#does someone have a hack for this???? this is BEYOND annoying | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

snackhobi · 4 years ago

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

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

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

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

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

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

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

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

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

(You’d phrased it differently.

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

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

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

Unfortunately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

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

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

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

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

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

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

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

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

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he walks into your workshop.

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

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

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

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

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

“Y/n?”

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

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

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

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

“Who did this to you?”

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

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

“Who did this to you?”

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

There's a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

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

“One of the cousins?”

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

Yoongi always pays his debts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t call me baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yoongi?”

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

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

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

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

“Bye.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were on the way.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re finally back.”

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

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

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

“All good.”

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

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

Because it’s yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

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

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

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

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

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

“How much is it?”

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

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

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says.

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in response?

You just smile.

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

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

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

(You look good like this.)

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

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

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to eat you alive.

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

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

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

“Shameless.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not done with you yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay.”

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

He hadn’t been planning to.

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

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

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

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

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

“I kill a lot of people.”

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d be offended if you did.”

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

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

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

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

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stryc-9 · 2 years ago

Text

Part 4 in my series of 5 obvious things Lauren Seal completely misunderstands about storytelling… the purpose of new characters in an established narrative

Well it's been a minute since part 3, but whatever. Laura had two years and look at the shit she churned out.

Anyway she came into an established narrative and decided adding TONS of new characters was a good idea. Not only an established narrative, but THE ENDING of said narrative. This part makes my eyes roll so hard that I'm not sure I can keep typing. Like wtf?!

This is such a simple concept. The purpose of new characters in an established narrative is pretty straightforward, especially as the narrative is winding down to a close. When Laura came in, the story was 75% done!! By that point, the purpose of every new character should be to propel the main characters and the narrative itself toward their conclusion.

If the new character does not serve to push the story toward its (GOOD) ending, THEY. SHOULD. NOT. EXIST.

PERIOD.

*insert limit does not exist.gif -- but with new characters or whatever*

I'm going to speak as if Laura's intentions for her new characters were obvious, because honestly I think they were. I don't think she intended for most of them to serve much of a purpose beyond KEEPING VILLANEVE APART.

That's it. Simple as it gets. She didn't want VE together until the last episode, so there was a ton of screen time to fill with bullshit.

What she thought she was doing with each character...

Yusuf: showing Eve working with another fuck buddy who I guess also had access to information? Oh and he trained her in combat? I don't fucking know. (This was a gap V should've mostly filled.)

Pam: showing who V could've been if she got out and how Konstantin could've been more of a positive presence in her life, killing Daddy K.

Gunn: showing who V could've been if she formed no attachments

Fernanda: Ok, I don't even know here. Someone who Helene fucked over, Eve fucked over, and Pam could kill I guess? You spin that sandwich sign, girl.

The couple introduced in the FINALE: showing a contrast of a couple in "domestic bliss" versus VE (which was stupid because that phrase is so meaningless to start with and those people would be annoying AF to anyone).

This is an aside, but I'm going to toss Helene in here for a second since she was upgraded to a regular. Laura thought she would be the "face" of the 12, a villain to hunt. A foil for V (as well as a stand in) and a worthy opponent for Eve. But she was none of those and a text solved the whole mission anyway, so who cares?

There were probably more characters? Idk. I'm trying to forget this shit.

Suffice it to say she accomplished absolutely none of what she supposedly set out to do and these idiots had their own storylines in a show that's not about them!!

This basically plays into part 3 about screen time utilization. She used new characters, not to serve the narrative or the mains, but to EAT UP SCREEN TIME because she hated the main characters and didn't want them to have an arc together until she was forced to shoehorn it in for the finale.

That's just fucking stupid. Such. A. Hack.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

#killing eve #killing eve spoilers #killing eve analysis #villanelle #eve polastri #villaneve #lauren seal sucks #why was she given this opportunity?#a true hack #as always fuck lauren seal

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procrastinatingsapphictrash · 4 years ago

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Already dating

Word count: 1618

Genre: Probably fluff, idk really

Pairing: Natasha x gn!reader

Warnings: None (let me know if I need to add any)

Request: could you maybe write something with Natasha x male reader (if your comfortable, otherwise you can write it with female or gender neutral) where Natasha blushes when the reader compliments her in front of the team and the team immediately goes crazy and does everything in their power to get them together, only to find out they've been dating all along?

Summary: Steve and Tony (mostly Tony) lock you in an elevator to admit your feelings, not knowing you’re already together.

A/n: Thanks @mochamoff for the request, sorry it took so long to do it! I’m writing this authors note over a week before I’m posting the fic which is unusual because usually I post within twenty four hours of finishing. Anyways it feels nice to be on a break and this fic being posted means I’m officially back which I’m excited for. To be honest this fic isn’t the whole team, just Tony and Steve, but I’m pretty happy with the way it turned out so I hope you all enjoy reading!

“Next time you have to listen to me in the field Stark.” Steve says as soon as everyone is settled into their place on the jet.

“Actually I don’t, you have absolutely no power over me and as much as you want to be the leader of this team you are not so stop acting like it.” Tony snaps back.

“Someone has to step up and lead.” Steve tells him. “It’s not like you could do any better, you would probably mess things up.”

“Maybe I would, but I would do a hell of a lot better than you are doing.” Tony says. “You like to pretend you’re all high and good and above us but who made you leader? Nobody. You crave control so you took it.”

“I did what needed to be done.”

You watch them snap back and forth at one another a few more times, rolling your eyes at Natasha. She gives you a small smile to show that she’s amused and turns her attention back to your two teammates whose argument has only gotten more and more heated.

“Y/n what do you think?” Tony asks, catching you off guard.

“About what?”

“About who would be a better leader for the team.” he explains. You think for a moment and they both stand as tall as possible (in Tony’s case it isn’t tall at all) and puff out their chests. You scoff, the male ego is so big, even in men who are good and try to do the right thing.

“Neither.” you decide.

“Neither- but the team needs a leader, you have to pick someone.” Tony splutters.

“Just because I don’t think the best leader is either of you doesn’t mean I don’t think the team needs a leader.” you tell him. How one of the smartest people in the world can’t figure that out for himself is beyond you.

“So who would you choose then?” Steve asks, confused.

“Natasha obviously.” you say, smiling at her. The corners of her mouth tug up slightly and even that small movement makes you feel proud.

“No offense, but Natasha???” Tony asks, seemingly outraged. “Why?”

“Well first of all she doesn’t have a fragile male ego like you dumbasses.” you tell them. “But it’s more than just that. She’s smart, both book smart and street smart. She can hack into computers and memorize information easily and knows how to blend in, or to get people to like her. She is more rational than the both of you combined but is also good at making decisions on the fly. She is an excellent fighter and can keep track of strategies and she has connections in and out of the government, with backup plans for almost every situation. Not to mention she has an amazing heart and don’t argue like some other people on our team tend to do. And of course she’s absolutely gorgeous but that doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

You wink at her at the end of your mini speech and are surprised to find her cheeks noticeably pink. She can’t help the smile that creeps onto her face when she thinks over your words.

“Abort mission, Romanoff is blushing and smiling, I think I might be about to die.” Tony states obnoxiously.

“Shut up, you’re just annoyed that she likes me better than you.” Natasha tells him, taking a breath to (mostly) collect herself.

“You’re scary when you’re happy. I haven’t seen you like that before.” he says. “Are you in love with Y/n or something?”

“Shut up.”

Tony smirks. “Make me.”

Natasha takes one threatening step towards him and that’s all it takes for him to back away, stuttering out apologies and mumbling under his breath about how Natasha is too scary to be a team leader. Natasha’s scare tactics do seem to work though because he doesn’t speak to anybody but himself for the rest of the ride home.

As soon as the jet touches down you and Natasha exit, heading straight to the room where you are supposed to be debriefed. Steve tries to follow but Tony grabs his arm to let him know to hold back a second.

“I know I joke but I honestly think they’re in love with each other.” Tony tells him. “I didn’t see it before today but there’s no way Y/n’s speech was platonic, who memorizes lists of reasons why they like their friends, not to mention their flirty wink at the end. And then Natasha, she’s scary but she was acting weird and happy around Y/n.”

“I hate to say this but I agree with you and they would make a cute couple.” Steve says. “But we should probably catch up now.”

Tony takes Steve’s words as an opportunity to stop being serious and become obnoxious again. “Onward dear captain, lead the way fearsome leader, how ever could I-”

“Tony I’m trying to be polite but you are making it very hard.”

---

“Tony no.”

“Tony yes.”

“That is a horrible idea.”

Tony opens his mouth in outrage. “I think it’s a pretty good idea actually.”

“I won’t work.” Steve counters.

“Well I think it well and need I’m the only genius here.” he says smugly.

“You can’t force love!” Steve tells Tony, running his hand through his hair in frustration.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Tony says, “I’m not forcing love, they are already in love. All I’m doing is giving them a little push.”

“By locking them in an elevator?” Steve asks in a deadpan voice.

“Exactly.”

“You can’t just go around locking people-” Steve starts to say but he gets cut off by Tony.

“Shhhhhhh, hi Y/n, hi Natasha.”

“Hi guys, what are you up to?” you ask, obvious to what was going on seconds before you entered the room. Natasha eyes them suspiciously because they are acting weird, holding their bodies stiffly, which means they are hiding something.

“We were just about to head down to the training room, want to come?” Tony lies smoothly while Steve shakes his head in the background.

“That sounds good,” you reply, “you want Tasha?”

“Okay.” she agrees, still eyeing both of them, Tony in particular suspiciously.

“Great!” Tony says and starts to walk towards the elevator and the rest of you follow him, Steve trying to convince himself that going along with Tony’s plan is doing no harm.

“Ladies first.” he says, stepping off to the side and giving a big flourish with his arm. It’s weird but then again Tony is always weird so you don’t think too much of it, stepping into the elevator. As soon as Natasha follows you in he orders Jarvis to close and lock the doors and to prevent the elevator from moving and then pulling up a screen so he can watch you.

“You better run when I get out of here!” Natasha yells. “You too Steve!”

“You’re going to thank me later.” Tony says. “Steve, why don’t you explain why we locked them in.”

“Um,” Steve hesitates, not knowing where to start, “well we think that you two need to talk about, um, feelings.”

“Feelings?” you ask, confused, while realization dawns over Natasha’s face.

“Um, yeah feelings.” Steve responds, feeling very awkward and hoping this works so he didn’t do all that for nothing.

“They don’t know we’re dating and they’re trying to get us together.” Natasha leans over and whispers in your ear before straightening back up and talking to Tony again. “I didn’t take you for such a romantic Stark.”

“What? I’m not- romantic me? Pepper says I’m the least romantic guy she’s ever been with.” he splutters, trying to regain his masculinity.

“And that is not a compliment.” you tell him. “But for some reason even though ‘you aren’t romantic’ you wanted to get us together.”

“Maybe I did,” he says. “but you have to admit that my plan is amazing and it's totally working.”

Natasha snorts “What part of this conversation screams working to you?”

“Well you haven’t killed Y/n yet and neither of you have denied your feelings so it’s obviously working. I expect a thank you speech dedicated to me at your wedding.” He says arrogantly.

“There will be no speech.” Natasha tells him.

“But there will be a wedding?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and Steve has to look away because it looks ridiculous.

“Hopefully.” you say, teasing Tony with your vagueness but also making Natasha smile as she thinks about what that might be like.

“Told you my plan would work.” Tony brags to Steve before telling Jarvis to release you from the elevator.

“Your plan sucked.” Natasha tells him. “We were already dating dumbasses.”

She grabs your hand and pulls you out of the room as Steve and Tony stare after you, shocked.

“Did you know about this?” Tony asks, looking at Steve with suspicion.

“Not at all.” Steve answers, his mouth still half open. In hindsight it should have been obvious. Of course Natasha wouldn’t want to be open about her dating life right away, she likes her secrets way too much.

---

“You owe me fifty bucks Y/n.” Natasha tells you once you’re out of earshot.

“Seriously?” you whine.

“You said they already knew but they didn't, so pay up.” She holds her hand outwards expectantly and you both laugh.

“Later.” you tell her. “There are more important things to do now.”

“Hmm, like what?” she teases gently, taking a step closer to you. Your breath catches because you still can’t believe you are dating someone this beautiful. You match her halfway and pull her into a deep kiss, only pulling back when you need to breath.

“This.”

---

Taglist:@fayhar@xxxtwilightaxelxxx@acertainredhead@madamevirgo@megaqueenmaeve@cherryblossomskye@aaron-despair@chickenhavewisdom@emril-osvigne@nyankitty987@agathaharkness-simp@midnight-lestrange@thewidowsghost@nyx-aira@stephanieromanoff@satxnsupreme@likefirenrain@wlwlovesreading@stop-drop-and-drumroll@peggycarter-steverogers@casperlikej@redswing@mochamoff@king-star@blackbat2020

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #marvel fanfiction

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enigma-im · 4 years ago

Text

Third Day of Christmas...

Trope: Enemies to Lovers (NSFW) Relationship: Minotaur x Human Word Count: 4,025

It all started with a note on the door.

Imani didn't expect to find a letter taped to her door that morning, or any morning for that matter. For a good couple of seconds she feared it was from her landlord, an eviction notice of some kind. That went right out the window as she read the chicken scratched handwriting.

Dear apartment 23 resident,

I'd appreciate it if you would keep the noises to a minimum after 10 pm. The singing has kept me up well past midnight. The stomping at all hours has been less than appreciated. Also, I hate to point out that your dog hasn't been a saint either, barking every morning at 7 am. So if you would please, muzzle the dog and stop the late-night parties.

Signed, apartment 15 resident.

Imani is confused for a moment, walking back into her apartment while rereading the letter. All of it is not true, starting with the singing. She does not sing, especially that late in the day. The neighbor on the other hand has a daughter who doesn't understand her own volume, blaring out BTS songs at odd hours. The stomping is a ridiculous accusation, almost typical in these situations. The only time she can admit that her walking would be loud is when she first gets home and hasn't gotten to removing her shoes. Besides then, she is as quiet as a church mouse. An hour after she gets home she spends most of her time lounging in the living room. so how can she be making noises if she isn't moving?

The woman drops the note onto her kitchen table, put off by the audacity. She looks over to her little dog, shaking her head as she thinks back on the next line. Her dog doesn't bark! He is as silent as can be, never even growling. The most this 'resident' can accuse her pooch over is his nails scratching at the floor. Even then that shouldn't even register through the floors.

With the morning turned sour, Imani quickly organizes her things and heads out for work. The whole day is spent thinking hard on her letter, thinking about what needs to be done. Should she ignore it? Pretend she never got it and go on with her life? That would be the easy approach, even kinder one, but she ain't that kind of bitch.

When she got home late that day she storms into the kitchen, making sure to stop with her shoes still on, and grabs a notebook. She jots down a little message for 'resident 15' with as much passive aggression as she can put into words.

Dear resident 15,

The bold claims you have taped to my door have been read. I'd like to take the time to inform you of your misguided claims. I, for one, am not the local American Idol star. That award goes to Tiny Tina in apartment 22. I don't know why you have such an issue with her music, BTS songs are a bop.

Next on the list is my 'stomping'. Excuse me for correcting you again, but I do not 'stomp' around my apartment. The minute I get home from work I am sitting on my ass watching television till it's time for bed. So I ask you, how can I be stomping around if my feet do not move off the couch?

Finally, my dog. My dog is a saint, for your information, he is the quietest animal I have ever owned. I haven't heard so much as a peep from him since he was a puppy. Maybe check around for other noisy pooches because mine isn't the problem.

With this all said, I hope you find a solution to your problem because bugging me was not it.

Sincerely, resident 23

Signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered. The next morning on the way to work she tapes the little note to the numbers on unit 15. smug, she walks out of there with her head held high.

Feeling proud of herself even further into the day she isn't ready for the speedy reply taped to her door, along with a missing doormat. With a huff, she snatches the note and heads inside. She unfolds the sheet, reading:

Dear 23,

I am not mistaken, and I'm taking your welcome mat until you know how to be a proper upstairs neighbor.

-15

She gawks at the letter, put off by the blatant admission of theft. Are they a child, taking away things as a punishment? This is completely idiotic! She should march downstairs and confront the fool who thinks this is a proper course of action. Well, she would if she didn't also want to get back at them.

Throwing the paper onto the coffee table she flops down on the couch to think. What is the best way to get back at them?

A floor below rests Church the Minotaur. He is getting ready to go on a run, sliding on his sneakers as he opens the door. Glance to the side he catches sight of a gaudy plethora of stickers and glitter, his door dressed to the 9s with rainbows. He is taken aback, looking at the decorations with ire. Above it all sits a folded up piece of paper taped to the door. He quickly snatches it, reading it.

15,

Return the doormat and I'll clean your door.

-23

Church chuffs, grinding his teeth as he looks to the door again. He didn't think he was being unfair when he first gave them a letter. It was a polite way to ask them to shut up. He just wanted some sleep, was that too much to ask? He looks to the door again, apparently, it was.

Imani opens the door fully expecting the letter. With a bit of a pep in her step, she grabs it, reading it as she walks to her car. She snorts, crumpling the paper and tossing it in the trash.

23,

This means war

-15

The next few weeks are filled with pranks of varying variety. The two start small, Imani stomping around upstairs with her heaviest pairs of boots, Church banging his hand against the ceiling during the quiet hours of the night. Next with more glitter courtesy of Church, a well-timed package that exploded in Imani's kitchen. He swears he could hear her surprised scream from below. Imani gets him back with a similar package, one with a jump scare card.

It's a back forth of one-upping the other. Church orders Imani eight pizzas, forcing her to reluctantly pay for it when seeing the nervous kid trying to deal with the mix-up. Imani manages to hook her phone to his Bluetooth speakers, playing random screams at all hours of the night. Church gets her back by attaching an alarm to her door so when walked out that morning she was startled by a firetruck worthy honk.

It seems it’s the last straw for Church when he receives his own glitter bomb of confetti cocks. It gets caught on the carpet, sneaking into the couch cushions, and sticking to his clothes. Quickly dusting himself off he charges upstairs, reaching her door and banging on it. He taps his foot frustrated and angry.

The door clicks open, Church already ready with his rant. Imani is equally prepared, excited with the chance to chew him a new one. When the two see each other they stumble on the words, looking one another over with confusion. Neither of them expected the other to be anything but some angry middle-aged person looking for a fight. They hardly assumed that the other would be so…attractive.

"I, uh," church shakes his head," You! A damn dick bomb? Do you understand how ingrained they are into my carpet? I sent you a cheap one, something you can easily clean up but you couldn't even consider that!"

"What," Imani comes back to her own," those craft herpes were not easy to clean, I'm sure it's still in the kitchen now and staining my clothes. So don't you dare come at me with 'woe is me' look like you had any consideration at all for my floors."

"Well excuse me, I didn't hack into your speakers to play Halloween screams all through the night. I damn near had a heart attack at 2 in the morning because of you," he points to her, debating on jabbing her in the chest. She slaps his hand away before he gets the chance, scoffing.

"At least I didn't make you spend money on eight pizzas! Do you know how much eight pizzas cost? It was like seventy bucks. I'm just glad you didn't splurge on something more than a single topping pizza. But fuck you for making them all pineapple you monster," she bites back.

The two ramble on long enough for the neighbors to peek their heads out. Embarrassed, they close out their argument with a huff and a door slam. Church heads off to his apartment, falling onto the couch while grumbling to himself. Imani growls and mumbles in her bed. They both can't help the thought that ruins all their anger:

God, they were hot.

The pranks don't stop in their frequency. The two continue, using their frustrations at their traitorous thoughts to fuel their revenge.

Imani still plays with his speakers, using screamo songs to annoy him in the afternoons. Church booby traps her door again with more glitter, his preferred weapon as of lately. She takes up tap dancing, he pays the kid next door to blare BTS near the shared wall of her apartment. She puts a fake ticket on his car, he puts vulgar stickers on her's. the childish game goes on and on.

Imani sits in her room one night, frustrated beyond belief with the sexy minotaur. She can't get his face out of her head. Why did he have to be cute? It's not like it makes the little game they have going harder to do. No, it just makes it seem more than it is. She has to constantly catch herself praising his wit in some of the stunts he pulls. Scolding herself nonstop for wanting to stop by his place and yell at him some, just to see him. It's stupid, wanting to actually get to know him.

Church relaxes in bed, feeling more bothered than Imani. He has hit a bit of a dry spell in his sexual life, or his solo sexual life. He can't jerk off without picturing the little hellspawn upstairs. It would be easy to give in and just think of her but it would be too much. She is an enemy, not a potential interest. So what if she is one of the sexiest humans he has ever seen? Who cares if her ability to keep up with him in this little war is kind of turning him on? It doesn't matter, right?

He sighs in defeat, "I don't think I can believe that even if I tried," he grunts as he clenches his shaft.

Imani is at home setting up her next plan when someone knocks on the door. She looks to the clock surprised at someone visiting this hour. Confused, and cautious, she gets out of bed and walks to the door. Looking through the peephole she rolls her eyes at who she sees.

Imani opens the door," if this is about the folk music I'll tell you now I'm not changing it back."

"No," he growls," this is about the tap shoes. Metal on wood makes for some very undesirable sounds."

"Well, excuse me for trying to take up a new hobby. What about you paying off the kid next door to play her music next to my wall? I swear that little demon doesn't sleep," Imani scolds.

"Speaking of little demons, can you for the love of god shut your dog up. Every morning I hear his damn barking and I'm seriously debating calling someone," he takes a step into her space, scowling at the dog behind her.

"He doesn't bark," she pokes at his chest," I have never heard him even make a yelp since he was a puppy so I suggest you come up with a better lie than that."

"A lie," he shouts," your fucking dog barks, stop thinking he is some sort of mute."

"He does not," she shouts back.

"Does too," he steps closer.

"Does not," she raises her chin.

"Does too," he grabs her hips.

"Does not," she tugs at his shirt.

"Does too," he says, lowering closer to her. Before she can get her turn he quiets her with a rather harsh kiss, mashing his lips to hers. They grapple one another, pulling the other closer as they stumble into her apartment.

Church kicks the door shut as he fumbles with her shirt. She helps, parting from him long enough to cast the clothing aside. He tugs her back in for a sloppy kiss, delving his tongue into her mouth as she unbuttons his top. Thrusting his shirt down his arms while they bump into the sofa. Church beings unclasping her bra, uncoordinated as she sucks on his tongue.

The two fall to the couch, church not wasting any time with her freshly revealed tits. Imani gasps, petting down his chest to his pants. As he suckles on a nipple as she pulls him from his pants, holding his cock in her hand. He stutters in his attentions, panting heavily against her chest as she jerks him off.

"Oh, fuck," he groans.

"Like that big boy," she steals his attention, him looking at her cocky smile.

"Shut up," he reaches down to her pants, palming her through her jeans. She bucks into his hand, rolling her eyes at his smirk. He quickly discards her bottoms, tossing them away without a care. He watches her as he pets at her pussy, delving between her lips to feel how soaked she is for him.

"Am I wrong to assume this is all for me," he pushes a finger in. she clenches her jaw, groaning from the intrusion. He chuckles, feeling rather confident as she rides his hand. Not caring for his large ego she reaches for his cock once more, feeling him throb in her grip.

"Am I wrong to assume this is all for me," she mimics back smugly. He throws her an annoyed look, removing his fingers and slapping her hand away. Dropping a hand beside her head he leans down, looking between them as he prods his cock to her pussy. They both flinch, eager above all else. They both watch as his head parts her lips, poking at her clit with short nudges.

"You think I can make you scream like those damn Halloween recordings," he jokes as he grinds into her.

"No, I don't think you have the stamina," she jabs back, trying to stop the urge to buck against him. Church leans down and nuzzles against her neck, pressing a sweet kiss under her jaw.

"I guess we will just have to see," he grins, feeling less confident than his words suggest. His cock is damn near ready to burst with just his tip being coated in her sweet juices.

Church reaches between them, pressing his cock to her entrance. He guides his tip in, stretching his arm up to rest it beside her head. The only warning he gives her is a sultry smile before he shoves forward, both crying out at the suddenness.

"Oh, shit," Church whimpers beside her ear. Imani grabs at his arms, feeling utterly stuffed. He pulls back, thrusting forward quickly. Imani appreciates him not wasting time just pistoning into her. The need has been building up all week, the denial adding a new level of appeal to this want.

He rams into her, listening to her try to hide her cries of pleasure. He feels her body tell him what he needs to know, feels her walls pulling him in with every buck of his hips. She wants him as badly as he wanted her. It's satisfying to church to know this. To know that she needs this as much as he does. Not wanting to miss a thing he sits up, grabbing her hips as he does.

"Look at you," he groans," trying to hold back those little moans and whimpers. Don't fight it, babe, I wanna hear you." Imani startles herself with a cry, arching her back as his words add kindle to the fire. She wants to pretend this isn't happening, that she isn't getting fucked by her apartment enemy. But damn, does it feel fantastic.

Church watches her writhe on the couch, his stomach clenching as he tries to fight off cumming at the sight. Her tits bounce with each clap of their hips and it's driving him wild. Reluctantly he shuts his eyes, thinking about anything else to prolong this blissful torture.

Imani wails and whimpers as her insides are set aflame. As her orgasm comes rushing to the forefront she locks her legs around his waist, grinding like a madwoman into his thrust. She cries out her pleasure, utterly wrecked as she falls apart.

Church chokes on his breath as she clenches around him. He can barely think as she holds him in a vice grip. His hips go wild as he finds himself coming to an end. It's only half a thought that he undoes her legs and pulls out, grinding against her as he cums on her stomach. Imani watches in rapture as he tosses his head back and moans, the sound going straight to her already throbbing clit. She watches him spray out over her and she can't look away for even a second.

Church falls onto his hands, panting as he holds himself over her. He can't believe it. He got to fuck the cute hellspawn that has been tormenting him all month. At this moment he couldn't even think about the countless hours of sleep missed because of her little pranks. Right now all he can think of is holding her close and taking a much-needed nap. As he attempts the action he looks to her stomach.

Imani is bone-deep satisfied. Her body is relaxed against the couch and she feels like she's on cloud nine. She hardly notices when Church climbs off her, his footsteps fading away. When she does notice, it stabs at her heart a little. She watches him button up his pants, reaching to the floor to grab his shirt. I guess he's leaving, she thinks.

Church grabs his shirt from the floor, bunching it up as he turns back to her. She looks surprised when he crouches beside her and mops up the mess on her stomach with his top. He wants to laugh at the shocked expression but bites his cheek against it. With her all clean he tosses the shirt away and crawls in beside her. The couch is rather small so he lifts her onto his chest, lounging on his back. He cradles her against his front, ready to take a well-deserved nap.

Imani is rather confused as she watches him fall asleep. She fully figured he would dip after everything, she surely didn't expect anything from this. They were still in a war. A truce was never called but she can't help but think this changes something.

Shrugging, she snuggles up to him, enjoying his soft fur against her cheek. This is a problem she will deal with in the morning.

Imani wakes up alone in her bed. She is nearly tempted to figure the night with Church was all a dream till she feels the subtle ache in her legs. Ride a bull, you should expect some soreness. She chuckles to herself as she dresses. Walking into the kitchen she prepares for a lazy day indoors while she figures out how to deal with Church and her's relationship. As she gets ready to feed her pup does she realize the lack of said pooch.

"uh, Giovani," she calls out. No answer. She calls out again, searching around her apartment frantically. Did he get out while the door was open last night? Surely she would have noticed if he managed to sneak past. She rounds the apartment again just in case before she runs to the door, throwing it open in a rush. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots something hanging on her peephole. She tenses at the sight, snatching it.

Imani I have your dog Church

Imani scoffs, crumpling the letter as she marches downstairs. She can't believe she let herself think that things would change between them. That this little prank war can be swapped out for an actual relationship, friendship or otherwise. Above all, she can't believe he stole her dog.

Rounding the corner and stopping at door 15 she pounds her fist against the wood. She continues pounding till the door opens, revealing a smirking Church.

"Hello, babe, what brings you here so early," he asks, leaning against the frame.

"You stole my fucking dog, I want him back," she snaps, no ounce of playfulness available. Church nearly stutters on his act, a little worried about her protectiveness over her dog.

"Now, I stole him for his own good," he explains," with his separation anxiety I figured it is best if he got used to my apartment since I'm going to take up training him."

Imani scoffs," Excuse me? My dog doesn't have separation anxiety nor does he need to be trained by some dog snatching idiot with horns."

Church deadpans," idiot with horns?"

"It's early, they can't all be gold," she rolls her eyes," doesn't matter, give me my dog back."

Church shakes his head, frustrated at her denial. Instead of answering her, he calls for the pup, leaning down to pet him when he comes trotting over. With the dog properly excited he takes a step into the hallway with Imani and shuts the door. Imani looks from him then back to the door.

"What are you doing," she asks.

"Just wait," he holds up a finger. They both stand silently, nothing happening. Imani opens her mouth to acknowledge the ridiculous of waiting in front of a door when her dog begins whining, yelping loudly from inside the apartment. Church looks over to her with a smug grin, "Told you he barks."

Imani flusters, gawking at the door and listening to her dog cry out. Church opens the door, the pup running out and jumping at Imani. Still embarrassed, she pets at her dog before picking him up and walking away. Church watches her turn the corner, not saying a word as she departs. He sighs.

It's a good day of nothing that picks at Church. Surely he didn’t push too far, he didn't really intend to keep her dog so it wasn't that mean. He just wanted to prove that her dog did bark, finishing the month-long war on a hopeful note. It wasn't meant as another attack against her. He really did intend to help by offering to train her dog.

Throughout the day he debates going up there and apologizing, to offer an olive branch of some kind so he can actually get to know her. Last night for Church was…amazing. It was something he wants to do again, to explore further. That may be a pipe dream now.

Late into the afternoon church gets a knock on his door. He jumps up, feeling rather stupid as he quickly answers the door. Expecting Imani he is left disappointed as no one is there. No one could have left that fast. He looks down the hall, left to right. Nothing. With a defeated sigh he begins to close the door. He stops when a fluttering piece of paper catches his eye. Excited, he snaps it off the door unfolding it swiftly.

Church,

Dinner at my place, 8 pm

-Imani

Church smiles to himself, refolding the paper and heading back inside to get ready.

#12 days of christmas #12 tropes for christmas #Enigma-IM #monster boyfriend #exophilia #enemies to lovers #minotaur boyfriend

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woozisnoots · 4 years ago

Note

Hello alex! Maybe I'm to early for having a emergency request but I haven't really going anywhere outside my house beside buy groceries and I haven't socialize properly in months (maybe there is a bunch of people can relate). It's stressing and make me mentally exhausted for months 😭😭😭 can I request something like joshua fluff or wonwoo fluff that can comfort us? And I get it if you can't do it since I think I'm to early for asking. Anyway hope you have a nice day ❣️

no ofc it’s not too early! pls, i want to do this for you guys 🥺💓 these are meant to be small so i ended up doing both. i hope you enjoy and if you ever need someone to talk to, my inbox and dms are always open!

𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙦𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧!

° pairing: joshua x reader, wonwoo x reader ° genre: fluff! ° word count: 1214 ° warnings: none! ° tagging: @jaeyoonurl bc she has a thing for j*shua hong

masterlist!

— joshua

in the scenario that you and joshua are living together in a small apartment complex, he does the slightest bit to annoy you whether it be intentional or not

like he’ll either make you stay in bed with him longer than usual so you’d be late to a zoom class / meeting

or he’d purposefully flick you behind the ear while you’re cooking which causes you to accidentally pour more than just a pinch of salt on your eggs

since josh owns that little projector that has slides of all the different constellations, he would turn it on right before you guys go to sleep as you lay next to each other on the bed and just stare at the stars from your ceiling

he loves making jewelry to pass the time while you guys watch netflix together. and wants nothing more than receiving an accessory that you made yourself

“joshua hong, please!” you fling your arms up to reach for the object now in joshua’s hands, much to your avail. “it’s literally so ugly. i beg you, please don’t wear it!” the little jump you add doing nothing but exhaust your energy.

you knew it was bad idea, you should have trusted your gut the minute joshua left to get the groceries. forty-five minutes was just not enough time for you to possibly make a small thank you gift for you boyfriend. a token to say, ‘this is what three years has gotten us.’

“but you gave it to me!” joshua refutes back. you let your guard down, breathing rapidly in order to catch your breath from the unnecessary movement of having to keep up with him. he, on the other hand, took this as an opportunity to run, sprint away from your wrath and make a clean line for the bathroom before shutting the door to securely lock it in place.

joshua hears your wallowed out screams coming from the other side and softly chuckles under his breath, wondering when you’ll ever get used to his childish antics at times. he safely unravels his hands to reveal the tiny object. and he can’t help but smile wide, ear to ear, and think, ‘so that’s why i felt something pointy.’

you’ve given up at this point. by now, he’s probably already seen your gift and for all you know, everything is doomed. your hand laid flat on top of the door, deciding whether to shrivel in front of him now or wait until he confronts you first. yet, he’s able to make that decision for you as he abruptly opens the door causing you to fall forward straight into his arms.

“why, hello gorgeous,” you watch from underneath him, the corner of his lip rising up to form a cheeky smirk. you squint your eyes menacing at the thought that he could possibly be wearing the horrid gift you made. tilting your head to the side, you open one eye to catch a glimpse of green hanging from joshua’s left ear. he turns his head just slighty so you could get a better look. “you’ve really out done yourself, if i had anything to say about it. though i have to say, i didn’t think you’d go for the cute food aesthetic. i thought you hated avocados.”

blood immediately rushes towards your cheeks and hide your face from joshua’s vision but he was too quick. using his brute strength, he pulls your weight so you’re standing in front of the mirror, back facing him. your mind spirals as you feel joshua tuck strands of your hair behind your ear. “awe lookie, i knew you’d be wearing the other one,” he says before deliverying a small peck to your cheek, leaving you a scrambled mess. “what a perfect anniversary gift.”

— wonwoo

spending time with wonwoo during quarantine would be rather quiet and simple, but that doesn’t mean your time spent together is boring

having little to nothing to do all day makes you realize how much renovations you guys can do around your home

your morning conversations over breakfast would be about different home décor that you found on amazon and you would end up having such a fun time talking about it because you guys turn them into little debates over if the items are actually necessary

that being said, wonwoo would be so willing to buy anything that would fill your guys’ boredom. and yes, that would include getting two separate desks, possibly four computer screens, two headsets, two light up keyboards for the heck of it, and of course: two very comfortable gamer chairs

no, he would not let you win at any games for freebies — you gotta earn that shit

out of all the days of the week, nothing was ever reserved for sundays. truly, every day was a free day — lounging around, doing chores, testing new cooking hacks to see if they actually worked. but sundays especially were just extra... boring. the very end of the week with absurd nothing to do. which has led you to spend this sunday morning in front of your dual computer screens with your boyfriend joining you on the other side of the desk.

“damn it!” you exclaim, lightly slamming the keys on your keyboard due to this endless frustration boiling inside of you since you’ve started playing. “how do i keep losing... it’s club penguin for fucks sake!”

your hands collect your face with pure dread and exhaustion, wondering how your supreme logic failed you during card jitsu. you hear a hearty chuckle coming from wonwoo sitting across from you. “the cards are just in my favor, sweetheart.” he eyes you as he takes the warm cup of coffee to his lips to take a sip. “how about, best two out of three to see who has to make breakfast?” the huskiness of his voice growing deeper with each word, leaving you in trace for just a moment.

you ponder at the bet, looking back between the screen showcasing your pink penguin and your beautiful barefaced boyfriend, ultimately coming to a decision. “what about. i watch you wipe out your penguin foes for the next few rounds and then we can make breakfast together,” you suggest instead, your mind thinking far beyond your apparently lousy deck of cards.

“fine by me,” wonwoo shrugged, adjusting himself comfortably to his seat. you silently admire him from where you are, noticing how notably meticulous he was being when he’s focused. wonwoo’s eyes captures yours but gives you a puzzled look. “are you not gonna come over here?” he quietly asks.

the simple question makes your head drop, feeling embarrassed as you try hard not to show him how flustered he made you. regardless, your legs move without you having to think it over. and instead of sitting on the small space that he left for you on his chair, you move his arm aside to face him before straddling your legs and sitting on his lap.

wonwoo, completely unfazed, takes his free arm not holding his mouse and tugs you in closer to his chest so you can lay your head on his shoulder. for the remainder of your morning, your eyes slowly start to droop to the sound of penguin screams and victory.

#caratwritersclub #seventeen fluff #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo fluff #joshua hong #joshua fluff #seventeen scenario #seventeen #wonwoo scenario #joshua scenario #wonwoo x reader #joshua x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen fanfic #😚.anon #💓.asks

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sammysdewysensitiveeyes · 3 years ago

Text

Marauders #22

I absolutely hated this issue, so be warned that’s a lot of salt here, and my usual whining, so skip this post if you’re not in the mood for that. Also spoilers below.

First impression - what absolute, self-indulgent horseshit. I hesitate to use “fanfic” in a derogatory way, but a lot of Marauders has read as being very “fanfic” in terms of self-indulgence, and greatly favoring certain characters while denigrating others. I actually don’t think that’s a bad thing in fanfic. It can be annoying to read if that’s not what you’re looking for (or it can be wonderful, if it IS what you’re looking for), but ultimately, fanfic is all about self-indulgence. It’s about writing what you want to see in a story, and if Duggan’s Marauders was someone’s actual fanfic, I wouldn’t have anything bad to say about it. I might dislike the characterization, and probably wouldn’t read it, but it ultimately wouldn’t matter because it’s fanfic. Frankly, I’m just as bad about constantly centering everything around Pyro (and finding ways to work him into stories where he doesn’t even belong), because I’m writing just for myself, so I can be self-indulgent. But I’d expect much better from a professional writer. I’d expect much better from someone being paid to write a team book. I’d expect a god-damn balanced book that actually pays attention to the whole cast and gives a thoughtful interpretation to ALL the characters, even the villains, rather than a book dedicated to shining a spotlight on two already well-established characters, and treating them like queens who step all over the rest of the cast.

So, we ignore almost everything set up at the Gala, including the attack on Christian and the Marauder (the ship) being set ablaze. Why aren’t the characters handling that, Duggan? Is that really being saved for another month? We don’t even know if Christian is dead or not, you can’t even spare a panel for Iceman reacting to this? Instead, we tell a flashback story that eventually reveals that Lourdes Chantel is still alive, and Emma helped her fake her own death to escape from an abusive Sebastian.

What exactly is the point of this story, in terms of the overall Marauders arc? Will Lourdes show up later to play a role? Is this meant to further push Sebastian along some kind of path to redemption (recognizing that he drove Lourdes away with his actions). Because so far, Duggan doesn’t seem the slightest bit interested in rehabilitating Sebastian. This seems like yet another story establishing Emma GOOD, Sebastian BAD, the same message that’s been getting pounded into the readers’ heads for 22 issues. Like, we KNOW, Duggan. We know that you think the sun shines out of Emma’s ass, you’ve already well-established that you think she’s a brilliant, wonderful, compassionate, badass queen, through 22 issues of centering the entire series around her, at the expense of EVERY other fucking character in the book (even sometimes Kate, the other obvious favorite). It’s gotten beyond tiresome at this point. Like, I feel like even people who love Emma and hate Sebastian are getting bored by now, because it’s not even good storytelling to have a strawman villain who is no real threat just getting repeatedly knocked down.

So, Duggan has taken both Sebastian and Emma, and further removed any kind of complexity or nuance from them. Sebastian can’t have a kind or tender side, he can’t ever be shown in a positive light. His relationship was Lourdes was previously part of his tragic origins, pushing him to be a worse person than he’d been in a past, but no, lets retcon him to be a controlling abuser, whom Lourdes is desperate to escape. Because it makes Sebastian look bad and Emma look good. Honestly, it would have been more interesting and powerful to have Lourdes come back from the dead, and be disgusted by the person Sebastian has become. That would actually have an impact.

And by the way, why did Lourdes need Emma’s help in establishing her new identity? She was already part of the Hellfire Club, she’s the one who brought Sebastian in, she’s rich as fuck. Lourdes should be well capable of getting away from Sebastian on her own. She might need Emma’s help for faking her own death, but the rest of it? Emma should just do a little hacking to access Lourdes’ personal fortune and transfer it into a new account, and then she’s good to go. But no, Lourdes has to be treated like a little lost lamb, a helpless battered woman for Emma to rescue. And Emma’s deal with the Kingpin further exonerates Emma for her past crimes, because obviously, she’s just working off the debt she incurred helping poor, innocent Lourdes! It can’t be that Emma did bad things in the past because she was ambitious, cruel, vain, and power-hungry, she has to be a woke queen who was always there to help other women.

I think Duggan thinks he’s being feminist with all this, with the “women help each other,” message, and either ignoring or villifying all the male characters. But he’s not. It’s not feminist to take a very complex, interesting, powerful woman like Emma Frost and completely remove all responsibility and agency for her past crimes by turning her into an abuse victim and repeatedly retconning her to be better than she actually was. (To be fair, Duggan is just continuing a trend already started by other writers). Emma is ambitious, power-hungry, cruel, callous, self-absorbed, vain and snobby. But she is also brave, intelligent, compassionate, kind, protective, heroic, and self-sacrificing. All of those things are part of Emma. She is a teacher who loved her students, and the love for those students is part of what sent Emma on her long, difficult path towards redemption. Yes, she’s a badass queen, but she is also a flawed individual, who has worked to overcome those flaws and become a better person. And constantly re-writing the past to make her an “always good” abuse victim who only ever committed crimes because the big bad men forced her into it cheapens that redemption.

Speaking of cheap redemption -

The Wilhelmina subplot: Wow, Duggan really will prioritize ANY character over Bishop, Iceman and Pyro, won’t he? I know this is me throwing a tantrum, because “Wah, Duggan is writing someone other than my favorites!” but after 22 issues I feel justified in this whining. Iceman, Bishop and Pyro are supposed to be regular cast members, and so far Duggan has given more serious development and emotional scenes to Callisto, Forge, Dolores (the human contact at the X-Desk), Masque, Jumbo Carnation, Magneto, the Cuckoos, and now Wilhelmina. I don’t mind the development for many of those characters, I like Callisto and Forge and Jumbo (although I’m a little annoyed at the Magneto stuff, since he’s already front and center in the Krakoa era, and about to star in a mini-series, does he really need more time in the spotlight?). But honestly? Fuck Wilhelmina. I was never that interested in the Hellfire brats, and I’m not the slightest bit interested in watching the retcon redemption of a character that murders animals for fun. Why does she get a spotlight story while the three dudes on the team STILL haven’t gotten anything more than vague background hints of character arcs. I mean, compare the very emotional flashback and Wilhelmina’s breakdown to the half-assed, mostly taking place off- panel “redemption” that Duggan has given Pyro. Just a single line of “maybe this crew is bringing out the best in me,” with no lead-up, no further reflection, no hints about Pyro changing his ideas before then. Why did you even put Iceman, Bishop and Pyro on the team if you’re not going to use them, Duggan? Because you’ve made it quite clear that you’d rather write ANY character other than them. I can’t even look forward to Tempo and Banshee joining the cast next issue, even though I like them (and I really want to see more development of Tempo), because I know they will be yet more characters that get pushed into the foreground, while Iceman, Bishop and Pyro remain the underdeveloped background clown trio.

Also, it seems kind of offensive to have a cruel, murderous female character, and then say that her cruelty is entirely due to sexual abuse? What kind of message does that send to sexual abuse victims? That it will turn you into a monster? Why do female villains keep getting sexual abuse as part of their backstory? Why can’t they just be bad? Or have something else going on? So the Cuckoos flip a switch in Wilhelmina and she’s magically “fixed,” or at least on her way to better? Again, I think Duggan thinks he’s being feminist with this, but he’s not.

At least Wllhelmina has been a recurring villain in this series, so I can kinda see how her potential redemption may move the plot along, but Duggan is still introducing new plot threads, while leaving so many others dangling. What about Christian? What about Shinobi and Fenris? Will Bobby and Christian ever even speak to each other again? Will the supposed main cast members of Iceman, Bishop and Pyro ever, EVER get a proper character arc?

Or will we get an entire issue of Emma, Kate and the Cuckoos giving Wilhelmina a redemptive make-over, because girl power, amiright?

#not tagging on purpose #not trying to gum up the tags with my extreme salt #but seriously this was my least favorite issue so far #at least the revenge issue just destroyed Sebastian's body not his character #really fuck this nonsense it was terrible

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baggebythesea · 3 years ago

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Behind-the-scenes interview with the cast of “Queens of the Horde”

Everyone is milling around the backstage area being busy or trying to look busy. Double Trouble steps up to the camera.

"Greetings, dear audience. This is Double Trouble speaking to you for the Tumblr exclusive backstage documentary of the She-Ra fanfic 'Catra and Glimmer - Queens of the Horde.'. which you can read at Bagge's page of archive of our own."

They eye the camera with a serious expression.

"Be warned - this documentary will contain mild spoilers."

They relax their demeanor and take a step back, indicating the set around them.

"We have just wrapped up the first act - 'Queens of the Broken Thrones' - and everyone here is preparing for some well deserved rest as we go into production of the second part - 'Queens of No Land' - which should start updating in about a month or so."

"Probably more if the author keeps getting distracting by kissy oneshots instead of working on this fic," Mermista says with an eye-roll as she walks by the camera, slurping on a soda.

Double Trouble waves at the camera to follow and jogs after her.

"ah, Mermista. You're fresh out from the 'princess council' scene. Could you tell as a bit of your character motivation?"

Mermista stops and slurps thoughtfully on her drink. She looks between Double Trouble and the camera.

"No," she concludes eventually and strolls on.

"I could tell you about my..." Perfuma begin from behind the camera, but Double Trouble has already caught sight of someone else and hurries on.

"Bow, my boy!" they cries. "How is the production going so far in your opinion?"

Bow puts down a box of castle furniture props he has been carrying. He gives the camera a warm smile.

"Everything's going really well. The entire cast is doing their best and we are all excited for the response we got."

"Can you tell us a bit more about your part of the story?" Double Trouble asks.

Bow chuckles a bit nervously.

"I, of course only has a small role, which is partly referencing the canon scene from the episode 'Fractures', because..."

"Because the author is a hack?" Double Trouble asks helpfully.

"Because the author wants to roots the narrative firmly in canon," Bow diplomatically corrects. "Sadly, that means me and adora have to leave Glimmer behind at her lowest point, which in this story has even more disastrous consequences for her than in the show proper." He looks dejected for a moment, but then he brightens up.

"But I'm sure love will win out and everyone will have a happy ending."

"The author has in fact only promised a happy ending for Glimmer and Catra," Double Trouble leers. "Does that worry you?"

"Of course not," Bow says, perhaps a fraction of a second to fast. "I trust Glimmer fully to do the right thing."

"I for one don't like my part of the story," adora mutters and enters the view. "Glimmer deserves better than being left alone after I yell at her."

"adora..." Glimmer says with placating voice as she trails after the blonde woman. "You know those hurtful things we say to each other is just acting."

"and how about the flirty things you say to Catra?" Double Trouble quickly asks. "are those 'just acting' too?"

Glimmer turns a shade more pink and fumbles for answers.

"Sparkles totally has the hots for me," Catra smirks.

"Shut up..." Glimmer mutters as her blushing intensifies.

"ah, Catra!" Double Trouble says. "How did you like your first part of the story?"

"Too mopey," Catra says without hesitation. "and I wanted more scenes being badass. I could totally have kicked Sparkles butt in our fight."

"I should have kicked your furry butt," Glimmer protests. "I had the Moonstone upgrade and everything."

"Only thing that stopped me from crushing you outright," Catra brags.

"Nuhuh," Glimmer disagrees with a smug smile. "You totally love me and wouldn't want to hurt me."

"D'awwwwwww!" Bow says with hearts in his eyes. Catra gives him an annoyed look.

"What about you, Glimmer?" Double Trouble asks. "The author has made no secret of your emotional and psychological development being a big driving force of the story. How do you feel that was captured in this first part?"

"Well," Glimmer says, clearly happy for the question. "The complexity of my character requires quite a bit of nuanced reflection of the many-faceted, um, facets of my personality. In this first part both my desperation and ambition is on full display, as well as a dark undercurrent perhaps surprising from such a sweet girl as myself."

She smiles, just a tad smugly.

"Please, Sparkles," Catra laughs. "You're as threatening as a cupcake."

"Dare to repeat that, Furball?" Glimmer hisses and summons a ball of lighting. Catra stick out her tongue and ducks away.

"How about your emotional journey?" Double Trouble prompts.

Glimmer shoots Catra one last, angry look, but closes her hand so the ball of lighting disappear.

"Well, as you know, this is the point in canon when I - as the author likes to point out - get all the powers I thought I wanted, which leads to me taking down the Horde only to be abducted together with Catra by Horde Prime. In this fic, thanks to Shadow Weavers plotting, that doesn't happen. Thus, me and Catra are stuck together and forced to figure out a way forward on our own."

"and just what way will that be?" Double Trouble leers. "any hints you can give us about the upcoming part?"

Glimmer and Catra looks at each other.

"The kitty is totally going soft for me," Glimmer smirks.

"Sparklebutts is scared of bugs," Catra leers.

They glare at each other.

"according to the budget, this next part is very light on actors," Double Trouble interjects. "Which means that the two of you will have to carry most of the drama yourself. any thoughts on that."

"It helps that I'm such a talented character actor," Glimmer says with false modesty.

"Eh, we mostly bounce lines off each other," Catra shrugs. "Not much action but it's cheap."

"and any word on your - ah - relationship development?" Double Trouble asks.

Catra and Glimmer looks at each other. They wink.

"You'll just have to wait and see," Glimmer smirks.

"Bah, you're no fun," Double Trouble pouts and strolls on. They come to a black set chair sitting by itself. In it, Shadow Weaver reads a book while sipping a mug of tea.

"Shadow Weaver!" Double Trouble proclaims. "Our big bad. Care to tell us a bit of your character."

She gives them a cold look.

"My role is a badly written cliché, as is customary for this sort of cheap melodrama. although my mentorship of Micah's daughter is handled in a passably competent fashion, the nuances of my character and my motivation is clearly beyond the feebleminded grasp of the author, and ultimately the young queen's journey for power - which could have made for a somewhat interesting narrative - is traded for some sort of soppy paperback romance. Even as such, Catra is horribly miscast and clearly a more worthy romantic partner should have been considered for the role."

"I didn't take you for shipping war participant!" Double Trouble leers. Shadow Weaver simply rolls her eyes and returns to the book. Double Trouble turns to the camera again.

"and there you have it folks. We are all happy with how the first part turned out, and we look forward to the second installment in October. Bagge is happy to take any questions you might have - just send an ask or direct message."

They smile, a wide smile.

"and scene."

#spop #She-Ra #Glimmer #Catra #Glitra #fanfic #Writer's Corner #Just for fun #Queens of the Horde #Catra and Glimmer - Queens of the Horde

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thr-333 · 4 years ago

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Mismatch- Part 21

Bio Dad Bruce Wayne Month

Patrolling with Gotham’s vigilantes is somehow the least chaotic part of their day, emphasises on Least!

First< Previous > Next

--------------------------

“So you want to explain how you let the Joker go?” Sparrow asks Red Hood, as they pour over plans.

“It happens,” Red Hood shrugs, but she is willing to bet he has a similar expression to Songbird right about now.

“Right, i just want to know how ,” She pushes more, getting Songbird to blush more

“Hey!" Songbird interrupts, getting the attention of the rest of the Bats with them, "I’m good at tracking people,”

“Thats nice,” Nightwing says, gearing up to search for the Joker with Red Hood.

“What I mean is I should come with you while Sparrow goes in the opposite direction,” Songbird turns to glare at her, “Far away,”

“Why would you want that,” Sparrow leans into his space, getting her face pushed away, “I’m just asking a professional question,”

“I have known you for little over a week nothing you do is professional,” Robin tsks, still sour about getting put on Patrol with her instead of going after the Joker.

“Well that’s simply not true,” Sparrows's voice comes out mumbled as marion smooshes her face.

“Right so you will follow the lead Nightwing has,” Batman pushes Songbird towards Red Hood, the greatest detective not notices the growing blush, “You three are patrolling together,”

“What could go wrong,” Red Robin sighs, resigning to patrol with both her and Robin.

“Try not to fall through any windows,” Sparrow calls, as they move to swing in opposite directions,

“Ha ha...I make no promises,” He mutters, heard through super hearing, before shouting, "See you later Captain!

Marinette leaves with Robin and Red Robin. The two bicker until oracle alerts them of three people attacking a girl in an alley a block over. In a matter of seconds of their arrival the three were disarmed and unconscious. Marinette goes to comfort the victim Alya?!

“Al- are you alright?” Sparrow reaches out to help her up.

“Yes, I’m fine thanks,” Alya dusts herself off, finally looking up, “Um, who are you?”

“Sparrow, working in Gotham temporarily,” She says professionally, hoping beyond hope that Alya does not recognise her.

“Right,” She surprisingly misses the chance for an interview, “Listen I need to talk to Batman, is he here?”

“Sorry miss he’s in another part of Gotham what seems to be your issue?” Red Robin answers for her.

“I need to talk to him about something really important,”

“Sorry, but if you’re looking for an interview Batman is very busy,” Sparrow brushes her off, of course she would be salivating to interview Batman.

“What? no-I’m,”

“We have to go, the police will be here soon,” Robin cuts her off, leaving with a Tt.

“Wait!”

“How annoying,” Robin spits, as they leave Alya behind in the alley.

“How did you know she wanted an interview?” Red Robin asks instead.

“Just know the type,”

“HEY!” Alya calls, chasing after them in the street below, “Just wait a minute!”

“Do you think we should stop?” Sparrow asks, feeling guilt claw at her.

“No,” Robin speeds up.

“Please! I really need to talk with you!” Alya begs, “It’s about Paris!”

“Paris?” Robin exchanges a knowing glance with Red Robin.

“We should stop,” Red Robin decides, they come to a halt.

They wait on the edge of the building, so Alya can see their shadows at the top. Alya starts sprinting up the fire escape.

“Tha-Thank you,” She pants, leaning over.

“What's this about Paris?” Robin demands, somehow glaring down at her despite being significantly shorter.

“The Akuma attacks!” Alya explodes, as if it's the most obvious thing, probably is, “Have you heard of Ladybug and Chat Noir? Hawk Moth?!”

“The situation in Paris has recently come to our attention,” Red Robin answers cordially.

“Well it’s been like this since I was thirteen!” Taking them both aback slightly, “And it's only getting worse every day,”

“The heroes of Paris have proved to be capable,” How did Red Robin even know about them?

“That's not what I mean, it’s the emotional toll,” Alya is still out of breath, Sparrow stands off to the side, joining in would only risk her identities, “Do you know what it’s like to be afraid to feel negative emotions? To have to constantly be happy otherwise you could kill your whole family!”

“I’m sure your heroes can handle it,” Robin concedes, bitterness hanging from the tone.

“They can but they shouldn't have to!”

Alya takes her aback with another out burst, stepping towards the Bats.

“I was… I used to be called in by them from time to time, and let me tell you,” Alya pauses, she was probably still mad about getting benched, loving her position as Rena Rouge, “It’s terrifying,”

Now that... that is a surprise.

“Not even the hero part… most the time,” Alya rubs her arm, “But you can’t get Akumatized again otherwise Hawk Moth will know, he can target your friends and family,”

At least she finally understood the need to keep secret identities.

“Ladybug hasent called me in in years,” Alya admits, actually looking shameful, "I don’t know how I messed up,”

Thats the problem

“But I know that I’m glad Ladybug never gave me the miraculous again,”

Wait... WHAT!

“It was so stressful having all of paris, sometimes the world, depending on you,” Alya looks on the verge of tears, “At first I though it was fun because I had Ladybug who seemed so strong and unstoppable, someone I could look up to, for always being there, always put together, she didn't seem to have a weakness,”

That- That could not be further from the truth

“Not that I don’t still respect her, it’s just different now,” Alya backtracks, “I saw it, sometimes, the uncertainty there, it made me think she’s just like me, scared, but she doesn't have anyone stronger to protect her, she’s all alone,"

I have Chat Noir!

“I look up to her so much more now, it’s not a fun job and I know she’s afraid she cant protect everyone, so Hawkmoth needs to be defeated,”

Alya looks every inch the confident reporter Marinette had first met. The one before Lila came and sapped all her strength and independence.

“Ladybug deserves to live in peace,” Alya decides, almost glaring down the other two, “Will you please help her?”

“We already have plans of going to Paris soon to assist,” Red Robin informs.

“You do?!”

“Thank you,” Alya burst into tears, while Marinette is still reeling from the new information, “Thank you so much,”

“How about we escort you back to your hotel?”

They carry Alya to the hotel, swinging through the night. They see her in and set up a watch across the building. They report into Batman, granting permission to stake out for a while. They watch as Alya is talking with the group, including Lila in her room. Marinette could feel the irritation radiating off the other two at Lila’s nonsense.

“Is this necessary?” Robin glares down at the window they are watching through, “She didn’t have any valuable insight,”

“She was a hero in Paris,” Red Robin sighs, evidently glaring just as much, “That's something,”

“And she clearly got the boot for being incompetent,”

“You don’t know that,” Alya had actually been a great fox, but when Marinette could no longer trust her as a civilian, she knew Alya could never wield another miraculous, “Which is why we are watching, follow every possible lead, especially when they’re scarce,”

“Hey listen,” Red Robin nods towards the speaker, connected to the bug he planted on her.

“Marinette really needs to think things through,” Lila whines, all three go to turn it down at the same time, “It’s like she wants the class to get in trouble,”

“But Marinette protected us from Scarecrow,” Rose squeaks out.

“And Marion!” Nino adds, as if they didn't just commit treason in Lila land.

“Of course, it’s just they know all this trouble is following them around and they’re still-” Lila pauses long enough for everyone to be on the edge of their seats, “No never mind,”

“What is it Lila,”

“Well…” Lila plays like she isn't going to tell them everything that never happened, “I was talking to Marinette in the elevator and I told her I felt really unsafe and scared that another villain was going to attack,”

“Mari-Marinette started yelling at me about how I was trying to ruin her trip!” Lila's lip quivers, so painfully obvious she can see it from here, “She said if I felt unsafe I should just stay behind or go back to Paris!”

“Do you feel that unsafe Lila?” Mylene asks, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Wha-”

“Yeah if you’re that scared you should tell your parents,” Kim encourages, enthusiastic, but concerned, “I’m sure you’ll feel better back home with Ladybug,”

“You guys don’t understand,” Lila almost shouts, losing grip on her perfect persona, “Marinette wasn't worried about me; she just wanted me out of the way! Because- well I don’t know why! I think she can just be really cruel sometimes,”

“That little disgusting worm!” Robin makes a grab for his katana.

“Yeah so I hacked the security footage and they have never been in a room alone together,” Red Robin reports, scrolling through a video feed, “Let alone an elevator,”

“Let’s just go,” Sparrow grabs them both by the arms, “I think we’ve exhausted our information,”

She practically drags them off the roof, a few blocks away. Robin’s pacing looking for something to stab. At this rate it’s probably going to be Red Robin, who’s been tapping away at his screen the whole time. Sparrow finds her saving grace, spotting a park down below.

“Let’s go,”

She drags them despite their protests down to the playground. Robin is grumbling the whole time, so she sits him down on the swing, and pushes him. Red Robin starts laughing and may or may not be filming.

“I am perfectly capable of pushing myself!”

“Really have you ever been on a swing before?” She leans over, getting in his face.

“Tt, of course not,” He looks away, “So childish,”

“Well that just means a child can do something you cannot,”

It's really Red Robins laughter that truly breaks him.

“... do not push me,”

“Alright, how about I show you?” She hops on the swing next to him, “Like this,”

Robin copies her form as Red Robin keeps filming, shouting out scores in the negative numbers.

“So help me I will stab you if you don't!-” Robin tips off balance and falls off the swing backwards, “ RED ,”

“That was very good for a first time,” Marinette helps him stand back up, “Keep it up and you might be able to go toe to toe with the three year olds one day,”

They spend the rest of patrol getting chased around the park by Robin, both hurling out insults and condescending reassurance.

Marion had not run into any buildings yet thank you very much. He had ran into a cell phone tower.

“Are you alright?” Red hood lands in front of him.

Marion glares at him upside down, hanging off the bars, as if this wasn't all his fault,

“Fine,” And because he can’t possibly be anymore embarrassed, “Just like you,”

“Of course I’m fine,” He crosses his arms, Marion definitely doesn't give him the once over, “I didn’t just run into a cell tower,”

He’s an idiot!..... He’s perfect

It does not help that Nightwing bursts out laughing.

“Little wing… no,” Nightwing gasps through his laughter.

“What are you-” Red Hood stiffens up, “oh,”

Mayday! Mayday! Abort! Abort! BACK TO PARIS!!! Wheres the Rabbit Miraculous!!!

“Oh,” Red Hood leans in, inches away, “Hell yeah I am,”

Sorry to inform you Marion has now died, Red Hood is indeed a murderer

Unfortunately before Marion has another opportunity to embarrass himself Oracle calls in and they both swing off. Leaving Marion to catch up. They eventually stop for a break without crashing into another building… it was a light graze ok?!

“I swear you and Sparrow are my new favourites,” Nightwing scarfs down another macaron.

“Careful golden boy,” Red Hood warns, stealing a macaron from Nightwing, “You’ll get a lecture form the Bat,”

“Batman can fuck off,” Marion shoves one in his mouth, “He probably lives off protein shakes and brooding,”

“Oh my-,” Red Hood cracks up, “I don’t think I've ever heard you swear,”

“What can I say,” Marion leans back, looking over Red Hood, “You bring out the best in me,”

“I think I’d rather bring out the worst in you,”

… No Marion is not blushing, he is not stuttering, he has everything under control thank you very much.

“Are- are you actually going to eat that?” Marion chokes out, Red Hood still holding his stolen macaron.

That turns out to be the worst possible thing he could have said, because Red hood actually takes off his helmet. There is a domino mask underneath but this is the first time Marion is seeing his face.

“Songbird are you ok?” Nightwing asks.

“I will never be ok again,” Marion falls back across the roof, “Ok is a state before perfection and I can never feel anything but joy after seeing that,”

“Ummm,” Nightwing looks awkwardly between the two.

“You’re pretty,” Marion turns, curling around to look at Red Hood.

“Not handsome?” And fuck he’s smiling, fuck.

“No,” Marion says harshly,“Gorgeous,”

Red Hood looks completely shocked. And god he can actually see his face! And expressions! This is wonderful!

“Yes… well,” Nightwing clears his throat, “We should probably move on,”

“Jealous?” Red Hood teases.

“No, let’s just go,” Nightwing stands, Marion sighs and sits back up.

“It’s alright Golden boy,” Red Hood punches him in the shoulder as he stands, “Plenty of people still think you’re pretty,”

Marion has to stop himself from ripping the helmet out of Red Hood’s hands when he goes to put it back on.

“That’s not what this is about Hood,”

“Sure it’s not,” Red Hood winks at Songbird just before he puts the helmet back on, as if that didn’t cause him cardiac arrest.

They continue along their search equal parts flirting with each other and teasing Nightwing.

“Oi! Shelly!”

Marion looks behind him, mid-swing to spot a familiar taxi driver,”

“Norris!” Marion spins around, landing in front of the man.

“You’re patrolling with them?” Norris nods towards the other two hiding in the shadows, “Where’s your sister?”

“Yeah! Decided on a codename, it’s Songbird actually,”

“Nah,” Norris leans against the hood of his car, “Shelly suits you better,”

“Hell yeah it does!”

Bruce waits for the others to finish up patrol in the Batcave. He has to talk to them about the twins at some point, the sooner the better, before they go back to Paris. It’s just so hard. Would they even accept someone new into the family?

“Father!” Damian shouts the moment he enters the cave, “I demand you adopt Sparrow immediately,”

“What, why?”

“She is a good warrior,” From Damian that is very high praise .

“And helps you skip patrol,” Tim adds, going directly for his after patrol coffee.

“You were complicit in that Drake!”

“You skipped patrol,” Bruce sighs, partly disappointed, partly curious Damian was usually excited for patrol.

“Not really we were watching that student from Paris we told you about,” Tim states, Bruce nods along, “They were talking to another student in the class who is-”

“A filthy liar,” Damian spits, “I have meet them once and know Marinette is far more honourable than that,”

“Lila?” Bruce guesses, thinking back to the fair, on the other hand at least Damian doesn't seem to hate them.

“How did you know?” Tim asks, taking the reports from the desk as he downs the coffee.

“I was with them the other day-”

“Father if you are planning to adopt them I insists you adopt Sparrow first,”

“We’re adopting Sparrow?!” Dick calls, as he walks in with Jason, “Cause we should also adopt Songbird,”

“Are you so offended you would go this far to thwart me?” Jason recites theatrically, “You should really learn to control that jealousy,”

“What happened?” Bruce grows suspicious watching Dick glare.

“Songbird flirted with me,” Jason grins, perhaps a little too widely, “And ignored Dick,”

“I’m not jealous, just worried,”

“Thanks,” Jason looks away bitterly, tone getting harsher.

“That's not what I meant Jason,” Dick cringes, having ruined his good mood.

“What did you mean then?” Jason bites out, making Dick recoil.

“Enough, I’m not adopting them!” Bruce shouts, making everyone pause.

“... That’s probably the first time you ever said that,”

"Alfred!" Jason jumps, Bruce tenses at him reflexively reaching for his gun, "Where the fuck did you come from!?"

"I think you will end up adopting them one way or another Master Bruce,"

"What do you mean," Bruce asks as Alfred takes Tim's coffee.

"Well I think it's time everyone retires for the night,"

"ALFRED! what do you mean!"

-------------

Taglist:

@technicallyburninggarden @fusser90 @misslenamooney @superbwhispersconnoisseur @biodad-bruce-month @nalu-ismyjam @the-one-woman-army @rosesandsailboats @blackmagicforever @zeneralla @ivymala07 @tired-butterfly @tired-butterfly @Ranger-gothamite @A-star-with-a-human-name @enchanted-nerd

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igniida · 3 years ago

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Idia is a pacifist, not exactly intentionally or by desire. But by choice. Even when confronted with the opportunity for violence he will take the road that doesn’t risk a fight breaking out. Partially because he doesn’t know how to fight, he would never be able to handle himself in a fight and has no confidence that he could ever win a physical fight. Partially because he really doesn’t see how fighting does anything beyond prolonging things or get others in trouble. He would much rather get straight to the point of things and avoid trouble. Typically that involves talking things out, which he isn’t great at either. But he can FAKE that at least. So when confronted with an opportunity for violence he will almost always take the path that leads away from a physical confrontation.

When confronted with others starting violence he will try to de-escalate things. He does not exactly enjoy physical fighting either. Being the victim of bullying and physical abuse for YEARS of his life has led him to want to avoid physical confrontation, or any confrontation, at all costs. If he must he will even put himself between the fighting to stop it. Though he will only do that as a very last resort or if it involves someone he cares for such as Ortho. If he cannot stop the fighting he will find the quickest escape route possible in order to get as far from the fights as possible. Even in games he tends to prefer games where he works together with people rather then fight through hordes of monsters. Don’t get him wrong, he loves a good hack n slash game from time to time. They just don’t challenge him like co-op games too.

Now it’s not that Idia believes one should never be violent or start a fight. He sees where it can be necessary to fight and has even equipped Ortho with functions so he can fight if he so wishes too. Idia creates weapons constantly that could be used for great violence if put into the right or wrong hands. In the Beans Day we catch a glimpse of this with the weapons he’s selling. We see it once more in the Halloween event when Ortho is about to destroy some pedistrians for annoying the Ignihyde students. Remember as much as Ortho is his own being he is also Idia’s creation. Idia built those weapons for Ortho. He knows what they can do. Idia could be violent, he could carry weapons and choose violence if he so wanted. It simply is that Idia makes a conscious effort to avoid fighting at every opportunity. He can’t exactly say why. If he were to describe it honestly he would say “Being violent makes my chest hurt.”. He feels guilty for it.

Despite this a part of him wants to be violent. Because, going back to his years of bullying and abuse, he’s seen people in power who have used violence to get what they want. He doesn’t want violence but he wants power and a part of him does believe that if he could get past the pain perhaps act a bit more violently, he could have that power. So far he hasn’t been able to move past the pain though. He remains a pacifist by nature. Who knows how long that can last however.

#✘ Headcanons ✘#((Makes my grand return with a massive headcanon that punched me in the gut))

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awhitehead17 · 4 years ago

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My Best Friend’s Brother

Jason & Tim, TimKon, Robin!Jason, Stray!Tim, Alternate Universe, Flirting, Humour, Teasing, Blushing, Friendship.

Summary: Jason thinks they could work together, it would certainly be an interesting dynamic with the way Tim gets all flustered around Kon, especially considering his persona is one of the most flirtatious ones out there. Making a decision he starts making plans on how he’s going to deal the obvious two way attraction that Stray and Superboy clearly have. It’s not going to be easy, but he’s Robin, he can handle it!

A/N: This is an AU where Jason is Robin and Tim is Stray. All you probably need to know is that Jason is with Tim's Titan's team, (he hasn't died), also that Jason and Kon are best friends. This is crossing off 'Villainous Crush' from my Batfam bingo card.

Also on AO3

Enjoy! :D

“I don’t think I can do that.” Robin says shaking his head as he stares at the security footage in front of him. “I mean I’m good, don’t get me wrong, but that is beyond my capabilities.”

“What do you propose then?” Wonder Girl questions him with a frown. “Who else is there that has the ability to bypass security as tight as Luthor’s undetected?”

Robin crosses his arms and gets thinking. The security they need to get pass is top level and the most advanced stuff Jason has ever seen. They’ve been able to hack into the cameras but that’s as far as they had manged, beyond that was just a dead end and none of them could do it.

What they need to do is access a hidden vault underneath Lexcorp because it’s storing away some crucial files full of delicate information. What that information is Jason wasn’t sure, however when Superman gave them the mission he made it quite clear that is was to be done asap.

One person soon comes into mind. This particular person could have the skill to get pass the security where they can’t, who would be able to sneak their way around everything without getting caught but was also skilful enough with technology that they could hack into the system if needs be.

He’d rather not ask them for help but really it’s the only option he can think of. With a sigh, Robin turns to Wonder Girl. “I know someone, so leave it to me. As much as I hate to admit it, they probably could get through the security and laugh about it at the end.”

She raises an eyebrow and demands, “Who?”

--------

“My, my little birdie, it’s been a long time! Did you miss me?”

Their voice comes out sounding rather distant from the phone’s speaker, almost like they were outside. Despite how quiet it sounded, there was no mistaking the teasing tone behind their words.

Jason sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, mentally counting down from 5 before responding. “It has been a long time Stray. I hope you’ve been keeping out of trouble.”

“Of course I haven’t! Who do you take me for?” Stray says with a disbelieving snort, like he couldn’t believe Jason just asked that question.

The present Titans were all gathered around the kitchen table with Jason’s phone in the centre of it, currently on speaker to the costumed vigilante called Stray. Jason glances at his team mates to see most of them raising eyebrows at Stray’s words, Cassie’s face was stony cold, like she absolutely loathed this idea. Jason wasn’t a fan either, but it’s all they got.

Jason knows who Stray really is, but his team doesn’t. Stray was Gotham born and bred, they met on the rooftops and bonded (Jason may or may not have become protective of him during that time, not that he could help it). They’ve stayed in touch and occasionally help one another out when needs be, hopefully Stray will be willing to help Jason on this occasion.

Before he could say anything more, Stray’s voice was coming through the speakers again, this time louder like he has stopped and actually put his phone to his ear to talk into. “I’m guessing this isn’t a pleasure call Robin, which is a shame. What do you want?”

“I – we, the Titans – need your help with something if you’re willing. Are you available in the next day or so?”

“Hmmm, it depends. I may be free to help you, that is saying if I even want to help you, however I may not be. What is it?”

Jason rubs a hand across his head feeling frustrated. Stray really isn’t making this easy. “By passing security in Lexcorp to get to a vault. We won’t be able to do it without triggering the alarms, you on the other hand may be able to. If you agree then I’ll meet you and share the deets, if not then it’ll be until next time.”

There’s a moment of silence, as if Stray is thinking through his options. After a few beats his voice comes through the phone again, “If I do agree to help you, what’s in it for me? Jewels or money? Perhaps some of that nice fancy tech Luthor happens to have laying around all the time? A date with my favourite birdie?”

Jason ignores his friend’s wide-eyed looks and focuses only on the phone, “We can discuss that afterwards. Are you in: Yes or no?”

“Fine, I’ll do it,” Stray agrees sounding sort of resigned, “message me where you want to meet and I’ll be there. See you soon birdie!”

Jason doesn’t bother with a good-bye, he simply reaches over to grab the phone and hangs up. Still ignoring his friends expressions he tells them, “I’ll arrange a meeting with Stray for this evening and make a plan from there. I’ll keep all of you updated as I go.”

After that he leaves the kitchen and ignores the questions being fired at his back in favour of retreating to his room. He really hopes it wasn’t a mistake contacting Stray.

It was early next morning when he meets with Stray. They meet down by the San Francisco docks away from any cameras, any prying eyes and in complete privacy.

Jason stands waiting around with the trained patience that’s been drilled into him from his early days as Robin. That’s the only reason on why he wasn’t fidgeting or pacing with restlessness, unlike his companion who’s decided to tag along with him.

To his side Superboy paces a few feet backwards and forwards with boredom, sometimes he walks it and sometimes he floats it. Jason wants to be annoyed at him for it, but it was rather amusing to watch.

When Jason announced his meeting time with Stray, Superboy insisted on coming, stating that someone else should tag along just in case something happens. Jason had wanted to protest but the Kryptonian looked determined to come and he couldn’t remember the last time he and Kon had actually been alone together. Considering they’re supposed to be best friends, they don’t actually hang out a lot.

Kon lets out a huff and comes to stand by his side. The half-Kryptonian crosses his arms and looks around impatiently. “Where is he? He’s supposed to be here by now right?”

Just for his own amusement, Jason doesn’t bother pointing out that Stray has actually been around for the last 10 minutes, simply hiding in the shadows watching them. He’s surprised that Kon didn’t pick Stray up with his enhanced powers.

“You should come over sometime man,” Jason says conversationally instead. “It’s been a while.”

Kon’s scowling expression turns into something softer at the mention of hanging out, he sends Jason a smile, “That’ll be good yeah. I’ll have to kidnap you at some point and take you to the farm, Ma’s been asking about ya.”

Jason shoots him a small smile. He likes the farm and always enjoys visiting the Kent’s, a weekend away doesn’t sound too bad actually.

Deciding he’s had enough, Jason turns to a shadowed covered alley nearby. “Alright Stray, enough is enough, come on out. We have business to deal with.”

He ignores Kon’s squawk of surprise in favour of watching Stray saunter towards them. The vigilante was dressed in his full gear which consisted of a tight dark grey leather suit (which could easily rival Dick’s Nightwing spandex) from the neck to his legs, flexible black boots and gloves, a small black belt tied around his waist with a whip hanging loosely from it, on his head were two cat ears and sliver googles with black lenses covering his eyes.

He has no idea how Stray wears the suit, it contours every muscle he has and seems like its going to rip if he stretches just that little bit too much. It never does and Stray wears it without an inch of discomfort.

Stray walks up to them, and Jason certainly doesn’t miss the way he eyes Kon up and down, until he’s a couple feet away. He smiles widely, showing his teeth. “Hello boys. How’s it going?”

Under his domino mask, Jason rolls his eyes, pointedly ignoring the almost flirtatious tone being used. Next to him Kon was staring wide eyed at Stray, barely moving a muscle.

In that moment he knows something was up, this here was the start of something. With the way Stray had his head tilted just to the side so he could look at Superboy (Jason couldn’t see his eyes but he’s known Stray long enough to know his tell-tales) and the way Kon was openly staring without a care in the world.

Jason very loudly, and obnoxiously, clears his throat to gain their attention. “Matters to attend to thank you very much. Important files we need to steal before they land into the wrong hands. Remember that?”

They both turn and blink at him but otherwise don’t say anything. Rolling his eyes Jason digs through his utility belt and brings out a small electronic tablet which he presents to Stray.

“This is the security we need you to break past.” Robin tells him. “There's a vault at the end, we haven’t yet worked out what kind it is but chances are that you’ll probably know how to break it anyway. What do you think?”

Handing Stray the tablet seems to snap him out of whatever trance he had fallen into while staring at Superboy. He grabs the thing out of Robin’s hand and studies it. Jason patiently waits, knowing he’s studying the black and white security footage, going over what is visible to the eye before looking deeper and finding all the hidden secrets.

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Stray declares handing the tablet back to him after a moment.

Jason raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Really? So you’ll do it?” He honestly hadn’t expected it to be so easy.

“Send me a copy of that footage and the details of the building, from there I should be able to get in and out. I can have the files you apparently need by sunset tomorrow, or today if you want to get technical.”

“What do you want for it?” Robin questions suspiciously. There’s always a catch somewhere.

There's a pauses as Stray looks Kon up and down once more before turning to him with a wicked smirk, “Keep it open as an IOU. Once I’ve decided I’ll let you know gorgeous.”

Without further words, Stray turns and disappears back into the shadows like he was never there in the first place. Jason takes a deep breath and shakes his head, that kid he swears…

The silence soon catches up to him and he shoots Kon a look. His best friend was still staring at the recently vacated spot. Jason waves a hand in front of his face. “Kon?”

Kon blinks and finally turns to him, as if coming back online. “That was Stray?”

“Yes, that was Stray. The annoying little brat I call my younger brother who I reluctantly asked for help because it boosts his ego like nothing else. Why, didn’t you know who he was?”

“Yeah, I, uh I-” Kon stutters for a moment as if looking for the right words. “I’ve heard of him but never seen him until now. That was him? How old is he? Is he even legal? Did you see those hips, jeeze… wait you said little brother, I didn’t know you had a younger brother!”

Putting the tablet back in his belt, Jason turns and starts walking away, heading back for the Tower since it was late. Kon rushes to meet his stride and together they walk.

“He’s a younger brother I never asked for, not by blood but in every other way that counts. We met on the streets in my early days as Robin, much to my annoyance I came to care for the little brat and here we are years later. We occasionally help one another out when needs be.”

Kon gapes at him for a moment before spluttering out a question. “What’s with the leather? I mean I get you bats and your spandex but leather? There’s no way that’s comfy, and with how much it shows…”

Jason scowls at his friend, feeling a little protective. “Don’t perve on Stray -”

“I’m not perving!”

“- he just likes to flirt. He gets kicks out of everyone around him being a blushing mess.”

What Jason doesn’t mention is that Stray is only that confident in the suit. Outside of being Stray, the kid behind the persona is nothing but shy, sweet and innocent (if a little annoying).

Kon seems to have nothing else to say after that, if he does he keeps any other thoughts to himself so the rest of the journey back to the Tower was quiet and uneventful.

The next day a small box parcel appears on the Tower’s doorstep. After scanning it and triple checking that it wasn’t any kind of bomb, they open it up to find the files they had been after from underneath Lexcorp. All that there was in the box beside the files, was a sticky note with a handwritten message on it saying: Remember birdie, IOU, I’ll let you know what I want gorgeous.

Upon reading that Jason sighs and shakes his head. He mentally curses out Stray for putting him in the awkward position of explaining to his team that no he and Stray were not in any kind of relationship and how Stray just likes to flirt with everyone.

Jason quickly explains why they’ve never met the vigilante before, that reason being because Stray was also a thief and can be unpredictable at times. Despite Jason’s brotherly relationship with the brat it’s still a risk to work with him, he never wanted to get Stray involved with the Titan’s from the beginning.

After some more questioning his teammates seem to eventually accept the explanation and leave the matter be. However, Kon wouldn’t let it go, he kept pestering Jason for more information. Did Jason know who he really was? What was his age? Why was he a thief? Would he want to join the Titan’s anyway? Was he single?

Jason glared at his friend for that question and refused to tell him anything.

--------

It turns out it wasn’t too long until Kon ended up meeting Stray again. A couple weeks after the Lexcorp mission, Kon decided to stop by Gotham to hang out with Jason only for them to come across a battered, bruised and bleeding vigilante later on.

Jason was on patrol when Kon found him, and not having the heart to tell his best friend to go away (who cares about Bruce’s no meta’s rule anyway?) he let Kon tag along for the rest of the night. Once they were finished the plan was to go back to the Manor to chill with some video games and some of Alfred’s delicious snacks.

It had been going well as they had stopped several muggings, a few drug deals, a couple of lurking johns and even a small gang war. It wasn’t until they were about to head home when their plans suddenly changed.

From where they had been in an alleyway, sudden gunshots could be heard from nearby. Not wasting a second, Kon lifts up off the ground, grabs Jason’s outstretched hand and flies them over the building into the alley on the other side.

They get their just in time to see a body fall backwards onto the ground and someone making a run for it at the entrance of the alley. Without even speaking, Jason instantly rushes over towards the fallen body while Kon goes after the runner.

To Jason’s surprise its Stray he finds lying there on the ground groaning with his hand pressed tightly against his shoulder.

Diving into his utility belt for medical resources, Jason hisses. “What the hell did you get yourself into Stray? You idiot.”

His voice seems to get Stray’s attention. The kid gives him a pained smile, “Just y’know, an average night. Fuck.” After a moment he seems to remember something because he’s bolting up into a sitting position and looking around frantically. “Where is he!”

Jason pushes Stray back down and keeps him still with a hand on his chest. Ignoring the weak struggles and protests, Jason examines what he can of Stray’s wound. He could see that the bullet is still in his shoulder but he can’t say if it’s hit anything vital. They’ll have to get him back to the cave for scans and proper treatment. In the meantime, Jason slaps a bandage over the wound and keeps pressure on it.

“Robin to the cave, anyone there?” He says into his comm.

While he waits for a response Superboy appears with an unconscious body in his hands, that being the man who had made a run for it moments ago.

“This is Agent A, Robin. How can I assist you?”

“I’m with Stray, he’s just taken a bullet to the shoulder and it’s still in there. I’m bringing him back to the cave, can you get the medical bay ready? ETA 10 minutes.”

After getting off the comms he turns to Superboy who’s body posture was awkward but his eyes were trained on Stray’s limp body. “Superboy.”

It takes a moment but Kon seems to snap out of the trance. “Huh? Sorry. The police are on their way, what shall I do with…” he gestures to the unconscious man still in his grasp.

Jason huffs as he quickly digs out a pair of handcuff from his belts and tosses them to Kon. “Tie him to the lamp post. I need your help with Stray.”

Kon does just that and reappears at his side seconds later. “We’re taking him to the cave, I want you to carry him there and keep pressure on that wound. The bullet’s still in there. Agent A will be there waiting for you.”

“I don’t wanna go to the cave… I’m fine….” Stray mutters from his position on the ground. His words are beginning to slur and his movements are sloppy.

Kon hesitates. “What about Batman?”

Jason waves his concern off. “Don’t worry, I can deal with him. Now go before anything else happens. I’ll meet you there in a bit.”

Jason makes it to the cave a lot later than what he would have liked. He had to wait around for the police, explain to them what had happened before he could finally start making his way home.

By the time he got the cave, Stray was already trying to leave and was arguing with Alfred about his condition, while Kon was standing to the side looking awkward and unsure on what to do. Stray was currently only dressed in the bottom half of his suit, leaving his torso and bandaged shoulder for everyone to see. Much to Jason’s surprise, he didn’t even have his ears or goggles on which helped conceal his identity.

As Jason walks from the garage to the medical bay, he observes the scene. It was rather amusing to watch the younger boy try to argue to Alfred why he’s fine and doesn’t have to stay the night to be observed and how he’s continued on with much worse. Stray is fighting a losing battle and they all know it.

Kon, on the other hand, was rather interesting to observe. The meta was standing in the medical bay but to the side, watching the scene before him with wide eyes. While the Kryptonian seemed to be in shock, Jason could also see how Kon’s eyes run over Stray’s body, the way they linger at his chest before moving up to stare at his identifiable face.

Jason is pretty sure Kon doesn’t know who Stray really is. He has made it clear that he’s attracted to Stray and is curious enough to want to know more about the thief but beyond that he’s never done anything about it. On the other side of the coin, he knows Stray is eyeing up Kon in a similar fashion. Behind the flirtiness, he’s a shy boy who wants to get to know Superboy more and secretly gets flustered at the thought of the meta.

Perhaps Jason needs to introduce them on a more solid and neutral ground? Stray is like a brother to Jason and Kon is his best friend, would they even work? Does he want to start something like that between them, or simply help them get their shit together so he doesn’t have to be stuck in the middle anymore?

He’ll have to have a think about it.

“You are staying the night and that is final!” Alfred declares firmly to Stray who was now pouting from his position on the medical bed.

Jason snorts as he enters the room and goes to Stray’s side. Poking the younger boy in the ribs, he says, “Look, it’s just for one night. We can hang out, have a good catch up while we play crappy video games and sleep until noon tomorrow. Then you can go.”

The glare he receives makes Jason cackle. Once he’s calmed down he glances at Alfred, “Thanks for patching him up Al!”

Alfred merely smiles and starts bustling about to get everything cleaned up. He turns to Stray next, pointing a finger at him, “I’ll see you upstairs in a moment. I’m just going to walk Superboy out of here.”

He turns to Kon to find his friend still staring at Stray. Rolling his eyes, Jason clicks his fingers in the meta’s face and grabs his attention. He cocks his head to the side and starts leaving the medical bay, “Let’s go lover boy!”

Kon stutters for a moment before rushing to catch up and he grins when he sees Kon’s flushed face. Jason walks with Kon to the end of the cave, thanking him for his help that night but also apologising that their plans to hang out weren’t happening. He does a rain check for when he’s next at the Tower and promises that they’ll spend time together while he’s there. Looking a little sullen, Kon nods his understanding but doesn’t push the matter. He takes off up in the air and quickly disappears into the night sky.

As he heads back, Jason starts making mental plans on how he’s going to deal the obvious two way attraction that Stray and Superboy clearly have. It’s not going to be easy, but he’s Robin, he can handle it!

--------------

“So what was it that you needed to do again?” Kon questions him as they climb a fourth set of stairs.

Jason glances over his shoulder from where he was ahead of Kon, guiding them through the apartment building they were currently in. “I got a message late last night from a friend, asking me to pick something up from his place. Figured I’d stop by while out with you since we were passing through the neighbourhood.”

“Makes sense.” Kon comments a moment later.

They don’t talk again until they were standing outside an old wooden, beaten door after climbing six flights of stairs. Jason knocks on the door and patiently waits for the occupant to open it up.

“This friend of yours,” Kon drawls looking at him, “are you guys close?”

Does he know about your night activities? Jason picks up the double meaning of the question. He smiles at Kon and says, “We’re actually really close, yeah. But sorry about this, it shouldn’t take too long.”

He doesn’t mention to Kon that in fact this was all planned by him. The message to come and collect something from his friend was planned, because Jason in fact purposely left said item here the other night just so he would get the message. Meeting up with Kon and having him come along just out of ‘coincidence’ was all part of it too.

A sound coming from the door opposite them gains their attention. They both turn to it as they hear locks clicking and a chain being rattled. Soon enough it opens up to reveal a small teenager dressed in an oversized hoddie and leggings.

“Hey Tim, how’s it going?” Jason asks with more enthusiasm than necessary.

It was like he was watching it all in slow motion, that moment when the kid opposite him realises exactly what Jason has done. His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open at the realisation of it before his expression becomes dark where his eyebrows drop, his eyes glaring daggers at Jason and his lips pressed into a tight thin line.

While Tim glares at him, and is probably imagining the most painful way he could kill Jason, Jason turns to Kon just in time to see his best friend also click onto what he’s done. Kon’s expression goes to one of shock as his eyes flicker between Tim and Jason.

“Wait, you’re uh, you’re-”

Kon doesn’t get to finish what he’s saying because Tim was suddenly hissing at Jason. “You asshole Jason!”

Tim backs away from the door and promptly goes to slam it shut and it’s only thanks to his quick reactions that Jason catches the door before it hits the doorframe. He barges his way into the apartment and turns to Tim grinning at him. Tim wasn’t paying attention however, the kid was now glaring at Kon who stared back and slowly inched his way into the apartment. Despite Kon being invulnerable and one of the most powerful people on the planet, he seemed rather intimated by Tim.

Once they were both indoors, Tim then slams the door shut with a loud bang. Crossing his arms over his chest he turns to Jason with a scowl. “What is the meaning of this? You of all people know how important identities are!”

Jason hums and starts wondering around the small apartment. He leaves the hallway they had been in and adventures into the joint living room and kitchen area. It was there on the coffee table that he sees the files he purposely left behind the other night.

Tim marches in behind him with Kon following soon after. “What the hell are Selina or Bruce going to say about this?”

That makes Jason blink and pause. He hadn’t thought about that. Oops. He shrugs nonchalantly, “It’s fine. I can work around them.”

“How? How are you going to get around one of the best thief’s and the world’s greatest detective?”

Jason doesn’t answer, mostly because he doesn’t actually know. Thankfully he’s saved from any more scolding from Tim because his best friend speaks up.

“So your name is Tim?” Kon suddenly asks from his spot by a sofa. The meta still had this wide-eyed look on him, like he really couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Yes.” Tim snaps at him. “You better not tell anybody either!”

Jason forces the smirk off his face as he sees the kid blush red. He knows this is about to get interesting and is more than happy to watch how this plays out between them.

“Really though? Tim? Tim is Stray, the cat thief who likes to wear skin-tight leather while on the job and oversized jumpers in his downtime.”

Tim’s glare hardens and it looks like he wants to deck Kon there and then.

“Just because you’re invulnerable doesn’t mean that I still can’t hurt you!” Tim threatens Kon, with a pointed finger to emphasise his point.

For someone who had been intimated by the person now threatening him, Kon now looks completely unperturbed. It was like learning his name was ‘Tim’ made him less terrifying. “Uh huh…” Kon hums looking at Tim with a raised eyebrow.

Tim enters Kon’s space and pokes him in the chest to make a point. “I will throttle you.”

“And I bet you’ll like that, wouldn’t you?” Kon grins, winking at Tim.

Jason couldn’t help but snort at Tim’s face. If his shocked expression in the hallway was golden, his shocked expression now was totally palatium. It’s like Kon flirting with him has made Tim freeze and buffer, like he doesn’t know how to handle it or what he should do next.

Tim was speechless and Jason laughs at the sight. However he does wonder where Kon suddenly found the confidence to flirt with Tim, especially since he seemed so unsure at the start. He knows Kon’s had his time with beach babes in Hawaii, but this is slightly different.

After several beats it seems like Tim finally comes back online because he’s suddenly shouting, “Get out, now. That’s it! Get out, the both of you!”

Jason was still laughing, even more so because Tim is now as bright as a tomato. “What, don’t like the tables being turned Timmy? Receiving the flirting and not giving it for a change?”

He didn’t even see Tim move, so when the kid is suddenly in his space and shoving his files into his hands, Jason stumbles backwards a couple steps to keep his balance. Seconds later hands start shoving him out towards the hallway and towards the front door.

“Get out!”

“Okay, okay,” Jason resigns. He’s had his fun and embarrassed Tim enough for one day. He walks out of the apartment and into the corridor of the building, seconds later Kon joins him. When the door slams shut behind Kon, they share a look and burst out laughing.

They don’t talk as they exit the building, both of them giggling right up until they’re out on the street and back out in public.

Kon takes a breath to control himself and shoots Jason a sideward glance as they walk down the street. “Dude, what was that all about?”

There were so many hidden questions within that one question. Jason picks them all up easily. Why did you blow his secret ID? Why did you take me there? What are you up to? He doesn’t answer any of them. Instead he snorts in disbelief and waves a hand around. “Oh please, I’ve done you both a favour.”

From there he refuses to answer any of Kon’s queries on what just happened. Things were building up between the two of them, Jason’s simply helping to jump start things along. After seeing them in there earlier, he thinks they could work, it would certainly be an interesting dynamic with the way Tim gets all flustered around Kon, especially considering his persona is one of the most flirtatious ones out there.

He’s got his own questions he wants to ask Kon, like where did that confidence suddenly come from? What happened to being intimidated by Tim? Before he starts grilling his best friend however, he figures he’d give Kon some time to mull over what happened today and then he’d pin him down to get some answers.

--------

Jason was done for the day. All he wanted to do in that moment was go to his room, have a long hot shower before changing into some comfy clothes and climbing into bed to sleep for the next three days.

But no, he couldn’t do that. He wasn’t allowed to do that because he had to go and find Kon, who was in the Tower somewhere, and get his report he failed to hand in after the latest mission. Cassie was getting on his back about Kon’s tardiness and it was getting on his nerves. Jason wants to argue that he’s not Kon’s babysitter! Why should it be him who has to chase the half-Kryptonian for reports he’s responsible for?

Either way he’s on his way to Kon’s room in the Tower, figuring that if Kon wasn’t in the kitchen (he wasn’t) then he would most likely be in his bedroom. When Jason reaches the right door, he taps his knuckles against it and lets himself in, he only happens to walk two steps in before he’s freezing on the spot because of what he’s seeing.

There on Kon’s bed were two figures in what seems to be an intimate position. Jason could see Kon on his back on the mattress (thank god he was fully clothed!) with his head propped up by some pillows. Above him with his legs on either side of Kon’s hips, was a familiar smaller figure dressed up in tight leather.

The two of them were currently playing tonsil hockey as hands roamed each other’s bodies. It wasn’t until a low moan comes from one of them that Jason comes back to himself and actually registers what he was seeing.

“What the fuck!”

The two figures startle at his outburst and split apart. Tim sits fully upright and looks his way while Kon blinks owlishly at him from his position on the bed. All three of them stare at one another for several long beats, waiting for someone to break the heavy silence.

In the end it was Jason, repeating his outburst. “What the fuck!”

“Oh hey birdie. Enjoying the show?” Tim smirks at him. He didn’t have his ears or goggles on meaning Jason could see his face. Meaning Jason could see how amusing this all was to him.

Kon on the other hand seemed to be on the other end of the scale. He brings his hands up to cover his face with embarrassment and groans. “This is not how I wanted you to find out!”

“Find out what?” Jason scoffs disbelievingly. “That you and Tim are finally boning?”

“Well technically we haven’t gotten that far, yet.” Tim drawls out, stroking a teasing finger along Kon’s chest.

“Right.” Jason says. Deciding that he’s seen enough, he starts to turn around so he could leave. “Well have fun, use protection and Kon, Cassie wants that report done asap.”

Just as he was about to shut the door, Tim speaks up and Jason shoots him an unimpressed look for making him stay longer than what was necessary. “Why are you acting like that? You wanted to get us together to begin with anyway. Did you want to join in?”

Jason blinks and takes a moment to comprehend what he’s just been asked. “No! What the fuck? That's my best friend there and you’re like my brother you flirtatious asshole! And yes I was trying to set you two up but that doesn’t mean I want to see it!”

Before anything else could happen Jason makes a quick exit. Unfortunately he still wasn’t quick enough because he hears Tim shout “You know where we are if you change your mind!” just before he shuts the door.

He shakes off what he just heard and tries to erase those images from his mind. He blames Cassie. If she didn’t want that stupid report then he would have never walked into Kon’s room and seen that. It could have been worse where they were naked but that’s not the point!

Well, he knew something was going to happen between the two of them and now they’ve finally gotten their shit together. Once Jason’s done getting over it, he’ll interrogate Kon all about it later on. They’re best friends, he deserves to know all the nitty gritty details and how dare he leave Jason in the dark.

Stray on the other hand wouldn’t actually tell him anything, either because of embarrassment or out of spite, it would depend on what mood he was in on the day.

It looks like he’ll be having quite interesting conversations with two people very soon.

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