frenchie: fuck your surprises tim what do i need to wear

She heard his laugh crackle through her earpiece. Rude.

Spiderman: Casual clothes.

Frenchie: there are LEVELS of casual tim

Spiderman: Oh, so we’re breaking out the capital letters. This must be serious.

She scoffed. Of course it was serious.

Frenchie: just tell me what to wear

Spiderman: A t-shirt and jeans is fine.

Kwamis, send her strength. Like she was going to wear a t-shirt and jeans. Did he even know who he was talking to?

But at least she had a gauge on how casual she could go. She picked out a light pink button down and black shorts for herself and then, because she had a little bit of foresight, she added some black tights.

She smiled faintly and dropped back in her bed.

She couldn’t wait to see where he was going to take her.

She found out the next day. Because that’s how things work.

She raised her eyebrows. “There’s no way it’s actually called a ‘space museum’. You’ve gotta be lying.”

Tim shrugged, a grin poking at his lips. “Do you really think I’d make it up?”

“Well, considering your outfit, I’d say you aren’t the most creative of guys so maybe you did,” she teased.

Tim looked down at his outfit and pouted. He was wearing little more than a black turtleneck and pants under a white jacket. “Must you make fun of every outfit I wear?”

“Only the bad ones. Seriously, would it kill you to wear a little bit of color?”

He rolled his eyes. “At least I thought to bring a jacket. It’s thirty degrees!”

She had forgotten that Americans used Fahrenheit, sue her.

Of course, she was never going to admit to this. She stuck her tongue out at him. “Maybe I’m just not a wimp.”

He snickered. “Oh, so you’re not cold?”

“Not at all.”

“Then stop hugging that coffee cup.”

She looked down at the coffee cup that was her only source of warmth and happiness in this cruel world that had two different measuring systems (three if you counted Kelvin). She gripped it tighter. “... no.”

He rolled his eyes again and, after a beat of hesitation, shrugged his jacket off and offered it to her.

Marinette normally wouldn’t give in this easy… but she really was cold and his clothes were far thicker than hers were and she knew that her teeth would start chattering soon which would have been so embarrassing...

So she blushed faintly and slipped the jacket on. It smelled like ungodly expensive cologne. “Thanks.”

He grinned. “I’m taking your coffee as payment.”

“No --!”

After dropping by a cafe so Marinette didn’t kill him, Tim took her to the space museum (yes, that actually was what it was called).

He thought she would have missed the night sky. Gotham hardly ever had a clear night due to the thick smog that hung over the city like a curse. And they spent quite a lot of time outside at night, she must have been feeling a little homesick.

So, he rented out the museum for the day. Yes, the whole museum. He was rich and mildly famous and what was the point of that if he wasn’t going to use it to make the people he cared about happy? He doubted she would be able to enjoy the sights as much if people were constantly taking pictures of them and asking about their relationship.

She raised her eyebrows just slightly but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the lack of people.

They slipped through the rooms quietly in search of inspiration.

Many of the rooms were your typical museum things: exhibits showing off different space rocks and explaining stars and supernovas. They didn’t stop much here, obviously, there was little to be inspired by. The most that happened for a long while was Marinette stopping from time to time to take a picture of a nice color that she wanted to try and replicate later.

And then she had stopped to look at a spacesuit. She blinked a few times before breaking into a grin and flipping to a new page in her sketchbook. He could barely make out the name ‘Jagged’ from where he was fiddling with his camera a respectable distance away.

So, Marinette, at least, was having a productive time. Tim was… a little stressed, to be honest.

Tim was having a particularly hard time getting ‘inspired’.

It had been years since he had picked up his camera, which was certainly a problem but it wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that he had never been one to take pictures of locations or objects. Sure, there was the occasional picture of the Gotham skyline, but he had always had a tendency towards taking pictures of people. Batman and Robin working as a team to take out a bunch of thugs, Robin and Nightwing racing each other across the rooftops, Batman and Nightwing stopping for ice cream after a particularly long patrol… and now he wanted to take pictures of Marinette.

But that would be weird because a) the first day he had implied he took pictures of attractions in order to alleviate suspicion about why he just so happened to be on the same rooftop as her and b) she probably wouldn’t think they were close enough for him to take pictures of her.

He kind of wished he could just go back to the old days where his subjects didn’t know he was there and he wouldn’t have to worry about what they would think about him if he took a picture of them.

His fingers itched towards the camera hanging from his neck because she looked so cute with her tongue poking out of her mouth and her orange, yellow, and white colored pencils sticking out from between her fingers like little Wolverine claws and he loved the way his jacket looked on her and --.

“You can stop staring, I’ll be done as fast as I can.”

His brain shorted out and the only response he could come up with was a squeaky: “Sorry?”

She looked up from her work with an awkward smile. “I’m sorry it’s taking so long, I just… if I don’t do it now it’ll slip my mind. I’m working as fast as I can, though.”

He was rebooting. Give him a minute.

Ah, there it was.

Wait, she thought he was being impatient?

“Nononono take your time, it’s fine! I just...”

He trailed off before he could finish the thought because this was the second time they had hung out he couldn’t make things awkward between them already.

… but she was giving him a confused, vaguely concerned, look and he was pretty sure that if he didn’t come up with something soon it would be awkward anyways.

“IwasjustwonderingifIcouldtakeapictureofyou?” He blurted out before he could stop himself again.

She blinked once. Twice. And then a blush spread across her face.

“Oh. Uh… sure?”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said.

“It’s fine. A little sudden but… fine,” she said with a tiny smile.

Tim couldn’t keep the smile off of his face.

Not one to be blushy for long, apparently, Marinette flashed a wink. “Should I call up my friend Adrien for modeling tips or…?”

He rolled his eyes and schooled his face back into his usual grin. “It’s fine, just keep working. I’ll figure out angles and stuff.”

She tipped her head to the side confusedly. “Don’t you need me to be still?”

He didn’t look up from messing with the settings of his camera. “Not at all. You’re probably going to be one of my easier pictures.”

“... thanks…?”

“I do mostly nighttime photography. Capturing things in motion without it blurring requires a --.” He cringed. “Sorry, um… basically, when you want to take photos of things that are moving fast, you need a lot of natural light.”

“... you can talk about it more in depth, if you want.”

He shrugged. “I’d bore you.”

“I like your voice,” she said… then she seemed to realize the implications because she cleared her throat and did her best to backtrack: “In comparison to every other American I’ve heard so far, at least. Why do your accents… sound like that?”

“Ah, yes, because everyone knows that French people have the best accents.”

“Excuse you, I have been told by many people that my accent is actually very nice.”

He grinned. “By whom? Half-drunk men on the street?”

She gasped as if offended. “I get my information from much more reliable sources... like drunk women in bathrooms, thank you very much.”

“I see. My mistake. I apologize.”

“As you should.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t you have a design to make?” She looked down at her sketchbook and a silence stretched between them as she squinted at her design.

“You forgot what you were doing, didn’t you?”

She groaned and rested her head in her hands.

He took a picture of her exasperated pout.

Marinette ended up with two outfits.

One was for Jagged, based off of the spacesuit she had seen. She had figured that, with all the songs he wrote about being free, there was bound to be one about how he ‘finally had his own space’. It was good to be prepared.

The other was for Cassandra Wayne. Marinette hadn’t thought much about it, to be honest. She just knew that Cassandra liked the color black with designs on top of it, and that the planetarium had a nice star pattern that would work for that. It would be super expensive, what with all the gems she would need, but it wasn’t like the Waynes couldn’t afford it.

… and then she looked up to see Tim pouting.

She giggled, resting her head on her hand. “What?”

“My sister is getting a dress and I’m not.”

Oh, so he was an actual fan. Interesting.

She brushed that conversation aside in favor of teasing him: “You want a dress?”

“Yes! No? Yes? I --.” He huffed and took a seat in the chair next to her. “I have faith anything you make will look nice.”

She felt a blush rise to her face and she rolled her eyes. “Hm. Telling the person in charge of your wardrobe ‘I have full faith in you’ is a terrible idea.”

“Oh? I don’t think you, in good conscience, can make and give me anything bad.”

She squinted at him for a minute before breaking into a grin. “Wanna bet?”

He leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing her for a few moments, before smirking. “Sure, how about we put five thousand on it?”

She choked. She’d forgotten he was rich rich.

She was quick to backtrack: “Nah. With all your fashion choices so far I can’t trust you not to wear it to some Gala or whatever it is you rich people do.”

“Damn, there goes that plan.”

She grinned and looked down at her sketchbook. After a few seconds she flipped to a new page. She squinted at his outfit for a few moments before starting to doodle something.

“What’re you making now?”

“I’m making you something with some color.”

He huffed. “Excuse you, I’m a goth in a family of goths. I can’t wear color.”

“Yeah, yeah. Trust me, I know. I’d say Richard is the black sheep of the family in that aspect but he’s the one wearing color.”

He laughed a little. “So Dick is the white sheep, then?”

“Yea --.” She stopped and then squinted over at him. “Dick?”

“It’s what he insists everyone calls him.”

She looked down at her sketchbook for a moment, processing, and then shook her head. “Your brother has a degradation kink.”

Tim brought his hand to his mouth in stunned silence before pulling his phone from his pocket and definitely not informing the family group chat of his discovery.

She snickered and went to work on the outfit again. It was a simple one, because she didn’t want to go too far out of his comfort zone, but there was no way she was going to be friends with a monochromatic idiot.

She leaned over until her head rested on his shoulder. He tensed up just a little before resting his head on top of hers.

When she had finished he took a picture of the planetarium to keep up pretenses and they had made their leave.

… but first, they stopped by the gift shop. Because why not?

Tim could have bought everything there for Marinette -- and probably would have, if asked -- but, considering she had freaked out about five thousand dollars earlier, he figured maybe he should keep that more or less quiet.

Instead, he followed her around while idly bouncing a Saturn shaped bouncy ball. It was a terrible shape for a bouncy ball and he kind of loved it, to be honest. Not to mention the little smile Marinette made behind her hand every time the ball would try another mad dash for freedom was pretty cute.

And then they hit the t-shirt section. And her lips twitched as she reached out and picked up a bright blue shirt that said ‘May the F=MA be with you’ in white text.

“It’s awful. It’s perfect.”

He grinned. “Wow, look at you. You know one of the simplest physics formulas by heart, aren’t you smart?” He joked.

She bowed. “I know, I know.”

He held out a hand for it and she stared at him for a few seconds in confusion.

“I’ll hold it until we get to the front desk.”

She squinted at him. “I’m paying for my own shirt.”

“I can afford it,” he said with a sigh.

“So can I.”

“Either you let me pay for it or I’ll keep track of everything you buy while with me and add it to your commissions.”

“... either you let me pay for it or I’ll never make an outfit for you ever again. I know your measurements and style, Timothy, you won’t be able to get past me.”

They narrowed their eyes at each other, daring each other to call their bluffs…

And then his shoulders sagged. “Fine.”

He’d just have to use his connections to lower prices on fabrics for her. Did he mention that he was rich and mildly famous? Yeah. It was pretty cool.

She smiled as she leaned against the doorframe to her apartment. “Thanks for taking me out. It was fun.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled back. She was determinedly ignoring the way his smile made little butterflies flutter in her stomach. She patently hated butterflies. They weren’t allowed.

“I had fun, too. Want to do it again, sometime?”

“... sure, I guess you passed my test.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Your test?”

“Oh, yeah.” She waved him off. “If you had made any creepy comments today I would have blocked you.”

He seemed a little relieved by this information, though she wasn’t quite sure why. “That’s a pretty good test to have in Gotham.”

“I know, I’m pretty smart,” she said jokingly.

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

Damn it, now she was blushing. Shit.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you flatter every girl you take to the space museum? Is this your strategy?”

He snickered. “Well, considering you’re the only girl I’ve taken, I’m going to have to say yes.”

She hummed. “I’m glad I’m so special to you, because that means you won’t drop me when I never give you this jacket back.”

He huffed. “You can’t just do that.”

“I can and will,” she teased. Then, because she wasn’t a completely cruel person, she reached up to her coatrack and pulled down a red scarf for him. “Here, take this so it’s more of a trade than stealing.”

“If I don’t?”

“Then you get to walk back to your house in the cold like that.”

He snorted. “What happened to not wanting to steal?”

“At least I offered!”

He rolled his eyes and leaned down so she could wrap the scarf around his neck.

She looked up at him, a blush spreading across her face, and then carefully draped it over his shoulders. “There. Now you have a splash of color.”

He smiled at her. “Ah, I see, this was all just a plot to get me to wear colors. It all makes sense now.”

“Of course.” She tugged him down more by the scarf to press a kiss to his nose. “You should wear red and black more often. They’re totally your colors.”

He smiled a little dopily. “You have no idea.”

She pushed his face away. “Weirdo. Go be cryptic somewhere else.”

“Fine, fine. See you in a few days.”

“See you then.”

~~~

Bonus Batfam group chat stuff

Timtamalam: What if Dick makes everyone call him that because he has a degradation kink?

LetMeLeaveTheChat: i fucking hate this family.

BloodSon: This is exactly the kind of lowbrow humor to be expected of you, Drake.

Timtamalam: I’m unappreciated in my time.

CAss: :0

Timtamalam: See, this is why Cass is the favorite.

YouDontSeeMe: DickJoke please respond

DickJoke: I raised each and every one of you and this is the thanks I get

LetMeLeaveTheChat: sucks to suck, dickwad.

DickJoke: That’s it when I get through all this dumb Heartless stuff I’m coming back to the manor and we’re all going to have family time

CAss: :(

ItsEggplantNotPurple: damn it

YouDontSeeMe: crap

LetMeLeaveTheChat: fuck. and an extra “fuck” on duke’s behalf.

BloodSon: Look at what you have done, Drake.

Timtamalam: Sorry guys.

#stalker x stalker #maribat #timinette #timari #shutterbug #timmari #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #tim drake #red robin

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knowltonsrangers · 3 years

Text

Alphabet Prompt: Benjamin Tallmadge

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

I’d say a solid 7/10. Affectionate in private, but by that means he’s still a bit hesitant in his actions. Regarding how he shows it, he does it in smaller actions, maybe an arm around your shoulders while walking or while on the couch. He loves it when you initiate acts, because he feels as if he’s on cloud nine.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Ben is the ultimate best friend. Loyal, understanding, quite the sense of humor-he’s got everything you seek out in a friendship. The friendship would start maybe over a mutual friend, or through a shared job? Or maybe in a class where you both don’t know anyone.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

UH-HUH. Ben really enjoys it, but would never say it out loud. Imagine his sassy ass walking into the room and just standing there. And you’re like “…hi Ben.” And he just opens his arms, and you know what that means without him having to say anything.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Yes. He does, tremendously. He enjoys domestic life and craves it when he’s at work and away from you. Ben would run home if it meant he would be back in time for dinner, not wanting you to have to wait an ounce of time for him.

Ben appreciates a clean space. His side of the room may appear on the surface as clean, but when he gets into his groove books, pens, and papers are known to accumulate.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

In person, and with his entire heart on his sleeve. He’d probably cry, too. [🥺]. It would really take something explosive and upsetting to get him to want to end things. He’s loyal, but not enough to a fault-he’d know when it was time to end things.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Oh? Probably right when he trusts his gut. He’ll know the exact moment when he decided that he was hopelessly in love with you, and it would always get him with butterflies in his stomach.

I wouldn’t say he’d be ready to drop to one knee right away, but soon enough. And he wouldn’t flake either, when he asks you to marry him, he’d want to get married right away.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

THE GENTLEST PERSON. Soft when he needs to be, stern when he has to be. He’s gentle physically when it comes to all things you, and is known to wear his emotions like a book. So he understands and is almost always the first to understand. I almost classify Ben as an empath, because he can tell when things have gone wrong even as best as you try to hide it.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

To be in Ben’s arms is like in my top 3 things I’ve ever wanted in my entire life. He’s so good at giving hugs, but he may be a little indifferent to receiving them. It’s not that he hates them, but has he ever really gotten hugs before?? Probably not. He envelops you and smells like the outdoors after a morning shower.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Not very quickly. He knows when he loves you, but he has to be certain that you and him are on the same wavelength.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

A bit. A bit more than he’s willing to admit. Maybe you’ve been hanging around Caleb or Nathan too much. Or Lafayette gives you a hug as a greeting. Or his boss gives you a warm smile when he introduces you to him.

He doesn’t do anything. His stomach twinges, and he knows it’s jealousy, but he trusts you. He knows that you’d never do anything to double cross him.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

I’ve mentioned Ben’s smooches before, how giggly and bashful he gets when it comes to them. His kisses are like spring, beautiful and warm and full of love.

Ben likes to kiss you on your eyelids, but he loves placing little pecks on your cheeks.

Ben loves to be kissed on his knuckles, and his hands. Your butterfly kisses tickle him and he can’t help but smile as you ‘kiss’ his injuries away.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Mediocre, average. Doesn’t actively seek out to babysit or anything, but isn’t opposed to it. Children do love him, however, and as much as he says he is “meh”, you can’t help but smile as he swings a giggling baby around in his arms.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Sleepy and loving. He kisses you good morning and rolls right out of bed for coffee. If you have to be up before him, you usually try and slip out without waking him (‘cause he needs his sleep), but he’ll groan and pull you close to him until you give him morning kisses.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Board games, [comic] books, and vhs tapes. Ben enjoys anything that he gets to do with you, and is awesome at trivia. He’d spend hours scouring the internet for a new sort of game or something to do with you.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

He doesn’t really have much to hide, truthfully. Ben enjoys sharing his interests, and that follows with his college friends and other friendships he has. He would start revealing things as soon as asked, or maybe a little strained, depending on level of privacy.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Admittedly has a small temper. But it’s nothing that needs to be worried about, it’s only when he’s reached his absolute breaking point and can’t take another moment more. If you drop a pan while he’s concentrating or accidentally trip him up while he’s walking, he won’t even bat an eye.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Every.thing. You can tell him once your favorite candle scent and he’ll buy it for you when your birthday comes around. He nearly has a photographic memory, I’d say. Writes things down on calendars (anniversaries, birthdays, pets birthdays, etc,) and jots notes when necessary.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

When he came home after a long day (usually he beats you home) of work and agony. You had dinner on the table and a record on the machine, humming a low tune that makes his heart flutter. He felt so loved at that very moment, and it was hard for him to choke back tears.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Very. Ben defends you to the day he dies, and he does so in very lowkey ways that you much appreciate. Taking phone calls for you when you ask, and stepping into public situations when you beckon him close with a warbly voice.

Ben loves feeling protected, especially by you. When you squeeze his hands in affirmation, or stepping in between him and his work to get him to get some rest.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

A lot. He can’t get over the idea of getting to see you cry of happiness/thoughtfulness when he watches you take something out of wrapping paper that you offhandedly mentioned once. Ben loves putting the effort in because he’s always so surprised when you return it tenfold, no matter how many times he tries to outdo you.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Duplicate buying. I headcanon Ben as a collector, so whether it be comics or memorabilia, he’s known for an accidental duplicate buy every now and then.

He’s also guilty of leaving pens and pencils in bed. Oops.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Like literally 0%. He’s so effortlessly flawless, and a beautiful human being.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Yes. A billion times yes. You are accepted into being a part of him when you exchange “I love yous” and feels so lonely when you aren’t around. His heart is fragile and much more so than he’s willing to admit, so when you aren’t with him he looses his own sense of wholeness.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

While Ben is by no means scary-looking, he can be very intimating. He does not hesitate to get someone to back off when he feels it’s right to step in.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Ben admires people who share his interests, and can’t stand when people don’t take time to at least understand a tad bit of what he enjoys. There’s a difference in respecting each other’s space and things, and actively seeking out to disregard them.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Ben sleeps in socks.

#sul writes #benjamin tallmadge #turn washington's spies #turn amc #benjamin tallmadge headcanons #turn Benjamin tallmadge #alphabet prompt

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internalsealpanic · 3 years

Text

The Mechanics of Living part 2

Summary: You trick Tim into going to a closed-off sector. Things go well. a/n: I will be doing a director’s cut for this is anyone is interested (by anyone I mean @glorified-red) Warnings: very slight body horror and gore

Main Masterlist

Tim Drake Masterlist

It was easiest to just tell Tim all the facts rather than rely on the goodwill you've built in 3 years to persuade him.

There's a reason sector 4-D was cordoned off last year. For some unknown reason, a section that had been little more than a concrete wasteland started teeming with infected life.

People say it was an abomination (An unidentifiable, Tim corrected but you still think abomination captured the appropriate dramatic for that.) that wandered in from farther in the waste. Some people say it was one of Bludhaven's beasts they let loose. You highly doubt Bludhaven was in any shape to contain whatever it is ravaging sector 4-D. After all, it wasn't in any better shape than Gotham was at the moment. You doubt it's ever been in better shape. They're like two cities constantly caught in this vortex of awfulness, looking at each other from two different sides thinking 'poor bastards'.

Sector 4-D was an easy hunting ground where young scavengers got their feet wet before they could move on. Now it was a dead zone, a dead zone with too much potential to pass up.

Like every sector, sector 4 was vast and unexplored and supposedly, there had been a library there. A building full of books and most importantly, medical textbooks.

You feel a little bad plucking at Tim's heartstrings when all you cared about was the payout. Appealing to the guy's sense of responsibility was kind of cheating but-- BUT! The specified textbooks do have stuff about bacteria and illnesses so you aren't really overstating their importance.

You try to push down the number of zeroes the man had shown you as you zip past a rusted sign.

You don't really trust anyone other than Tim to help you with this. Besides, all the other people who won't stab you after cashing in the reward probably don't know half as many words as Tim so you'll definitely need him to get the right books.

You stare at the rows of cars before you. They're overrun with weeds and vines and rust. A stark reminder that your Gotham is just a fraction of what it had been. You stop your bike in front of a taxi with a faded yellow body.

"This is it. This is where your life as an adventurer begins."

You swallow back the wave of nostalgia, letting the bike roll past it into the mess of cars to keep it a little more hidden. It isn't illegal to go to this sector yet. At least not when you checked but you really don't wanna gamble your Scavenger's license on clerical errors by either of your guilds.

Tim steps out of the sidecar, careful not to jostle Basil in his bag. You want to point out that you should probably wake the cat up otherwise you were wasting food on him but you knew better than to expect cooperation from Tim's fur ball from hell.

“So which theory about the illness do you think is the most plausible?” He asks, tucking the walkman away. You both thought it was stupid name but you didn’t really wanna question the teller. “The one that involves the least aliens.” You pause, narrowing your eyes at Tim whose hand is currently being eaten by his cat. “Or alien adjacent things.”

“So, you're one of those people who thinks the government did it.” Tim is *such* a little shit. Maybe that’s why his guild master gave him the most useless cat on the planet. Grade A my ass, you think staring at the furball nipping at his knuckles.

“Not on purpose, no.”

Tim raises a brow. “I didn't know you had that much faith in humanity.”

“Pffff, I think they just fucked up.”

“Here, I was accusing you of being optimistic.”

“A mistake really.”

You two come to a crossroads. A giant large yellow lantern hangs in the middle of the street, swaying listlessly in the air. It’s strange.

“Do you think the people in the old world used those to scare away the sick?”

“If they did,” he looks around, “it didn't work.”

Your eyes flit over the area. Stone walls crumble, vegetation willing in the cracks. Still, even with the overgrowth of life, the city feels hollowed out. Nearly a decade ago, you’d first laid a hand on one of the stone arches of the city hall just down by main street. Nearly a decade ago, you felt the stone crumble beneath the pads of your fingers. Nearly a decade ago, you had come the closest to knowing what it was like having the sickness. Even one of the great cities had been reduced to a fraction of its size.

“Do you think the color of the light matters?” Tim asks, pointing again to the lamp.

You squint. You hadn’t noticed it at first but yeah, the color of the lights was different.

“Maybe,” you tilt your head, “or maybe the people from before were just idiots.”

“You just have a bad opinion of them, don’t you?”

“Like you don’t.” You shoot back, tapping your bat against your boot.

Tim rolls his eyes and shrugs.

You try to smile at that but something’s wrong. Your skin bristling, the air is stale despite the wind. You watch the lantern sway back and forth, the thin wires holding it up, fragile and precarious. A bad feeling crawls up your spine.

There’s a pressure in the air, the atmosphere turning into a vacuum.

Basil hisses, looking as vicious as he can.

The wind stops.

The skittering voices rise like the fluttering of locust wings.

A writhing mass, pulsing and menacing, blots out the horizon. It opens its maw to wheeze and the stench of rot floods the air. Your insides curdle and wilt from the intensity of the putrid odor. Once the *thing* draws another breath, the skittering begins again and this time you know where it’s from.

You can see it in the way its neck twists and undulates, its rotting flesh rippling as the fragmented voices rasp out of its throat. Its limbs, deformed, move unnaturally as it ambles towards you.

You stare at it. Your limbs unmoving. That thing *is* an unidentifiable. In all technicality, it fits the neat taxonomy laid out by experts. It is neither man nor beast. Its form corrupted beyond recognition. It’s rotting and shambling. But the thing you are looking at cannot simply be sorted neatly because it is what it is.

A creature that god himself did not touch.

An abomination.

You splay a hand on Tim’s chest, pushing him back lightly. Glancing at each other, you nod as you slowly step back into an alley. You quietly curse Gotham’s gloomy weather for the thing’s appearance. You thought you would have at least ‘til sundown to look for loot before having to flee to a safer sector. But when in Gotham, nothing is ever certain even the rising of the sun.

All you have to do is be quiet. Easy enough. Being silent is the first thing you learn to be in this world.

It blinks at you.

It. Blinks. At. *You.*

Your heart stops, the blood running in your veins turning into lead.

Dozens of eyes blink at you. They’re not all human from the looks of them. It opens its maw again, your muscles bunch up in anticipation of its miasmal breath. The discordant voices coming from its mouth coalesce into a horrible sob.

Tim grabs your wrist and pivots towards an alley. The sudden change in movement shocks your body awake. You scoop Basil up and bolt down the alley, letting Tim lead the way.

Desperately, You try to concentrate on the scuff of your shoes against pavement instead of the creak of limbs and the plop of flesh as it drips off the creature. The pinching of Tim’s features tells you he’s doing the same.

You round the corner, shoulder hitting brick, narrowly avoiding dozens of hands reaching for you. Basil yowls and hisses and you would apologize but your shoulder is screaming at you and goddammit Basil, we have bigger issues.

You and Tim squeeze into a space between the buildings seemingly too small for that thing’s gelatinous form. You make the mistake of looking back only to see its limbs skitter up the building and down the other end of the alley. It smiles at you, rows of teeth glittering in the sparse light.

This was it.

This is where your life ends.

Where else is there to go?

You expect the acceptance to come in like a flood or relief. Life was hard with very little room for breath. Scraping by, tooth and nail, knuckles bleeding for every scrap of stability. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You suddenly feel so tired like the adrenaline had been keeping you together for the past few years. Acceptance should have come easy.

But it doesn’t.

You open your eyes to glance at Tim, finally resignation sets. His features are still pinched and his hand is trembling beside yours. You really did screw this one up big time, huh?

You bite your cheek.

Watching Tim’s mind work, you know you have to keep him alive. You squeeze Tim's hand. He narrows his eyes at you. You give him a crooked smile and let his hand fall.

You pivot, foot pushing against the pavement as you launch yourself to the other end of the alley.

If your estimates are correct, you can buy him 15 minutes. 15 minutes would be more than enough for him to make it back to the bike--

Tim yanks on your hood, throwing open a door. The creature howls as Tim hurls both of you into the building.

"What the heck was that?!" Tim screams.

"A Dick." You answer, rubbing your head. fuck. Tim could throw.

"No! You were being fucking stupid."

You scowl at him in the dark. "Thanks Tim. I get it."

"No, you don't!"

"Can we argue--"

The door rattles and shakes. A fist-shaped dent embeds itself on the metal door. You glance at each other before scrambling towards the very safe-looking stairs.

You fly up the steps like hell was on your heels and as far as you're concerned, it was. You wrench Tim's bag from him and you're half tempted to throw him over your shoulder as well but you're not sure the stare case can hold that much weight.

If you climb to the roof-- If you... climb... It can climb. Fuck.

You and Tim seem to come to the same conclusion as you throw yourselves into another door.

You shove a sofa in front of the door and sit on it.

"Please tell me you've miraculously come up with a plan." You hiss glancing over to Tim who's staring at the window.

He glances over his shoulder to look at you. "If I could pull off miracles, you wouldn't be so dumb."

You sigh. Ok, yeah. He has every right to be mad. It was an incredibly stupid move but it's a numbers game and yeah.

Tim runs his hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He needs to come up with something. He glances out the window. He walks over and leans out the window.

"We should jump."

"Would you like to elaborate?" You wheeze, still not really letting go of a

"Follow me."

"Tim, I have never trusted you less in my life." You snort, quietly. But you make your way to the window. You set Basil down and look at what Tim is pointing to. There's a dumpster filled to the brim with trash. There doesn't seem to be any infected mice in there and the road to the right is a straight shot back to the bike.

You lick your lips.

"So we're on the same page."

"Uh, if that means what I think it means then yes."

Tim lets out a breath as he opens the window as quietly as possible. You listen to the steady beat of limbs thumping against the wood. You hold a collective breath. The window clicks into place with a loud snikt.

The thumping stops.

You practically shove Tim out the window while you stare at the door. It rattles and shakes. A screech erupts the stairwell as you jump out the window. You land with a thump, sinking beneath the mounds of plastic.

Your heart is hammering and pressing into your throat. Its beat is in sync with the steady thump of the limbs. The wet squelching of rotting flesh scraping against the rusted metal of the dumpster. You want to heave but Tim shoves a hand in your face. You gag silently. Tim's hand smells putrid from the trash.

You hold your breaths until the thumping goes away. You don't dare breathe until Basil settles down.

You fall limp against the trash. Your limbs feel like jelly. You gag. Thinking about jelly right now is probably the worst thing for your health.

Tim nudges you with his foot. You turn your body over as quietly as you can.

You watch him make shapes with his hands. You frown. You cycle through your memory trying to remember what the gestures mean then let go of Basil when you do.

Basil rises from the trash, padding against the plastic.

When you hear Basil jump down to the pavement, you dig your way out of the trash.

"For the record, I hate your plans." You say, gagging.

"What was yours?" Tim fires back, dusting his hair.

"..."

"Just what I thought."

You're the first to climb out, holding your arms out to him mockingly. He silently threatens to curb stomp your face. You snort and tuck your hands to your side.

Thankfully, you make it to the bike without incident.

Tim tucks his body into the sidecar, occupying himself by comforting Basil. You hand him a bat as you start the bike.

"Just in case."

You kick the bike into gear as you two ride into the sunset.

You breathe a quiet breath, letting your eyes slip shut for a moment. The road is clear for about 14 breaths. That’s all you want to think about.

At the fourteenth breath, you open your eyes to an open expanse of road, endless and breathtaking. You turn to Tim and laugh. He gives you a sour look. You’ll just buy both of you some canned pineapples later and he’ll maybe forgive you. Basil certainly does as he doesn’t participate in Tim’s sour protest, opting instead to crawl into Tim’s bag.

Then you hear it above the roar of the engine.

The skittering.

Voices like the fluttering of wings.

It screeches, the raspy cry making your skin crawl. You don’t wanna look back. You don’t want to see the unnatural movement of its body as it bounds towards you.

You kick the bike to a higher gear. The engine will hate you but you can’t repair it if you’re dead.

The bike slows down. Tim stands up raising your bat over his head, bringing it down. It does not clang. The sound is squishier and moist. Your stomach rebels. Hazarding a glance behind you, you see the writhing mass holding onto your bike.

“TIM,” you shout.

“I--” Swing “-- AM--” Swing “--A LITTLE--” Swing “--BUSY!” “THERE’S A CAN OF HAIRSPRAY IN MY DUFFLE.”

Tim ducks down, throwing you the bat. You swing wildly at the creature, summoning up a truly impressive bout of swearing.

Tim sprang up, nearly falling off the sidecar if not for you grabbing his shirt. Tim flicked the lighter, pressing down on the nozzle of the spray, and unleashing fire on the beast. The thing cries, voice shattering as it burns. You watch its flesh burn. Oh, what a pleasure it was to see it burn.

"We are never doing this again!" Tim wheezes.

"Of definitely fucking not." You bark, kicking the bike to a higher gear. The purring of the engine sounds like music to your ears.

"We are definitely doing easy sectors by a bit." You laugh.

When you don’t hear a snarky remark, you glance to your sidecar. Tim is slumped into his seat, breathing hard. You raise your brow but turn your attention to the road. You shake him. You shake him again and again.

Tim doesn't respond.

You pull your hand away and it’s slick with blood.

______________________________________________________________

Thanks for reading!!!!

Tag list: @batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @bungunz , @birdy-bat-writes, @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders , @l-inkage, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell @hyp-oh-critical @glorified-red @ marshmallow12435 @vvipgot7be @jadedhillon @notsostraightweeb

#tim drake x reader #tim drake imagines #Tim Drake #post apocalypse

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Note

okay but what if you did hide your feelings about solomon. you know that the potential that he'll break your heart is high so you'll rather just let your feelings for solomon hopefully die out. even before you were affectionate with the demon brothers and solomon notices how hesitant you are to even show an ounce of the same affection to him. but now that you're clinging onto them so much to soothe your own pain and avoiding him... solomon may decide it's time to take thing into his own hands.

Catch me writing my own backstory for this angsty teenage wizard, if only because Otome refuses to give us one. It’s going to be sad, though. I can promise y’all that, even before I start writing.

Title: Schoolyard Crush.

TW: Nonconsensual Touching and Delusional Mindsets.

“I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. I’ve told you that, didn’t I?”

Solomon’s voice was soft, his expression a pleasant neutral. You’d always admired that about him, his composure, how you could never catch a glimpse of anything he didn’t want you to see. Even in the darkness of the unlit storage closet, he was content to act as if nothing was wrong, keeping his hands folded behind his back as he pinned you between his chest and a shelf full of rags and tools and things you’d rather not get any closer to than you were already. You had a feeling he was counting on that.

You swallowed, dryly, nodding as you spoke. “You’ve mentioned it.”

He smiled, reaching forward and cupping your cheek, the contact making you flinch. You could count the number of times he’d touched you on one hand, and even then, they were simple little things, brushes of fingers and a friendly taps to the shoulder, nothing more than that. This was different, though, affectionate, his thumb tracing the shape of your cheekbone as he took half a step closer, only making your temporary captivity more apparent. Over his shoulder, you could see the door he’d dragged you through, closed and undoubtedly locked, the footsteps of your peers only just making it through the thick wood. You wondered if Solomon would be able to stop you if you made a run for it. You wondered if he’d even try. “It’s lonely, when you grow up like that, sent away and taught things most of the world doesn’t have a clue about. I wasn’t burnt at the stake, but…” He trailed off, tilting your head back. Forcing you to meet his eyes. “You miss a lot. Friends, relationships… What do you call them in the human realm? Crushes?”

You could feel your face start to heat up, and suddenly, you wished you had his gift for tranquility. Despite the situation, it was impossible for your mind not to fly back to… softer times, when you daydreamed about exactly this and other scenarios just as unrealistic. Dates to places Solomon would never take you, conversations you knew he’d never be willing to have, all the things a lovesick student in a strange new place would think about a pretty boy who seemed too friendly to be wary of. You hadn’t fully outgrown it, but suppression was the next-best-thing. Suppression meant not caring that he was touching you so tenderly. Suppression meant not wanting to be stuck being in a locked closet with a man who could kill you with the right spell and no trace of mercy in sight. “My next class is going to start soon,” You mumbled, making a half-hearted effort to bat his hand away. “Is there something you need? We can talk later, but if I’m late, Lucifer’s going to--”

“Right, Lucifer.” Solomon pulled away, but not for long, your collar soon trapped in his fist, jerking you forward and eradicating the nonexistent distance between the two of you. He was still smiling, but you could see it was forced, more strained than it’d been, a minute ago. “Because it’s always Lucifer. He’s the one making you cling to his brothers like you’re attached at the hip, and I’m sure he’s forcing you to avoid me, too. Don’t tell me he’s the one you're fixating on, now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You grabbed his wrist, attempting to pull him away from you, but he was stronger than he looked, keeping you in place as a scowl spread over his lips. That didn’t stop you, your hands soon balled at our sides and your tone a poor imitation of his, as you continued. Serious, apathetic, level-headed. Since one of you needed to be. “You need to let go of me. You’re being irrational about nothing. I… I liked you, and when I realized you didn’t feel the same way about me, I stopped, there’s nothing to get so mad about.”

He took a deep breath, but it was obvious he was too far in to give up without a struggle. With a ragged exhale, he let you go, but his hand was quickly planted on the shelf behind you, leaving you as trapped as you were before and twice as small. “I didn’t get that, either,” He said, his gaze drifting, settling somewhere just below your head. “Where I’m from, people aren’t just… different. They don’t stop feeling something because it’s inconvenient.” His lips pursed, and you stayed quiet. When Solomon went on, he did so unprompted. “You used to follow me around like a lost puppy. I couldn’t go a day without one of your little bodyguards telling me how many bones they’d break if I did so much as look at you suspiciously. You can’t just go from that to-” He took a moment to scan over you, from your crossed arms to your rigid posture, ready to run at the first opportunity. “-this.”

“I’m not like you.” It was a weak counter, but a counter nonetheless. Solomon narrowed his eyes, glaring at your chest. “No amount of yelling will do anything about it. Sometimes, things change.”

“No, they don’t.” The refusal was barely off his tongue before his lips were pressed against yours, the kiss too abrupt, too aggressive, highlighting his inexperience and your reluctance to take part. But, that didn’t stop Solomon from attempting to deepen it, an arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you against his chest. You were too stunned to struggle, at first, but as soon as he leaned into the gesture, your teeth were latched onto his bottom lip, biting through the delicate skin, drawing something warm and metallic in a matter of seconds. He separated without a fight, but his smile was back, a broad grin slowly spreading across his features, even with the thin trail of blood flowing steadily towards his jaw.

“What the hell?” The question was involuntary, just as reflexive as the rage slowly replacing your common sense. “How dare you--”

You were cut off by another kiss, not as fervid, just a peck to the corner of your mouth. You’d say he was giddy, but you knew Solomon far too well to trust the way he appeared. “You don’t have to keep acting so distant. You’re going to make me so happy, and I’m going to do the same for you.”

You moved to speak, but distantly, a bell rang, the muffled voices outside your cage growing louder for a moment before dissipating, signaling that in a minute or two, both of you would be late. Solomon sighed, but let you go, taking you by the wrist instead. “This is good, really, it’s perfect,” He said, that serene smile never wavering.

And yet, you couldn’t seem to summon the same respect for his patience you once had.

“This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?”

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anxiouslyfred · 3 years

Text

Met in the Woods

for @dukexietyweek‘s prompt Pirates/Adventure, I focused on Adventure

Summary: Remus didn’t run away, he just went on a wander through the woods. Virgil got kicked out of their home and took to the woods to try and survive. Somehow meeting was the calmest part despite Virgil attacking Remus.

Warnings: vague fighting, eldritch being mentioned, self-esteem issues, homophodia mention

/\/\

Remus hadn't run away. Really he'd barely even left home, despite packing the largest pack they had full of survival supplies and taking off into the woods one morning before anyone else woke up. There was no point in writing a note, not when he'd definitely be coming home, at some point, probably.

The woods had always called to him, filled with mysteries and adventure if only he had the time to explore and find it, and finally Remus was following the call. He already knew where the first glade was to make a camp in, after that he could follow the river some knights mentioned when reporting their patrols.

He wasn't expecting the glade to already have a tent in it, or for said tents owner to have him flat out within seconds of emerging from the treeline.

“Who sent you after me? I'm not going back, whatever crap they've told you!” The person had a staff poised to strike and with all of Remus's weapons currently under him and tied to his pack he wasn't too inclined to make it an actual fight. Besides, not being recognised as one of the sons of the areas Lord? It was basically a dream Remus never expected to happen given the amount of public appearances he was bribed into.

“Nobody sent me, not a clue who you are. Can I stick my tent over here? Heading to the river at this time of night is just asking for a patrol to catch us.” Remus shrugged, rolling to stand up again only to jump back when the staff was swiped at his legs. What was with them trying to lay him out?

A snarl curled their lips and Remus was fascinated. Most people couldn't get quite so vicious an expression, not even an enraged Roman had managed it yet, although he did get complimented on being fearsome when rampaging. “Like I'm going to believe that! They kicked me out and now expect to get me dragged back, begging for forgiveness or some shit?”

“Woah, I've never managed to get kicked out before. How did you manage that and can I try? Sounds like the best release from responsibilities ever!” Remus leant forwards, although still staying out of the staffs range.

“Writing in a journal about liking how men look. Seriously, people will kick you out for the most dull stuff. Thinking there's dangers in too thin ice, and telling people to sharpen weapons with them directed away from you to avoid self stabbing, oh that's fine. Like watching spiders and write stories without even showing them to anybody about how hot the guy next door is, nope get the hell out.” Remus frowned while listening to the rant. Those motives really did sound incomprehensible, but the persons frustrated movements did sometimes cause their top to tighten and show off muscles or make his cloak move like bats wings over their arms.

It was enough that Remus was moving forwards, bending to catch the staff as it was swung, holding it still. “Seriously? The Lord's of this land are 2 men together. We've got non-binary folks as tax collectors and both of the Lord's sons are attracted more to masculine physics than feminine and your family kicked you out for that?”

“Explains why they do everything possible to keep us kids stuck to the farm, then.” The mumble was clearly not directed at Remus but he shrugged and nodded until they looked back at him. “So if you aren't someone sent to drag me home what the hell are you doing out here?”

“I'm Remus, and just felt like a wander. Male too by the way. Who are you? I've already gathered that you're here cause you got kicked out so won't ask why.” He answered cheerfully. Whomever this person was, they'd been more interesting than most people Remus encountered.

The suspicious glare that had been fading was back a full force. “Virgil. Human, and who the hell just decides to go wandering with a full pack including a tent?”

“I do. Wanted to escape for a while, and now I'm gonna stick with you too.” Remus decided, shrugging off his pack to start setting his own tent up. “All the better if someone actually does come after you, right?”

/VR\

Virgil didn't trust this guy. Who the hell just attaches themselves to a stranger they meet in the woods? There had to be something going on here, or the guy had to be freaking insane and liable to attack in a moment of rage.

“I'm going into that cave! Are you coming?” Remus cheered, pointing further along the river.

There at least was a cave this time, a large excavation into the cliff face that was on the other side of the river. The last 'cave' Remus had tried to explore had just be a darker type of rock that the mad guy had run head first into before realising.

“It's a cave on the edge of a river. You're going to slip on the rocks and kill yourself, or get attacked by a bear taking shelter in it.” Virgil ground out, but carried on following behind Remus getting closer to the cave with each step. “I'm not willing to die for a maniac who won't leave my side.”

Remus just shot a grin over his shoulder as he finally started wading through the water. “Then why are you still following me? Besides it'd be awesome to battle a bear. Maybe I could get some brilliant scars!”

“It's called self preservation, something you seem to have abandoned already. I'm more likely to survive if I have an idiot who runs into danger when predators decide human smells like a good dinner.” Virgil snarked back, pausing to take off their shoes and roll their trousers up before entering the water. They weren't going to have wet feet for hours, no matter how willing Remus was to get his shoes drenched.

They still weren't happy about entering the cave when hours later they were trudging back out a completely different entrance lugging a chest in addition to their packs. “I told you going in there was dangerous!”

“You didn't get hurt, did you? Only blood on either of us is from that, that, actually what the hell was that? We need to go home just so I can get that thing drawn, painted, memorialised for eternity on the walls and given some kind of name.” Remus was twisting to look back at the cave even as he kept moving, holding the other end of the chest.

“Can we figure out what we're doing with whatever the hell is in here? It's heavy and neither of us are going to be ready to fight with a massive chest carried between us.” Virgil dropped their end, effectively bring them to a stop and threw themself on the ground for a rest.

There was still daylight so they weren't worried about a threat approaching unseen and really needed to stop after the fight they'd just gone through. Any creature with that many limbs should be somewhere out at sea, not in caves nowhere near the shore.

“You take it. You're the one who got kicked out from home and nobody would leave something worthless in a cave like that. Bet you could get a house almost as good as the Lord's manor with the treasure in here.” Remus decided, having sat on the ground nearby for only a second before he was rooting through the pack from his back. “Snacks, pen, ink and paper. You eat something. I gotta start planning out my paintings.”

Virgil was already shaking their head, backing away from the chest as though it would be forced onto them. “No no no no. I'm not taking all of whatever's in there. We got it together. You should get some of it. How about half each? Or you get 3 quarters and I get the rest since I would literally have been killed when that thing first came out?”

“And here I thought I was just a chance for you to escape when I jumped forwards. You were fighting there too. I guess we could go half each.” Remus sighed as though accepting any of it was a hardship rather than treasure won. “Only if you come home with me. Let me introduce my family to the greatest reluctant best friend ever!”

They gaped at that declaration. If anything Virgil would just call them and Remus acquaintances. Sticking together in the middle of woods when no other people has been seen for days could easily turn to barely acknowledging each other once back in town. “If that's what it takes for you to take the treasure that's rightfully yours then fine I guess.” They agreed, already moving stuff about in their pack to find the empty bags they'd managed to grab when hurrying to leave their old home. At the time they'd expected the bags to be for any belongings or tools they could make and acquire while alone in the woods but the contents of a random chest was what they'd need to hold now.

Virgil left Remus to carry on drawing while attempting and after about 20 different tries, managing to unlock and open the chest. They sat separating the treasure by types and into 2 piles of each, kept as even as possible. With the sky clear and dusk not due for a while, it was a relaxing enough break after the cave systems.

/VR\

Looking up at the manor that Remus had just started leading them up to declaring 'Home!' had Virgil reconsidering everything they knew of the place they grew up in.

That was the Lord's manor and for Remus to live here he had to be... nope, NOPE! Virgil had definitely not just accidentally run into one of the sons of the Lord that ruled over his town. Remus must actually just be like, one of the servants, or maybe a gardener? Places like this had gardeners and knights right? Remus must be something like that and had taken some time off too....

All of their rationalisations to prevent panicking about having attacked and then travelled with a Lord's son proved futile when as soon as Remus opened the doors servants were swarming him, asking where the young sir had been, did he have any injuries, and anything else they'd only do for... The son of the Lord's also hurrying through the hall to greet him.

“I went on an adventure!” Remus proclaimed, waving off the servants and turning to look for Virgil who had fully started panicking and wondering if he could turn and run now. “And I made a friend too. That's Virgil and he's brilliant!”

A servant was immediately coming over, offering to take his bag while the Lord's looked him over curiously, listening to Remus who was still talking utter nonsense; a fairytale of a Virgil that they couldn't fathom how Remus thought was them.

“Well anyone who has Remus as besotted as this is more than welcome to remain with us as long as you care to, Virgil. Are there any titles that you hold?” The Lord asked, smiling at them now and holding a hand up to pause Remus's ramblings.

“No, My Lord. I am estranged from my family currently and would not be in line for any titles even if that weren't the case.” They couldn't come out with a rant about being kicked out in front of a Lord, but to deny that they were probably the lowest of his lands would only lead to worse things later.

The Lord just nodded but Remus glowered. “They've got money though. Helped me fight a beast in a cave and we found this massive chest of treasure that can get him a home and stuff now. Seriously, even while claiming they wouldn't risk death for me they followed me into the cave and fought just as much as I did when this brilliant creature attacked. Someone get my paints set up in the gallery across from my room. I know what's going on the far wall now!”

“Money wasn't our concern, Son. I'll check if there's any titles we can bestow on them for bringing you home safely.” The other Lord spoke up now and Virgil was really wishing their parents had at least mentioned the names of the nobility that ruled over them. Maybe they could ask one of the servants soon, since Remus was likely to forget about them now he was back home and around his family.

It definitely seemed possible since with the comment about finding them a title the Lords were heading to other rooms in the hall and Remus was racing down a different corridor while a few servants came to direct Virgil to somewhere else. They just let themself be led through getting measured for new clothes and settled into rooms that had at some point been requested for them. They could at least work on getting a home here before the hospitality of the Lord's ran out preferably.

/RV\

7 days had passed and Remus was confused. Each morning he'd asked Virgil to come and help him paint, or join him in the science lessons he'd insisted on getting. Each time they'd nod and come along but disappear somewhere on route to where he wanted to go.

His best friend kept hiding from him and it didn't feel like a game or even like something they wanted to do if the wary glances each meal were anything to go by. It was like Virgil was expecting him to tell him to leave, gained some hope whenever Remus asked for them to do something together but gave it up seconds later as a lie. Remus wouldn't lie, especially not over wanting someone's company. He just wanted Virgil to be around him.

Today he was going to put a stop to it. He still chattered through breakfast, arguing with Roman over painting styles and trying to get Virgil to agree with him but he didn't move to get up or say anything after his meal was finished. He just sat, waiting for Virgil to finish eating and hoping he hadn't been cutting their meal short with the invitations.

“Do you not want to be my friend?” Remus blurted once they were the only ones still at the table, making Virgil startle.

“What, of course I, no, I do, definitely do but you, I mean, I thought you wouldn't. I'm just a nobody and you have all these exciting things that's you basically bounce in your seat when you talk about.” Virgil tripped over their words, clearly concerned over Remus's question but not sure how to answer it.

Remus just watched them try to reply, concerned but making himself be calm, still. “Then why do you keep disappearing when I want to share them with you? Sharing them would make any activities like a million times better! Hell just arguing with Roman is way more fun when I've got you beside me.”

“But I'm nothing!” Virgil exclaimed, pushing down on the table. “Why would you want anything to do with me except because of pity?”

“Yeah, definitely, I pitied a guy attacking me with a staff and stuck with him because I thought he needed some charity.” Remus rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure you are more than any scoundrel I could find walking into town just because you don't give a shit who we are, if you think something's dangerous or harmful you're gonna yell about it.”

“And you don't give a damn and do it anyway, claiming there's nothing dangerous that could harm you!” Their response was a glare that just made Remus grin.

He'd missed being told off while Virgil was constantly hiding themself away. “Still take more care than I would without the reminder. Besides I love that, always needed someone to give reasons for why they're upset and you just give them.”

“Love? Besotted? Why is everyone talking like we should be courting now? I don't even have somewhere to live. Get them to stop playing with my heart like that.” Virgil moaned, apparently focused on a word Remus had barely realised he'd spoken. Watching them lean on the desk it was clear there had been more said by the servants too in the last week.

He shrugged leaning back in his seat. “They aren't. If you'd actually let me find you or come to help with my painting this week you might have realised that I am very likely to fall in love with you.” He held back from saying it had already happened while coming back from the cave. It seemed like it would be too much for them, no matter that the painting in his gallery had basically made Virgil his universe, cradled and treasured by the creature they'd battled rather than fighting it.

Lost eyes looked over to him as they processed the words. “So we can be together together? I'm not – not going to get kicked out again for liking you too much?”

“Nope, I mean I made sure our rooms are next to each other deliberately so we could go through the courting without being too far apart.” Remus pointed out. “On that thought, can I actually give you your courting gifts now? I keep trying to but you disappear before I've got them out.”

Virgil nodded mutely for a second, watching him, before leaning forwards for a kiss, barely more than a peck before they were pushing away trying to get more distance between them. “Sorry, should've asked, but um, yes, courting, we can do that!”

“You don't have to ask if you want to kiss me, but if it makes you feel better we can do constantly asking.” Remus couldn't hold back his grin, and knew it was the one servants backed away, concerned over what his manic joy would cause today.

Courting first, and convincing Virgil they were far more than their mind said over time.

#dukexiety #dukexietyweek2021 #remus sanders #virgil sanders #noble remus #non-binary virgil #cw self-esteem issues #cw homophobia mention

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