#can i write an entire fic about tech without once mentioning his name | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

snackhobi · 4 years ago

Text

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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evilwickedme · 3 years ago

Text

ok so to sum up my feelings for leverage: redemption, season 1(a): (long post warning, there’s a tl;dr at the end)

I knew that Hardison wouldn’t be in most of the season due to Aldis Hodge being a busy bee nowadays, but I didn’t realize that meant he’d only be around for the first two episodes. He was sorely missed, not only because of my attachment to him, but also because he’s usually the grounding factor in the group dynamic, and his role as info guy and tech guy was split evenly between two characters who had their own issues.

That said, Hardison is absolutely a highlight of the two episodes he’s in. his speech about redemption was everything I could’ve hoped for (plus, more evidence for the Jewish!Hardison pile...). I wish we’d gotten to see more of his dynamic with Breanna because what we saw was funny and sweet and we don’t generally get to see Hardison taking care of somebody who so desperately needs taking care of. I hope that Aldis Hodge is around for more episodes in 1(b), because what we’re left with feels a little hollow.

Sticking to original leverage characters for now, for the most part the leverage crew still felt true to the original series as characters, even if the show itself was a little bit confused at times. The actors understand their characters and embody them so well that I think one could give them the trashiest script ever and they’d still sell it. Sophie is a particular focus in 1(a) because of Nate’s death, and she’s particularly well written as a result.

That said, I’m super bitter that we saw little to no mastermind!Parker. Parker’s character being given the mastermind role was a big deal and it feels like they’re walking it back because they feel uncomfortable with it. It is eventually given an in-text excuse, but literally in the last episode, and it was not a particularly convincing reason, and in fact contradicted moments from previous episodes (Sophie leaving for a client meeting and ignoring Parker in ep3 comes to mind). It’s frustrating, it makes the end of the original leverage feel pointless, and letting Parker make a decision once in a while is not the same thing at all. The original series repeatedly showed us that while everyone in the team had their strengths, Parker works problems and solves them in unique, interesting ways, and other characters’ days in the limelight tended to be comedic or even failures. It’s a broken promise, and a pretty major broken promise at that.

On a more positive note, Parker’s dynamic with literally everyone was fantastic. She’s possibly the best written character this season. They’ve taken the autism out of the subtext and into the text (although obviously still undiagnosed), and given her coping mechanisms that were taken seriously in the text even when they were played for laughs, which I appreciated. Her attempts to mentor Breanna were sweet, her friendship with Sophie was electric and at times (CRIMES) hilarious, and as usual, she has a fantastic dynamic with Eliot that makes my heart burst. If you don’t think they’re romantically involved, at least acknowledge there’s a life partnership here. They’ve spent the last decade together.

(We’ll get to Harry.)

Eliot isn’t given much arc-wise, which is frustrating since he’s my favorite. He’s being presented as the goal at the end of a redemption arc, ie to keep working at it every day until your soul heals or whatever, and it doesn’t reflect the message they’re trying to convey via Hardison’s speech and our two new characters. He’s got his moments, but I think they under utilized his potential.

Breanna!!! Breanna’s my new favorite, except for Eliot. She’s hilarious, she’s insecure, she’s nerdy and excited in a way that’s similar to Hardison but still distinct in its inherent teenage-girl-ness and I LOVE IT. Unlike the previous series, where Hardison’s “age of the geek” was often a joke played on Hardison, we’re at the point where Eliot and Parker are both right there with him, and so they accept and even appreciate Breanna’s nerdiness. Also, canon gay character? In YOUR Leverage? It’s more likely than you think.

(No, I never thought they’d make ot3 canon on screen. I hoped, but I didn’t think it would actually happen.)

I think Breanna’s the character that will be the most interesting to see grow. She’s got a lot of potential and a list of crimes a mile long (or more). I adore her with all my heart. I want to see her tiktok account.

Harry. Oh, Harry.

It took me a while, but I do like Harry. It took a while, because the narrative positioned him at the same level as Nate back in episode 1 of original Leverage. But in episode 1 we didn’t know the other characters. We had Nate as the POV character, and so we cared about him because we were seeing the world through his eyes. (This is TV Studies 101. I know this, because I took TV Studies 101 in 2019.) In Leverage: Redemption, we no longer have a POV character, for several reasons:

Nate, previously the POV character, is dead.

As it is, by mid-season 3 of leverage Nate was no longer a POV character. This is, coincidentally, the point where the leverage writers realized they had four other characters in the main cast they could do something with, and in-universe, Nate accepted that he was a thief, not a special Good Man.

Sophie is sort of a POV character for the first episode of the revival, but only for the first few minutes. Afterwards, the series settles into the groove of seasons 3-5, i.e., the entire crew is our POV. We know our crew, and we love them as is.

Narratively, however, Redemption insists on positing Harry as the POV character, because it is his redemption we are pursuing most vehemently. And I think they really relied on us already knowing the actor - I’ve never seen him in anything before, so to me he was a completely fresh face and they put almost no effort into selling him to me. Beyond being competent and consistently mildly baffled by the antics of the leverage crew, I honestly don’t know who this man is by the end of EIGHT episodes with him. I have a much better handle on Breanna by the end of 1(a), and I can tell you I knew all five of the original leverage crew better by the end of the first episode of the original series than I do Harry. What’s the name of his daughter, John Rogers. Is he still married. How old is the daughter. Why is none of this worth mentioning. Give him a sense of humor that isn’t reacting to other people’s shenanigans. I’m so frustrated. It’s bad writing.

I did manage to grow to like Harry by the end, but I’m pretty sure this is down to Noah Wyle’s charismatic portrayal of an under-developed character, at least partially. And I never stopped being frustrated at not knowing who this man is at all.

The two highlights of the season are undoubtedly episodes five and six. Episode five was the first time I felt like the episode was more than a collection of good moments between the main cast and mediocre moments between the main cast and also the main plot. The issues with pacing and tone that I suffered through for most of the season were mostly non-existent in ep5 and 6, and at least in episode 5 I attribute that to the pared down cast. They had time to focus not only on our actual characters - Sophie, Parker, Breanna - but also on the case. This is the only client from 1(a) I am going to remember next week without googling it first, mark my words.

Episode six worked for the exact opposite reason - it completely disregarded the client and plot and immersed itself in the characters. Breanna gets a moment to shine, but everybody else gets their bits and I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the script that was most fun to write. The characters felt natural, real, and captured the found-family dynamic that’s been missing all season for the first time.

While episode 2 is the weakest episode, I don’t actually have much to say about it. I am disappointed in episode 8. For a mid-season finale, I really expected them to do something. Instead, it was an episode about Nate Ford that copped out of being about Nate Ford (both with fake-Nate and with the new version of him being relayed to us). I would have told the writers to give that energy back to episode 1 and write an episode that’s about anybody who isn’t Harry, oh my God. I know I said I grew to like him but so many episodes were about Harry. He’s the newbie! Why didn’t Hardison get an episode that was actually about him, considering he was only around for two episodes? Why does Eliot have to be the butt of the joke when the theme of the series should directly tie back to him in a much more meaningful way? The last episode parodies their own tagline by saying Eliot isn’t just a hitter, but it deftly avoids noticing that they’ve turned him into nothing more than very muscly comic relief, including in that very episode!

Also, I hated the Marshal. Eliot actively looked uncomfortable around her.

tl;dr

The season took a while, that’s definitely true. But it did find its footing eventually, and by the halfway mark of 1(a) it finally felt cohesive again. The characters were played fantastically even when they weren’t well-written, and if nothing else, the humor landed every time. It still has its kinks and problems to work out, but if you look at it as a brand new show rather than a continuation of one that went off the air over eight years ago, it’s actually doing rather well. I’m choosing to judge it in both lights - according to its own standards, it establishes its identity in episode five; according to Leverage standards, it establishes its connection to its roots in episode six. Either way, I thoroughly enjoyed 1(a), and continue to have high hopes for 1(b).

fic writing will commence in three, two, one...

#leverage #leverage meta #leverage redemption #leverage ot3 #parker leverage #alec hardison #sophie devereaux #eliot spencer #breanna casey #harry wilson #mine

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dameferre · 4 years ago

Note

can we see a snippet from the "penpals!" courferre one :0

of course! i will warn you this will. most likely never see the light of day BUT it’s based off of ‘the year of secret assignments’ by jaclyn moriarty, a... kind of ridiculous book i bought at a charity shop at like. age 10? or something

basically these three sets of teenagers are assigned pen pals at a neighboring school, and hijinks ensue, with one set of penpals giving each other secret assignments (hence the title), the other set of penpals being a girl who writes to a guy who uses a fake name (that plotline ends horribly, it would not have done so in my fic lmao)

one finally one set of penpals (a boy and a girl) decide to start having practice dates, so the guy can hone his skills and ask out a girl he likes, and the girl can critique his form, and... i mean i think we all know how this goes.

anyway, it’s half in letter format, half actual writing the story. here’s a snip! (under the cut because i. couldn’t help myself)

Official Assessment of the Second Meeting By Chance executed by The Lord of Flowers, Combeferre, henceforth referred to as the Subject, as reviewed by Courfeyrac the Ravishing, henceforth referred to as The Operative.

NOTES

When the Operative (and Guest) approached, the Subject smiled very nicely. It was a sort of surprised, warm smile that lit up his face. Did the Subject practice his ‘oh I was hoping to see you and I’m so glad I have’ smile in the mirror?

The Subject did a very good job of consoling the Guest, and as it turns out, the Subject’s height is not as offensive as previously thought, as he holds an umbrella perfectly.

The Subject was much more relaxed this time, and funny, and his hair fluffed a little in the humidity which was adorable. He had a great way of explaining things to the Operative without being patronising, and teased admirably. The Operative spent a good 80% of the walk laughing, but upon writing report can’t remember a specific instance of hilarity. The Subject should have more memorable jokes next time.

Overall, great work Combeferre. You’ll have Feuilly falling over himself to get to you in no time.

Yours,

Courfeyrac the Ravishing

Courfeyrac,

You seem to be losing your touch; that last review lacked the mildly insulting bluntness I’ve grown so accustomed to. Does this mean we’re becoming friends?

Anyway, I’m now, as you would say, ‘balls-deep in tech week’ and halfway through my descent into the deepest pit of hell. The entire production is an original script written by a friend of mine, named Jehan Prouvaire, who decided to rewrite the final scene this weekend. They’re my friend, have been for years, but even I wanted to murder them slowly. The cast is hard at work trying to learn the scene, while I had to stay late last night redoing all the cues.

The worst part of it is, the new ending is fucking fantastic, so we can’t even stay mad at them.

It’s exhausting. Literally exhausting; I got three hours of sleep last night.

Anyway, I’m writing this as a way of avoiding calculus homework. Not that I wouldn’t write to you if I didn’t have calculus homework, but it is harder to just ramble on about my life now that we’ve met in person. I don’t think I ever would have told you about Feuilly if we had met before we started writing. There was something in the anonymity that made it easier, like writing into a diary. I hope you don’t take this as an insult- what I mean to say is that now that I know you, I want you to like me. And by extension, I want you to know a lot less about exactly how lame I am.

Anyway, I wanted to say I won’t be able to make a meeting by chance this week, though I know telling you that ruins some of the fun. If I’m around next week, which is really looking less and less likely every time an actor misplaces a prop or mic pack and I am forced, once again, to weigh the pros and cons of murder, I’d be happy to accidentally run into you on my way home from school.

Side note- Avi(my brother) comes home next week, which lines up nicely with Mom’s birthday and means he’ll be able to see the show. It’ll be nice to have him back. I think you’d like him; he’s the attractive one in the family, and the extrovert. He’s also a mechanical engineer who medal-ed in track when he was my age. Basically, he got all the good genes, but he’s too nice to admit it.

Anyway, calculus beckons.

See you on the other side, Combeferre

p.s. Only you would practice a smile. Mine was genuine, I swear.

My Dearest Combeferre,

FIRST DAY OF PRACTICE STARTS TOMORROW HELL YEAH

I mean, yes, technically the other guys on my team have been practicing for two weeks but I have sadly been out of commission. BUT NOT ANYMORE BABY THE BITCH IS BACK

This will help distract me from the pain and yearning as I wait a whole week to see you again. I’ll be wistfully wandering the moors before Saturday, mark my words.

I’m also fascinated by the idea of a brother who’s you, but more attractive. Does it hurt to look at him directly? Do strangers fall in love on the spot? Is he officially considered a menace to society because he’s caused traffic accidents and ruined weddings by walking past at the wrong moment?

Someone should put a stop to him before things get out of control! No man should wield such power.

The idea that you, of gorgeous cheekbones, perfect hair, jawline, and eyes and face in general, notorious multi-tasker, valedictorian and walking encyclopedia, not to mention polyglot, could think someone else got the good genes means either you are humble to the point of actively lying to yourself or your brother is a minor deity.

Courfeyrac, I can hear you saying, flattery really isn’t necessary.

But it is! Enjolras, who I’ve mentioned before and is my best friend in the whole world, is gorgeous to the point of being inconvenient to look at. I’m a notorious flirt, I know this, and I’m good at it, but we’re not even in the same league when it comes to making people question their sexualities. He walks into a room and you can see half the people inside mentally decide they’re bi-curious. He’s also a raving lunatic and antagonistic asshole, which he openly accepts and takes pride in, but try to tell him he’s attractive and he looks at you like you’ve just suggested he’s got wings or a tail. So what I’m trying to say, I think, is that I’m used to people not realising how good looking they are. And bludgeoning them with compliments is my way of dealing with this.

Anyway. Getting sidetracked.

I’m flattered you use me as a method of procrastination! I’m gonna make myself a button that says ‘more interesting than calculus’ and wear it with pride. Also, is writing to pen pals not mandatory at the Academy? We’re given a half hour block during the study period. When we first started, Enjolras said the whole thing was “infantile and outdated and a waste of time”, but at this very moment he is on page six (6) of his latest aggressive correspondence to his mystery R, even though I saw what R sent him last time and it was, I shit you not, an envelope that was empty except for a tiny (approx. 3 centimeters long) rubber chicken. For context, the one before was a thorough analysis of wage inequality written entirely in pig latin.

I hope one day I meet this person, even if immediately afterwards they steal my kidney or turn me into a newt or whatever minor trickster gods do these days to pass the time when they’re not torturing my best friend.

Anyway, gotta go, stay sane, don’t kill anyone unless you really have to, and if so lemme know and I’ll help you get rid of the body. I know a guy.

Courfeyrac

p.s. I already like you, idiot.

#this little wip exercise is bad for me it makes me want to keep working on all of these lmao #elle writes things #elle answers your questions #anon #courferre

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onelastbreath-writes · 4 years ago

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I’ll Meet You There (Part 1)

Pairing: Marcus Moreno/ Wife!Reader (AFAB, no y/n)

Word Count: 2.5K

Warnings: Mentions child loss, loss of a spouse, survivor’s guilt, vague references to suicide/suicidal thoughts after loss of child (all located in the first 500 words, so it’s brief and not too dark, but please take care) and violence, swearing, and action/fighting.

Summary: What if Marcus’s wife didn’t actually die? What if she and a few others were kidnapped during an attack on Heroics’ HQ, and then held captive for years without realizing? If the only thing you “remember” from your past is that your husband and daughter were killed, well, you surely wouldn’t want to go back to the people who you believe did it. But maybe, with the help of a tenacious child and some re-awaking parental instincts, you’ll be able to break through the brainwashing and forced amnesia, and find your way home.

Tags: Hurt/No comfort (for now), ANGST, eventual happy ending, one really sad man for whom I just keep making things worse, #sorrynotsorry

A/N: This is my first We Can Be Heroes fic, and first reader fic, so please be gentle. I’ve got the rest of the story outlined, so I hope I can get down to writing and posting it soonish, but my RL is busy and doesn’t leave much time/energy for quick updates. If you like it and want me to do a taglist, let me know so you can know when I update again. Also a big thank you to the amazing Jay @disgruntledspacedad and her fic The Right Thing for inspiring this one, and for allowing me to use her wife!reader idea. Please go check her blog out, and give her some love <3

AO3 Masterlist

---

“You’ve been in a terrible accident, Doctor, and I regret to inform you of your husband’s and daughter’s passing. Our rescue and recovery efforts after the incident were unfortunately unsuccessful, and you have our deepest sympathies.”

It took months for those words to even sink into you; months before you even remembered anything about who you were... the accident, or the attack, as it was more commonly known by you and the other victims, took your entire life away in an instant. You survived, physically, but at the cost of your partner? Your child? All the memories of your life together? How could you be worth it?

“Your transcripts and accomplishments are phenomenal, Doctor, and I’m in need of talented and capable individuals such as yourself to help right the wrongs, and demand justice, from those who have committed such heinous acts against us. The Heroics are murderers, destroyers of peace, and they have gotten away with their crimes for far too long. They’ve been praised and applauded and worshipped as gods while all they truly are, are terrorists. How many more innocent lives can we allow to be lost to their carelessness? ‘For the greater good’ is quite the insult when the people saying such things aren’t the ones losing their families to the chaos, wouldn’t you agree? Join me, Doctor, and we can make a difference.”

It was easy decision for you, even in the early days of your recovery. From the distant and foggy memories of your past, your anguish in what you could recall, you knew that if you could stop someone else from having to feel the loss and pain that comes from losing their spouse and children, you would do so in a heartbeat.

Your husband had been an incredible man, your Everything, you would imagine, going by the ache in your heart when you thought of being without him. His name, his appearance; that was all lost to you when you lost him. His existence in what could be healed of your memories was just a shadow, a shade, the vague impression of the man you loved. You remembered his warmth, his kindness and gentleness, his love and devotion to you and the child you created together.

And your beautiful baby girl... if thoughts of your husband left your heart aching, then thoughts of your daughter left you in unparalleled agony, completely inconsolable. You tried to avoid thinking of her, if you were being honest, tried to leave all what-ifs and could’ve/should’ve/would‘ve’s behind... you had worked with people, mothers, who had lost children before, had seen them tear themselves apart in their grief, taking the blame for something that was in no way their fault; you had seen them destroy their lives with their hoarded guilt and perceived crimes... you couldn’t allow yourself to fall for that, those falsehoods, you had to be alive if you wanted to honour your child and husband’s sacrifice.

“We will make them pay for what they’ve done to us, Doctor, I promise you that. Together, we can get justice for your husband, for your little Missy.”

---

Marcus knew something was wrong as soon as his commlink started transmitting static instead of his teammates’ conversations. The Heroics had been deployed to stop a hoard of rogue security androids that were infected by a virus or something (he couldn’t usually follow the technobabble), which had led them to escape their testing facility and target nearby civilians with their advanced weapons technology.

Evacuating the citizens trapped in the line of fire was the team’s first objective, and once the area was cleared of potential victims, they moved onto the containment and neutralization of the enemy combatants. The Heroics team was decently cohesive; they could work together to ensure the protection of innocent lives while in a firefight, but once the civilians were in the clear and the stakes not so high, the supersized egos of the members emerged with a fiery passion. This particular firefight was no different.

“Hey ‘Legend, bet you a week of incident reports that my count is higher!” Miracle Guy’s voice broke out over the ‘link, as eager to show-boat as ever, from where he was steadily piling up his deactivated attackers.

“I’ll take that action, Miracle, easy. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby!” Crimson Legend wasn’t the type of person who could ignore a bet, especially one issued from Miracle. “You’re probably so behind already that you don’t even stand a chance, ha!”

Of course, they just had to make it a game, keep the superiority contest going; like a single mistake couldn’t cost them a life or a limb. And just to further prove how amazingly mature the rest of Marcus’s team of Adult Superheroes were, they all started in on the bet too.

“If I beat your totals, I want a week off from training!”

“Ha! Like any of you have a chance of winning against me! I want my on-call weekend, off”

“If I win, you’re all my personal slaves for the rest of the day!”

Did Marcus say Adult Superheroes? He meant infants.

And they had started the mission so well, communicating and strategizing, actual teamwork instead of bickering and joking around like children. Hell, even their children didn’t get into as much trouble as their parents could.

“Guys, it’s really not the best time to be playing around. We need to focus on-” He was cut off by the loud static burst of an out-of-range radio. Shit. That’s not good. If his comms unit was fried, he couldn’t direct his teammates, couldn’t keep track of them, couldn’t help them.

They were pretty spread out by now, giving everyone room to use their powers without worrying about another Heroic getting caught in the blast zone. He knew from their most recent locational sound off that Crushing Low and Invisi Girl were working together near the intersection two streets over from him, and if he could make his way over to them, he could figure out what was going on.

Marcus needed to know if it was just his commlink that was out of commission, or if their entire network had gone down. The former scenario was a minor inconvenience, the latter was a major issue. Either he’d have to lead his team by correspondence, or he’d have to worry about them being completely alone in the field, without support from HQ, and without any chance of backup or rescue.

He couldn’t worry about the details now, he had to keep focused on finishing off the seemingly endless wave of androids. Androids with guns. Androids with guns that he was trying to kill with a pair of katanas... Maybe he hadn’t thought his primary weapon for this mission out very well... It was just something that he’d have to come back to later. For now: sword, robot, teammates.

---

They didn’t pay him enough for this. He should have gone into acting like he had planned before his powers manifested. This sort of shit didn’t happen to actors.

Marcus had destroyed all the androids delaying him from reaching his nearest teammates and was finally able to move to their location with relative ease and only minor distraction. He could see Crushing Low laying waste to the few remaining functional robots in the area, and could assume that Invisi Girl was around somewhere, disabling any downed but not dead enemies while protecting ‘Low’s back.

He was proven right when he heard a feminine voice call for him to “hit the deck, Moreno!”.

“Thanks Vis! You two doing alright? What’s your comms sitch?” He stood back up straight, just missing being nailed in the head by a flying metal limb had it not been for her heads-up.

“We’re a-okay! Comms are out though. No known damage to them, no knocks or surges, might be the tech, or it might be the channel. We’ll have to see what Tech-No thinks.” She was still invisible, but Marcus could imagine her animated expressions and movements. She was one of the most... normal... of the Heroics, if normal could ever be used to describe any of the team. Reliable and observant, with a good sense of battle strategy. He greatly appreciated her skills and efficiency in the field; she and Tech-No being the most down-to-earth of the Heroics, most willing to help him keep the peace between the rest of them.

“I’ll watch Low’s back if you can go find Tech. We need to know what’s going on, ASAP. If all the comms are down, and Tech can’t get them back up, I need you to find everyone and tell them to meet back at the robotics facility. Get Miracle and Fast to help if you can. If anyone’s injured, they’re your first priority, okay? Thanks, Vis.”

---

Getting every member of the Heroics team back together took nearly an hour, all coming fresh from the fight but thankfully not too banged up or bruised. They set up a perimeter once enough of the team had arrived to their meeting spot, allowing Tech-No to deep-dive into investigating their communications malfunction.

“It’s the network, not our comms. We’re dealing with a drop either from HQ’s side, or a forced drop here from RFI. But considering the standard distance and all the buildings and stuff around us, a radio frequency jammer wouldn’t be able to block our communications network as far out as we were. We must assume that the problem comes from HQ. which presents further concerns, obviously. I designed most of the technology there myself, so I know exactly how much work it would be to take down the whole system. We need to consider this as part of a bigger plot, and plan accordingly.” Tech-No’s eventual explanation hang heavy in the air, no one willing to break the silence following it... If something had happened to HQ… Their co-workers were there, their friends, their children…

Marcus thought of his daughter and wife. They were both there today. His wife worked in the medical centre, and they brought their daughter there for daycare. If something happened there... shit. If he was panicking about his family already, his teammates were doing the same. He had to head this off. He couldn’t let this get out of control. He took a breath and squared his shoulders. It was time to be Marcus Moreno the leader of the Heroics, not Marcus the husband and father. Lead by example, they’re all counting on you.

“We have no proof that anything is actually wrong, and until we know for sure why we can’t reach them, we need to do our jobs. Finish the mission. We’ve always trusted our people to hold down the fort at home so we can help people out here, and they’ve never let us down before. We are not going to doubt them now, understood? Whatever happened? We know HQ is doing their best to keep our loved ones safe. So, we finish up here, quickly and thoroughly, and then we head back to base. Let’s get moving,” He met his teammates’ eyes, allowed them to witness his own fears, but also his stubborn determination. He wasn’t asking them to ignore or dismiss their worries, but rather, put it into finishing the mission so they could go home sooner.

No one fought him; thankfully just picked their tasks and headed out.

“Tech, we need transport. Now. I don’t care how you do it, just get it done, alright?” Marcus refused to acknowledge the slight tremble in his voice, tried to breathe around the lump in his throat and the dread sinking in his stomach. He desperately stopped himself from thinking about coincidences and probabilities. This was all a fluke, a random string of events that didn’t mean anything more was going on. They’d be able to laugh about it when they got home and saw everything was just as they’d left it. He had to believe that. He didn’t have any other choice.

—-

Transport home turned out to be a military helicopter big enough to fit the whole team, in addition to the fully outfitted squad of soldiers already inside.

“According to the press release your director gave, there was small but powerful group of gifted individuals who invaded Heroics’ Headquarters, intending to either kidnap or kill certain “important personnel” within the building. Didn’t specify much more than that, other than that your organization would be dedicating as much manpower as they could to bring “those who would cause such destruction and terror” to justice. The address was filmed in the parking lot, but there were a lot of emergency responders and vehicle in the background. I’m sorry we can’t tell you anything more, but well, we were scrambled to your location ASAP, barely had time for the news we got...” The staff sergeant sitting across from Marcus briefed the team about what the intel they had on the HQ attack. And that was what it was. An attack. The thing they all feared most.

“Thank you for the information, and for the ride back home; we lost communication in the middle of a battle, with no clue as to why. Now, at least, we have an idea of what we should expect when we arrive.” The mention of “important personnel” jump-started Marcus’s heart into overdrive. That was the code phrase they used when describing their most vulnerable people to the public, non-combatants and injured persons usually; a smokescreen meant to dissuade targeted attacks, and shift attention away from those who couldn’t protect themselves in the case of an emergency. It was also the code that frequently represented their children.

The families of the Heroics were classified as high-risk targets; villains and enemies of their organization didn’t often have the moral decency to leave their loved ones out of the fight. So, to afford as much anonymity and protection possible, any time the team had to reference their partners and children in physical records and documentation, it was under that code phrase.

This attack was centred on their kids.

What kind of monster do you have to be to go after a bunch of kindergarten and primary school children?

Fuck.

The only good news was that there was no mention of the attack being a success.

So, all the Heroics knew for certain was that a group of villains had tried to get to their children, and while obviously causing significant damage to HQ, they had been stopped. Were unsuccessful. The Home Team had saved the day again.

Marcus thanked every deity he could think of for keeping his and his friends’ kids safe.

The rest of the flight home was quiet. Him and teammates finally able to get some rest after all the fighting and panic, and the soldiers conversing just loud enough to be heard over the headsets and hum of the chopper’s motors.

He was pulled back from the edge of unconsciousness he had been drifting along for a while when the pilot gave them their five-minute ETA.

They were home at long last, and everything was going to be just fine.

---

[Next Part]

#we can be heroes #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno #we can be heroes fanfiction #reader x marcus moreno #marcus moreno x you #reader insert #hurt/comfort #eventual happy ending #please forgive my bad fight scenes lol

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litwitlady · 4 years ago

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Love Out Loud

Okay, so I was trying to write the S3 wish fic, but got really frustrated and deleted 1000 words. I wrote this instead. Inspired by Tyler’s scruffy little selfie yesterday and my ferocious need for Michael to be overwhelmed by his desire for the beauty that is Alex Manes. Very slight sexual situations ahead. Set in the near S3 future.

Michael Guerin is distracted. He’s supposed to be working on a new piece of alien tech to keep Mr. Jones restrained outside of the turquoise mines. But Alex is sitting no less than a foot to his left and it’s all Michael can do not to make those twelve inches disappear.

Alex is on vacation. A leave of absence after his father’s death. Bereavement. He hasn’t taken a single day off since joining the Air Force unless you count the time his leg got blown off or that other time his father and his brother abducted him.

Holiday Alex is a wonder to behold. He’s gone several days without shaving. Michael wonders what the overgrown scuff would feel like against his skin. The thought is overwhelming and makes him squirm in his seat. Alex is completely fucking oblivious.

The Project Shepard base had been permanently shut down after Jesse died. So, Alex has moved everything into Michael’s bunker. Which had seemed like the obvious solution at the time, but now Michael realizes new and unexpected problems have arisen. Like the way Alex smells.

Also, his hands. They are beautiful. Even just flicking back and forth through the Caulfield documents and old newspapers trying to find mention of a Mr. Jones. Sometimes, Alex reaches out and touches Michael’s arm, wanting him to read something he’s found. Michael stops breathing every time.

Currently, things are in crisis. Alex is leaning forward on his stool and his t-shirt has ridden up in the back. The merest slice of olive skin is on full display and Michael’s heart is racing. He worries he might actually start drooling. Drawing his eyes away, he pinches the tender skin on the underside of his forearm and tries to refocus on his work.

Because the thing is, Alex is seeing Forrest. Casually – that’s the word Alex had used and the word Michael recites daily like a prayer. Casually means not serious. Casually means off and on. Casually means not forever. It implies a lack of feeling, a lack of investment. But it also implies sex. Sex with someone who is not him. The thought haunts Michael.

Don’t worry; he knows he’s a hypocrite.

For a time, he manages to focus pretty well. There’s a brief moment of panic when Alex has to bend over and retrieve his pencil. Michael recovers quickly. Until the unthinkable happens and Alex slides his stool as close to Michael as possible. ‘Hey, take a look at this. I think Mr. Jones might have gotten captured for a time.’

Michael hears Alex’s voice distantly in some far-off land, but the blood rushing through his body is entirely preoccupied with how Alex’s entire jean-clad thigh is pressed against his own. He swallows and stares at where their bodies meet, burning from hip to knee. He cannot for the life of him recall what Alex asked only two seconds ago. Lord help him.

Something must be wrong with him. He’s spent the past year barely thinking about Alex. Sure, there’s been the occasional dream. And there’s been a few times he’s picked up the phone to call him. Once he drove to his house and even knocked on the door. A time or two he’s jerked off to the thought of Alex’s mouth wrapped around his cock, but that’s perfectly normal. Right?

Wrong.

Everything he’s told himself concerning Alex for the past year is just so many lies. Alex is always the most attractive person Michael’s ever met and sex is always on the table even when it’s not. Maybe even especially when it’s not. Like right now with his criminal fucking thigh.

A memory surfaces. Of Alex home from leave after his second tour. Michael swears he won’t go to him. Will sit in the airstream all by himself no matter how long it takes for Alex to be gone again. But then. A knock at the door. Those sparkling hazel eyes. The freckles scattered across his cheeks. That sweet fucking mouth. Clothes thrown everywhere. Alex spreading Michael’s legs with that same villainous thigh.

Jesus fuck. Michael is in trouble.

Alex is calling his name, shaking his shoulder, concern evident in his voice. Michael tears his eyes away from where their thighs touch and looks up at him. He knows he must look slightly unhinged – eyes heavy-lidded, chest heaving, mouth parted wantonly. But Alex doesn’t seem to notice the sex of it all. ‘What’s wrong?’

Michael swallows several times and clears his throat. ‘Um, nothing. What’s up?’

It’s the best his brain can manage.

Alex is not buying what he’s selling. And before he can stop him, Alex’s hand is on Michael’s thigh, his thumb rubbing back and forth in soothing circles doing the absolute most but not soothing a goddamn thing. ‘You’re sweating. What’s wrong? Should I call Kyle?’

Michael is on the verge of doing something ruinous. He is teetering on the very dangerous ledge of want, need, desire. And love. In utter desperation, he stumbles backwards off his stool and ends up on his ass. When Alex kneels beside him in a panic, Michael scoots as far away from him as possible. ‘Stop, Alex. Please.’

They sit there for several long moments. Alex in total confusion. Michael willing his cock to go back to sleep. This cannot go on. Eventually, Michael stands up and moves his stool to another table. Alex watches as he gathers all his various tools and moves them to the other table. He plops back down on his seat, his back turned to Alex’s innocently filthy presence, and resumes his work like nothing happened.

He hears Alex shuffle around. Hears him head to the ladder. ‘I’ll work at home. Didn’t know I was bothering you.’ His voice filled with hurt.

Michael sighs and turns to him. ‘No, Alex, please don’t go.’ Alex pauses but doesn’t turn around, hand still clasping the ladder. ‘You aren’t bothering me. I swear.’ This time Alex does turn back to him. Michael hates the way his eyebrows furrow at him accusingly. When was the last time he’d made Alex smile? He can’t remember. It’s a damning realization.

Taking a deep breath, he gets up and approaches Alex slowly. He wants to buy some time – work out what to say in his brain. Unfortunately, the bunker is not that big and not 30 seconds go by before he’s as close to Alex as he dares. Michael wants to open his mouth and say ‘I love you’. He wants to say ‘stay with me, forever’. But what he does say is ‘I’m sorry’. It’s barely a whisper.

‘Sorry?’

‘Yeah. Sorry that you believe you could ever bother me. That I’ve somehow made you believe that.’ Michael grabs the strap of Alex’s cross-body bag and pulls it back over his head. ‘Stay. I’ll go grab us some lunch. We can talk. I want to talk.’ A distant memory echoes between them. He steps back, clutching Alex’s bag to his chest, and waits for his answer.

‘I’d like that.’ Alex returns to his seat and Michael releases his breath. He smiles to himself and thinks about what a relief it will be to finally love Alex out loud.

#malex #malex fic #michael guerin #alex manes #where is all this michael pov stuff coming from?

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snowdice · 4 years ago

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Road Trips and Missing Persons (Part 15)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Patton & Virgil, Virgil & Deceit, Logan & Patton, Emile & Remy, Roman & Remus & Janus

Characters: Patton, Virgil, Deceit, Remus, Roman, Logan, Emile, Remy

Summary: Patton was just getting groceries. The next thing he knew, there was a knife at his throat and he was an unwilling uber driver. Virgil’s on the run after the murder of his dad, and it’s not just his paranoia that’s telling him he’s being chased down. He has to get somewhere safe, somewhere he can trust, and all he has is a couple of stories from his dad and a name: “Green Bellow Foods and Dispensary.”

Notes: Secret Agents AU, knives, carjacking, kidnapping, murder mentioned, guns mentioned, pepper spray, blood mentioned, drugs mentioned, explosions, car crashes (more to be added)

This is a fic I’ve been writing on study breaks that you have probably all already seen at this point. I’ve affectionately named it the Goblin Brain Fic because it’s helping my brain actually get motivated for studying. I’ve slightly edited it for wording and grammar, but not for content from my previous posts. Feel free to send in asks to direct it because I’m not 100% sure where this is going and you can help decide if you feel so inclined! You can see the process I went through to build this at this link.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 My Master Post

The next two hours were the most frustrating ones of Logan’s life. It seemed like the entire universe, or perhaps more accurately his entire family, was doing its best to make his life and job as stressful as possible.

He’d stepped away from his desk for less than one minute to make sure Darlene and Fredrick’s coms were set up to his specifications. He had them outfitted with what he would usually give to undercover agents. It was a constant feed of audio from their side and Logan could talk to them with a click of a button. It was on an entirely different frequency than anyone else used and, barring damage to the actual equipment itself, it should never go offline.

When he got back to his desk and checked his phone, he had a missed call and a text message from Patton. Of course. Of course, in the 30 seconds he is away from his desk, someone finally calls him back. He opened the text message. His first thought was, ‘Patton, you are lactose intolerant. Why are you buying so much cheese?!’ His second thought was that the string of emojis was unintelligible. What about a baby and a knife?! If he’d just bought cheese, why did he need to go get a burger, fries, and ice cream, and on that count, why more dairy?

He tried to call Patton back, but as he was beginning to expect at this point, there was no answer. Frustrated, he slammed his finger down on the end call button. ‘I have no idea what that means’ he texted him back. He set his phone back down on his desk after making absolutely sure his ringer was at full volume.

“Be sure to track all traffic updates in their path,” Logan said. The other people in the base snapped to attention, their fingers going to work at their keyboards. Then, he pushed the button on his desk. “Fredrick?” he asked.

“We just got on I-26,” Fredrick replied instantly.

“Good,” Logan replied. He sat down in his chair to rub at his eyes and grabbed his phone once more. He shot off texts to different people in a pattern he was getting very used to at this point. Then, he went back to look at Patton’s message once again. “Why must you always use these infernal things?” he asked the text from his brother. He looked over his shoulder and saw Clara looking up. “Clara,” he said. She flinched at his tone.

“Yes?” she asked hesitantly.

“Are you literate in the emoji text message language?” he asked.

“Um…yes?” she said.

He stood and placed his phone in front of her. “Can you make sense of this message from Patton?” he asked.

“Er,” she said, looking at it with a perplexed expression on her face. “I’m getting… he bought a lot of cheese. Then he kidnapped… or got kidnapped by a baby? He got fast food and then did other things… then got gas and coffee. Um, he says everything’s cool and he loves you.”

“He got kidnapped by a baby?” Logan asked skeptically.

She gave him a helpless shrug. “That’s what he said. He got in his car at the grocery store, but there was a baby with a knife and the baby made him drive.”

“Well, thank you for trying,” Logan said. He took his phone back from her and wandered back over to his desk.

“Okay,” Darlene was saying over the coms. “But why do you even need chair covers for your apartment?”

“To prevent damage and stains,” Fredrick said back.

“You bought them for $20 at a yard sale. They’re already stained.”

“Even more of a reason to make a seat cover for them! It’ll make them cuter, and since I’m sewing them, I can personalize! See look, here’s the pattern I’m using.”

“Fred, I’m driving.”

They continued to chat idly about Fredrick’s latest sewing project. Logan was just content to have an open line of communication with his agents.

They eventually moved on from arguing the merit of chair covers and went on to discussing the pattern and color options. Well, Fredrick at least was discussing it. Darlene had descended into noncommittal hums, ‘yep’s and ‘I can’t look at that because I’m driving’s.

“Do you like this flower design or this flower design better?” Fredrick was asking.

“The first one,” was the answer.

“You didn’t even look!”

“Boss, there’s been an accident on I-26,” Emerson informed him from his desk.

“Where?” Logan asked.

“Around exit 52. The actual accident was only on the east side, but it was a truckload of cows, so it’ll likely affect Fred and Lena’s path.”

“Alright,” Logan said. “Find me the quickest alternative route.” Emerson nodded and turned back to his computer. Logan pushed the talk button. “There is an accident ahead of you,” he informed Fredrick and Darlene. “We will be giving you an alternate route. Stand by.”

“Yes, boss,” Darlene replied.

“Have them take exit 65 and get on Highway 236,” Emerson instructed.

Logan nodded and pressed down the button again. “You’ll want to get off on exit 65,” he told them. “You’ll take 236 until you’re past the accident.”

“Got it,” Darlene replied.

“We just passed mile marker 61 a few seconds ago, so we’ll be there soon,” Fredrick offered.

Darlene and Fredrick exited the interstate without any problems. It was a few minutes later that, with the obnoxious sound of a saxophone, the song titled ‘We Are the Number One Bad Guys’ (which was reportedly a mash-up of a song from a children’s show and a pop song) started blaring from his phone. Usually he’d be annoyed by hearing that sound as Patton and Remus had set it behind his back and he couldn’t figure out how to change it. Today, however, the sound was a relief. He grabbed his phone to look at the text message from Remus.

‘I’m not his keeper’ is what the text said in response to Logan’s many messages asking him if he knew where his brother was.

Logan stared at his phone for a least a whole minute.

“What’s wrong boss?” Clara finally hesitantly asked.

“I,” Logan said calmly. “Love. My. Children.”

“…Uh huh?”

Logan typed back a message he was certain at this point would not get a response, and then he hit the talk button on his desk. “So, Fredrick,” he said. “Tell me more about these chair covers. You mentioned flowers?”

“Uh…” Fredrick’s voice said. “Yes?”

Logan glanced up at the other agents in the room who were all staring intently at the designs in their desks. “Have you considered paisley?”

Logan focused on listening to Fredrick and Darlene’s conversation while the rest of the office focused on not looking at him unless it was to update him on the traffic for Fredrick and Darlene for the next 15 minutes.

“Whoa!” Darlene suddenly said, and Logan could hear the sound of braking through the sensitive listening devices

“What?” Logan pushed the button to ask.

“There were a couple of cars in our lane…” Fredric said.

“Was that a gun shot?” Logan asked when there was a loud pop on the other end.

“Uh… give us a minute boss,” Darlene requested.

He could hear the engines turn after a moment, likely as they accelerated again.

“What’s going on?” Logan asked.

“We’re, in a car chase now, apparently,” Fredrick replied, voice strained.

“Why?” Logan asked.

“I recognized the first car!” Darlene said.

“What do you mean you recognize the car?” Logan asked.

“I… shit!” Darlene said. Logan could hear the sound of tires squealing. A few seconds later there was a huge crash followed by a couple of incredibly loud splashes.

“What’s going on?” Logan asked.

There was cursing on the other end of the line in response and the sound of two doors slamming shut and then running.

“Darlene! Fredrick! What is going on?!”

There were a few more seconds where he could hear the sound of breathing and then the sound cut out halfway through the sound of a splash.

“Fredrick?” Logan said. “Darlene?” He took his finger off the button. “Please tell me we didn’t just lose the signal,” he said to the room at large.

There was silence.

“Please, someone tell me we didn’t just lose the signal to the high-tech spy gear I put on both of my agents.”

After a pause, Emerson finally spoke. “It’s… it’s not waterproof sir.”

“I see,” Logan said, his tone serene. “It isn’t waterproof.” He looked down at his hands settled on the top of his desk next to his useless talk button and the phone that no one seemed to be willing to call or text with anything useful. He turned his hands over, grabbed the bottom of the desk, and flipped the whole thing over. His computer smashed on the ground and the normally well-organized pens and papers scattered across the floor. “Well, why the hell isn’t it waterproof?!”

No one dared to answer his question, and Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, surveying his broken computer and overturned desk for a few minutes.

Eventually, he straightened. “I need to borrow someone’s desk,” he said. Three people scrambled to their feet, but he held up a hand. “I’ll use Darlene’s,” They all scrambled back to their desks, “and send someone after those two!” He strode over to Darlene’s desk and sat at her computer. He pulled up every local news outlet he could find. They needed to find a new starting place, because he honestly didn’t know where to go from here.

He spent an hour trying to piece together what exactly was happening out there with news articles, police scanners, and other information channels. There was an explosion an hour and a half earlier in the city where this all started, and he worried that had something to do with the lack of communication as it was on the road from Nelsen’s base to the city. However, that still left almost 2 hours before that of silence from Roman and Janus unaccounted for. There were also two separate break-ins to the security office of the grocery store down the street from Remington Gates home which Logan imagined somehow was connected, but he couldn’t figure out how. And what did the cows have to do with it? Anything? Everything? What was going on? There was no news about whatever had happened with Fredrick and Darlene and the other team of agents he sent after them were still 20 minutes out from their last known location.

“Uh, boss?” a tentative voice said. Logan looked up at Clara who was standing at the edge of the desk. She flinched at the expression on his face when he looked up.

“Unless a member of my family or Virgil Gates has arrived at this base, I don’t want to hear about it,” he snapped.

“Well…” she replied, “actually…”

Want to read more? Click below!

Part 16

#sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #remus sanders #roman sanders #janus sanders #emile piccani #remy sanders #virgil sanders #road trips and missing persons #adriana writes #murder mentioned #guns #car crash

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rushingheadlong · 4 years ago

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Dear Friend, We’ll Carry On - A Brian/trans-m!Reader fic

Summary: You’ve known Brian since the early days of Queen, but when he comes to New Haven on his solo tour you haven’t seen him in years. You’re both different people now but, as the saying goes, the more things change the more they stay the same...

Wordcount: ~9.5k

Tags/Warnings: Trans-m!Reader/Brian, some light angst and H/C, eventual smut (fingering & oral, Reader receiving, and some light cumplay)

Notes: This is, I think, officially the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written. I know I say that a lot but the entire fic takes place around Brian’s October 1993 New Haven concert (the one with the Yale tank top) so that should really tell you everything you need to know. I might write a follow-up fic, or just a shorter epilogue as well - but we’ll see if I ever actually get around to that.

The only other thing I’ll note is that is the Reader is American, so American terms have been used over British ones (i.e. “pants” instead of “trousers”) and this is cross-posted to AO3 here.

It’s only been a few years since you last saw Brian, but when he first walks into the diner you almost don’t recognize him. If it wasn’t for that same wild halo of curls around his head you’d think you were looking at a stranger, because there’s a tightness in his shoulders and a stiffness in his frame that you’ve never seen before.

Even the other patrons around you seem uncertain of him, casting double-takes in his direction as if they aren’t really sure if they recognize him or not. There was a time when Queen couldn’t step foot in America without being mobbed, but too much has changed in a decade and now Brian looks more like a lost child than a world-famous rockstar.

You wave to catch his attention and Brian spots you immediately. He smiles, bright and wide and so familiar that it makes your chest ache, and he finally looks almost like himself again.

He quickly crosses the small room and you stand up to greet him. Brian pulls you into a tight hug and this is achingly familiar too, the way your shorter frame fits against his, the gentle nuzzle against the top of your head as Brian curls around you, the soft sigh as Brian relaxes into the embrace and some of the tightness starts to bleed out of his body.

“I’ve missed you,” Brian says when he finally pulls away and the two of you take your seats at the table. “You look…” His voice trails off for a moment and you brace yourself for the word that you know is coming next: Different. It’s what everyone says these days, after all, not that you can blame them. Five years on testosterone and nearly eleven months since your surgery have radically changed your appearance - and you haven’t seen Brian in person since your transition started, having been out-of-town when he last performed in New Haven back in March.

But Brian smiles and the word he goes with, to your surprise, is simply, “Good. You look really good, Y/N.”

“Thanks,” you say, with a smile of your own. “And you look…”

Sad.

There’s still grief in the depths of Brian’s eyes, a slightly haunted look that wasn’t there before Freddie’s death and the end of Queen tore his world apart. He’s allowed his grief, of course he is, but it still tears at your heart to see Brian’s kind face marred with anguish, no matter how much he tries to hide it.

You know better than to tell him any of that, though, no matter how true it may be, so you find yourself settling for a different adjective as well. “Tired. Tour getting to you, is it?”

Brian laughs, the smallest huff of amusement and admits, “It’s been rough at times, yeah. Been too long since I’ve done this, and it’s different from what it was with- with Queen.”

He busies himself with the menu for a moment, and you graciously don’t comment on the slight stumble at the mention of the band that was his entire world for two decades. “Anyway, it’s been good though,” Brian finally says. “Nice to be playing again, and the new group is great.”

“I’m sorry I missed your show the last time you were in Connecticut,” you tell him.

“Nah, don’t be. We were only a support act then, you’re getting the full performance tonight,” Brian says. A small, uncertain look crosses his face and he asks, “You are coming tonight, aren’t you?”

“Bought my ticket the moment they went on sale,” you assure him, and Brian smiles in relief.

Your conversation is briefly interrupted by the arrival of your waitress, and once when she leaves with your orders Brian says, “I have a backstage pass for you, if you want it. You can hang out before the show, watch from out front, and security will let you backstage again before the encore so you don’t have to deal with trying to leave with the crowd when it’s all over.”

“Really? That would be great!” It would certainly give you more time to spend with Brian, though you know from the many Queen concerts where you were able to get backstage that it’s likely to be in somewhat of a state of pandemonium leading up to the start of the show. “Hey, is there anyone in your road crew that I might remember?”

You know not to tack on from the Queen days, though it’s obvious that’s what you mean. Another sad look crosses Brian’s face and you know you’ve still made a mistake, even before Brian says, “Ah, not really, no. Jobby left, so my guitar tech is new, and Ratty and Crystal obviously aren’t around… Oh, Spike’s touring with me, though!” You give him a blank, apologetic look and he sighs and adds, hopeful, “Keyboard player? He played with Queen back in the 80s too…”

“You had someone different on the Hot Space tour, I think,” you tell Brian.

“God, has it really been that long since we played the US?” Brian shakes his head. “Seems crazy, doesn’t it? How quickly a decade passes…”

“And how much changes in that time,” you say without thinking. Another pained look crosses Brian’s face and you quickly try to steer the conversation towards less depressing territory. “I mean, I’m surprised you recognized me at all today!” you say with a small laugh.

“Well, of course I recognized you! Why wouldn’t I?” Brian asks, just as your waitress returns with your drinks.

You wait until she stops fussing over Brian and leaves again before saying, “I don’t know, Bri, why would you recognize me? I look pretty different than I did before…”

“Oh, yeah,” Brian says. “That.”

You didn’t really want to bring the topic up but Brian’s response, no matter how casual, is exactly why you knew you had to. You met Brian when you were still going by your dead name, before you had even comes to terms with your gender and back when you two were still hooking up every time Queen came to the US. He was one of the first people you came out to, because you saw him so rarely that if he reacted poorly it’s not like it would have impacted your normal daily life.

Brian didn’t react poorly though. No one in Queen did, and if any of the roadies had a different opinion you at least never had to hear it. Brian easily adjusted to calling you “Y/N” and “he” during your increasingly infrequent meetings in the 80s, those rare weekends when you could afford to fly to LA or he had the time to meet you somewhere on the East Coast, but this is still the first time that he’s seeing you since your transition - the first time he’s had to see you present fully as a man, without binders and baggy clothes and uncomfortably short hair to hide behind.

And you know all too well how much of a difference that can make, to some people.

But not, apparently, to Brian. He smiles and offers you a small shrug and just says, “You’re still Y/N - I mean, yeah, you look different but… Well, like I said before, you look good. You look more like yourself, if that makes any sense at all. Like you’re just a better version of who you always were.” He shakes his head and adds, “Sorry, that probably sounds ridiculous…”

“It really doesn’t,” you tell him. “That’s exactly how it feels to me.” Your whole chest feels warm with affection, and even though you’re reassuring him in the moment you feel incredibly comforted by his easy acceptance and understanding of a topic that not very many others in your life have embraced.

Brian’s smile brightens a little, and your stomach swoops at the sight. You’ve never been in love with Brian, not romantically anyway, but sometimes you still find yourself getting overwhelmed with how much you love having him in your life - as a friend and, in the past, as an occasional bed partner.

Only it seems like today your libido missed the message that the two of you aren’t hooking up anymore. You thought you had gotten past the initial spike to your sex drive that happened when you first started T, but looking at Brian now - with his wide smile and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and his shirt half unbuttoned to expose most of his chest - makes you almost squirm with how badly you want him again.

It doesn’t help that Brian once admitted to you, years ago when you were both far too drunk for your own good, that the occasional man does catch (and hold) his interest. It doesn’t help that you know Brian was always enthusiastic about hooking up with you, at least when you used to do that before you came out and started transitioning. And it doesn’t help that, when you look across the table at him, his earlier sadness has been replaced with a familiar glint in his eye that makes you wonder if his repeated “You look good” comments might hold a little more meaning than you originally thought.

You want to test the waters, see if Brian is thinking of your previous hook-ups like you now are… and you almost do, before you remember what it could cost Brian to be seen flirting with another man in public. Even the hug he had given you in greeting was risky, nevermind that that’s how he’s always greeted you before you transitioned. So you settle instead for only asking, “How long are you in town?”

Brian grimaces. “We got in late yesterday, and we’re only here for one more night. We’re driving over to Providence in the morning for tomorrow’s show, then there’s a day off so we can head out to Chicago. And then…” He thinks about it for a moment, before laughing and shaking his head. “For the life of me, I can’t remember where we go from there. But we only have seven or eight more shows in the States, and then we have some time off before we go to Japan at the beginning of November.”

At one point, you would have followed him around to all those stops on the tour - or at least spent a week or two in Queen’s bus, curled up by Brian’s side during the day and spending your evenings watching their shows from wherever you could find a spot, before eventually catching a flight home from some random city halfway across the country.

But those days are long behind you now.

“Well, you should come back to Connecticut during that break and visit me some more,” you say, and you can’t help the slight teasing note that creeps into your voice.

What you’re not expecting, though, is for Brian to give you a knowing smirk and say, “Maybe I’ll do just that.”

Your mouth drops open in a small “o” of surprise, but before you can respond your waitress comes over with your food - and when she leaves Brian launches into a story from one of his shows earlier in the year, and you let the moment pass.

No matter how much time accidentally passes between your meetings, it’s always easy to fall back into conversation with Brian. His story reminds you of a different rock show you had been to a year ago, and then Brian tells you about some festival he found himself at, which happens to be in the same area where you’re planning an upcoming vacation, and the resulting travel talk branches out into any topic imaginable, until Brian catches a glimpse at the time and swears under his breath.

“Shit, I’m needed over at the theatre.” He stands up and starts to pull out his wallet, but you stop him.

“No, Bri, I’ve got this,” you say, throwing enough bills down onto the table to cover the check (and a large enough tip to make up for how long the two lingered around just chatting). “Any time in particular I should plan on getting to the theatre myself?”

“You can head over with me now, if you want,” Brian says as he leads the way out of the diner, holding the door open for you behind him.

“Nah, I need to change into something more fitting for a rock concert,” you say, gesturing to your suitable - but certainly plain - outfit.

“You look-”

“Brian May, if you tell me that I look good again I’ll kick you!” you interrupt with a laugh. “No, give me a chance to pretty myself up for you and then I’ll head over.”

It doesn’t quite register that the “for you” slipped out until you see a look of surprise cross Brian’s face, a look that settles into something a little more amused as he smirks and says, “Well, I’ll definitely be looking forward to seeing you soon, then.”

He pulls you into another quick hug and your face is hot with embarrassment, and you can feel yourself get redder when Brian murmurs in your ear, “Don’t take too long now, Y/N.”

You know he’s teasing but there’s a note of arousal in his voice as well, and you feel your dick start to stir with interest even through your lingering embarrassment. “I’ll get changed and hurry right over,” you promise in a low voice, and you can’t help but feel smug when you see Brian’s eyes darken in hunger.

You don’t live in New Haven proper and today even the quick drive back to your apartment feels like it takes too long, when all you want to do is still be with Brian… but you’re hoping, if you play your cards right, that you’ll be spending a lot more time with Brian tonight than you had ever originally planned.

Picking out clothes feels less like a daily battle than it ever did before you started transitioning but you still take some time to consider what to wear over to the theatre, finally settling on skinny jeans and a Yale shirt. You’re considerably older than most of the university’s students but you’re still cursed with a babyface that T hasn’t aged quite enough yet, and you figure that faking some school pride can’t hurt when you’re going to be mere blocks away from the university itself.

You grab a pair of rolled-up socks and hesitate for a moment before discarding them, and tying a flannel shirt around your waist to hide the lack of bulge in your pants. An old leather jacket and a few swipes of eyeliner finish off the look, and even if you hadn’t already been flirting with Brian you’re pretty sure you’d win an invite back to his hotel room now anyway.

You take the bus back over to New Haven, rather than worrying about finding parking near the venue, and although security gives you an uncomfortable once-over as you show him your badge it isn’t long before you’re inside the theatre and looking for Brian once more.

Soundcheck is just wrapping up and you let the sound of Brian’s voice lead you towards the stage. He’s engrossed in his work and you watch him from the wings as he talks about some technical detail with one of the roadies. He seems relaxed enough, at a quick glance, but you can see his fingers tapping anxiously against the front of the Red Special and tension starting to gather in his shoulders again.

It’s a far cry from how he was before the Queen shows of old. Back then, even if he was a bit on edge or the band had fought during soundcheck, Brian retained a certain amount of confident ease - something which is noticeably absent in his demeanor now. You wonder if it’s due to the lack of Queen and the stability that Brian had based his routines around, or if it’s because of the added pressure of his role in this new band… though, truthfully, it’s probably a little bit of both.

You wonder if you still have a right to meddle, if you can ask Brian how he’s really doing and still expect an honest answer from him after all these years. Then Brian spots you out of the corner of his eye and his face lights up with happiness again and the tension starts to bleed out of his frame, and you decide to let sleeping dogs lie - at least for now anyway, because you have more important (or at least more fun) things to focus on.

Because Brian isn’t nearly as subtle as he thinks he is as he gives you a lingering once-over, before he passes over his Old Lady to a tech that you don’t recognize and crosses the stage to pull you into a hug. This one isn’t as intimate as the one at the diner, more of a quick one-armed embrace that he might give to any of his male friends, but he still whispers in your ear, “You look good, Y/N.”

You pull back, gearing up to poke fun at Brian for saying that yet again, only to see the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth and the glint in his eyes that tells you that he’s teasing you. That doesn’t stop you from huffing a little and saying, “Excuse you, I think I look damn good in fact.”

Brian laughs, the sound catching the attention of the rest of his bandmates. If he notices, though, that doesn’t stop him from murmuring a quiet, “You do look damn good. Gonna make it hard for me to get through the show, knowing that you’re-”

“Hey, Brian!” the other guitarist calls out. “The pizza for the crew just got here, we good on the soundcheck?”

“Yeah sorry, we’re all set!” Brian yells back. He shakes his head and says to you, “Sorry about that.”

You shrugs. “Not the first time your work has ruined the moment.” It used to be Roger banging on the dressing room door while the two of you were in the middle of things, but you’re still used to the interruptions.

“Well, we’re not likely to get many moments in private until after the show,” Brian says, his voice pitched low so no one can overhear the two of you.

“I was thinking that we’re getting a bit too old to disappear into a supply closet together,” you joke, though you keep your voice low as well.

Brian snorts. “Yeah, I don’t need Spike or Jamie finding me in flagrante when there’s a perfectly good hotel bed waiting for us at the end of this.” He hesitates for a moment, biting his bottom lip, and finally asks, “That is where all this flirting is heading, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I was hoping.” You grin wickedly at Brian and add, “I didn’t dress up nice just for the hell of it, you know.”

“Good to know,” Brian says, with a wide grin. “C’mon, I wanna introduce you to the band.”

Brian does have a full, proper band touring with him. Jamie is the guitarist who had interrupted Brian greeting you, Neil is the bass player, and Spike is the keyboard player that Brian had mentioned during your lunch earlier. The backing vocalists are Catherine and Shelley, and the last you’re introduced to is Cozy, the drummer. You don’t recognize him at all but clearly Brian is expecting you to, judging by his slightly exasperated sigh when you don’t react to his name.

“Oh, leave it be, Brian. Not like my pride’s hurt at all,” Cozy says before Brian can gear up for his explanation. “I’m just glad to finally be meeting Y/N.”

“Finally?” you echo, giving Brian a sideways glance.

“I may have mentioned you once or twice…”

“Or three or four or forty times,” Spike says dryly.

“You can’t count times I’ve mentioned him in passing over the last decade!” Brian tries to defend himself.

“Decade? Try the last day,” Jamie says as he too joins in the conversation. “If the drive down here yesterday had been any longer we were going to draw straws to see which one of us was going to knock you out just to get some peace and quiet!"

“I was not that bad!” Brian protests but he’s laughing, and so is everyone else, and it’s not quite Queen but you can see the niche that Brian has carved out with this new group of people and it makes you smile to listen to the friendly ribbing and jokes.

“We tried to get him to call you when we stopped so maybe he’d shut up for a bit, but he refused,” Cozy says to you.

You were at work yesterday so Brian wouldn’t have been able to reach you anyway but instead of pointing that out you join in with the teasing yourself. “Well I wish you had, so I could’ve pointed you in the direction of the right pizza to order…”

Brian groans at the familiar argument and says, “You complain about this every time I come to New Haven!”

“Well, start ordering from Frank Pepe’s instead of Sally’s and we wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation!” you tell him.

“I didn’t know pizza was that big of a deal in Connecticut,” Neil says with a laugh.

“It’s not, not unless you’re a New Haven local,” Brian says, with the tone of someone who has been forced to listen to this lecture more times than he cares to remember.

“Are you a local then, Y/N?” Shelley asks. “Or did you come down to meet up with Brian?”

“Nah, I’m a local - well, local enough, I live over in West Haven.” You pluck at your shirt and add, “Didn’t go to Yale, but I’ll pretend to support the university while I’m practically on their campus.”

“I think that’s Brian’s plan for tonight too,” Jamie says, giving Brian a friendly nudge with his elbow as he passes him. “First thing he did when we got in yesterday was have someone run out to get him an appropriately local tank top for the encore.”

“A tank top?” You can’t help but laugh. “In all the years I’ve known Brian I have never known him to wear a tank top! I’ll believe that when I see it!”

You keep chatting with the band for a little while longer but eventually everyone splits up to double-check their instruments, get changed, and take care of the thousand little things that always seem to get left for the last minute.

“You should probably head out front,” Brian tells you eventually. He still needs to get changed into his own stage outfit, even though you’ve been listening to the audience trickle in for the last ten minutes.

“Yeah, probably,” you agree. You want to lean up and kiss him but even here, in the doorway to the dressing room, you know better than to risk it. Some of Brian’s bandmates seem to have an inkling of what’s really going on, but the last thing you need is for anyone else to see the two of you like that. “I’ll catch you later then?”

“I’ve already told security to let you backstage before the encore,” Brian says. He looks like he wants to kiss you too, but he settles for giving you a bright smile and another quick hug. “I’ll see you soon enough.”

“I’ll be seeing you soon enough at least,” you joke and you let the echo of Brian’s laugh follow you out.

You hadn’t bought a floor ticket originally, but security finds you a spot by the stage where it’ll be easy for you to duck out again later. A few people near you give you curious looks, but luckily none of the double-takes that you’ve come to dread, and no one asks you about the backstage pass still hanging around your neck as the theatre fills up around you.

When the lights finally dim the audience roars and cheers, almost enough to drown out the opening bars of what you can barely make out as The Dark - before the lights slowly come on and Brian is standing center-stage, singing the title track from his debut solo album.

Brian’s voice is amazing. You’ve always known that, even if Brian has never really considered himself to be much of a singer, but you’re spellbound at his performance - the way he balances the guitar with the vocals, the gorgeous harmony of a full band supporting him, his backing vocalists providing a depth that takes you by surprise. It’s not Queen, none of it is, but it’s good, and Brian owns the stage like he was born to do this.

You’re so taken by Brian’s performance that it’s not until Brian sheds the long coat that he initially wore out on stage that you take in the outfit he’s wearing: A loose white shirt with an ornate vest, paired with a pair of tight pants that you think have buttons sewn all over them… until Brian wanders closer to where you’re standing and you realize that they’re actually grommets. You can’t tell if there’s a lining to them or not, but the possibility that that’s Brian’s bare skin peeking through the tiny holes makes your mouth go dry with want.

Brian’s solo material is as excellent as it sounded on the album. You never doubted that it would be, not for a second, but you’re taken a bit by surprise by how well the Queen songs work in the setlist as well. It’s not Freddie singing, or Roger on the drums, or John on bass… but with Brian still on guitar, and Spike clearly knowing his way around the keyboard parts, it all works. The crowd cheers as loud for Tie Your Mother Down as they do for Love Token, and your heart swells with pride for everything Brian has achieved with this album and this tour.

And then Brian grabs an acoustic, and sits down on a stool by himself towards the front of the stage, and you know what is coming even before Brian asks the audience if they’re ready to sing.

“There's a special reason for this song. I didn't write this song, so by right I don't have- I don't have much of a right to be singing it,” Brian says. “But I'm going to do it anyway, because this is in memory of just about the best singer the world has ever seen.”

Everyone around you is cheering but you think you’re going to cry. You want to jump onstage, pull Brian out from under the bright lights and somewhere quiet and private, where you can wrap yourself around him and reassure him that Freddie wouldn’t care that Brian was singing his song at all. You want to take Brian and steal him away from the world, from everyone who still demands Queen from him and everyone who won’t let him grieve in peace.

You want to find somewhere that the two of you can hide away together, until you never have to see this sort of open anguish on Brian’s face again.

The song is as gorgeous as it ever was when Freddie sang it, and the concert continues from there with Brian giving no indication that he had bared his heart and left it bleeding on the stage while the audience sang and cheered him on.

Brian loses the vest eventually, and you’re close enough to the stage that you can see the sweat starting to bead along Brian’s temple and the column of his throat. It’s a strange sort of whiplash, going from the emotional devastation of Love of My Life to feeling like you’re going to die if you don’t get your hands on Brian this very second. He’s always looked damn fine while playing the guitar, but seeing him fully in control of the stage and belting his heart out on every song - when he remembers to get back to his mic in time - is driving you crazy with want.

We Will Rock You doesn’t dovetail into We Are the Champions, like you were half-expecting it to, but even after the band leaves the stage you’re left stunned and entirely captivated by their performance.

“Hey!” A security guard taps you on the shoulder. “You’re the one who’s supposed to head backstage again, yeah?”

You nod. You had almost forgotten about that, and you follow the guard through the crowd to the backstage door, which he opens and motions for you to go through. You walk back, finding yourself in the wings near the stage where the band is quickly toweling off and grabbing a drink before heading back out for the encore.

Brian is quickly shucking off his sweat-drenched shirt and pulling on the tank top that had been mentioned earlier. It’s a simple white with YALE printed across the chest and it hangs loose on Brian’s slim frame, leaving his arms and a good portion of the sides of his torso exposed to the world. You’ve seen Brian naked before but somehow this feels more sinful, and you can feel your dick start to twitch and and your core throb with interest, especially when you realize that Brian is still wearing the same pants as before.

“Please tell me there’s a lining in those,” you say in a slightly strangled voice, motioning towards Brian’s legs and the grommet holes that have been teasing you all evening.

Brian wipes his face with a towel, and only gives you a wicked smirk and a knowing wink in response. “Catch you after the show,” he says, as he’s handed a guitar - an acoustic, you notice belatedly, not his Red Special - and he walks back onstage with the rest of the band.

You’re still distracted by the sight of Brian in an honest-to-god tank top, his sinewy arms on full display, that you almost miss Brian saying, “You might think this is a sad song, but it ain’t.”

And for the second time that evening you find yourself caught off-guard by the genuine, heart-wrenching emotion in Brian’s singing - but the pain that was there during Love Of My Life is now nowhere to be seen. Maybe it’s because you can’t see Brian’s face, or maybe it’s just the warning he gave at the beginning of the song to let everyone know that it wasn’t supposed to be sad… but for the first time, you think you’re beginning to understand how Brian is starting to move on. You think you can see the ways in which sharing his grief with the world like this is healing for him, in a way that you never would have expected.

It still hurts to hear Brian sing, “I don’t believe in being Queen anymore - I just believe in me. Just you guys and me.” But it’s a hurt that’s tempered by the memory of Brian laughing with his new bandmates backstage, the genuine happiness you’ve seen on his face despite the moments of grief that still come through, and you know that even if Brian might not be entirely okay… at least he’s getting there.

And then the song ends and Brian launches into the familiar opening riff of Hammer to Fall, and you let yourself get swept away by the energy and the music.

Your heart races at the sight of Brian rocking out to the heavy Queen tune, your arousal simmering again with every flash of the stage lights that catch on those grommets or cast dark shadows along the lines of the wiry muscles in Brian’s arms. There’s a strangeness to it still, a part of you that’s still a little turned around from the sudden change in mood in the theatre, but that part quickly fades when Brian glances your way and gives you a wink, before sidling up to Jamie to keep rocking out on the guitar part.

You bite your lip to stifle a groan and wonder if Brian is dragging this song out for longer than normal just to torment you. It’s just not fair, none of it is - not the tank top and grommets leaving Brian lewdly on display, not the hot stage lights making sweat bead along his brow, not his quick fingers flying over the strings of his guitar as the song finally, fucking finally, comes to an end and the band takes their bows one last time.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Brian asks you as he hands off his guitar. The question is innocent enough but the look in his eyes is anything but, and for a moment you feel an irrational burst of hatred that this isn’t a Queen show and you no longer present as female because all you want to do is push Brian against the closest wall and kiss him breathless.

Instead you grit your teeth and say, “Loved it, it was great... Please tell me you don’t have to stick around for long.”

Brian throws his head back and laughs, and you have to stamp down the urge to bite at the column of this throat. “Nah, no interviews or meet-and-greet’s tonight. Just have to get changed and-”

“Don’t change,” you interrupt.

“Oh?” Brian raises an eyebrow and smirks at you. You huff at him, hating that you can’t tell him exactly what he’s doing to you in that outfit, and you’re about two seconds from deciding that you don’t care who sees or overhears you when Brian says, “Alright. Let me just grab my wallet and we’ll head out.”

It doesn’t end up being quite that easy. Brian still has to check in with a few people about the travel plans for tomorrow, and it takes some time for the crowds to disperse and a car to arrive to take you two back to the hotel. But luckily the rest of the band just waves Brian off, some with knowing smiles, and none of them hop in the car with you or ask Brian to stick around backstage for any longer than he already has.

It’s torture having to keep your hands to yourself, and after a few minutes you decide, screw it, it’s dark enough that the driver won’t be able to see anything - so you reach out and trace around one of the grommet holes, dipping your finger in to tease at the delicate skin of Brian’s thigh. “These are more than a little indecent, you know,” you murmur in a low undertone as your hand creeps further up Brian’s leg.

Brian catches your hand and laces his fingers with yours, which is fair because you can hide your arousal when you get to the hotel far easier than Brian can. “Indecent is going a bit far, I think,” Brian counters.

“Mm, well, they’re giving me indecent thoughts, at least…”

“Care to share some of them?” Brian asks, and even though the question is quiet you can hear the heat behind the words.

You shrug and glance at the driver, who - if he can hear your conversation - at least doesn’t give any sign of it. “Been wondering if I could get some laces between those grommets, tie you up in a pretty little package…”

Brian inhales sharply and you smile, all teeth and wicked intentions, as he shifts next to you and says, “Didn’t think you liked being the one doing the tying. You always used to want to be the one getting tied up.”

“Oh, I still do. But I can’t help it if those pants start giving me ideas…” you say, and Brian’s quiet groan of frustration feels like music to your ears.

You’re grateful that Brian is already checked in so you don’t have to stop by the front desk, but you still struggle to keep your hands to yourself as Brian leads the way up to his room and unlocks the door. Once you’re inside, though, both of you are on each other in an instant as Brian crowds you against the wall and you finally, finally get to kiss him.

It’s just as perfect as you remember. Brian’s lips are soft but he kisses you with the same passion that you remember from years ago, fierce and demanding and just the right side of rough. He nips at your bottom lip, a move that’s always gotten your blood racing, and when you groan he slips his tongue into your mouth to plunder every inch of you.

You’re so much shorter than Brian and you know that it has to be uncomfortable for him to lean down so far to kiss you, so when you finally pull back to catch your breath you loop your fingers through the grommets on his pants and start tugging him towards the bed.

“Oh, I definitely love these pants,” you tell him, and Brian just laughs and tries to kiss you again. You push him down so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and that puts you at a much more equal height, making it easy for you to tangle one hand in his curls and slide the other along the bare skin of his arm and shoulder. “And this tank top too, fucking christ…”

Brian is still laughing as he finally captures your lips with his again and yeah, that’s a much better use of your time than continuing to talk about his admittedly excellent wardrobe choices. You think you could spend the rest of your life kissing Brian and die happily at the end of it all but you’re still craving more, so you nudge Brian’s legs apart and move in closer to him.

“Wait, wait-” Brian says, breaking the kiss before you can press fully up against him. He’s breathing heavily and his lips are red and kiss-swollen, and you want to lean back in and keep kissing him senseless, until both of you are breathless and desperate for more.

But you know Brian wouldn’t pull the brake unless it was important so you swallow down the impulse to keep touching him and instead ask, “What is it, Bri?”

“We haven’t done this since you’ve… Well I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Brian says. There’s a flush rising on his cheeks that is no longer entirely due to arousal and his embarrassment is palpable in the room.

You know what Brian is trying to ask, even though it’s been a while since you’ve had to have this conversation with a partner. You untangle your hand from his hair and let go of his shoulder so you don’t get distracted as you tell him, “I’m fine being penetrated, if you want to go that far, but we’re gonna need lube. I don’t get as wet as I did before starting testosterone. And I have a dick. Don’t call it a clit.”

“Okay,” Brian says with a nod. He looks serious, and that’s actually a little comforting for you to see. “What about… I mean, if I, er, penetrate you, what do I call…?”

“Don’t,” you tell him. “There’s not really any term I’m comfortable with yet.”

Brian frowns. “If you’re not comfortable, I can get you off without touching that part-”

“No. I’m fine with you penetrating me, honestly I am, just don’t try to talk dirty about what you’re doing,” you say.

“Okay,” Brian says again. “Anything else I should know?”

You hesitate for a moment, because you don’t really want to talk about this… but you’d rather talk about it now rather than have it come up when you’re both naked and more in the moment. “I had chest reconstruction surgery. I don’t have much feeling up there but there’s- there’s scars, and you don’t have to touch them-”

“Do you not want me to touch them?” Brian asks, gently cutting into your nervous rambling before it can really build momentum.

“They’re… not pretty. They didn’t heal up nicely,” you admit, and getting those words out is hard. You still feel ashamed to admit that your surgical results only look good when you have a shirt covering it all up, and you’ve had more than one hookup where you kept your chest covered the entire time.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Brian says, with a small smile to soften his words and help put you at ease once again. “Do you not want me to touch your scars?”

You have to think about that, and the only answer you can give Brian is, “I don’t know. I don’t like touching them and no one else ever has. If you want to you can, and I’ll tell you to stop if I need to?”

You don’t mean for that to come out as a question but it does anyway, and Brian doesn’t hesitate to nod in agreement. “That sounds good. Anything else?”

You shake your head. “No, that’s everything. Can we just get back to making out now?”

Brian laughs but gently pulls you back in close, keeping one hand on your waist as the other gently cups your face. “Yeah,” he breathes, and then his mouth is on yours again.

You kiss him back fiercely, tangling one of your hands in Brian’s curls again as you lean up and lick into his mouth. You rock against Brian and his legs are spread wide enough that your hips meet his. You moan at the feeling of his bulge rubbing against you and Brian groans at friction against his hardening cock. Brian’s hand that was on your face drifts down, trailing along your side before snaking between the two of you and popping the button on your jeans.

“This okay?” he asks, fingers just teasing along the waistband of your boxers.

“Yeah,” you breathe against his mouth, and as Brian’s hand slips into your underwear you deepen the kiss to distract yourself. Brian’s touch feels good and you don’t want him to stop, but there’s still a nervousness to being intimate with another person - even if that other person is Brian, who you trust implicitly and who has touched you before.

You moan as Brian’s fingers find your dick and brush teasingly along the head, but you’re surprised to hear Brian groan again as well. “Fuck, you’re big,” he breathes as he rubs over your dick, feeling out the shape of it as you harden beneath his fingers.

You can’t hold back a laugh at Brian’s comment. “I’m really not. Just grew a little, that’s all.”

“Grew a lot you mean,” Brian mumbles against your lips, but your retort is lost in another whimper as Brian slides his fingers along your dick again.

It feels so good, his nimble fingers tracing along the exposed head of your dick and trailing down to gather what little slickness they can to smooth the glide of his calloused fingertips along your most sensitive parts. Neither the years nor your transition have not dulled his familiarity with your body and all you can do is cling tightly to his shoulders and pant and whine against his mouth as Brian brings you close to your climax at a frightening speed.

“Wait, stop,” you manage to get out, and Brian’s hand is pulled out of your pants at a lightning speed. You laugh at the look of worry on his face and quickly assure him, “I‘m gonna come too soon if you keep that up.”

“So? You look gorgeous falling apart for me,” Brian says.

He starts kissing down your neck and you tilt your head back to give him more room even as you tell him, “Yeah, but I can’t go more than once now. Get too sensitive, and not in a good way.”

“Ah, well then,” Brian mumbles against the hollow of your throat. He nips at that spot and then soothes it with his tongue, before pulling back and saying, “C’mon, get up on the bed, let’s do this properly then.”

You snort but pull away and quickly start stripping down and Brian stands up to do the same. You watch, mouth watering, as Brian throws the tank top to the side and shimmies out of his tight pants. His cock is hard and precome is already beading at the tip, and you want to drop to your knees and take Brian deep into your throat until he’s coming undone around you - but you’re startled from your thoughts as Brian gently pushes at the hem of your shirt and asks, “Will you take this off too?”

You hadn't quite realized that it was still on and you hesitate for a moment, before pulling it over your head and tossing it aside as well, and then you’re left fully exposed before Brian. You’ve been in this position before but never quite like this - never with a beard and so much body hair and scars across your chest and your dick just barely poking out from your surrounding folds.

Brian takes a step closer and kisses you again, as hot and harsh as ever. “God, how are you still so fucking beautiful?” he says as he pulls away.

You laugh, your moment of insecurity forgotten as you retort, “I could ask you the same thing, Brian May.”

Brian laughs and shakes his head, and pushes you back towards the bed. You lie down and Brian follows you, covering your body with his, his cock rubbing against your hip as he kisses you once on the mouth, then down your neck and chest, and finally across both of your scars as well. “So beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin and you shudder at the feeling of this part of you being touched for the first time.

“I can’t feel that,” you admit to him when he licks experimentally over one of your nipples. “They don’t have feeling, and the scars don’t either.”

“Mm, well what about here?” Brian asks, kissing further down your torso. “Or here?” Another kiss, just above your belly button. “Or here?” Another, just above your dick, and you’re laughing and arching against him, trying to get his mouth where you need it.

And then Brian’s mouth closes around your dick and your laughter is lost in a loud moan as Brian gives a small, experimental suck and pleasure overwhelms your senses. “Bri- oh, fuck, Bri-” you pant, hands clawing at the sheets and pawing over Brian’s head as he pulls back to kitten-lick around the head of your dick.

It’s almost too much, too intense, and luckily Brian seems to figure that out on his own because you’re pretty sure you’ve lost the ability to speak. He moves away from your dick for a moment, moving down further to lick around your core. It’s messy and sloppy wet but you only realize what Brian is doing when you see him suck a finger into mouth to wet it, before bringing it towards your entrance.

“This okay?” he asks, rubbing along the outside for now. “I don’t have lube, and I don’t want to hurt you…”

“‘s fine,” you manage to get out and then Brian is pressing his finger inside of you. You whine as he starts to move it and you can feel yourself starting to get a little bit wetter with every thrust.

Brian pushes a second finger inside as he leans back down to lick a stripe along the underside of your dick, and the almost-uncomfortable fullness is a welcome contrast to the lightning of pleasure that skitters up your spine as Brian’s mouth reduces you to wordless moans and whines. He’s always been good at this, with his wickedly clever tongue and long fingers moving deep inside you, but it’s so much more now that you’re on T - more sensitive, more overwhelming, physically more of you for him to work over.

“Bri, Bri, Bri-” you moan, and his name and a tug on his hair is the only warning you can give before your orgasm crashes over you. You arch against his mouth and writhe on the bed as he keeps his mouth over your dick, his tongue flicking against the head over and over, his fingers still trying to move inside you even though you’re clenched so tightly around them that it almost hurts.

The whole thing is almost painful but in the best way possible, pleasure racing through your entire body, your dick and core throbbing as overstimulation sets in. Your loud moans turn into high-pitched whines that cause your voice to crack and you don’t know if you want to tell Brian to stop or keeping going forever because it’s too much and you’re in ecstasy but god, it’s too much-

When Brian finally moves away all you can do is lie underneath him and try to catch your breath, even as your dick still twitches with the final aftershocks of your orgasm. You came so hard that you’re nearly crying, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and your brain so scrambled that you don’t know if you want to laugh or sob but you’re boneless and riding high on endorphins as Brian kneels over you, one hand quickly stripping his cock.

“I can-” you mumble, trying to reach down to help him with a hand that doesn’t quite want to cooperate with you, but Brian uses his free hand to pin yours down, lacing your fingers together.

“Next time. ‘m not gonna last long,” Brian admits. “Fuck, you’re amazing, Y/N, do you have any idea what you look like now?”

“I’d look better with your cum on me,” you say, and where that came from you have no clue - some deep part of your sex-fried brain dredging up that idea without any conscious involvement from you. You can barely even speak and the words come out more as a mumble than anything remotely sexy, but it’s still enough for Brian to groan loudly and fall over the edge of his own climax.

His cum hits your chest, covering your scars and landing across your belly, and it’s a little gross but it’s also a little hot. It’s not something Brian ever did to you before and with how easy it was to fall back into having sex with him after all these years, there’s a part of you that lights up in happiness at finding something new to it all - even something as unexpected as this.

Brian collapses next to you on the bed, also panting heavily, and it’s quiet in the room for several long moments. “I need a shower,” you eventually mumble to break the silence. “Before this dries in my body hair.”

Brian snorts. He has one hand flung over his face as he catches his breath, but he moves it as he rolls over onto his side to look at you. “Sorry about that. I can get you a washcloth-”

“I can get it myself,” you say, though you’re not actually sure that your legs are working yet. “Especially since I didn’t even get you off myself.”

“Didn’t need you to,” Brian says. “Seeing you fall apart like that nearly did me in completely.”

“Still.” You don’t like not reciprocating for your partners, even if Brian doesn’t care. “I’ll blow you in the morning to make up for it.”

That gets Brian laughing, and he stands up and stretches out. “Well, I’m not gonna say no to that,” he says as he walks into the bathroom. You listen as he wets a washcloth in the sink, and when he emerges you motion for him to throw it to you so you can take care of the mess yourself.

He does, and as you wipe yourself down you ask, “What time do you have to leave in the morning?”

“Not that early. Noon, one o’clock - somewhere around there,” Brian says as he lies back down on the bed. “Think it’s only a two hour drive over to Providence.”

“Mm, that sounds about right, yeah.” You toss the washcloth aside and flop back down with a comfortable sigh. You look over at Brian, who’s propped up on one elbow so he can face you properly, and you grin. “If we run out for lube and condoms in the morning, you can fuck me properly before you go.”

You’re expecting Brian to laugh and he sort of does. There’s a small huff of amusement from him, but there’s also a furrow starting to form between his brows that makes you a little worried. But before you can ask if everything is alright, Brian says, “I have a better idea. Come to Providence with me.”

Out of everything that Brian could have said, you never would have expected that. “What?” you say with a small laugh. “Brian, I can’t!”

“Why not?” Brian asks. “Are you working tomorrow?”

“Well, no,” you admit. You knew that you weren’t going to be in any shape to go into work in the morning after the concert, so you had taken the day off to give yourself a proper long weekend.

“Then come to Providence,” Brian says again. “Come to the show tomorrow night, and then we’ll drop you off in New Haven on our way back through on Saturday.”

It’s a tempting thought, and you’re a little scared by how much you want to say yes. You sit up, scrubbing a hand over your face with a small sigh. “Brian, I…”

Brian sits up as well and keeps a respectable distance between the two of you - and that helps, knowing that the two of you can have a serious conversation about this even though you’re both sitting in bed together. “You’re thinking too hard, Y/N,” he says softly. “What’s on your mind?”

“That I’m not in my 20s and I can’t go on tour with a rock band on a whim anymore,” you say. “And that I don’t care, and I want to go anyway. And I’m-" And you decide, to hell with it, you can't keep dancing around this any longer. "I’m worried about you, Brian. You get this sad look in your eyes, sometimes, that scares me a little to see. And I’m trying to figure out if sticking around for longer will make things better, or if postponing our goodbyes will just make everything worse in the end.”

Brian doesn’t say anything immediately. You glance at him, a bit nervous, worried that your honesty may have been crossing the line - but Brian doesn’t look upset or angry, merely thoughtful, and you stay quiet to give him the space he needs to think over his response.

“After Freddie… passed,” Brian says slowly, “I didn’t want anything to do with Queen. It hurt too much and I just wanted to move on. And this new band, and this tour… None of it is like Queen was, and when we first set out that’s exactly what I needed. But seeing you again… having that bit of the past come back to life… It’s made me realize that I think I’m ready to face Queen again. The band may be over but it’ll always be a part of my life, and I think I’m alright with that now.”

He smiles at you and it’s small but completely genuine, and there’s no hint of sadness in his eyes as he says, “I want you to come to Providence because I’ve missed you. I liked having you backstage, and I liked performing knowing that you were waiting for me at the end of it all like you always did before. But if you don’t want to come with me, you don’t have to. I’ll still visit at the end of the US tour leg, if that offer still stands.”

“Of course it still stands,” you say, because that’s the easiest part of Brian’s response to address.

This isn’t 1978 and you aren’t 29 anymore, and maybe you shouldn’t run off with a rockstar for the weekend. But this is Brian, and despite the years that have passed and the ways in which both of you are now different, maybe not everything has to change.

“Is it going to be a problem with the band if I tag along?” you ask.

Brian’s smile brightens a little. “Nah, the band’s not going to mind - and I won’t let the roadies say anything about it, even if they want to.”

That doesn’t mean it won’t be risky, and it’s definitely more than a little impulsive - but there’s a familiarity in the spontaneity, a flashback to years past when you never hesitated to put your life on hold to follow Brian on the road. And you find yourself starting to grin a little as well at the idea of having that again, even if it’s only for a day or two.

“Alright then. Yeah, I’ll go to Providence with you,” you say and Brian, laughing and grinning madly, leans forward to kiss you in delight.

#brian may x reader #brian may x trans reader #brian may fic #brian may fanfic #queen band fic #my fic #brian #(I am really proud of this one and writing it was a wonderful distraction while I was away so I hope you all enjoy it too!!)

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petersmparker · 5 years ago

Text

Luck (Peter Parker x Reader)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: Out of all the things you could have guessed might happen at Flash’s party, this wasn’t one of them.

Word Count: 3749

A/N: hey uhhhhhhh did I mention that I’m a fucking sucker for Peter and Flash becoming weird vaguely confusing bros by the time senior year rolls around bc i am. anyway have fun with this Almost Spicy fic cause ya bitch was in the mood to write character interactions and General Nonsense

You had told Peter that something was going to happen at the party. No matter what you did, you couldn’t talk yourself out of the feeling that something– though you didn’t know what– would occur. Things never really go the way you’d expect when you’re with Peter, after all. Surprises follow him wherever he goes, as you’ve learned these past few years, and to attempt to expect any one outcome is silly.

To be honest, you’ve never really truly gotten used to that.

It’s just beginning to become dark and chilly outside when Peter’s old beater pulls up to the curb outside Flash Thompson’s house. Colored lights flash through the windows and the sound of music blares out the open front door. When you climb out of the passenger seat, Flash’s voice calls through the speakers, riling up the party crowd.

“This is giving me a bad feeling,” you sigh, somewhat nervously, as you adjust your skirt and tug the front of your blouse down a bit.

Figures you’ve worn the one that inches up over your chest weird. Damn it. You should just go home.

The door to the back seat slams shut, the hinges squeaking in protest. “Come on, Ned, you’re gonna take the door off,” Peter scolds lightly, making his way around to stand next to you, “This thing’s older than you.”

“Sorry, car,” Ned says quickly, before throwing his arm around your shoulders, “Anyway, you say that every time. I think it’ll be fun.”

“I guess,” you submit, and deliver a pat to his back, “I know Flash has really toned the attitude down since sophomore year, but I’ll never get used to showing up to these things.”

Ned drops his arm and starts heading up the walkway. Again, Flash’s voice rings out with a Make some noise, Midtown Tech!, followed by a blaring air horn. You stifle a laugh. The sound effect has always been hilarious and always will be. Of all his DJ-ing habits, it’s the only one you’ve never completely hated. It eases some of your tension.

Objectively, you know it’ll be fine. You, Peter, and Ned have gone to these before and enjoyed yourselves. It’s really just a matter of finding a nice spot with low traffic and a good line of sight for the spectacle. Maybe a bowl of chex mix. You’re simple folks.

But even so, you’ve got the feeling that something is going to happen tonight. You can’t tell if it’ll be good or bad. The anticipation is uncomfortable. You adjust you shirt again.

God damn it.

You catch Peter’s line of sight following your hands as you attempt to casually yank your shirt back into place by the hem that’s supposed to be just below your chest. It’s a bit awkward. You catch his eye, and he blushes, looking apologetic. You don’t blame him, because you know you look silly. Calling him out on it seems equally silly because of it.

He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders without mentioning the exchange.

“Let’s go before we lose Ned,” he suggests, and leads you down the pathway to the porch.

Your friend has already made it inside. There is a group of people gathered in the entryway, looking up the stairway. You can see a dude from the soccer team crammed inside a plastic bin on the top step.

“They’re gonna push him down, I think,” Ned supplies, somewhat needlessly, when Peter taps his shoulder to let him know you’ve caught up.

“Boy, I hope,” you respond, “I don’t need to be a witness, though.”

“Onward then,” says Peter, amusedly.

As you move on into the large living room, a series of bangs and hollering comes from behind.

“Nice,” Ned says, appreciatively, as he continues to watch while walking away.

Flash has set up his equipment across the room on a raised platform in front of the fireplace. Like every other time you see it, you wonder what the actual purpose of that landing is, besides being a stage for Flash’s moderately sick beats to be thrown six times a year. He’s bent over a set of turntables, one hand holding his headphones in place as he rocks in place. After a moment, he looks up to address the crowd.

He sees that your group has arrived, and it’s not hard to guess what’s coming.

“Hey, Penis Parker!” He shouts, slamming the air horn button a few times, and adding a booing sound effect for good measure.

Peter smiles and waves good-naturedly. The old jokes don’t quite have the effect that they used to, nor are they intended to. Flash waves back and looks down to his table again. He announces that the next tune is for the new arrivals, and transitions into an obnoxious, yet highly amusing and catchy song that had been frequented by the academic team as of late.

So far, so good.

With no small amount of luck, you discover a loveseat and an armchair that are free from partygoers and are quick to snatch them up for yourselves. Ned throws himself into the chair and you take it upon yourself to sprawl across the sofa. Peter ducks into the crowd and toward the direction of the kitchen in order to secure snacks to hold the group over.

The likelihood that you’ll leave this spot is minimal, aside from maybe a dance or two once goaded into it by a jeering crowd, spurned on by the host. The three of you enjoy parties best when approaching them more casually.

Peter reappears several minutes later with two bowls of salty snacks and three drinks balanced in his arms. Unexpectedly, he also brings with him another person. MJ follows closely behind, allowing him to do the work of pushing through the dancers, and greets you and Ned.

“I found her searching the kitchen cabinets,” Peter explains, arranging the snacks on the coffee table and taking his designated spot to your left.

“That’s not weird at all,” Ned responds, taking a drink from his red plastic cup.

Michelle shifts the contents of the table so that she can sit on it. “I’ll keep these oreos to myself then, Ned.”

“I think you’re perfectly valid,” you grin, and are awarded with a cookie, “Everyone knows that the good shit doesn’t get offered until the after party.”

It’s still innately bizarre that you’ve even attended these after parties, even a year after you’ve entered this perpetually weird snarky-friendship circle with Flash, but that’s beside the point.

“If anyone asks, we didn’t take them,” she asserts.

Peter laughs and takes a handful of chex mix from the nearest bowl. “You can’t coerce me into dishonesty,” he says.

As he speaks, he selects a rye chip from his bounty and holds it in front of your face. You eat it immediately, without question. He loves the rye chips, but knows that they’re your favorite.

“Yeah she can,” echoes all three of you, and Peter shoots you a playful look of betrayal.

With the addition of MJ, it’s decently easy to drift through conversations despite being in the center of a rowdy and distracting house. Drifters join the conversation for short periods of time before being dragged back to the main excitement. Even Flash, taking a break from his DJ-ing, stops by.

“Those are for the after party,” he says, sounding entirely unsurprised as he points to the pack of oreos in Michelle’s lap.

She squints back at him. “What is?”

“Alright, cool, I hate you all,” he responds, sounding way too chill for such a statement.

He claps his palm against Peter’s in a friendly gesture before walking off.

“See you there!” Ned calls to his back.

Flash has already disappeared into the crowd, but his middle finger appears above everyone’s heads.

“Still weird,” you feel compelled to point out.

“Yep,” Peter agrees, throwing his arm back around your shoulders, “Still weird. Do you think he’d be like this if he didn’t know I was Spider-Man?”

“Absolutely fucking not. Not at all,” Michelle says without a second of thought.

She’s probably right.

Of course, Ned hadn’t been bluffing about going to the after party. Technically it’s an attend-with-invitation type of thing, but it’s a bit of an uncommunicated agreement that your group is invited nowadays. The bulk of the party filters out as it gets late, leaving much of the academic team and a smattering of other friends of Flash.

You figure that you know what to expect. A continuation of what your group does during the actual party, except now all the attendees are gathered in a loose circle to participate in the conversation. Maybe a card-based party game; normally an inappropriate one. The usual.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before the usual was disrupted.

When Peter is around, that’s bound to happen. He’s a beacon of off-luck. Not bad per se, but not what you’re planning for. After no more than thirty minutes of the comfortable environment you’re so used to, Flash offers to break out a game.

“Not again,” groans a girl whose name you haven’t learned despite having seen her at around three of these events, “We do that every time.”

“What else would we do?” Flash demands around a mouthful of chips, looking a bit offended, since he loves the usual game.

“We’re practically graduating,” says another girl, who is looking around the room like some kind of predatory bird.

Her gaze lands on Peter. You realize very suddenly how much you don’t like that. Without thinking, you shift closer to him. He doesn’t notice, but her eyes sharpen. It’s with a supremely uncomfortable feeling in your stomach that you realize that you’re acting possessive. It’s not like you’re dating, really.

“When are we gonna play something more mature?” She questions, moving her sight away. “Seven minutes.”

MJ scoffs. “I’m pretty sure that anyone who thinks seven minutes in heaven is mature is inherently immature.”

“Yeah, alright, fine. Who’s in?” Flash says, as casually as if she’d suggested a game of Monopoly.

Aside from you and your group, everyone else seems to be willing. And here, you were starting to think that there was the slightest amount of normalcy in your inclusion here. You wonder what in god’s name they’re thinking. Who the hell wants to be shoved into a closet and forced to feel up a friend?

“I’m out,” MJ declares, looking unapologetic, “Wouldn’t exactly say I’m suited to this game.”

Flash shoots her a finger gun. “Support your local ace,” he says, which you assume is supposed to be nice, “You’re in charge of the timer.”

“Whatever,” she responds, and exits the circle to sit off to the side, taking a bowl of chips with her.

You shift in your seat, about to join her, when an empty bottle is tossed into your lap. “You start,” says the girl who’d suggested the game.

She’s expecting you to chicken out, you realize. It’s beyond childish, but the idea of it makes you angry. It makes you want to play, just to spite her. You wonder at what point she decided to pursue your best friend, and at what point someone pursuing your best friend became an issue for you.

Who are you kidding?

You glance at Ned, who looks awkward, but it doesn’t seem like he’s leaving unless you and Peter do. And Peter– well, his expression is unreadable. There’s a flash of something in his eyes when you meet them, but you don’t want to consider it. Too much is going on in your head already.

With maybe a little too much force, you slap the bottle down on the table and spin it. It turns for an eternity, approximately, before it begins to slow. You couldn’t physically feel any more uncomfortable, you think, when it eventually slows to a stop. It’s pointing at Flash.

He looks about as uncomfortable as you feel. “Hold on,” he says, throwing up his hands, “I don’t like that.”

“Thanks,” you say sarcastically, despite your wholehearted agreement.

“Respin,” he demands, pushing the bottle away.

“Coward!” Exclaims MJ.

You make a mental note to have a conversation with her about timing and context, because it seems her sense of both need work. To much jeering from several members of the group, Flash insists on a respin anyway. He does, however, agree to just suck it up and sit in the closet quietly for seven minutes with the next person he doesn’t want to kiss. It’s a dodged bullet, but now you’ve got to go again. As if the anxiety of the first time wasn’t enough.

Chest tightening, you spin it again, just as hard. The room watches excitedly, but you’re feeling nothing but dread. Regret has hit you already. You shouldn’t have allowed yourself to get caught up in this. It wasn’t your business if some girl wanted to kiss Peter in some cramped, dusty closet.

You’re so busy berating yourself for acting ridiculous that you almost fail to recognize the verdict that befalls you. The room erupts in hollering before it even fully stops spinning. Peter tenses next to you.

It’s pointing at him.

“Closet!” Flash exclaims over the excitement of the group, arm thrown out in the direction on a door in the hallway, “Let’s go! Come on!”

“You can’t come, Flash, you said you didn’t want to kiss her,” Peter quips, but his voice has taken on that tone that you know for a fact is a bluff.

He’s not nearly as calm as he’s trying to sound.

Flash’s hand comes down hard against Peter’s ass when he attempts to scoot by. Peter yelps, looking scandalized. Flash ushers him forward. “Watch it, Parker! You know what I meant. Get in there!”

Heart and mind racing, you lift yourself out of your seat. The girl who’d started this mess gives you a venomous look. You can’t bring yourself to deal anything back to her.

What have you done?

Peter and Flash are already at the closet when you finally shuffle your way over. MJ is just behind you, looking only vaguely apologetic. She knows you got yourself into this. Her phone is ready with a seven minute countdown. There’s shuffling in the living room as everyone begins to make their way excitedly toward the spot where your life will momentarily end. Vultures.

Flash steps into the closet and snatches a little key off a small hook just inside the door. When he exits, he pushes Peter’s shoulder and sends him stumbling inside. He’s polite enough not to attempt to shove you. It would be a lot easier to get on with this if he did, though.

“Lights on, lights off, I don’t care,” he says as you step in. “Don’t make a mess. This is where we keep the nice coats. Dry cleaning is expensive.”

The door slams in your face before you can protest against his insinuations. There’s the distinct sound of the lock clicking, and Michelle calls through the door that the timer is started.

Peter reaches up to pull the chain that operates the overhead light, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Your back hits the door. “Oh, shit!” Someone says on the other side, and you feel your face heat up even more than it already has.

Peter gives you a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Should have warned you,” he says.

You glance around. To the right are the aforementioned “nice coats” that you very much want to ruin just to spite Flash. Behind Peter are several sets of shelves with various odds and ends. To your left, a waist-high cabinet that contains who-knows-what. You guess it’s not that cramped, or dusty. Whatever.

Peter shifts awkwardly where he stands. Neither of you say anything for what feels like a year, but it’s probably more like a minute. “Don’t forget to breathe,” Flash’s voice drifts through the door, teasingly.

“Mind your business,” you shout back without thinking.

Both the laughter and Peter’s expression alerts you to the fact that that was not the correct thing to say. He chuckles, too. His smile makes your chest hurt, so you look away just as quickly as you had begun. Again, you reach up to adjust your blouse.

He takes your hand. “Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer, bending to catch your eye, “Nothing has to happen. We can just wait it out.”

You can’t help but narrow your eyes at his phrasing. You keep your voice low too, in the hopes that the peanut gallery outside can’t hear. “Has to happen?” You question, “Sounds like there’s the option for something to happen, if I feel like it.”

“Isn’t there?” Peter asks.

Oh.

You want to respond so badly. The words can barely even form in your mind, let alone making it all the way to your mouth and out into the world. What response is there to finding out that your best friend, whom you’ve maybe been trying not to fall in love with for a long time now, wants to kiss you if given the opportunity? Is there one?

Yes, you think, finally. There is.

Peter’s still holding your hand. You take advantage of it and pull him forward, your free hand coming up to wrap around the back of his neck. When you pull him to you and press your lips against his, it’s soft. You’re jittery beyond belief, but you’re not rushing this moment. It’s a simple kiss, lasting only a few seconds. You can feel his smile.

When you pull back, you’re greeted with a grin that’s almost familiar. But there’s something different there, something you’re not accustomed to seeing in his expression. He’s still close enough for his breath to be hot against your face.

Peter kisses you again. This time is far more desperate, more excited. His hands come up to either side of your head, angling you to gain better access to your mouth. You’re backed up against the door as he moves in even closer to you. The impact, while minimal, elicits an amused gasp from you.

He takes advantage of your open mouth to introduce tongue. Every part of your body lights on fire. You clutch his shoulder, feeling dizzy, and delight in this new experience. It’s genuinely unfair how good he is at this, considering his lack of practice.

He pulls away just enough to kiss the underside of your jaw, and you jolt in surprise. The door shakes with your movement. Outside, the crowd gets a little rowdier for a moment.

Shit, you mouth, slapping a hand against your forehead. It’s so embarrassing.

Peter is more flushed now then ever, but he continues on, braver than you’ve ever been. Without any warning, he hooks his hands around your thighs and hoists you up onto the cabinet. Incredibly, the movement isn’t nearly as loud as you figure it could have been. His mouth slots back against yours within a fraction of a second.

You feel his hands drift across your waist, not touching skin, but definitely examining the curve of your hips. He presses his body closer, flush with the cabinet, and your legs spread to accommodate him. One hand finds its way into your hair, sending an involuntary twitch down your spine.

The door clicks unlocked.

You freeze. Peter doesn’t. In a millisecond, he’s back to the other side of the closet. By the time the door swings open, he’s managed to cross his arms as if he’d been standing there comfortably the whole time. You can’t bear to look at the people in the doorway, so you stare, hard, at his face instead. The possibility that you might give away what’s just occurred is a bit too much to bear.

Peter’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen, blush spreading down across his neck. He had turned toward the door when it opened, his expression struggling to hold some sense of calm. He had been too caught up in it all to care who was outside while the door was closed, you know, but neither of you really want it to be confirmed in front of god and everyone that he’s thoroughly ravished you in the nice coat closet.

As fast as you can without making eye contact, you look at the intruders, who are still attempting to assess what had occurred moments before. It occurs to you that maybe they hadn’t actually expected any kind of follow-through in this scenario. To be fair, the likelihood had seemed terribly minimal. Even with such a quick glance, you can tell they aren’t sure what did or didn’t happen.

“Who’s next?” Peter offers up, sounding embarrassed and very much like he’d like to move on, but still managing to at least look like he hadn’t been about ten seconds from doing something extra inappropriate.

Your thighs are still spread almost enough for it to be a legitimately horrifying issue. When you risk another look, you see MJ squinting at them. The desire to shut them is strong, but you figure it’d be easier to pass it off as being unladylike if you don’t act like you’re embarrassed by it.

What a nightmare.

“That was quick,” you say in an attempt to end the awkward silence.

Peter reaches his hand out to you. Taking it, you hop down onto the floor. You move toward the door to leave, but the crowd doesn’t disperse to let you through.

“What was the banging on the door?” Questions Flash, staring suspiciously at Peter.

Because he’s a terrible liar, you answer instead. “Bang one was Peter scaring the shit out of me by turning on the light, bang two was me trying to get up onto this fucking cabinet. I’m short, dude. Get lower furniture.”

Mercifully, they accept it as a legitimate answer. The crowd parts with a distinguished air of disappointment. Peter brushes his hand across your back when you move to leave the closet together. Before you even have time to worry about what’s happened, his smile assures you.

Later, parked in the driveway of your house long after Ned has been dropped off, Peter pulls away from you mid-kiss and shoots you the most smug expression you’ve ever seen on his face.

“And someone had a bad feeling about that party.”

You kiss the stupid look off his face, trying not to laugh.

#peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fanfic #peter parker fic #peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parkerxreader #peter parker reader insert #peter parker self insert #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman fic #marvel fanfiction

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stupidwithu · 5 years ago

Text

arms to fall right into

I heavily considered not posting this. I was really excited about writing it, but I’m not crazy about the end result. it’s different from what I usually write and what I planned to post on here, and idk how to feel about that yet. regardless, I decided to upload it because I don’t know if this ‘verse I accidentally thought up the other day will make much sense without this little bit of background.

*FFH SPOILER* basically, it’s a post-ffh au where Peter hides out in Tennessee with Harley after Mysterio reveals his identity. the idea is that they work together to formulate a plan to save Peter’s ass while they develop Harley’s Ironlad persona. I’ll probably never write much detail on that though, which is why I’m posting this. this fic is a little angsty, but expect mostly sickfics and fluffy drabbles from this ‘verse (and feel free to send prompts, please :))

longest and most annoying author’s note aside, here goes nothing

Peter Parker x Harley Keener (MCU)

Passed Torch AU (forgot to mention, bi Peter)

__________

Harley’s fully engrossed in the open panel of his suit’s arm when he hears the first knock. If he’d been listening to music like he usually was, he probably wouldn’t have even heard it, for how soft and hesitant it was; to the young mechanic’s surprise, it erupts into an orchestra of chaotic slamming before Harley can even close the program. His hand extends to the drawer on his right, fingers dancing along the surface of his newest canon prototype, heart racing.

“Open the door, please.”

Harley lets the weapon fall back to the bottom of the drawer, where it lands with a quiet ‘bang.’ Instead, he shuts the panel and kicks back his desk chair as he rises to approach the bright red door. The window – at his eye level, now – is far too filthy for Harley to properly see his guest. He should probably do something about that.

“Please, Harley,” the voice begs. It booms over the sound of the knocking, but it’s far from powerful. It wavers beneath the volume and breaks between words.

Harley cracks the door open hesitantly, but the masked man – boy, probably – pushes it the rest of the way, barging in with a clumsy apology after the metal nearly knocks Harley on his ass.

He takes a few steps before doubling over, his back to the entrance. A skin-tight black mask is peeled from his face, a gloved hand running over his own forehead. The fabric lands on the ground between his legs as Harley locks the door again.

“Turn around. Now,” Harley demands with faux discipline.

So, he does. The boy – Harley can only assume he’s young; he towers over him by a few inches – rises slowly, turning to face Harley with his hands risen in surrender. Harley almost laughs at this, but stops himself at his new friend’s appearance. The poor kid’s hair is plastered to his face with sweat, skin flushed and colorless, minus his red-rimmed eyes and the subtle hue of the faded bruises that litter his cheeks. He’s shaking from his finger tips to his suit-clad legs. He’s crying, too.

“Peter?” Harley remembers. He was in a similar state when they met. Swap his current attire for a black suit and tie and Harley might think he was reliving the day. That reminds him, “Is that a stealth suit?”

“They know.” Peter ignores him. He’s looking at Harley, but it sounds like he’s talking to himself.

“Uh, who?”

“Everyone.”

Harley can’t help the look he gives Peter. He shows up at his garage – unannounced and certainly surprising – just to barge in and torment Harley with this ominousness and that gorgeous suit. He’s intrigued, but mostly concerned.

“What do they know?”

Now it’s Peter’s turn to look confused. He hiccups, then, “that I’m Spider-Man…?”

“Oh my God!” Harley follows the inappropriate shout by clamping a hand over his mouth. He chuckles into his own palm. “That actually makes sense... Wait, why wouldn’t you want people to know you’re Spider-man?”

“Fucking… Mysterio!” Peter shouts without warning. In one sharp movement, he bashes an arm into the nearest table, scattering Harley’s equipment across the floor and leaving a fist-sized dent at the impact site. He just sobs. With both hands pressed to his face now, he muffles choked cries into them. Harley watches in horror. When Peter’s legs eventually give out, he lurches forward in an attempt to catch him; he’s off a beat, though, and both boys collapse into Peter’s mess.

“I don’t- I’m sorry,”

Peter tries to reconcile by cleaning up after himself, but each piece of tech he attempts to pick up just slips from his fingers. Harley tells him not to worry about it, but he insists. He reaches for the computer monitor – anxious to see the state of the screen once he flips it from it’s face down position – but Harley catches his wrist halfway. “Peter, stop. You’re makin’ it worse.”

Peter obliges, finally, sinking in on himself. He makes an effort to control his breathing (in for 8, hold for 4, out for 8, like May always preached). It takes a few minutes and multiple failed attempts, but he manages. Harley doesn’t offer any help, really, but his hand lingers over Peter’s the entire time.

“I’m sorry,” Harley chuckles, once he’s sure Peter isn’t going to hyperventilate. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know.”

Harley stands finally, swiping his hands over his sweatpants to rid some of the dirt from the floor before extending his arm to Peter. “What are you doing here?”

Truth be told, Peter isn’t really sure. He was gone before Beck’s recording could fade to black, Happy’s words taunting him as he rushed to the location of his backpack. He took it to the roof of Tower 28, the same daunting question echoing. You’re all alone, your friends are in trouble, what are you going to do? The first time Happy asked him, he felt invincible. He meant to thank Happy for that – for helping him get his head on straight, realize what he needed to do, what he could do… But the whole conversation felt like a joke now. In that jet, Peter felt like he could breathe for the first time in, well… years, technically. Now, though, he was right back to square one.

Looking out over Queens, Peter had two choices. The first one was to just jump, but even he could see it was a little dramatic (besides, the suit had parachutes). So, he resorted to his preferred method of damage control: What would Mr. Stark do? In hindsight, coming to Harley was a stupid idea. Sure, it’s something Tony might’ve done – Hell, he did do it, but those were different circumstances.

Once Harley pulls him to his feet, Peter shrugs. “Couldn’t go anywhere else.”

Harley cocks his head to the side, dirty blonde waves draping across his forehead.

“I thought, you know, if people knew I was Spider-Man, they’d come after the people I love.” Peter explains. “And I guess I was right, because Beck knew, and he tried to kill MJ and Ned… and Betty… Happy too…”

“Who?” Harley catches him just before he spirals.

“I made a stupid mistake, and I put my friends in danger. Now, I’m a fucking terrorist! And my name – my name – is plastered on every TV screen in the world... May,” Peter cuts himself off. He blinks, a few tears streaming rapidly down his cheeks before he can wipe them away. “Happy, my friends… None of them are safe as long as I’m around.”

“You’re a terrorist?” is all Harley says. He looks around the garage, then, “Maybe I’ve spent too much time cooped up in here…”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling shakily. “Harley, please.”

“Okay, fine.” Harley sighs, suddenly serious. “My sister’s up there.”

He motions to the staircase in the center of the room. “I appreciate you stormin’ in here and puttin’ me in danger – very Tony of you, by the way – but my sister-”

“I- um, I didn’t- I’m sorry.” Peter panics, tripping over his words as he physically stumbles. He takes his mask back into his hand, clutching it tightly. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

Harley gulps. He should probably take a glimpse at the news before deciding what to do. There’s no time for that, though, and he knows he can’t let Peter leave like this.

Harley stops him breathlessly just before he can unlock the door, wrapping his hand once again around Peter’s, this time to stop him from puling the handle. “Wait,”

“I just don’t understand,” Harley tries to explain, but Peter isn’t listening. His eyes go unfocused, confusion then fury practically reflecting from his irises. Harley scrambles to follow his gaze.

“What is that?”

“Nothin’,” Harley tries to step between Peter and his half-finished suit, but Peter pushes him to the side easily. Harley staggers, reaching for the note that resides just beside the half-drunk Redbull Peter initially distracted him from. He’s just seconds too late.

Peter takes the card between his fingers, glossy eyes scanning the calligraphy.

For the next Ironman,

don’t make me regret this.

Your friend,

The Mechanic.

__________

** the part about Happy was inspired by this post

#my fic #passed torch #peter parker #spiderman #harley keener #ironlad #parkner #peterharley #marvel #mcu #fanfic #fanfiction #ffh spoilers #spiderman spoilers #spiderman: ffh spoilers #spiderman: far from home spoilers #far from home spoilers #parley #spiderlad

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sunsetsinhoenn · 6 years ago

Note

I absolutely love your writing! Can I have a sequel of the fic with the girl with telekinetic abilities where Sal and Larry found out that her existence and powers are somehow linked with the cult and the paranormal things that are happening in the apartments?

I’m really glad you liked it!! I’m thankful for all the compliments I get on my writing, but I’m pretty hard on myself so I do have a tough time believing them. I hope you enjoy this as much as the first one. : ] At first it felt like it was getting too long, but after reading it over it feels like it’s too short now? ( ´_ゝ`) hm.

part 1

“destruction”

“I think that if you really liked my sculpture of you like you said you did, you wouldn’t be making that face right now.”

“Ash… it’s great for what it is.”

“Which is?” Larry grimaced as he squinted his eyes on the subject of their conversation.

“A weird… naked? … Stickman with brown string for hair and a party hat for a nose.”

You snickered, watching silently as Ash showcased her latest masterpiece from art class, with her hands still gesturing towards it proudly as it sat on the cafeteria table. While there were hardly any intricate details over the Larry look-alike, you sensed a powerful aura surrounding it… As it looked out upon the rest of the students during lunch, you could feel its merciless gaze judge all around you. The one-foot high clay rendition of your metalhead friend was all that stood between the salvation and the destruction of earth.

Or so you and the gang had joked, before Ashley could ask for the muse’s official opinion. Even she knew that she could’ve done better on it, so none of you really held back on your jokes.

“Larry, are you saying that you haven’t had a skin-toned party hat on your face this entire time?”

In the middle of taking a bite of his food, Larry whipped his head towards Sal, mockingly hurt at Sal’s comment. He covered his nose shyly, still messing around.

“Sal… c’mon, dude… Don’t let the secret out like that.” A few of you guys laughed some more, eating your food at a leisurely pace (sans Chug) and not really caring about the time. Absent-mindedly, you poked the nose on the Larry statue as Ash sighed, shrugging her shoulders.

“Anyways. Sculpting is interesting for sure, but I think I’ll just stick to 2D and dolls for a while.” You watched as Maple also poked the statues nose and you both gasped quietly when part of it started to fall off. Ash only laughed as you both scrambled to try and place it back, as if you were two children who were about to get caught doing something they shouldn’t.

“Practice makes perfect.” Todd pointed his fork towards Ash as he spoke. “It took forever for my latest tech to actually work. Not to mention I’m still trying to figure out how to make Sal’s upgrade for his guitar… I think I might make a prototype first.”

“Uh,” Sal chimed in as his shoulders tensed up the slightest bit when he maneuvered around to look at Todd. “You’re the smartest person I know, but that would be appreciated. A trial run sounds like a good idea.”

“Wait-” Larry took a second to swallow his food before wiping crumbs off his shirt absentmindedly. “You’re done with it? Can we use it today?” Todd shrugged.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Sweet.” Larry grinned in excitement as he bobbed his head. He turned towards you, where you were quietly and eagerly waiting to hear about whatever it is they were discussing. Even Chug and Maple were somewhat curious, despite not being interested in the ghost hunting. At all. “You’re gonna like this one a lot, Y/N. Todd was telling me about it the other day when I stopped by his apartment.”

“What is it?” You and Sal spoke in unison, glancing at each other for a second before deciding that it wasn’t the time to ‘jinx’ each other for a free soda.

“It’s something I like to call…” Todd pushed his glasses up, almost like he was doing it for dramatic effect. You think that maybe he was. “The Tele-flier. A telekinetic amplifier. Wearing it allows you to use your powers on supernatural subjects. I was having a hard time getting it to last longer than a minute without it short-circuiting my computer, but it’s finally ready. I’m glad it didn’t do any lasting damage to anything.”

Larry nodded along with Todd’s explanation before he turned back to you and leaned in close.

“I like to call it Cerveau. You know, like the thing Professor Y wears in Y-Men? Cause that’s exactly what it looks like.”

The group sat in silence for a moment as you tried to muster up a proper response. You were failing.

“Are you not a fan of having a metal spaghetti strainer sitting on your head, Y/N?” Maple joked, looking at you. You scrunched your face up and looked back at her, your voice obviously not excited.

“Oh… No, it sounds… Fun!” As soon as the words came out of your mouth, the bell rang to signal the end of lunch. That didn’t stop your face from contorting further, imagining a gigantic hat on you that made you look like you were getting eaten by a metal jellyfish.

“I think that’s the exact same face Larry was making when he saw the sculpture.” Sal joked. You rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, it probably was.” You all got up and grabbed your stuff. “I’ll meet up with you guys after school. We’ll see how well Cerveau works then.”

“You used my name! One for Cerveau, zero for Tele-flier.”

“You… know you didn’t make up the name, Cerveau… right? Like, that wasn’t you. That’s a name from a comic.”

“Don’t be jealous, Todd.”

By the time school had ended, you were just as excited to use the new tech just about as much as Larry had been, although you figured he was mostly into it because not everyone had a friend that was able to just lift things up using their mind.

It did make you nervous too, using something that would boost your powers. Todd had wanted the thing to be a surprise, so he kept it under wraps until it was ready (and apparently threatened Larry to not tell you when the day he came into his room, as funny as that was to imagine). It was one thing to invent something to deal with ghosts, but to add an extra layer of intricacy by throwing in telekinetic abilities was just impossible to you. How could Todd invent something like that without asking for your help?

Would it actually work? Would it hurt you, somehow? What if it amplified your powers too much and you ended up hurting someone?

You tried to think of how funny it would be to levitate a ghost instead, to try and get your mind off your worries. You hadn’t known Todd and everyone for too long, but in the few months that you had, you knew without a doubt that you could trust them with anything. He wouldn’t give you anything that could harm you.

“Just to let you guys know, I’m going to be busy studying for my AP Bio exam today. I’ll help you with how to get the gear working, but I can’t join in on any hunting today.”

“That’s okay, Todd.” Sal spoke as he watched Todd’s fish float around in his tank. All of you had already dropped off your stuff in your respective apartments, and Larry was already messing around with the Super Gear Boy.

“We’ll still fill you in if anything happens.”

“That would be great. Let me know if something… ever seems out of sorts.” You sat on Todd’s bed and watched him grab his new invention. Your face fell in shock when you saw that it did in fact look like Cerveu, but more like a portable version. There was three thick wires protruding from it, but they all had a strange circular device on the edges and you could see the green and red wiring that connected the devices all to each other. It looked like a strange, robot wig.

You snorted when you noticed the base was a spaghetti strainer like Maple had joked about at lunch earlier and gasped when you saw a strap sticking out at the front that also had another circular device on it.

“Wow! Did you actually take inspiration from Y-Men? This is crazy, Todd!”

“It’s good to know that after the wave of disappointed emotions that just crossed your face, you’re finally excited.”

“I was excited earlier.” He walked over to you and began strapping the device on for you, and you could feel the weight of everything press down on your head.

“You have a funny way of showing it.” He pressed the front circular device against your forehead and when he let go, it stuck. “But I… sort of took inspiration, yeah. It was a good jumping point.”

You felt him adjust something at the back of the helmet and you jumped, hearing a loud beep come from the helmet. You felt something strange move on your forehead for a few seconds, but then just like that it was gone and if it weren’t the helmets wires being in your peripheral, it would’ve also felt like you weren’t wearing it anymore either.

“Everything… is going exactly as it should, so far.” Todd backed up, to survey his contraption on you. “The way to use it is simple. Just use your powers like you normally would. You’re not technically psychic so I don’t think you’ll be able to sense any ghosts, but once you know they’re there, you can use it on them.”

“Sounds… easy enough.” You stated, sitting calmly. You didn’t feel any different. Everything seemed to be going okay.

“So… Are you ready to go?” You nodded at Sal, getting up.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

At that, the three of you set off to try and find more ghosts, first exploring the fifth floor, since it tended to have more supernatural activity than any other area. All of you ended up getting a little irritated, though. After about an hour of exploration, there was nothing to find and nothing to try your amplified powers out on.

“I wonder why no one is coming out? Not even Megan did…” Sal sighed, tapping the screen on his Super Gear Boy in hopes that something would alert him. Larry placed his hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe it’s just an off day for everyone?”

“I would hope it’s got nothing to do with this thing.” You turned around, walking backwards to look at the boys as you kept moving. You bumped the helmet with your fist and cringed when the ringing you heard was louder than expected. Shaking it off, you continued. “What if this amplifies my powers so much that they’re hiding from it?”

“I don’t…” Sal stopped walking, prompting the two of you to stop as well. “I don’t think so. Have you even tried using your powers since we started?”

You shook your head, the wires swishing around you.

“No. Like Todd said earlier, I’m not psychic. I can’t read the thoughts of others or manipulate people’s minds. So I can’t sense if there’s any ghosts nearby, and because of that, I can’t… tele-grab them or… whatever.”

Larry ‘hm’ed, placing his hands in his pockets. He glanced around a bit in the silence, staring around the abandoned fifth floor hallway before looking back at you. It almost made him look like he was about to do something he shouldn’t.

“Why don’t you just try?”

“What? That’d be like grabbing for air.”

“It’s better than nothing.” You frowned, not thinking that it would do anything, but knowing that it didn’t hurt to try. You huffed out a breath of air before taking a steady stance and closing your eyes.

“Ah, hell. Here we go.”

“Be careful.” Was all you heard from Sal just before your world went black.

It was a strange feeling, being suspended in nothing. There was no way to tell what was up and what was down. It felt like you could breath, but somehow you were simultaneously gasping for breath, drowning in water.

In the midst of the darkness that you were surrounded by, in the void and emptiness that encompassed you, there was a feeling of longing and fear buried deep in the center. Dazed and confused, you reached out for it, knowing it was there, but the problem was that you didn’t know where you were. Were you on the outskirts? Were you also close to the center of nothing, or were you not actually there at all?

In the back of your mind, a voice called out to you. Just like that, your world was grounded, but there was still something deeply and horribly wrong scratching at the back of your neck. Something was wrong. Something wasn’t right. The deep sense that something bad was working behind the scenes made you nauseous and disturbed.

Then you woke up.

It was hard to focus on what was around you, but you were vaguely aware that everything was floating. Debris, stray boards, trash… the only things that weren’t moving around was the blurred sight of your two friends as they kneeled right in front of you.

They were trying to talk to you, noticing that your eyes were half-lidded and that you were conscious, but there was no sound coming to you. You mumbled some words out, very tired and very scared. You knew there was something here that knew exactly who you were. They knew what you were and you knew that was not good.

“Get me out.” Was all you could say before you blacked out again, this time just completely losing consciousness.

#sally face #sally face imagines #first draft for the name of cerveau was going to be cranidude because cere...bro... yknow #but then i realized that cerebro was spanish for brain and changed it to french #sf fics

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robininthelabyrinth · 6 years ago

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Fic: An Internal Affair - Chapter 10 (Ao3 link)

Fandom: The Flash Pairing: Leonard Snart/Barry Allen

Summary: Leonard Snart, the CCPD Captain of Internal Affairs, is known as Captain Cold for a very good reason: He hates corrupt cops with a merciless vengeance, and once you’re on his list, you’re in serious trouble.

His next target?

A CCPD lab tech named Barry Allen who’s developed a suspicious habit of disappearing at random intervals.

—————————————————————————————————

"Seriously, it feels like we don't spend any time together anymore," Iris says, settling down on the park bench with her to-go cup of Jitters coffee and pulling an unresisting Barry to sit down next to her. "And yes, I know, part of that's on me - there's Eddie, and writing, and, well, everything, but you're my best friend, Barry; I don't want you to get lost in the shuffle. Tell me what's up with you!"

At this point, suppressing the mixed feeling of longing, disappointment, and gratitude for being in Iris' life in any way is almost habitual, and Barry's surprised to find that it's easier than ever to wave it away.

Maybe it's because he actually has things to talk about with her, rather than his usual shrug and "Uh, Netflix has a new season of [insert Barry's current guilty pleasure reality show], so that's been great" response.

"Oh, you know," Barry says. "Work's got some interesting investigations going on, I'm still hanging out with Cisco and Caitlin and Dr. Wells most afternoons, date number three with Cool Coffee Guy went fantastically -"

"You didn't tell me you were on date three!" Iris exclaims, checking him with her shoulder. In a friendly manner, but still: ouch. "You have to tell me everything!"

Okay, yes, maybe suppressing feelings of romantic disappointment is easier when you want to boast about landing the hottest guy ever. Who knew?

"There's nothing to tell!" Barry protests, grinning. "After the whole mugging incident on date two -"

He'd detailed that one to her at length over the phone.

"- we decided that we'd just go to Jitters or something and take a walk in the park. We ended up sitting on one of the big rocks in the grassy areas and making up backstories for passersby."

"Barry Allen," Iris says, trying to sound stern and failing. "Are you living life like you're in a quirky romance novel?"

"We only ended up doing that because neither of us had good non-food thoughts for a date and I told him you said it was the epitome of a romantic date," Barry tells her.

"I was fourteen when I said that!"

"If it makes you feel better, we set the presupposition that we live in a horror movie and tried to figure out which one of them was a zombie plague carrier and, if so, who was patient zero," Barry says.

Iris rolls her eyes and smacks him on the shoulder again - thank God for superhealing because Iris' aim, even unintentionally, has never been anything but on point - but honestly, that was the best part of the date in Barry's opinion.

....second best part. The kiss goodbye was number one.

But putting that aside, they'd discovered a mutual love of monster movies, the more absurd the better, and Barry'd gotten to bust out some of his more obscure supernatural knowledge from all those years gathering data like a nerd. He never gets a chance to impress someone with that!

He says as much to Iris, which makes her laugh.

"I'm glad you finally met someone you really like, Barry," Iris says warmly, taking a sip from her coffee. "You know Joe and I were worried you'd end up with someone who wore tin foil as a fashion statement."

"I resent and possibly resemble that remark -" He had indeed met his first girlfriend over a supernatural forum, a fact no West would ever let him live down, even though she'd been a Mothman spotter rather than a tin foil UFOist. And yes, that’s an important distinction. "- but what's this about 'finally'? I've dated people before."

"So did I," Iris says. "But not seriously, not really. Not until I met Eddie." She pauses, looking introspective. "No, it wasn't just meeting Eddie. It was - I was looking at things differently. Is - is it an awful thing to say that I don't think I would've dated someone seriously if it weren't for your coma? Not that I'm happy you were in a coma or anything -"

"No, no, I didn't think you were saying that," Barry assures her. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," she says. "It's just - losing you - you're such a big part of my life, Barry. You make me happy, you support me, you know me - you're my best friend. When I thought I'd lost you forever, I started looking seriously at my life, at what I wanted."

"And what you wanted was - Eddie?" Barry asks, because - ouch. He might be trying to get over Iris, but still: ouch.

He thinks he prefers that she punch his shoulder.

"No, not exactly, though it did help that he turned out to be so much more than the pretty boy hotshot I thought he was at first," Iris says with a laugh. "I just realized that I wanted to be serious. And for me to be serious with someone, they had to be okay with you. A lot of guys aren't, and I'm sure it wasn't exactly easy for Eddie when you went from being abstract to being real, but he's been really great about it. I wouldn't date anyone if they didn't like you, or you like them."

Barry nods. He's - not entirely sure where Iris is going with this.

"You do like him, right?" she asks.

Oh!

"Oh, man, yes! Yes, of course; I think he's great," Barry assures her. "I really do. He's nice and earnest and he taught me boxing the other day to help me destress - he's really great, Iris. I'm glad you found someone like him."

She looks at him consideringly, with what Barry's always thought of as her truth-extracting gaze even before she got into investigative journalism. Luckily Barry is telling the truth, so she nods, appeased.

"And what about your Len?" she asks. "I know I haven't had a chance to meet him -"

"If you think I'm introducing you before the fifth date - maybe the tenth - you've lost your mind," Barry says firmly. "You'll scare him off."

Iris snorts. "You'd never date someone that I could scare off, Bar, be serious."

"I came out here to have a nice chat," Barry complains. "And now I'm being called out and attacked just for having a type -"

"Only because most people don't have 'terrifyingly badass' as a type," Iris teases. "But seriously; you mentioned that you talked about me to him - is he okay with it? Us being close, I mean?"

Ooooooooh.

Now Barry gets where this is going.

This is the "remember that time when you confessed you were in love with me and it was super awkward because I'm in love with another guy and we both silently agreed to never discuss it again but now you're dating someone and because I'm your friend I want to make sure that you're not in a rebound or anything that might ultimately turn toxic and hurt you" conversation, with a side order of "you know how we're ridiculously close friends with each other which some people don't really get because they don't do friends that way but we're really not willing to give that up for anyone, my guy's cool with it, how about yours?"

Without ever actually having that conversation, of course. He's pretty sure that actually saying any of those words would give both of them hives from the overwhelming embarrassment of it all.

"He gets it," Barry assures her. "He's got a best friend, too, a good one, close, like we are, so he really gets it. He understands that you can care about someone a lot without it being a problem for a romantic relationship with someone else."

Iris studies him for a long moment, then nods again. "Good. I'm glad. What's this Len guy's friend's name? Has he mentioned anything about him?"

AKA, he didn't just make him up to sound good, right?

Oh, Iris, investigative journalist to her bones. Never change.

"Yeah, he mentions him a lot," Barry says. "Mick. He likes to cook, apparently works wonders with making vegetables edible, really likes ninja movies, had a rat for a pet one time...and, uh, rather coincidentally enough, is also in a coma right now -"

Iris actually snorts coffee up her nose at that.

"You live an interesting life, Barry Allen," she says a few minutes later, when she's finally recovered. "A very interesting life."

"You have no idea," Barry says, wishing now more than ever that he hadn't promised Joe that he wouldn't tell Iris about the whole Flash thing. Especially given... "Besides, enough about my interesting life, tell me about your interesting life! Working with the police at last, huh?"

"That'll show Dad for dissuading me from going to police academy," Iris laughs. "But yes! Official consultant to a CCPD task force! I'm actually getting paid - well, peanuts, but still. Resume-wise, this is huge."

"I'm really glad for you," Barry says, because if it was anything else, he really would be, and he is, it's just, well..."The Anti-Flash Task Force, though? I thought you liked what the Flash was doing."

"Well, realistically, writing a blog about the Flash isn't exactly going to get me a job with the anti-organized crime task force," Iris says dryly. "So that's one reason. Besides, that name is misplaced. I do support what the Flash is doing, and that's why I'm doing my best to keep him from getting arrested."

Barry's eyebrows shoot up. "Arrested? For what? Stopping some crimes? I thought they just wanted to stop him, not arrest him."

Seriously, what is with Captain Cold? Barry takes his eyes off of him for five minutes and suddenly the guy's put sending Barry to jail on the table?!

"It's really more of an analysis sort of thing," Iris says. "Captain Snart wants evidence either for or against the Flash - is he doing good things for the city, or is he using his abilities to commit crimes?"

"Crimes?"

"Well, I certainly don't think he is!" Iris exclaims. "He's clearly just trying to help - getting to crime scenes before the police can, disarming dangerous criminals...he's a hero!"

"I'm really glad you think that," Barry says sincerely. It means a lot to know that Iris is on his side, however unknowingly.

Iris eyes him beadily. "I thought you wanted me to stop writing about him because he could be anybody and I didn't know anything about him."

Oops.

"I was worried you'd be in danger because of it," Barry says quickly. "Who knows what sorts of enemies a guy like the Flash has, right? But you have police protection now, so it's, uh, different."

"Well, that's true," Iris concedes. "Though seriously, Bar, worrying about me being 'in danger'? I know you mean well, but you sound like Dad - and not in a good way. It's just like the police academy thing; if you'd wanted to go, it'd be fine, great, amazing, even better than the CSI stuff you were actually into, but the second I wanted to, it's suddenly too dangerous. And you didn't even want to go!"

Barry remembers that fight. It'd been one for the ages.

"It's just so frustrating," Iris continues. "I know Dad's old school, but sometimes it feels like he thinks he can just ignore reality by just saying that. Oh, women can take dangerous jobs now? Sorry, I'm too old school to believe in that -"

"It's not that," Barry objects, even though it maybe kinda sorta is, at least a little. Iris' curfew was several hours earlier than Barry's throughout their teen years, and it wasn't only because she was more of a party person than he was. "He's your dad, you're his kid. He's just being protective."

"You mean overprotective," Iris says. "I know that he loves me and that he means well, but sometimes it feels like he puts a higher premium on his idea of what 'protecting' me looks like than he does on respecting who I actually am. I want to be an investigative journalist, Barry! Investigative! I'm not going to be sitting in a nice cozy office writing a fashion column or something. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course, but it's not me. So yes, sometimes I'm going to do something a little dangerous - and I need to know that he'll support me, instead of trying to get in my way."

"I support you," Barry offers, internally wincing. "You know that."

"I do," she says. "It just sometimes feels like you think he's right, especially when it comes to this Flash stuff."

"Well..."

"No, Barry," Iris says firmly. "I'm a fully grown woman, capable of making my own choices. I don't appreciate being treated like some sort of dumb porcelain doll that's going to shatter if I'm not kept on a shelf! It's offensive, that's what it is! How the hell does Dad expect me to become an investigative journalist when he feels free to just, ugh, lie to me and say something stupid like how it's for 'my own good' - can you believe that macho bullshit?"

"...no?" Barry squeaks. Oh, man, he knew he never should've have let himself listen to Joe about whether he could tell Iris about his Flash stuff. God, she's going to eviscerate him when she finds out the truth.

Or, even worse, she'll be disappointed.

Maybe even want to take a short break from their friendship while she thinks over whether she wants to forgive him at all...

Barry's so screwed.

"At least Eddie doesn't buy into that crap," Iris says, luckily too invested in her rant to notice Barry slowly descending into a spiral of his own shame. "He supports my career, and my interests, and he lets me decide what I'm comfortable with. He's going to be open with me about all the information about the disappearances, giving me access to all the case files and -"

"Hold on a second," Barry says, looking up again. "Disappearances? What disappearances?"

"That's what the task force is investigating right now," Iris says. "There's been a string of disappearances over the last few months -"

"I know about those; I'm processing some of those scenes," Barry says. "Captain Cold thinks they’re related to the Flash? Why?"

"Captain Snart, Barry," Iris says. "He's actually quite charming -" They say evil usually is. "- and pretty cute, too; if you weren't already dating that Len guy you met at Jitters, then I'd totally be trying to hook you up."

Barry? Hook up with a supervillain? No way.

"Well, too bad, I'm taken," Barry says firmly. "Now: the Flash?"

"Well, you see, Captain Snart's assistant - her name is Kara, Kara Danvers, also very cute - seriously, are we having an embarrassment of riches or something now that we're both dating someone? -"

"Iris. Focus."

"Right. Well, Kara started pulling together reports and complaints that could be related to the Flash - sightings of lightning on clear days, the sound of something moving fast, that sort of thing - and those sightings seems to line up with these disappearances."

Barry didn't know that.

Iris makes a face. “That includes Mason – Mason Bridges, do you remember him? He hired me for that internship at the CCPN?”

“The one you called an asshole the first day and started to like after the first week?” Barry says, smiling at the memory. “Yeah, I remember; you were super pissed when he –”

Disappeared.

Right.

“Wait, that was correlated with a Flash sighting?” Barry asks. He'd certainly had nothing to do with that.

“I’m not totally sure about that one,” Iris confesses. “We’re still following up on the various leads. Still, Captain Snart thinks the correlation is suspicious and, well, I can’t blame him for thinking that; it’s probably the first thing I’d think, too –”

Except she doesn’t because she really likes the Flash and would never believe such a bad thing about him…right?

Barry really, really hopes he’s right. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost Iris’ confidence, even if she doesn’t know it's him behind the mask.

“– but Eddie thinks the Flash might be investigating the disappearances," Iris continues. "I think that makes sense - don't you?"

"Definitely," Barry says. Even if it hadn't previously been true, it's definitely going to be true now. Thank you Eddie!

"You'll help me prove it, right?" Iris presses. "Captain Snart's basically agreed that I get to look for information showing he's innocent while he looks for information proving his guilt -"

Conveniently resulting in Captain Cold having access to all the information he wants, courtesy of Iris' excellent detective skills.

Or, well, excellent detective skills when she knows there's something worth investigating. Barry's pretty sure the only reason she hasn't figured out that he's the Flash is because she so thoroughly believes that he would tell her something important like that that the fact that he hasn't is actually evidence against it being true.

...ouch. Way to self-guilt-trip there, Barry.

"Of course I'll help," Barry promises. "I'll look through the forensic reports on those disappearances when I get back to the office after lunch."

"Uh, speaking of which, I hate to mention this, but isn't your lunch break usually only 30 minutes...?"

Barry freezes.

"Because between you helping me with those errands earlier and the line at Jitters and everything, it's been nearly an hour..." Iris says apologetically.

"Crap!"

Luckily, after he bids goodbye to Iris, Barry's able to speed all the way back to his lab by going up the wall and through the window. There's no way his lateness wasn't noticed, unfortunately, but at least this way there's some ambiguity as to exactly how late he was getting back.

He's about to open the files on the disappearances when he gets a call from Cisco.

"Hey, man, where are you?" Cisco asks.

"At...work?"

"You were supposed to come help us brainstorm about why the Man in Yellow wanted that tachyon emitter, remember?"

"Oh, crap," Barry says. "I totally blanked; I'm sorry - Iris wanted to go out for coffee -"

"Hey, no problem, I know how it can be," Cisco laughs. "Can you come over for a bit, though? Wells is in a Mood - you know how he gets when he feels like we're making no progress."

Actually, Barry doesn't know - he isn't as familiar with Wells-the-impatient-genius as he is with Wells-the-encouraging-and-remorseful-mentor, since he's almost always only seen the latter - but he's not going to say as much.

He eyes the work on his desk and makes a face. Even at superspeed - which he promised himself he'd stop with! - if he takes another break now, he'll have trouble finishing it all unless he stays late.

"I can come over now for a little, but I'll have to skip actual patrolling this evening," Barry decides. "Can you be on main radio duty so you can call me in case something happens?"

"You bet! See you in a Flash!"

That never gets old.

(He goes out the window again. Sorry, job! He'll start doing better soon, he promises!)

When Barry makes it to STAR Labs, Wells is in fact in a bit of a temper, snapping at Caitlin about her results, but he leaves off once he sees that Barry's there. Barry guesses it's because he thinks they can make more progress on finding the Man in Yellow with Barry there, though still, there's no reason to be yelling at Caitlin.

Though to be fair, he did get assaulted by the Man in Yellow when they tried to trap him using the (now stolen) tachyon emitter as bait; he's probably just in pain.

"About time, Mr. Allen," Wells says, which is unusually snappish for him - he's almost never curt like that. Well, with Barry, at least. Is Barry the teacher's pet? He’s never really been the teacher’s pet before. "I believe we've figured out why the Man in Yellow went after the tachyon emitter - Cisco, show him the model -"

To be entirely honest, it's not entirely a surprise to find out that the tachyon emitter will make the Man in Yellow even faster.

"Great," Barry sighs. He wishes, in retrospect, that they had brought in the CCPD to help protect the emitter instead of insisting on doing it privately in an attempt to avoid Captain Cold’s attention. Maybe if the CCPD’d been involved, they wouldn’t have lost out on the emitter and the Man in Yellow wouldn't have been made even faster. "Like he couldn't beat me hands-down already."

"On the contrary, Mr. Allen," Wells says, his eyes avid. "I believe this to be a good sign."

"How?" Cisco asks.

"As you pointed out, the Man in Yellow is faster than Mr. Allen already - why resort to a device to get additional speed? Answer: because Mr. Allen is starting to catch up more than he'd like. If Mr. Allen focuses seriously and exclusively on his speed for the next few weeks -"

"As exclusively as possible," Barry corrects.

Wells looks a little exasperated. "Mr. Allen, I mean this as kindly as possible, but what could possibly be more important than catching your mother's murderer?"

Ouch.

What is with people and poking at Barry's soft spots today?

"It's not that," he objects. Of course he wants to catch the Man in Yellow! He wants it more than anything! But at the same time, he can't give up his entire life to do nothing but speed training. "Besides, Cisco’s right that I make my best breakthroughs in terms of speed while fighting criminals, not with training, so it's not like it even makes sense for me to devote myself to training full-time -"

Wells looks annoyed which, jeez, the whole point of this is to stop bad guys, right? Sometimes it feels like Wells gets too caught up in the academic question of "how fast can Barry go" and stops thinking about their actual goals here. Seriously, as long as Barry's fast enough, he doesn't have to be even faster.

"He is right," Caitlin says, shrinking away when Wells gives her a blistering look. "Barry's pretty task-oriented; it makes sense to balance training with actual crime-fighting."

"Plus there's my job," Barry says.

"Mr. Allen -"

"It's my job!" Barry protests. "If I don't do it, I get fired. If I get fired, I don't have an income or health insurance or anything, then I have to spend all my time job hunting, and that means I'll be doing even less on improving my speed!"

"Understood, Mr. Allen," Wells says, though he still sounds testy. "But it does seem as though you've been spending quite a bit more time at work than in previous weeks -"

"I'm following up on a lead with Captain Cold," Barry protests, then wonders why they're even having this conversation. It's his job! It's obviously non-negotiable, except in situations where someone is in active and present danger! Wells is acting like Barry should just put in the bare amount of face-time required and cheat on the rest with his speed so that he can devote his entire life to nothing but speed-speed-speed as if that was his only priority!

Ugh, rich people. They just don’t understand the concept of employment.

"Not to mention the importance of having some rest time in order to improve his mental capacity alongside his physical endurance," Caitlin adds. "Even with Barry's increased metabolism, he still does need to relax - not just sleep, but to do things other than just work. So it makes sense to take time out of training to hang out and go on dates -"

Barry can't help the dumb grin.

"I see," Wells says, suddenly amused. "And how is the lovely Miss West doing?"

"She's great," Barry says. "I saw her just now - sorry, that's why I ditched, she's been busy for ages and suddenly she had time - and she's doing really great."

"Is she still seeing - ah - Detective Thawne, or have you made inroads there?" Wells inquires, smirking a little.

Inroads...?

"Oh! Oh, no; she's still with Eddie. Definitely still with Eddie," Barry says quickly. "And, you know, he's a good guy, you know? I shouldn't have tried to get in between them. I'm not dating Iris; I wouldn't - she wouldn't, not while she's with Eddie. No way, no how."

"Barry's been seeing Cool Coffee Guy instead," Caitlin says, grinning. "How's that been going, Barry?"

Barry grins at her. "Uh, amazing? We just had our third date, it was - ugh, it was so good. He's basically perfect."

"No one's perfect, Mr. Allen," Wells says. He's suddenly frowning again, which is weird - he was totally happy to hear about Barry's love life when he thought it was Iris. Latent homophobia, maybe? Barry hopes not; that would be super awkward. "Is it entirely a good idea to be seeing this, er, 'coffee guy' seriously while you still carry a torch for Miss West?"

A torch for? Seriously?

"How else is he supposed to get over her?" Cisco points out. "Put it up man, good for you!"

They high-five.

"Soooo, date three," Cisco adds. "Does that mean..?"

"No, no," Barry says, laughing. "We're moving slow - yes, I know, the irony - and it's good for both of us. I need to get over myself about Iris - we actually just talked about that today -"

"You talked with Iris about it? Really?" Caitlin asks. "What did she say?"

"She's happy that I'm happy -"

"I'm not sure it seems entirely wise to me, Mr. Allen," Wells butts in, which, uh, Barry appreciates the advice and all, but he's not taking love life advice from a guy who kinda reminds him of his dad. Look what happened when he took advice from Joe! "Entering into a serious relationship while you have a significant emotional entanglement with Miss West -"

"No, no, it's okay," Barry assures him. "Len understands - he's got a best friend he cares about deeply, too, like me and Iris. Well, not exactly like, but close enough."

"Len," Wells murmurs.

"Really, dude?" Cisco says, arching his eyebrows. "You sure he's not cheating or something?"

"I'm sure," Barry says. "He and Mick - that's the other guy - they're just best friends. Besides, Mick's in a coma right now after an, uh, an accident, so -"

Cisco's face clears. "Oh, yeah, that's fine then. Go Barry! You're basically Eddie Thawne-ing the guy -"

"Not a verb," Caitlin groans.

Barry fist-bumps Cisco anyway.

"Len and Mick," Wells says again, looking thoughtful.

"Yeah," Barry says. "That's their names."

"I see." Wells suddenly shakes his head. "My apologies; I knew a Len and a Mick once - at a time far removed from the present. They were part of a, er, group that I rather enjoyed watching. Forgive me; I was just recalling them ."

"You used to watch live bands?" Cisco says, putting a hand over his heart. "You, Dr. Wells? I'm not sure I can handle the shock."

Wells snorts. "Indeed. At any rate, if Mr. Allen has a limited time before he returns to work, then we should make the most of it -"

Barry does eventually have to use speed to get through that evening's workload, despite his resolution to do things right. He feels bad about it, but promises himself that he'll do better going forward - he just has a lot on his plate, with the Man in Yellow and all.

Not really an excuse that would appease, say, the family of the murder victim he's working the scene of, though.

Barry takes care not to speed through the analysis portion, at least. It's nearly midnight before he can go home, and he comes in early to finish.

Good thing he has that ridiculous metabolism now.

He finishes it all around mid-morning and hesitates. He should reach out to Cisco and Caitlin and Dr. Wells now, to tell them he's caught up on his work and has some free time to work on his speed, but he's still a little pissed about the way Wells just disregarded his job - his very important job! - as unimportant compared to science and speed. And bringing Barry's mom into it like that? Not okay.

Still, if he doesn't have anything else to be doing before the new workload arrives...

No, wait, he promised Iris he'd look at those disappearances. That'll definitely kill the few hours before the new day's work finds its way to his inbox, and then he can do that. He'll head over to STAR Labs for training in the afternoon.

He texts "Doing Iris a favor, won't be able to make it till 5" to the STAR Labs group, since even Wells seems understanding about Iris, and settles in to review those files again.

He's about three in when he remembers why he set aside these particular files.

They're the ones with Chemical X.

The one that Gila said was like having a jet engine run around Central City. The one that Barry suspected might come from a speedster, only to dismiss it because he knew for a fact that it couldn't have been him at all of these instances because of the time period -

But now he knows that there's another speedster in Central City.

The Man in Yellow.

If his suspicions are right and this is in fact the residue of a speedster's run, then that means the Man in Yellow could be the one behind these disappearances.

And if he can figure out what connects them, then he might be able to figure out what the Man in Yellow is up to. He can actually start tracking him down instead of just futilely training his speed without ever making any actual progress in catching the guy.

He has a lead.

"Thank you, Iris," Barry murmurs, settling into his seat and shifting into full focus mode.

He's going to science the shit out of this mystery.

#coldflash #leonard snart #barry allen #iris west #Harrison wells #eobard thawne #Caitlin snow #cisco ramon #my fic #an internal affair

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bevioletskies · 6 years ago

Note

Could you maybe write a fic about Mantis and The Wasp teamup (like Evangeline Lily said once)? Love your fics💜

Takes place post-Avengers 4 in a magical universe where everyone is alive and well except for Thanos, who is super dead. Cameo appearances by Scott, Hank, and Janet, with a few mentions of the Avengers and the Guardians here and there.ao3 | word count: 3.9k

Despite spending her entire life wanting to be a hero just like her parents, Hope was determined to stay as far away from the Avengers as she possibly could. Most of it was because of her admittedly shallow dislike of Tony Stark, purely for the way his father had treated hers; another factor was Scott skipping out of their partnership - and relationship - to go running around Germany with Captain America and without her. Then the entire universe was in danger, and Hope didn’t really have the luxury of choosing who to fight with. And well, she also sort of died, but that was beside the point.

Now that the universe was back to some semblance of normal, Hope’s priorities were as follows - continue strengthening her newfound good relationship with her dad, spend quality time with her mom and catch her up on everything she’d missed, restore the good name of Pym Technologies, and enjoy her budding relationship with Scott. She had no interest in mingling with any other so-called heroes, especially not with the government still nipping at their heels, wanting them to cut a new deal.

Then, one evening, the Guardians quite literally came crashing down to Earth.

“The Benatar never did have a great braking system,” Peter Quill had reportedly said to the swarm of SHIELD agents that came for them.

Thankfully, they landed in the vicinity of Avengers Headquarters as (mostly) planned. They were invited back to “Terra”, as they called it, for Tony and Pepper’s wedding, an event that Hope and Scott were also invited to and were attending mostly out of politeness (though Scott was genuinely excited to hang out with the Avengers off-duty, the fanboy that he was). Their ship caused minimal damage - a scuff across the lawn that made Tony bemoan the days that he only had to worry about Thor’s unorthodox method of transportation - but it was enough of a signal that it was time to summon all the heroes to upstate New York. And by “summoned”, it meant a Quinjet touching down outside of Scott’s place (and sort of Hope’s, too, now that they were giving domestic cohabitation a try).

“This is gonna be awesome,” Scott said brightly, carrying both his and Hope’s overnight bags out the door despite her insisting she could take care of her own. “You sure your parents don’t wanna come with us?”

“And have Dad come face-to-face with another Stark? I think I’ll pass,” Hope remarked wryly.

When they arrived at the Avengers complex, it reminded Hope somewhat of the old Pym Tech labs - bright white walls, long stretches of glass and steel, with agents, engineers, and scientists scurrying around with somewhere more important to be. She and Scott were settled in a guest room, then ushered to an expansive outdoor patio where they were suddenly faced with just about everyone who they’d fought alongside in the battle against Thanos.

After some awkward “hello”s and “how are you”s, the two of them lingered on the outside of the circle of people who clearly knew each other pretty well, laughing and swapping stories as they dug into the buffet spread of artisanal meats and cheeses, fruit, and tea sandwiches. “Hello!” Mantis suddenly popped up out of nowhere, carrying a plate laden with food, a sunny smile on her face. “Are you not eating?”

“I will in a bit,” Hope said, smiling in return. It was hard not to when Mantis was so infectiously cheerful. “How are you? I heard you had a rough landing coming back here.”

“I do not trust Rocket and Peter when they try to fly the ship at the same time,” Mantis whispered conspiratorially. “They fight so much. You are so lucky to be working in a partnership instead of a group. Then you do not have to listen to so many people talking and yelling at the same time.”

“Oh, I feel like Scott talks enough for three people,” Hope replied, knowing full well he was standing behind her.

“Hey,” he protested in mock offense. “I’m down to at least…two.”

“Can you grab me a plate?” Hope requested. Scott shook his head half-amusedly but went to do it regardless. “But you guys work in pairs sometimes, right?”

“Sometimes,” Mantis agreed. “Gamora has been teaching me how to fight, but I am still not really a fighter. I am most useful in missions where we have to mentally manipulate people.”

“Interesting,” Hope hummed, quirking an eyebrow. “So, say I were having trouble trying to convince someone of something…like certain members of the government who are still after me and Scott because we haven’t signed the Sokovia Accords…”

“I might be able to change their minds,” Mantis nodded. She paused. “Wait, are you asking me or telling me?”

“Well, it’s not the most…legal thing I’ve ever done, but honestly? I’ve been acting outside of the ‘law’ for a while now, mostly because I don’t agree with it,” Hope admitted. “I have a sit-down meeting with some Accord representatives in a few days. I’m supposed to turn in my suit and sign some papers so they can put me on probation before they ‘let me’ be a reserve Avenger.”

“I am staying on Terra for another week or so,” Mantis offered. “Do not tell anyone, but the only reason we are staying this long is so that Peter can take us to his hometown. He wants to propose to Gamora at his mother’s grave.”

“Who’s proposing?” Scott returned with two overloaded plates of food and the corner of a puff pastry hanging out of his mouth. Hope and Mantis simultaneously shushed him. “Oh, sorry. What’re we talkin’ about?”

“Hope was telling me about your troubles with the Sokovia Accords, and I think I can help,” Mantis explained.

“Really? That would be amazing,” Scott exclaimed, letting out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “They’ve been comin’ after us for the research, the equipment, the suits…they even started keeping watch outside of my house, even when my daughter’s home. It’s not cool.”

“I don’t want things to get too messy, though,” Hope added, patting Scott’s arm sympathetically. Nothing had terrified him quite as much as the time Cassie had shrieked from her bedroom at 3 AM when she noticed a strange man on the sidewalk, seemingly looking right at her through the window. “If this was just about knocking some heads around until I get answers, I could do it in a heartbeat. But for this…I want them to feel like they came to the right conclusion on their own, if you get what I mean.”

Mantis grinned. “Of course. So, what’s the plan?”______

The wedding went about as smoothly as expected. That is to say, a villain of the week popped up during the rehearsal dinner, making Pepper even more anxious than she already was, but once the bad guys were disposed of, courtesy of Peter Parker’s quick feet and even quicker mind, the weekend practically flew by. Hope even enjoyed herself despite her initial reservations towards Stark. The company was good, the entertainment was engaging, and Scott said something rather interesting while they were slow-dancing during the reception.

“I wonder what my second wedding will be like,” he pondered aloud.

Hope looked at him curiously. “Is that so?” He only grinned at her softly in his very Scott-like way, and she could only return it with a smile of her own, both flustered and pleased at the same time.

Then, Wednesday rolled around and Hope was back in a pantsuit and perfectly coiffed hair, feeling a little uneasy with the remnants of her old self. She knew she had changed quite a bit over the past few years, letting herself be happy and relaxed and open again after spending so long wallowing in grief and misplaced anger. Being reminded of her tightly-wound corporate persona made her all the more grateful for how much more comfortable she was with herself now.

“Thank you all for meeting me here,” Hope said diligently, settling down into her chair. The representatives that were sat before her glanced around the office, looking dubiously at their surroundings.

“I thought Pym Tech was defunct,” one of them commented. Hope’s smile tightened.

“My dad decided it was time to resurrect his life’s work,” she said cooly. “And I think it would be appropriate to reinstate him as CEO, don’t you?”

“From what I remember - and correct me if I’m wrong, it’s been a while - you were the deciding vote, Chairwoman,” another said mockingly.

The third one cleared her throat sharply, glaring at her companions in warning. “Let’s not get off-topic here. Miss Van Dyne, your suit?”

“My assistant is bringing it in,” Hope said, folding her arms neatly on the surface of her desk. “And if you don’t mind me asking while we wait for her to get here, is there a reason you asked to meet without my partner?”

They exchanged uncomfortable looks, almost like they were dreading answering the question. “Mister Lang has…a history,” one of them said carefully. “At this point, I don’t know if we can offer him the same deal as we’re offering you.”

“Scott and I are a team. You don’t get to pick and choose,” Hope protested.

“Actually, that’s exactly what it means, Miss Van Dyne,” the woman replied. “Once we’ve cleared both you and your parents - ”

“My parents? My mom wasn’t even here when the Accords were created. And she worked for SHIELD!”

“And we all saw SHIELD for what it really was, so who’s to say she was on the right side?” the second man said dryly, and it took all of Hope’s willpower not to knock him clean across the room.

“Don’t talk about my mom like that,” Hope said through gritted teeth. “My parents are not to be touched, and Scott and I are a package deal. I won’t settle for anything less.”

“You seem to think you have the upper hand here, Miss Van Dyne, and I can assure you that you don’t,” the first agent said, narrowing his eyes at her. “You violated the Accords multiple times - unauthorized use of a powered suit, interference with - ”

The door to Hope’s office suddenly swung open, and her assistant came striding in with an armored briefcase in hand, smiling beatifically. “Good afternoon, Miss Van Dyne, I am sorry it took so long.”

Hope let out a slow breath to calm herself down before she could really lose her temper. “That’s alright, bring it over here.” It was then that the agents looked at her assistant and did a double take in near-perfect synchronicity. “Is something wrong, agents?”

“That’s - ”

“Is there a problem?” Hope smirked. Mantis blinked.

“Alright, we’ll entertain you for a moment,” the woman sighed. “Are you trying to tell us that an alien from a…peacekeeping team of her own is now your assistant?”

“She’s staying on Earth for a little while and wanted to learn the culture, so I offered to let her shadow me,” Hope said, unlocking the briefcase and turning it towards them with the lid open. “Is this what you were looking for?”

“Yes, but - ”

“Wait, is that the right one?” The second man leaned in a little closer, trying to place whether it was really the suit they were looking for. “If you’re trying to con us, we have no choice but to search your office until we find your actual suit.”

“Are you sure? Look again,” Mantis said soothingly. She drummed her fingers in a precise pattern on the surface of Hope’s desk as she leaned against it. The three of them blinked slowly, almost like they were in a trance. “There is no need to be agitated. Hope is only worried about the well-being of her loved ones, that is all. Do you not worry about your loved ones like she does?”

“…yes.” The first agent settled back in his seat, looking remorseful. “I apologize for my colleague’s comment about your mother. I’m sure the work she did at SHIELD was very important to the world and your family.”

Hope glanced over at Mantis, barely daring to take a breath in case it gave away the ruse. “Thank you. It was.” She bowed her head. “I don’t mean to be hostile, I know you’re just doing your jobs, but I want to look out for the people I care about. And I appreciate the chance to be reserve Avengers, but Scott and I work best as partners, not members of a team.”

The woman pursed her lips. “When we spoke with Mister Stark and Captain Rogers, they vouched for you both. Are you going against their endorsement, then?”

“No, we just don’t - ”

“I can tell this isn’t your suit, by the way. I’ve seen enough footage and photographs to know every last detail of the real thing,” the woman concluded, getting to her feet with a disappointed sigh. “You know what? I can tell we aren’t getting everything we need today. Bring us the real one, and we can discuss your new terms another time. I have a feeling they’ve changed…again.”______

“I am sorry it did not work,” Mantis offered sadly about an hour later. She and Hope were now sitting in the lab, having lunch, watching Hank and Scott squabble over something mundane in the distance while Janet tried to mediate as best she could while also getting increasingly exasperated. “The woman’s mind was very strong. I could not appeal to her nature the way that I did with the others.”

“It’s not your fault,” Hope reassured her. “It was a stretch for me to think I could convince them in the first place.”

“You said something about ‘knocking heads’, right?” Mantis asked.

“I’m not going to beat anyone up, Mantis,” Hope chuckled, shaking her head. “There’s a time and place for it, and this isn’t one of those times. It’s not worth it. I’ve already dug a deep enough hole as it is.”

“But you want to get your suit back, don’t you?” Mantis persisted. “And you know where they took it. Maybe you can go get it, while I talk to the agents again and see if I can at least convince them to talk to you and Scott together.”

“That’s…actually not a bad idea.” Hope glanced across the room at her parents. “Should he come with us?”

“I’m telling you, Hank, I didn’t do it!”

“I swear to god, Scott, I saw you - ”

“Go easy on the boy, Henry, I’m sure he didn’t mean to.”

“That ‘boy’ is sleeping with our daughter, I wouldn’t exactly call him a boy - ”

“Never mind,” Hope sighed, rubbing at her temples; she could feel the beginnings of a headache starting to form. “But before we go, let me jump in there before Dad castrates him.”

An hour later, Hope and Mantis arrived at the storage facility, both unusually nervous given their usual demeanors. They stopped several feet from the gates, with Hope shrinking down and zipping through in search of an external vent, while Mantis tentatively approached the security booth.

“Hello, I am here on behalf of Pym Technologies and I have a meeting with some Accord representatives,” Mantis recited neatly, albeit loudly, causing the speaker to screech with feedback. The guard winced, waving her through after a brief glance at the ID badge Hope had given her.

“Not so loud.” Hope’s voice came through the earpiece, nearly invisible beneath Mantis’s hair.

“Sorry,” Mantis said sheepishly. “Peter took us to a drive-thru in Missouri where he had to shout to be heard. We ended up with three more orders of curly fries than we were supposed to. Are you inside yet?”

“Yes. Trying to follow the air conditioning system to figure out where their warehouse storage is located.”

“Mantis!” The moment she stepped into the lobby of the building, she was greeted by the three agents, who looked just as surprised to see her as she was startled by them. “You know, I really thought someone was pulling our leg when we got the call.”

“I would not play such a joke on you,” Mantis said, smiling politely. “I just wanted to talk.”

“My office, then,” the woman replied. They went into an elevator and through a series of hallways until they finally settled in a room, all while Mantis could hear Hope quietly muttering to herself through the line in fervent concentration. “So what’s this all about? Why are you really working for Van Dyne?”

“What she said is true. I want to learn more about the culture here. You see, my leader is like a big brother to me, and he came from this planet. It means a lot to him, and I want to understand him better. Hope seemed like the best candidate for me to follow around,” Mantis explained.

“Why is that?” the first man asked curiously.

“She is not a super spy, she does not have magical powers. She is a normal person who is very brave and strong, all on her own,” Mantis said thoughtfully.

“You really think that?” Hope sounded half-distracted, half-touched.

“She’s also violated a lot of laws,” the second man added.

“I do not know very much about these Accords. I have only heard about them from my friends.” Mantis glanced down at her hands, twisting her fingers in her lap. “I know that you think you have good intentions, but sometimes it hurts them more than it helps. I know that they have fought each other because they do not agree, and they have had to run and hide and help people from the shadows instead of in the light. I know that in some ways, they still have not fully forgiven each other for everything they have said and done. I also know that you have scared people who have had nothing to do with it, like Scott’s daughter.”

“We had no intention of - ”

“I do not understand Terrans very well, but I guess I do not understand much of anything,” she continued ruefully. “I grew up in isolation for most of my life, watching my master hurt children for not being what he wanted. He would only let them have one try before killing them where they stood. I think they deserved a second chance, don’t you?”

“Van Dyne and Lang have had plenty of chances if that’s what you’re trying to insinuate,” the woman said smoothly.

“But you have not let them explain themselves together,” Mantis pointed out. “I heard that you arrested Scott when he did not fully understand the consequences of the fight in Germany.”

“Is that what he told you?” Hope muttered in her ear.

“And Hope and Doctor Pym didn’t even know he was gone until you started chasing them, too,” Mantis added.

“Dammit, I see the case but it’s got a motion trigger. I’m gonna have to switch them out at the exact right time.”

“Like Indiana Jones?” Mantis exclaimed, her eyes widening when she realized what she’d done.

The agents stared at her like she’d sprouted even more antennae than she already had. “…I’m sorry?”

“Mantis,” Hope hissed.

“Peter showed me that movie once. I think there were chases in it, right?” She blinked innocently.

“…right.”

Hope shook her head, annoyed but still impressed that Mantis was well-versed enough to make the reference. The sight before her felt just about as foreboding as the golden idol. She could feel sweat beginning to form on her brow, feeling burdened by both the half-finished prototype suit she was wearing, and the case tucked underneath her arm, waiting to be traded for the real thing.

She swallowed thickly, flying closer to the spot where her suit was sitting, but not so close as to set off the alarm. There was a vague buzzing in her head of Mantis’s ramblings; she seemed to be on a tangent about her fascination with Terran pop culture and Scott and Hope’s predicament at the same time.

“You got this,” Hope muttered to herself, taking a deep breath. She braced herself, lifting both her arms up with her finger on the size trigger in her glove. In one fluid motion, she swept the real case under her left arm, shrinking it down until it was no bigger than a fingernail, grew the prototype case to its full size, and slotted it neatly in place. The motion trigger light flickered briefly, then continued on as if nothing happened. She exhaled. “I did it. Heading back outside now.”

“And that is why they are very under-appreciated compared to the Avengers. Just because they have not saved an entire city from an alien invasion on their own - also, I do not like the way you say the word ‘alien’ - ”

“Oh, Mantis,” Hope sighed with a relieved chuckle.

Mantis exited the building ten minutes later with an unusual amount of pride in her step, meeting up with Hope back where they had started. “You got your suit back?”

Hope held it up triumphantly between her pointer finger and her thumb, so miniscule that Mantis had to squint to really see it. “How did it go in there?”

“They agreed to meet with both of you next week,” Mantis said happily. “And they will stop surveilling Scott’s house.”

“That’s great! How did you manage to get them to agree?” Hope exclaimed.

“I told them I would not leave until they did.” Mantis chewed her lip. “And I may have accidentally used my sleep powers when that man got too close to me.” Hope groaned. “He scared me!”

“At least we got what we wanted,” Hope sighed. She reached out to squeeze Mantis’s arm. “Hey…thank you.”

“Of course,” Mantis grinned. “I do not like seeing my friends get hurt.”

“We are friends, aren’t we?” Hope smiled back. “And friends take other friends to dinner so she can learn more about Terran culture. That is, if you’re free.”

Mantis’s eyes widened. “I am! I think if I go back to my team now, all I will hear about is the engagement, and I have heard plenty .”

“Good.” Hope gestured towards the car waiting for them a little further down the road. “I hope you’ll like tacos.”______

Hope winced as the front door creaked open slowly, almost painfully - she needed to talk to Scott about greasing the hinges, along with another half-dozen home improvement projects they could really use - and kicked off her shoes, tiptoeing up the stairs. She briefly disappeared into the bathroom to change, brush her teeth, and wash her face, holding her breath while she slipped under the duvet, trying not to disturb him.

“Whashappening?”

She sighed in defeat. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Just go back to sleep.”

“No, hey, tell me…tell me how it went.” Scott yawned, rolling over to face her, blinking sleepily. She smiled, settling down comfortably into the pillows.

“Long story short, I got my suit back, and we have a meeting with them. Together.”

“How?” he mumbled; he was already starting to drift off again.

“Mantis went to talk to them while I shrunk down in the prototype suit - I didn’t have the same problems that you did, by the way - and went through the vent. She started off talking about how she wanted to learn more about our culture and somehow tied the Accords back to her upbringing, and…” She was interrupted by a snort, courtesy of Scott’s tendency to snore loudly and unashamedly. Hope chuckled amusedly, leaning over to briefly kiss him on the cheek before properly snuggling in underneath the blanket, warm and content. “Never mind. I’m sure this will make for an interesting story another time.”

#ask #Anonymous #hope van dyne #mantis #langdyne #myfic #marvel #i was gonna post this on friday but i finished early so why not haha #this week is kind of messy for me anyways so this might be for the best #hope you enjoy!

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