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ohheyjudesummers · 1 year

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Pride Aside - Gojo Satoru fanfic

Generally, this story is Minors DNI. 18+ PLEASE (but this first part doesn’t rightly need a warning since its set in the past while they’re young with nothing inappropriate)

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen (As regular humans for the most part with little to no/nonexistent cursed energy or sorcerer ability. Some supernatural abilities are present).

Character: Gojo Satoru (As he is currently in JJK221 as of right now. Meaning some spoilers as far as his *New appearance* but not regarding the office JJK plot line story and character outcomes/circumstances)

Summary: It’s always come natural for you to look out for your little brother (by a couple of short years) and even his best friend, Gojo-or at least it used to come naturally when you guys were kids. Now as Adults, Gojo is womanizing, flippant, cocky, and tends to play agitator; and while you still care about him, sometimes it isn’t the easiest being around him.

Even so, you still care about Gojo. You’ve seen vulnerable sides of him that he’s never shared with anyone and provide a listening ear to him when he needed. You wouldn’t of quite described him as a second brother, but you did feel an attachment and appreciation toward him; and you imagined he felt the same.

So, for the life of you, you can’t figure out why his behavior has shifted toward you. His smile towards you always seems to have a hidden cruelness in it, his stare, if hes not busy overlooking you, feels as if tis piercing through you when no one is looking. And when-IF-he talks to you? its feels damn near condescending. It’s as if hes trying to make you annoyed on purpose to get a rise out of you…or maybe it’s something much more personal that he’s been harboring over the years.

General author’s note: If you've read any of my previous stories or even my original works, you'll know that I typically write stories with girls of my culture in mind (even if it’s X reader) so by default, my stories are black!coded /implied. While I can’t control who reads my work and I do write for the women in my culture to be represented and be included! Not necessarily to exclude anyone.

I’m not typically against anyone reading my stories with respect . I believe people are capable of reading and enjoying interactive literature or general writings, even if the coded/implied “Y/N" or character doesn’t look like them (Especially since girls of my own culture have had to silently use their imaginations to feel included in stories coded for lighter audiences or readers) However, I will still continue to use and include black and POC fem tags to make it easier for my people to find stories.

Also, my fanfiction stories can be found on both Wattpad and Archive of Our Own, as well as on Tumblr (all linked on my page). Thanks so much for reading!

Also like my other fan fictions, I’m not sure if there will be a second part to this one. it depends on both my imagination and the genuine responses/interactions towards it.

As of this moment (I’m writing this 4/20/2023* this is important cause as we know, Gege could add more info to the JJK universe) we don’t really know about Gojo’s family life in depth at this moment. but even so, the info written about his backstory in this fan fiction is crafted by me *along with some other info* and is no way associated with his actual official story.

Some notables in this chapter: Black!reader, Hockeyplayer!Gojo, Jock!Gojo, slight age gap as well. Slow burn, and a bit of fluff. Think of this chapter as building a foundation for the next installment. <3

❣

*Some time ago*

Even the gloomy gray skies outside your window couldn't keep you from smiling as you admired your masterpiece in front of you.

“Finally got it right! Drew is going to love this!” You gushed, slowly spinning the revolving cake stand.

It wasn't just years and passion that made you such a dedicated and aspiring baker, but the circumstances: it was your little brother's birthday tomorrow. Even though you loved your brother to death, you knew he could be a picky eater. While he's never complained about your baking, you didn't want to give him any reason to start.

Before he left a few days ago to be with your father and his smother, he kept dropping hints at how much he wanted to try homemade Tres Leches cake topped with fruit. Most would have been annoyed with their younger sibling ‘pushing’ at them to work on their days off, you were silently grateful. Drew, as annoying as he could be, was actually quite considerate when it came to you. He had given you something to keep you occupied while he was away. Sure, you had your part-time job, but you were on break from classes and had more time to think about your late mother than usual this time of year.

Your step mother, Drew’s mom, was a nice lady and always open to you as a daughter, but she wasn’t your mom-not that you were looking for a replacement. You always found yourself apprehensive about family life as a whole. But at the same time wanting it. Because of this, you always got an array of conflicting feelings. Mainly, they consisted with being both content with being along in your apartment after Drew finished his stay (for however long he decided) and lonely when he went back home.

Even though your dad wasn’t keen on the idea of you moving out so early when you just turned 18, he navigated through this as best as he could. He was always proactive in making sure you knew he was there and that Drew was allowed to stay over at your spacious apartment usually whenever. However, Drew’s schedule has become more rigid this holiday due to hockey practice. But now, he had some time spare and asked for a specially made cake- the perfect motivation for you to zone out and kick you in gear.

The size you made in front of you wasn't overtly large compared to the other you had sitting in the fridge, which is fine considering this was a tester. You wanted to test the aesthetics Outside, it looked good; the perfect amount of cream topping was added, and it didn't appear soggy. The only thing that made a frown twitch at the corner of your lips was the fruit topping, a cherry. It wasn't as if it weren't aesthetically pleasing. You actually liked the idea of adding fruit to the top; you just knew Drew didn't like cherries; he was more of a strawberry guy.

“No worries, I’ll use the last few I have for the official cake in the fridge.” You say, lifting your spirits back up. “For now, it won't hurt to have some of this for myself."

Just as you're about to pick up a nearby fork, a ripple of knocks comes at your front door. Your brows furrow as you take a glance at the clock: 7:30 p.m. Not inordinately late for someone to stop by, but one look outside the window would leave one to believe that not even delivery would feel inclined to go out in the sudden downpour.

More knocks come at the door, just as light but more rapidas the ones before.

“Y/n? Are you home? It's me."

Me?

You recognize the voice.

Stepping away from the counter, you take the disposable mesh net off your head of curls, tossing it in the trash. Once you untie your waist apron and drape it on a chair, you step across your apartment's threshold to the front door. When you swing it open, you're met with a pair of piercing ocean blue eyes staring up at you.

Gojo. Drew’s best friend, and teammate on his hockey team. Drew did ask earlier this week if his friend could stay over for a bit. Even if, as a younger teen his independence was peculiar to you, it wasn’t an anomaly for him to stay at your place shortly before Drew came by. Or to just sleep over entirely when he was here. You didn’t know exactly where Gojo’s family stayed but you imagined it didn’t much matter since Drew did live a bit further than both of you. Because of this it was easier for Gojo to use your spot as a meeting place for himself. so, he tended to come over whenever he pleased.

On one end you didn’t mind this. But on another, Gojo’s free ability to roam wherever, was interesting from a certain perspective; a paternal one. From what you gathered, Gojo himself and his family weren’t really normal. You never bother to push on the subject. This was only because you didn’t notice any real red flags in his overall condition. His bottomless appetite *for sweets especially* you learned, was not out of malnourishment but more so gluttony (You’ve seen the size of his school lunches before. And he was always clothed and cleaned-even though he had this annoying habit of preferring to using the bath at your place. You didn’t know why at first, until you realized your favorite shea butter, honey scented body wash was depleting faster than normal. Initially you had suspected Drew but then you remembered his preference in scent was something more ‘manly’ as he put it.

Be this as it may, He hardly seemed eager in elaborating on his mannerisms and family life. Maybe it didn’t matter much.

He always seemed in high spirits and overall fine. Much like now.

A wide, Cheshire grin appears across his face—a typical greeting of him.

“You’re here a bit early this time, Gojo. Drew doesn’t come back till tomorrow." You say as you observe his face. That’s when you pause. Wisps of his damp, snow white hair stick to his forehead, and his clothes are splotched with droplets. “Boy, d-did you walk here in the rain? Are you crazy? You'll get sick!"

Without a second thought, you grab his slender wrist and pull him into the apartment. You wait until you close the door behind him to turn your scolding gaze back in his direction.

“Why would your family let you walk in this weather? at this time especially? Could they not drive you?"

“My family doesn’t care about what I do as long as I don’t skip on my studies.” Gojo chuckles, letting his backpack slide off his shoulder.

A question edges itself at the tip of your tongue hearing him say this, but something stops you. Specifically, the sound of a soft ‘thud’ when his bag hits the floor. Actually, now that your eyes zero in on it, his bag looks rather full for more than a day or two stay like Drew had informed you it’d be.

“Why is your bag so heavy? What did you pack- Hey, what exactly are you doing?” By the time you pull your eyes from the backpack, Gojo is no longer standing in your living room, but in the kitchen. Particularly near the counter where the Tres leches cake sits.

Oh, you knew from previous events what he was thinking. Past experience had taught you that Gojo, like your brother, enjoyed your baking. However, unlike your brother, Gojo wasn't picky when it came to his food. Because of this, you *usually* enjoyed giving him the results of any recipes you were experimenting with, and he gladly inhaled accepted them. But sometimes it felt like feeding him had no end. That in itself could be exhausting for someone even if they liked to cook.

“Do not touch that cake.”

“Huh? why not? It's just sitting here. Wait, is this…for me? Can I have it now?"

“Gojo, I like you, really, I do. But your sense of self-importance is beyond what I can comprehend sometimes.” you tell him, approaching his side. “You really think when I make sweets and Drew is not here that its always for you?”

Gojo's produces a ponderous, audible grunt with the tilt of his head. His gaze is fixed on the cake, and his fingers grip the stand as he slowly begins to rotate it. After a moment, he breaks from his awe-struck trance and looks over to you, “Well, not always. But this time, can I?”

There’s no real harm in allowing him to eat it. But you wanted it. How exactly could you explain that without sounding immature? Never mind that you two were still teenagers-you were still a little older.

He’ll be fine this time around. it’s not like he absolutely needs it.

Even with your rationality, a thin slice of guilt swipes past you. You couldn't help it; you'd inherited a portion of your mother's nurturing mannerisms.

At the same time, you couldn't see why Gojo couldn't just go out and buy one or have someone make it for him in his own family. This didn't apply to Drew; his predicament was different since no one in your father's household was a decent cook. You'd experienced more than one family dinner before coming to this conclusion yourself. Gojo, on the other hand, while he didn't speak forthrightly about his family dynamic, you could tell he was well-off enough to have someone buy him a cake made by the best pastry chefs in town

But you're not convinced he'd do something like that.

You'd grown to know Gojo as a confident young man since Drew introduced him to both street and ice hockey, and this was a fair assessment.

Gojo appears to be a talented young athlete, based on what you've seen so far. But that was the extent of his boasting—what he could offer in terms of physical ability. His usefulness when he was present. Not his finances . Money, could be replaced. But people—specifically, their abilities? Not so quickly. And Gojo was unquestionably of that nature.

Money, even if he hardly mentioned it, you knew it wasn't a concern for him. He always seemed to have more than he considered necessary, and his clothes were nice.

Aside from the water droplets on his clothes, his pale orange hoodie and loose black track pants appeared brand new and of high quality without even seeing the label. His demeanor was also relaxed, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

You clear your throat, pushing past the unsettling tenseness in your chest that usually accompanied with having to be firm. "No, you can't have this one. Not this time."

You expected Gojo to react with a joke or something witty. Instead, your gaze is drawn to his collapsing shoulders. And then he turns to look at you, his face a mix of uncertainty and hurt.

“But why? Drew said you usually make cakes for birthdays. Doesn't that mean I can eat this now?"

“Well, yeah. But it was a test for Drew's birthday. And I kind of wanted to eat it myself," You smile sheepishly.

This discipline lesson was becoming far more trouble than it was worth, and his somber expression wasn't helping matters. You were on the verge of giving in and letting him have it. But Gojo shocks you with a terse head nod and a feeble smile.

“Ok then. I'm gonna go wash up before bed. I know we have to set up for Drew's birthday tomorrow morning." Is all he says before going back into the living room to grab his bag and bolting down the hallway.

You didn't realize the tension you'd been holding on your shoulders until you felt them sag at the sound of the bathroom door closing.

Well, great. I feel like shit.

Your sweet tooth had suddenly vanished, so you began cleaning up the small mess you had made in the kitchen area while cooking. But something catches your eye—a notification on your phone on the counter not far away.

Picking it up, you shuffle through some of them until your gaze is drawn to notifications from Drew that you missed earlier this morning.

I really need to be more prompt with these things.

You sigh as you unlock your phone and read his messages.

Thnks for Gojo stay over! But do you think you can do me a huge favor? (ಠ_ಠ)

I know it's last minute, but I'll pay you back and do dishes for the next two weeks! before he swings l8ter today, do you think you could bake a small cake for him? When I was texting him earlier about how you make special cakes for my birthday, can you believe he asked me why? (⚆_⚆)

I thought he was joking around, but he told me he'd never done something like that in his family. something about how they acknowledge it as a hallmark in their family's history—whatever that means. But it’s not an actual moment they celebrate with or for him—they don't even give him a cake.

I want to be there for it, but we're still driving back. Plus, today is the official day, and I want him to have something for himself. So please do me this solid! thanks! 〵(^ o ^)〴

oh..god.

You placed your phone on the counter before clenching the area of your shirt where your heart was beating. In that moment, if it could sink, it would end up at the earth's core.

“Wait, is this for me?” His small voice of innocent curiosity-- It'd been genuine. Not out of self-centeredness, like you initially assumed.

You wanted to give yourself some comfort by not believing someone would be so cold toward a child as to not give them a birthday celebration for the 14-going on 15- years they've been alive. You didn't want to believe someone who could literally be so sure of himself around his peers, and his abilities, was robbed of something so basic as human contact by his own family for that special day.

But as you thought more about the matter, you realized you had to be realistic with yourself. With Gojo's mannerisms, and what little you know about his family, Drew's words about him didn't seem so farfetched. Not in the slightest.

You'd been blessed with some logical adults in your life; they'd taught you that multiple things can, on occasion, be true at once about an individual, whether they make sense to you or not.

❣

Gojo emerges from the bathroom now wearing his pajamas after taking a much-needed hot bath. There was another special reason he felt better, in addition to the simple fact that his skin felt warm, fresh, and spotless. A small smile appears across his mouth as he breathes deeply while aiming his face at his shoulder. He presses his nose much more firmly against the softness of his shirt, to his shoulder. The scent of your body wash hits him; the aroma of flowers, sweet citrus fruit, and Honey—His new favorite scent since his visits at your house started—was delicate as well as prevalent.

It's almost like... She's hugging me. Honey.

The thought emits a dull ache in Gojo's chest. It's a strange reaction, along with the floating, warm feeling he gets whenever he's close to you. But it's not a new sensation; rather, it's been with him since the first time he saw you on the sidelines at one of Drew's street hockey games—before he knew either of you officially.

But Gojo never gave much thought into the feeling other than him appreciating your company to the point where he wanted to be around you more. Thankfully you allowed it without much question. yet, still, Gojo silently couldn’t help but feel it was a luxury he could never seem to be able to afford. Gojo loved Drew like a brother he’d never had, truly he did. But whenever he thought about Drew’s relationship with you for long, he could feel envy grip its cruel green fist around what felt like his heart. The tightness would increase Moreso when he thought about how Drew could have access to your time whenever.

Despite having more money than he knew what to do with, being applauded and acknowledged as a possible prodigy of hockey; He felt inadequate to his best friend simply because he had you. Not as an older sister, but as someone who was concerned and…loved him. But Gojo would do his best to hide this ugly side of him; always brushing it off as best he could and having a good time. Like now

Except for one difference.

For the first time since entering the corridor, Gojo noticed how quiet it was. In the past, even when it had just been the two of you hanging out, he would at least be able to hear you moving around the house.

“Y/n?” He calls for you, but gets no answer. puzzled, he steps further down the hall, just nearing the corner to round leading toward the kitchen archway-only to be stunned at the sight.

“Happy Birthday!”

You beamed, holding a rectangular glass cake pan angled toward him. Gojo freezes at the sight in front of him. His blue eyes blink rapidly before locking back on toward the cake. It's similar to the one you told him he couldn't eat, with the whipped topping evenly spread out. Aside from being bigger, this one was thoughtfully topped with fresh strawberries along the frame of the cake. And in the middle, in red, carefully pipped lettering, were the words, "Happy birthday, Gojo!"

Even after seeing his name on the surface, Gojo, as self-assured as he depicted himself to be, began feeling unsure at the display. "I get to have a cake?”

“It's December 7th, isn't it?” You tease. “Of course, you should have a cake; today's a special occasion." Your smile widens as you set the cake down on the kitchen island. You motion for him to sit on the stool in front of the cake as you round the opposite side of the island, which he does.

Even though Gojo took long baths, you felt that the amount of prep time you had to make things to your liking was nonexistent. Granted, you already had this cake made with the intention of giving it to Drew tomorrow, so that cut time down by a bunch. But decoration wise? You wanted it to be a little more presentable with something besides a clean application of whipped topping. So, in your haste to finish the last-minute cake, you decorated it with strawberries and practiced piping a few fonts before writing on the cake itself. Everything was at least acceptable to you, but you could only find one box with a single red and white striped candle.

It'll do for now.

You think, as you remove the candle from the box and gently insert it into the cake's surface. Gojo watches attentively as you grab a nearby lighter and angle it over the candle wick.

“You know, it's tradition to blow the candle out, but you have to make a wish first. You can ask for anything you'd like."

“A wish...?” he repeats slowly, wrinkling his nose. “Why would I wish for something when I can just go and get it myself?"

Your lids lower.

Why am I not surprised that he would say something like that?

You fight the urge to follow up his remark with something witty; that would be immature given the situation.

“Not everything is easy to get—that's why.”

“It doesn't need to be.” He shrugs lightly. “ I'll have it if I really want it.”

It's so annoyingly amazing how this boy can be so innocent but at the same time so sure of himself.

“Fine, Mr. Confident." You chuckle, lowering the lighter. “If you're so undoubtably confident that you don't need even an inkling of help from a wish to afford every luxury this world has to offer, then we don't have to—"

“Wait!” His hand clasps around your wrist suddenly. "I mean, we can still do it. For fun, I mean.”

Your brow furrows at the sudden change of heart. You're almost tempted to question him about it, but you quickly dismiss the idea. It didn't matter right now.

The vivid orange flame peaks from the lighter with a soft 'click' and ignites the wick.

"If you need a second to think of your just-for-fun wish, you can give yourself a little time."

“I don't have to say it out loud either, do I?”

“You don't," you confirm with a kind smile. “Just close your eyes, think really hard about what you really want, and then blow out the candle.”

Even with your genuine patience, you can't help but notice the way his eyes fidget back and forth between you and the flame on the candle. Regardless of whether it's a harmless superstition that he claims he doesn't believe in, his body language towards this part puzzles you. Then, a faint pink rose to his cheeks. It's almost as if he feels embarrassed or protective of his superstitious beliefs being reveled to you.

Maybe he actually does have something unobtainable that he wants, but can’t admit it —boys are so stubborn.

You think humorously.

It wasn’t so hard to believe. you distinctly remember overhearing him and Drew once talking about some rare hockey trading cards weeks ago.

But you weren't going to poke fun at him about it-even if it was a silly superstition, this was a moment—a hallmark for him...

His long, snow-white lashes flutter close as he leans forward slightly. His chest inflates slightly as he takes a breath, and he expels the flame in one whisk of breath.

…cause in that innocent instant, neither of you knew how much of a hallmark that moment was and how it set off a butterfly effect promised to intertwine your lives for the long haul.

❣

End note from the author: I enjoy and appreciate comments, likes, reblogs (on Tumblr), and kudos (on AO3). I don't always have the spare time to respond back or properly view in a timely manner, but please know that I appreciate the interaction purely because I love sharing my imagination with people who enjoy the escape from reality <3 also, heres a pic of the vision I had of the budding hockey start Gojo

©JUDESUMMERS. Please do not copy, Translate, Plagiarize, or repost (sharing via link is excluded). This story is only uploaded on Tumblr, Wattpad and AO3. Anywhere else under any other name besides JUDESUMMERS is prohibited

#interracial #x black!reader #fanfiction #anime x black!fem reader #gojo x black reader #gojo x y/n #black!reader #black!fem!reader #jjk x reader #jjk x black reader #gojo satoru x black!reader #wattpad #gojo x reader #gojo satoru fanfic #x black fem reader #Gojo x black!fem reader #gojo x oc

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infatuate · 9 months

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9 book recs meme! tagged by @roobylavender; ty faatima <3333. this ended up being longer than i wanted it to be but oh well

the bloody chamber & other stories - angela carter

angela carter quotes get circulated out of context on this site every 2-3 business days but i really do think everyone should tap into the bloody chamber at least once. i have written many a paper on this book & each time i uncovered some new aspect i had previously overlooked but which carter hadn't. i'm not sure what i could say about it that hasn't already been said; this is one of the best fairytale anthologies out there, period. not to mention, those quotes are so much better in context.

decreation: poetry, essays, opera - anne carson

the first book of carson's essays/poetry i ever read cover to cover after crashing against plainwater hard when i was like 16. decreation is very aptly named - it's disjointed & deconstructed & more than a little strange, moving from subject to subject, essay to poem to play to opera and back again, but it managed to capture my attention the way none of carson's other works did. decreation is a journey through the self (through sleep & the subconscious, the spirit & God) that doesn't really arrive anywhere but is worth reading for the journey. aside from showing me just what could be done with form, it also introduced to me to marguerite porete, who became my own personal medieval mystic-martyr special interest. i've since read a lot of carson, but i still think decreation is her most interesting (& maybe underrated?) work.

violence & the sacred - rene girard

a solid 75% of my essays in my last two years of undergrad used this text as scaffolding of some sort. even when i wasn't writing about violence, sacrifice, or mimesis, i was thinking about it. this is a dense book of theory that flies by because everything girard is saying is simultaneously insane & so so compelling. other people have if you're interested in rituals, the societal function of violence, the origins of the word scapegoat, or you just want to find a new jumping off point for your own thoughts on any of these topics, i think you would find violence & the sacred a really fascinating text.

the children of húrin - j.r.r. tolkien

i read the children of húrin directly after reading the hobbit at age 14; i wanted another 'short' 'standalone' tolkien book to read before diving into the lord of the rings or the silmarillion. (i clearly did not know anything about tolkien at this point in my life.) but i don't regret it at all, because it's probably the best thing he's ever written. CoH is, for the most part, about the tragic life of túrin son of húrin & how the curse on his family dooms him & everyone he crosses paths with. the tighter focus on túrin's various fuck-ups and miseries is more intimate, more detailed, and more character-driven unlike a lot of tolkien's first age work. it's also the darkest thing tolkien's written, in my opinion; this is his longest most extended greek tragedy moment & he leans into it 100%. hubris, unintentional incest, accidental murder, suicide - the children of húrin has it all. túrin turambar you will always be famous!

a master of djinn - p. djeli clark

this is my favorite new fantasy read of the last couple of years. i went into thinking i wouldn't like it at all—it's set in an edwardian-era alternate history magical steampunk cairo, for one—but clark's writing is incredibly immersive. he's very skilled at reimagining history in a way that both makes perfect sense & is wildly inventive. i thought some of its critiques of colonialism were a little shallow but otherwise it was fun. and lesbian! the main character is a dapper muslim butch, and while i'm not usually a 'representation for its own sake' kind of person, i couldn't help but be obsessed with fatma. it helps that it has a more refined perspective on islam compared to virtually any other muslim/arab fantasy novel i've ever read (this is not a high bar). a master of djinn comes with not one, but two short stories set in the same universe, so you can check out clark's writing for free & see how you like it.

as meat loves salt - maria mccann

this one was recommended to me by a twitter mutual almost 2 years ago and i haven't reread it since, but i think about it frequently anyways. it's a historical fiction novel set during the english civil war, following jacob cullen, a man initially of gentle birth who becomes a servant who becomes a soldier in the parliamentary army. characterizing it beyond that gets tricky; how do you properly describe the completely insane depths of rage, lust, love, & obsession that mccann plumbs? as meat loves salt is for the hannigram girls, the heathcliff/cathy girls, the girls who enjoy devotion & obsession going hand in unlovable hand. major tws for rape & violence, & i don't think i could read it again unless i was in the right headspace, but this one is really good.

ship of magic - robin hobb

i could have put any robin hobb book here, because i do think everyone should read robin hobb at least once. especially if you have even a passing interest in fantasy. ship of magic made the final cut because it's the perfect beginning for anyone who might be turned off by the slow character study that is the farseer trilogy. liveship traders is more fast-paced with a rotating cast of v unique characters and the best villain she's ever put to paper. it has talking ships, terrible parenting even for a fantasy book, representation for awful horrible teenage girls with no redeeming qualities whatsoever, & a truly original take on dragons.

beowulf: a new verse translation - seamus heaney

when i decided to minor in medieval studies, beowulf was at least 60% of the reason. i read the r.m. liuzza broadview translation for class (which i love, to be clear), but my prof recommended that we go read heaney's translation anyways, because it's both a good translation of beowulf & an exercise in poetic brilliance. to me, heaney's beowulf feels less like a translation & more like a free-verse poem he wrote while possessed by the spirit of a 7th century scop. i know there are better, more accurate/faithful translations, but this one has a spirit to it that's difficult to find elsewhere. honestly it's worth reading for the introduction alone.

the fortune men - nadifa mohamed

my token contemporary non-fiction fiction novel of the past couple of years. i'm always rooting for everyone somali but also? nadifa mohamed is just a great writer. this novel is set in 1950s cardiff, wales, and dramatizes the true story of mahmood hussein mattan, a somali man who was wrongfully executed for the murder of lily volpert. mohamed approaches the events with so much empathy for both victims and the extensive research she did shines through at every moment. the consistency and conviction and clarity of her writing will convince you that, even if you don't know anything about the city or the time period or the events unfolding, she definitely does. she was kinda robbed for the booker but that's just my opinion.

tagging @derelictship; @misericordae; @hesitationss; @yevrosima-the-third; @gawayne; @butchniqabi & anyone else who wants to do it!

#are these even recs they're like mini-books reviews. sorry you get my unfiltered thoughts i usually reserve them for twt #if you dont read anything else. PLEASE READ THE FORTUNE MEN OK. support my somali sister ty #txt

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theink-stainedfolk · 13 days

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Veil Of Allegiance

Betrayal's Echo

“Hey Hawk, I can't feel my legs, wake up” a soothing voice called for me, pulling me out of my slumber. I saw Hiram, his chocolate brown eyes framed by the gentle curve of glasses that add an intellectual charm to his appearance.His brown hair, neatly combed, hints at a touch of dishevelment.

”Woah” I gasped as the sunlight seemed to caress the curves of his eyes, casting a soft, radiant sheen. His gaze, intensified by the gentle illumination, becomes a captivating blend of earthy tones illuminated by the sun's golden embrace. He then smacked my head with the book he was reading to pull me out of the daze. “Stop gawking at me, it's weird.” Hiram pushed me off his lap and dusted it. “What's weird is seeing your ugly face the first thing in the morning. “ I scoffed, offended by his actions. “Says the one who took a nap on me. You ought to be thankful for letting you take a nap on my prized body, not be an ungrateful brat as you are.” “Ah, yes, prized. You say as if you care for it.” I mumbled. “You know I have excellent hearing Tian~” I looked at him as he got up dusting off his behind.

His warm smile, a reflection of genuine kindness, has the power to dispel tension in the room. “Let's go back to the station. We've got lots of training to do and you also have punishments and detentions to attend.” I cursed as I got up and walked behind him. In uniform, Hiram's posture remains unassuming yet confident, a testament to his inner strength. The combination of his friendly demeanor, kind eyes behind the glasses, and the unspoken intelligence in his gaze creates an image of a person who, despite the challenges, remains a grounding force in the lives of those around him.

Hiram Delacruz, The Sage Sentinel of The Crescent Station's Special Forces Division. A man of quiet strength and gentle resilience. His unassuming demeanor might make you overlook the strategic mind beneath, and yet, his every word reveals a quick intellect and a heart that values both loyalty and kindness. My best friend, my comrade, my colleague.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the air was charged with the vibrant energy of a fair in full swing. The entrance beckoned with colorful banners, promising a tapestry of sights and sounds that awaited within. Laughter and the distant melody of carnival music intertwined, creating an unmistakable atmosphere of festivity.

“This is my first time attending a fare!” Hiram giggles in excitement. I scoffed “what? Where were you all this time? Under a rock?” In an attempt to make a joke I realized that I shouldn't have joked about that. Hiram's fake laugh resonated in my mind. Hiram's humble upbringing was known to all but since he never discussed it, nobody asked and respected it. He once told me in the middle of the night since we both couldn't sleep. About his humble background and harsh life, about his childhood friends, his village, his father being the only family he had and his last wish for him to join The Crescent Station, everything. And I just mocked his entire life, in front of him no less.

Approaching the ticket booth, the tantalizing aroma of cotton candy and popcorn wafted through the air, tempting passersby to indulge in the delights of the fair. The ticket vendor, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of flashing lights, handed over tickets with a cheerful grin, setting the stage for an evening of whimsy. I cleared my throat “about that…. I apologize. I knew about your past and still chose to mock you. That was very rude and childish of me. I'm sorry.”

Hiram laughed. This time, it was real. “I'm happy you chose to apologize instead of pondering over it forever. I know you didn't mean it so it is okay. Instead how about you treat me in this fare? I will take it as an apology.” I smiled. That was Hiram for you. Sweet, kind and always stood his ground. My best friend, my comrade, my colleague.

On the training grounds, a symphony of disciplined chaos unfolded as colleagues, each a piece in the intricate puzzle of the Special Forces Division, engaged in rigorous training. The air crackled with determination and the acrid scent of sweat, blending with the earthy tones of freshly cut grass.Uniformed figures moved with purpose, their steps synchronized that echoed the precision drilled into them through years of service. The metallic clang of weapons meeting shields resonated alongside the staccato rhythm of boots hitting the ground, creating a rhythmic melody that underscored the intensity of their collective effort.

Suddenly someone on the ground dared to point their sword at me. Everyone stopped their tracks. “Come on, Hawk~ pull out your sword~. " Of course it was Hiram, who else would dare? People went back to their work but some surrounded to see the spectacle. “I thought you'd give up after losing 5 times in a row, Sparrow.” His laugh echoed in the entire ground. “My middle name happens to be Perseverent!” I sighed and unsheathed my sword. Hiram's stance was better than before. He saw me eyeing his posture and figure and smirked. “I won't lose to you now.” And he charged towards me at full speed.

He did as he said and defeated me. As we both lay on the ground, panting hard and full of sweat, I looked at him and asked. “How did you do that?”

“Do… do what?” He panted “That finishing move." I said "That was my move that no one has been able to avoid. Moreover, that wasn't taught to me by anyone, I made it. And no one has been able to copy it because it was difficult. So how did you do it?” He laughed. “Losing to you 5 times in a row wasn't a mistake Tian. I did that for a reason.”

I sat up surprised. “So you're telling me that by losing to me just 5 times, you learned that move which took me 3 years to perfect? Are you even human? Is this how you are able to fight people despite being so weak? You know their moves and so you predict it??! Waa~ Sparrow you never told me you were a genius!!!” I said as I hugged him. “Bastard, I can't breathe!! I thought you knew since everyone here called me Sage. Get off me Gentian!!” That was the spirit of Hiram. Nobody knew what his next moves would be. But he would know. And that's why the chairman was afraid of him. And that's why every single person respected him. My best friend, my comrade, my colleague.

This day will be buried in my memory as long as I live. The air, once vibrant with the echoes of camaraderie, now hung heavy with an unspoken weight of loss. I stared at Hiram, looking for a hint of weakness, a hope, a fear. I was waiting for him to say that he accepted his mistakes and would return to The Crescent Station. That he would never help the magicians and would hand over the traitors. But all I saw was the same Hiram that stood next to me through countless battles. But all I found behind the lenses of his glasses was eyes that hold the warmth of wisdom and kindness. Hiram embodied a guardian spirit, radiating a comforting aura that resonates with those fortunate enough to know him. I once loved that stubbornness of his. Now I don't like it one bit, not one bit.

“State the location of the traitors Hiram, and you shall live. You will be imprisoned but I will make sure to get you out within 6 years. Do not disappoint me.” Said the Commander–in–chief. Who was present with me along with the Commander of the Special Forces Division and of Rapid Response Division and Counter Terrorism Division. The higher ranking officials were all present yet he was unyielding as ever. “They are not terrorists, sir.” He stated. “They are children, merely of the ages of 4 to 10. They couldn't harm us even if they tried.” Fuck! Why can't he just remain silent and listen to them for once!?? Doesn't he realize that his life is on the line here?! Is he desperate to die?! “You are disobeying the order of the Commander-in-Chief!!! Do you know what you are doing!!??? You will be sentenced to death for working with the terrorists and protecting them!! Hand them over or taste death!!!” Hiram did nothing and stood still. He was brave for standing against the military of Etral for some pesky kids who had blood of magicians running through them. Why would he protect something not his? Why would he protect some kids over his country that he was protecting before those monsters stepped into his life? Why does he not care for his own life? Do they matter more to him than his own life? Than his own people? Than us? Than our friendship and memories that he'd rather sacrifice himself? Do something Hiram! Say something! Say that you won't do it again! Beg for their forgiveness and bang your head against the floor if you must but live!! Don't die!

“I see…. You stubborn, treacherous mutt. It was our mistake to enlist you into our prestigious military.” The Commander-in-Chief huffed a humorless laugh. “And it was my honor to serve you and Etral.” Hiram smiled softly. The commander tsk-ed “Gentian, if you are the true blood of Ertal and a vessel of The Crescent Station, you shall shoot that traitor in front of us right now. If not, you will know what will be your future. I believe you will make the right decision.”

Why are you doing this? Why would you choose death? What went wrong? What did I not do? What should I have done?

“Hiram.” I said through my clenched teeth, my hand on the hilt of my gun. I prayed I wouldn't have to pull it out. “There still is time. Take back your words, beg them to forgive you and be lenient to you. Say the word and I'll-”

"Gentian.” He cut me off. “I know I am right…. And one day you'll understand it.”

I see…. This was the Hiram that I didn't know. That I failed to know, the one who failed us. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him and I hate myself more. I want to kill him. I will kill him. I hate him so much. I pulled out my gun and pressed on to his chest. I looked at him one last time to see if he fears death or not. I regret looking at him. He looked straight at me, as if he read whatever was going through my mind. He was smiling. I couldn't stand it anymore. I shot him. I shot him under the unforgiving gaze of a summer sun.The sunlight, once a symbol of hope, now cast a harsh glow on the scene, as if nature itself recoiled from the betrayal witnessed on that summer day.

The impact was abrupt, a forceful collision that sent shockwaves through his body. His body collapsed on mine. I sensed the wetness seeping through my uniform. The wetness of blood, sweat and tears mixed together. He coughed and coughed. His knees grew weak and he knelt, I knelt along with him. I had no energy to move him apart from me. He was desperately hanging on to me. His hands weakly grasped my shoulders and chest. I felt no emotions. This wasn't how I thought it would feel.

“As the act of goodwill, as to pay off the debts of good deeds Hiram Delacruz has done for us and for the sake of your friendship, I'll let you bury him in Etral with all the limbs intact. He was as good of a weapon as you, a pity he had chosen to protect someone who doesn't deserve protection. We'll be going back.” Slowly the sound footsteps were gone. Hiram was still in my embrace, wheezing and panting. He pushed himself away from me and grabbed my face and forced me to look at him. His glasses were crooked, his face glistened with sweat and blood dripped from his mouth and seeped through his t-shirt. “You…. You must…. Hate me now… tian..” I said nothing. He should know the gravity of his actions. Of course I'd hate him like many of us. “I'm…. Sorry for not telling you…. But not.. for what I did…” he laughed. “I had this stupid… wish to do before I…. Die… it was… to say something…. Inspirational as my last breath…. I guess this is my chance…please protect the kids… for ones we couldn't save…. Be their shield…thank you for everything…” I never thought that even during his last moments he would think about others. He then rested his head on my chest and whispered to me to stay with him as long as I could. I stayed. And stayed. And stayed. I stayed until the body went cold and listless. I stayed till I felt no energy in my legs.

I picked up his frail body and carried it to our resting place to bury him. After burying him I stayed. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror the solemnity that had settled over. A gentle breeze, carrying the whispers of a fading summer, rustled through. As I sat alone beside Hiram's grave, the weight of grief bore down on me, and the strength holding back my emotions began to crumble.

Tears, unbidden and unrestrained, welled up in my eyes, tracing paths down my cheeks. Each drop was a testament to the profound loss I felt. Shoulders, once rigid with the weight of duty, now trembled under the burden of sorrow. The impenetrable shield I had become for Etral was momentarily shattered, revealing the vulnerability beneath. My hands, calloused from years of wielding a sword, now reached out to touch the cold gravestone as if seeking solace from the unyielding reality of death.My fingers traced the engraved letters of Hiram's name, a gesture of grappling with the permanence of the void left behind. My breath, once steady and disciplined, now hitched with the irregular rhythm of grief.

The world around me blurred. Each memory of shared laughter and unspoken camaraderie replayed in my mind, intensifying the ache of absence.In that moment, a threshold where the stoic facade crumbled entirely. The gravity of loss pressed upon me, and the enormity of Hiram's absence unfolded like a vast abyss. That was Hiram…. Whose presence would feel like home. His presence would leave a lasting impact. His absence would leave his trail behind, wishing one could see him again. My best friend, my comrade, my colleague…. And my biggest regret…

#writeblr #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writers and poets #writerscommunity #writing #my writing #writers #writblr #writers of tumblr

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local-lamppost · 2 years

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Jinx’s Parenting

Before I begin: I am the youngest of three, but due to my oldest sibling being rather immature my other sibling and I had to shift up the line in terms of stereo typical “oldest child, middle child, youngest child”. So I am writing this from the perspective of someone who is the youngest, but more often than not treated like the middle child. Just wanted to put things in perspective when it comes to my view on siblings. Alright? Alright.

From the beginning we know that Jinx, or Powder as she still was, could not have been raised in any worse an environment. Her childhood home was in the lowest slumps, a place where the dregs topsiders don’t want to think about go. Little is known about this time in her life. We can infer that her mother was caring, as a hallucinating Vi mistook Caitlyn for her mother in a scene where she received possibly her first gentle touch in years. As for her father, we don’t know anything.

Next there’s Vander, whose parenting of Powder we also know very little about. Vander spent most of his parenting time on Vi. Not because Vi was a problem child, at least no more than any of the others, but because she was the oldest and thus able to look after the others during the majority of the time when Vander couldn’t. Not that Vander neglected Powder, the two seem to have a little ritual that cheers Powder up and Vander quickly knows something is wrong when the ritual doesn’t work.

Vander’s parenting of Powder is best seen through Vi’s parenting of Powder. Now, right off the back, there is a problem. Vi shouldn’t have to be a mother to Powder, but with Vander running the Lanes there’s little choice in the matter. Vi is far from a perfect mentor or leader. In fact, I’m of the mind that Vi is an un-natural leader. Sure, Vi has a charisma to her, but she would rather do everything herself than involve others. This isn’t leader behavior, it’s the attitude of someone with a guilt complex a mile wide. Vander’s failure of parenting is seen in Vi’s unhealthy selflessness. There is rarely a moment in the show where Vi acts selfishly. Even her ignoring Caitlyn’s issues are all for the sake of making sure Powder is safe. She has no personal desires that she pursues to better herself, only to save Powder (and maybe get revenge on Silco for everything, but I think if keeping Powder safe meant leaving Silco alone Vi would gladly ignore him).

And it’s Vi’s most selfish act of the series which cements this connotation of “personal care=bad things for people I love” in Vi’s mind. After watching her brothers and father die, after being badly injured, and already blaming herself for leading Mylo and Claggor into a rather-in retrospect-obvious trap; Vi is confronted with the fact that it was all Powder’s fault. Vi lashes out, hitting and cursing(jinxing) Powder for disobeying her order to stay home. When Vi sees the literal blood on her hands, Powder’s blood, she realizes she needs a moment and steps away. I think we can all agree by now that Vi was definitely not abandoning Powder. Vi needed time to herself, to process the absolute avalanche of trauma just dumped on her, but in doing so Silco got Powder. All because Vi had to take care of herself for a moment.

Back to Vi’s parenting of Powder. Vi was unfortunately the best at raising her sister. Unfortunate not because Vi wasn’t up to the task, but- again- Vi herself is a child. Vi is always encouraging of Powder, she thinks her sister is the smartest person in all of Piltover and Zaun and is more than willing to knock any heads that would deny the fact: even Powder’s. Every time Vi pushes Powder, it’s because she knows her sister can make the jump. The only time Vi benches Powder is when they are going after someone who’s capable of capturing Vander and killing Benzo along with a handful of enforcers.

Later, when Vi meets Jinx, she is more than willing to overlook anything her sister had to do to survive. “It doesn’t matter”, they are together. It’s only when Vi sees the violence Powder-Jinx-is now capable of that she begins to hesitate. Jinx easily murdered firelights and when pushed she tried to shoot Vi herself. When Vi leaves with Caitlyn on the bridge, I don’t think it was just her wanting to save Cait, but that she was afraid to face Jinx, to accept that Powder has been replaced by this apparent monster of Silco’s design. Even at the tea party, Vi was still willing to accept Powder/Jinx for everything that she was. Vi’s selflessness would likely put up with any abuse if it meant she could stay with her sister, to make up for ‘abandoning’ her. It’s only when Caitlyn’s life is threatened, someone Vi has grown to love and appreciate, that Vi can no longer meet Jinx’s demands

Finally, lets talk about Silco.

Silco is not a good father. He is, scientifically speaking, the worst father. No one can deny Silco’s love was unconditional, but this is his greatest failure. Enabling and encouraging Jinx’s behavior is not healthy for either of them. Not only that, but Silco actively manipulates Jinx into a codependent relationship. Feeding into her paranoia until the only one Jinx believes she can love and trust is him. Silco’s encouragement of Jinx’s “inner monster” was basically him denying her the right to be Powder. And if only SIlco is able to love that monster, how could Vi’s love ever compare to his? Silco would kill for her, more than that: Silco would damn the nation of Zaun for Jinx. His own trauma makes him blind to the damage he is inflicting on Jinx, Silco’s mindset has kept Jinx stuck in her childishly violent nature. If the time had come where Jinx could act independently of Silco, leave the nest he had built for her, I think Silco would simply find a new tie to connect Jinx to him.

I want to quickly revisit Vander, because it’s Silco’s and Vi’s experiances with him that determined how they approached Powder/Jinx. Vander held Vi accountable, so Vi was willing to accept Jinx until Jinx refused to take accountability. Silco desired respect and loyalty, so he crafted Jinx to be ever loving and loyal to him. Vander betrayed Silco, permanently scarred him. Nothing Jinx can do could change his opinion of her. It’s only the thought of Jinx loving someone else, of being loyal to another(something which could lead to another betrayal) that Silco moves to reinforce the Jinx’s need for him and his guidence.

Silco telling Jinx she's perfect, I think was his way of being kind if for a selfish reason. He wants her to remember him with as much love and fondness as possible, so Jinx will never even think of offering that same love to Vi, the reason she shot her father.

#arcane #vi #vander #silco #jinx #powder #league of legends #lol #caitlyn #caitvi #tl:dr tobias kirramen is best dad #please give me vi and tobias bonding #vi deserves to be told not everything is her fault #echo and cait will have a third member in their reassure vi club #someone get jinx help while your at it #jinx's therapist will be a rich man

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snackhobi · 3 years

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

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

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

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

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

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

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

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

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

(You’d phrased it differently.

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

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

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

Unfortunately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

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

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

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

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

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

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

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

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

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he walks into your workshop.

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

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

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

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

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

“Y/n?”

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

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

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

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

“Who did this to you?”

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

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

“Who did this to you?”

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

There's a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

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

“One of the cousins?”

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

Yoongi always pays his debts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t call me baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yoongi?”

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

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

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

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

“Bye.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were on the way.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re finally back.”

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

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

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

“All good.”

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

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

Because it’s yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

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

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

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

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

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

“How much is it?”

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

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

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says.

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in response?

You just smile.

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

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

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

(You look good like this.)

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

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

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to eat you alive.

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

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

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

“Shameless.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not done with you yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay.”

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

He hadn’t been planning to.

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

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

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

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

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

“I kill a lot of people.”

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d be offended if you did.”

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

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

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

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

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thebluespirit83 · 3 years

Text

debunking pro-snape/anti-james arguments and putting it on the internet because clearly i hate myself. buckle up. this is gonna be a VERY long post. im ready for the amount of hate i will get; im willing to take one for the team.

1. james forced lily into dating/marrying/etc him

this literally never happened? because its almost as if lily is her own person who is able to stand up for herself-

“I wouldn’t go out with you if it was a choice between you and the giant squid,” said Lily.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” Lily shouted. She had her own wand out now. James and Sirius eyed it warily.

She turned on her heel and hurried away [from james].

-and so she would not allow someone to walk all over her. its almost as if james (canonically) matured as a person, and she appreciated this, realised he was a good person and got feelings for him? because james’ only negative traits were that he was conceited and a show off. people are able to mature and grow from these things! james did this! he did not ‘force’ lily to go out with him!

2. james and the other marauders bullied snape

you know what, i cant even disagree with this one. you’re right - they did bully him. but lets look a little bit at the context.

sirius and james were both upper class, naive white rich boys. they are idiots. they were both stupid smart teenagers!! they were popular! and while this does not excuse the gross bullying snape was subject to-

Pink soap bubbles streamed from Snape’s mouth at once; the froth was covering his lips, making him gag, choking him

Several people watching laughed; Snape was clearly unpopular ... Snape was trying to get up, but the jinx was still operating on him; he was struggling, as though bound by invisible ropes.

-it (unfortunately) makes sense with context. james and sirius also stopped bullying people, and even expressed discomfort/regret with the way they acted-

“I’m not proud of it,” said Sirius quickly.

“Of course he was a bit of an idiot!” said Sirius bracingly, “we were all idiots!

[sirius talking to remus] you made us feel ashamed of ourselves sometimes

A lot of people are idiots at the age of fifteen. He grew out of it.

-when they were younger! i’d also like to point out these little lines i noticed when i was finding quotes for my argument which snape stans like to ignore:

James and Snape hated each other from the moment they set eyes on each other

I mean, he [snape] never lost an opportunity to curse James

there was a flash of light and a gash appeared on the side of James’s face, spattering his robes with blood

wow, look at that. the hate they felt for each other was mutual! snape also jinxed james! but oh wait - james was the one who matured! snape was the one who bullied his son twenty years later because he looked like james!

3. snape didnt abuse the kids at hogwarts

here’s a real argument i saw when looking through some pro-snape posts: ‘snape wasn’t an abuser, because abusers don’t let their victims retaliate, but snape did let the kids talk back to him’

what. the. fuck?!

this is the dictionary.com definition of abuse: ‘to treat in a harmful, injurious, or offensive way’ or ‘to speak insultingly, harshly, and unjustly to or about’. i’m pretty sure snape did both of these things-

“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!”

“So,” said Snape, gripping Harry’s arm so tightly Harry’s hand was starting to feel numb.

Snape threw Harry from him with all his might.

[hermione’s teeth] "I see no difference."

‘Idiot boy!’ snarled Snape [at neville]

-on multiple occasions. i’d also like to remind you guys that neville’s worst fear is SNAPE?! his TEACHER, a figure that is supposed to be there for emotional and educational support is his worst fear in this entire world?! above the woman who drove his parents to insanity? over failure, over his abusive grandmother, over everything? his teacher? and for the pro-snaper that used this quote-

Nearly everyone laughed. Even Neville grinned apologetically.

-to claim that it was a joke, it isn’t a joke. because when snape came out of that cupboard, he was terrified. yes, it’s an embarrassing thing to have as your boggart, but the point is is that it is. he is terrified of that man.

4. james only joined the order because his wife was a muggleborn and he ‘had to’

this is just factually incorrect. james had been sticking up for muggleborn rights since he was in school, far before he started dating or even became friends with lily:

“Apologize to Evans!” James roared at Snape, his wand pointed threateningly at him.

“I’d NEVER call you a - you-know-what!”

so this is literally not true!! plus, at least he did join the order, whatever his reasons where (which were canonically good). snape didnt join the order. snape was friends with someone who suffered discrimination in society, and instead of using his privilege to help her and support her, he joined a group that was set on murdering people like her. when james had a friend who underwent oppression (remus/lycanthropy) you know what he did? he illegally became an animagus.

5. snape had to be a death eater to survive at hogwarts as he roomed with blood supremacists

this is the shittiest excuse i have ever seen in my entire life. as a poc, this comment really reminds me of the argument ‘i was raised in a racist white household! i cant control my beliefs!’

you can always control your beliefs. i understand not going on big rants about blood inequality in front of a bunch of supremacists, and i understand wanting to blend and fit in (especially because he was unpopular and needed the support the slytherin boys provided), but i will never understand then becoming an active member of the group yourself. he got the dark mark. he helped voldemort. he was a death eater, and a proud one at that! no-one forced him to join. this argument literally makes my blood boil.

6. snape had a lot of trauma from being raised in an abusive household

okay? so did sirius. so did neville. luna was bullied at school, just like snape. harry lived in an abusive household. did any of those people bully children? did any of those people join a blood supremacist group? and dont get me wrong, im not calling any of these people perfect - they all had a lot of flaws - but none of them hurt another people to the extreme that snape did.

7. snape saved the trio’s lives many times

this is the absolute bare minimum. ‘oh wow, he didnt let harry die!! what a king! he should be respected and praised! we should excuse all of his other actions because he didnt let people die <3′

8. snape is not a perfect person, he also did good that many people overlook

you’re right, snape did do some good things in his life. but unfortunately, for me and many others, doing a couple of good things doesnt excuse all of the shitty, abusive things he did too. we’re not ignoring them - we just dont think they’re good enough reasons to forgive him.

‘but james and sirius hurt others! you ignore all the bad things they did in favour of the good!’ you do the same thing with snape, first of all. second, they did a lot of good stuff. james’ and sirius’ only crimes were being annoying. for being a bit of a dick, conceited, knew they were hot and were a bit entitled. while these things are annoying as fuck, they were also stupid teens that eventually grew out of their behaviour and became better people. not perfect! better. while snape just stayed bitter at the marauders, long after their deaths, and even took his anger out on an innocent child.

9. people only hate snape because he was poc and queer coded

as a poc and queer person, please stop. this is a very bad excuse. being poc and queer (which im pretty sure he isnt, but anyway) doesnt excuse you from your actions. plus, a huge amount of harry potter readers are poc and lgbtq. why would they hate snape for those reasons?!

so thats all i got for today. im not gonna go into a deep snily/jily thing because i literally cannot be bothered. anyway im done. i need to go revise, i’ve already spent long enough on this.

#i wanted to put this in the pro snape tag #but i will be slandered so much if i do #hate on me if you want i dont care #harry potter #the marauders #james potter #pro james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #peter pettigrew #anti severus snape #long rant #lily evans #jily #flowerpott #anti snily #wolfstar

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diavolosthots · 3 years

Note

Hey dear! I hope that you have a good time! I want to make a request, but please delete it if you don't feel like doing it.

I saved that request in the notes and been waiting for you to open them 😊

For request

First fight with brother (any of your choice) and one of them (I mean MC or that brother) thinks that it's end of relationship (because never had anything serious), but they reconciled in the end. I want some heavy angst with happy ending. MC can be GN if that is OK.

If you don't mind you can do for Mammon, but feel free to choose another one if you don't feel like write for him. Or if that would be better to write as headcanons for all the brothers. That's up to you!

I haven't been doing requests for ages. Please don't hate me if there is something wrong! I've read the rules, and I hope I haven't missed anything.

Anyway, sorry for long ask. And thank you for your writings!

(I forgot to look if you did anything similar, and remembered it at the end of writing that ask. Sorry if you already did something like that!)

Hey babes ❤ I did end up doing HCs for all of them because I thought it would be cooler (or more like I know someone is gonna request separate fics for all of them if I dont and I'm saving myself that trouble lol) I still hope you like it ! ❤ also this got SUPER LONG so its under a cut

Warning: angst -> happy ending-ish

THE BROTHERS in a fight with MC and thinking that they’re over (yikes)

Lucifer:

Everyone always says Lucifer is quick to lose his cool but he’s honestly been nothing but patient with you. He may have hinted at several things he doesn’t condone and he definitely has that ‘look’, you know the disappointed dad look, but he has held back a lot so as to not ruin the beautiful relationship you have with him. Everyone snaps, though, and when he finally did, it was ugly. He did NOT call you names, but oh he didn’t. He went straight for your feelings and pointed out every mistake you ever made for as long as he’s known you. Ouch. In his defense, you weren’t nice either. The argument ended nasty and ‘I hate you’s!’ were definitely thrown around, but none of them were meant, right? Goodness, he doesn’t know. After you left, he threw himself on his bed, literally, and just stared at the ceiling. His anger slowly fled away and he began to feel… guilty. Not necessarily because of the argument itself, but because he delivered some low blows and he knows that. Are you over? Done with him? You haven’t texted or called or talked… you’ve been actively avoiding him and he doesn’t like that, but his pride is such an issue, goodness. He can’t straight up apologize, that dickhead, but he’s sending you flowers and standing in front of your door with a sad face that says it all.

“Forgive me? I made reservations at your favorite’s? We can talk over a nice dinner?”

Mammon:

Mammon is known to get mildly agitated over the silliest things, let’s be real. He’s also quick to revert to the “are you dumb?!” argument, which is never effective. But he loves you and he would do anything for you so even if you do do something that he deems ‘dumb’, he usually bites his tongue. Doesn’t mean that doesn’t get on his nerves, though, and he definitely has a short temper, although people tend to overlook that. You just managed to push his buttons today and he used the “are ya stupid?!” argument, to which you obviously defended yourself, and rightfully so. This ended in a massive screaming match and him saying “Then leave! Ain’t nobody keepin’ ya with me!” He regretted it the minute those words left his mouth and you could see his eyes grow wide in shock at his own words, but that didn’t mean you stayed. “MC!” he tried running after you immediately but you were faster and honestly, who can blame you? He fucked up, and he knows it, and he feels terrible about it. Honestly, he’s crying just at the mere thought of you taking his words seriously and he can’t… he can’t bear to lose you, you know? What’s he gonna do? You’re the light of his life, as pathetic as that may sound to some…. So he won’t let you run away. Homie will hunt you down and beg for forgiveness.

“Please, MC! Forgive me! I’m dumb, not you!!! Don’t leave me…” Don’t leave him. He will continue crying.

Leviathan:

His constant need to put himself down is frankly, quite annoying. To you anyway. But you put up with it and just reassure him that, at least to you, he’s the most amazing demon that ever existed. It’s just facts. But a person only has so much patience, right? You can’t always spend your days trying to lift him up when all he does is dig himself a bigger hole. Who has the emotional time for that? You sure don’t. “Oh my God, Levi! Shut up! I can’t take it anymore!” Followed by “See! You’re just like everyone else! Leaving me!” and then you slamming the door to his room shut. It’s frustrating and understandably so. It makes you feel awful that you can’t even make your own boyfriend feel good about himself and get at least a little bit of self confidence and it’s so, so, so very draining to have to constantly listen to that. At this point, it’s affecting your own mental health and you just… you just can’t…. But Levi can’t lose you because he knows you’re right. He has to work on himself if he wants to keep someone as amazing as you with him and that’s why he’s crawling back to you now.

“Look I… I know you’re right… I’m sorry. I promise I’ll … I’ll try. For you.”

Satan:

For being the Avatar of Wrath, you always admired Satan for his ability to keep cool. He prefers the relaxed and easy going life much more than the type of life people expect him to live, and you respect that. That doesn’t mean his constant need to one up Lucifer, through whatever means necessary, didn’t bother the hell out of you, though. You tried talking to him about it once or twice in a calm manner, but you always got the same answer “Pfft.. it’s Lucifer. Who cares?” And it never sat right with you. Just today he decided to pull a prank on the eldest and you had enough, standing in front of Lucifer and letting the bucket of cursed green slime land on you instead, to everyone’s shock. “What are you doing?!” Now that you’re thoroughly green from head to toe, you were also beyond pissed. “What am I doing?! What are YOU doing?!” But Satan matched your anger tenfold, accusing you of favoring Lucifer over him and oh! “You probably got an affair with him, too!” Which was a stupid thing on his part, but it looked like it the way you defended him. Anger doesn’t even begin to describe the emotion you felt running through you and had it not been for Lucifer, you probably would’ve physically fought Satan for such a dumb accusation. Lucifer took you to get cleaned up and lifted the course, giving you your natural skin and hair color back within a few days and plenty of scrubbing, and Satan felt like shit. You’ve always been there for him and, rationally speaking, he didn’t have a reason to doubt your loyalty to him, but he just can’t help but feel insecure beside Lucifer…. He decides to come apologize anyway, a deep blush on his face and guilt in his eyes

“I’m… sorry for accusing you. It wasn’t my right to speak out of anger and jealousy…”

Asmodeus:

How can anyone fight with the Avatar of Lust? Seriously, the guy is super easy going and he loves pretty much everyone. Not as much as himself, but almost. You on the other hand… you didn’t. Well you didn’t NOT love him or yourself, but you were just… you. You didn’t spend 4+ hours in the bathroom trying to get ready when you knew you were only going to the kitchen down the stairs. Like?? Although you never brought it up to Asmodeus, he constantly bothered you about skincare and what foods to eat and what not to eat, etc… It’s quite annoying, honestly, and at some point you just gave him a passive aggressive “Okay, whatever. Can we move on now?” To which he didn’t take lightly. He was still nice and sweet, trying to convince you that at least one of these things will make your skin glow brighter than a unicorn’s ass but you just had enough. “Can you stop?! You’re indirectly saying I’m ugly without that shit ton of product in my face and a diet that would make me starve before it helped me! If you want a skinny VS angel that barely holds onto their skeleton, get one!” It was more hurt and frustration speaking than anything, but your outburst still shocked him and he was taken aback for a moment. And then you ignored him for a week straight and as someone who thrives off of attention, especially the kind he gets from you, he can’t handle that! So he showed up in your room in sweats and a tshirt and messy hair and no product on his skin.

“You’re right… we’re all naturally beautiful…. Wow that… that really hurts to say MC but can you forgive me?”

Beelzebub:

Oh the sweet, sweet angel. He’s far from innocent and you know that. We all know that. But for this story, I will give him the benefit of the doubt. His reliance on Belphegor is just really… annoying. Belphegor this, Belphegor that. “Belphie used to…” or “Belphie said….” or “one day when Belphie and I….” Like why does everything have to include his twin? It’s so annoying and so rude when your significant other is right here !!! and planning their own future with you, Beel, thanks. It makes you feel less than and like Belphegor will always come before you. It makes you feel like shit, quite frankly, and who is to blame you? “Hey MC did I tell you what Belphie---!” “No! Shut up! I don’t care! It’s always about Belphie! The day you come to me and don’t let that name drip from your tongue is the day Jesus comes back to save me and we both know that will be never! I’m tired of always being stuck with Belphegor! We are not equals!” Granted, you shouldn’t have yelled and Beel was more than confused at your outburst, but you wouldn’t talk to him anymore after that so he left you alone. He thought you may need an hour or two, maybe a day tops, but that day turned into a full week and he even lost his appetite just because he knows you’re angry with him. It’s been a week, does that mean you’re over? His heart aches just at the thought…

“I’m sorry for bringing Belphie up… I don’t want you to feel less than, MC. You mean a lot to me and so does Belphie, but you’re not Belphie and I need to learn that…”

Belphegor:

Honestly it’s a miracle he hasn’t lost his temper at you yet. Well, he partially blames it on his own laziness because if being angry or getting upset didn’t take so much energy out of him, maybe he would’ve snapped by now lol, but he tries really hard not to because he thinks your relationship with him after everything is pretty good, considering yall kiss and snuggle and fuck on a regular basis. But anyway, that’s exactly the issue. Considering everything, you’re still holding *that* against him. It’s never direct either, which makes it worse. It’s always said in a joking manner and something like “haha look it’s just like that one time you killed me” or “Beel’s grabbing that ham like you grabbed my throat” or “I remember seeing jesus for a moment there” and it agitates him. It makes him so angry, and he finally snapped. “I know I fucked up MC! Stop holding it against me! What do you want? A medal of honor? A survivor's certificate? Maybe a pat on the back for developing some sort of Stockholm syndrome that made you come back to your abuser?!” And then he left. And you may have cried both from confusion and your own anger, he isn’t quite sure. It’s just so…. Aggravating. He can’t deal with it. He knows it was a mistake spurted by his own insecurities and survivor’s guilt which ultimately led to his hatred but please, stop holding it against him.. He can’t keep putting up with it from the person he’s grown to love. He’s the one ignoring you and he won’t budge either because he’s a stubborn ass, but maybe if you come up first…

“I’m sorry for yelling at you… I’m just so tired for it being held against me… I love you, and you should know that, and I do feel guilty about what happened.”

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me headcanons #obey me scenarios #cheys headcanons #asmodeus obey me #belphegor obey me #mammon obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me beelzebub #tw angst

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lilyblyss · 3 years

Text

So, I was rereading my old posts and came across a Sukuna one I half-heartedly posted a while back and had a better idea about. The inspo's only slight, but it was still there.

Warning/Tag:: 18+, fem-bodied reader, noncon, slight talk of the supernatural, monster-fucking (Sukuna in his true form), degradation, name-calling, size-kink, overstimulation, spit kink, pet names (includes: doll, little one), a hint of a CNC kink

Note:: Sukuna is forever condescending, don't take his compliments to heart

You didn’t like to think too much about the supernatural occurrences that happened around your apartment. Other than the slight inconvenience of it all, it never really affected your everyday life. Sure, ruined lipstick smeared across your bathroom mirror and your eating utensils being moved randomly were a little much, but easily overlooked when you considered just how much you spent on the place. Not that you couldn’t afford a better place, what with your occupation and all, but as your late grandmother always said; the easiest way to have lots of money was to avoid spending it. Then again, if she knew where your money was coming from, she’d no doubt call it filthy.

Not that it mattered much to you. You minded the business that paid you, and being a camgirl paid you very well.

"I'm just saying," your friend always complained, "if you're making good enough money, you can get out of your totally haunted apartment."

"It's probably nothing to worry about." You placated. The annoying tricks and pranks were just that, and it's not as if you planned on living there the rest of your life. Everything would be fine.

Except when it wasn't. Especially because some humanoid, four-armed, two-faced, monstrosity was laying across your bed, barely covered in his kimono as if he ran the place. You stood at the entrance of your room, toothpaste foam still sitting on the corner of your mouth and your toothbrush beginning to slip out of your hand. You were just getting ready for bed, dressed in an oversized shirt and some mini-shorts.

The monster seemed pleased with your reaction, leaning forward with an awfully smug smirk on his face, eyes squinting as his mouths grinned devilishly, bringing attention to the tattoo on his face. You supposed the strawberry blond--almost pink really--hair would have taken points off the intimidation factor, but just his blood-red eyes were enough to stop you in your tracks. He was attractive in a terrifying way, a 'living on the wild side of things' way. If he was human, he might have actually been someone on the street you'd be attracted to.

“Ah, so you can finally see me,” he hummed, voice almost slurring, “I was starting to think my efforts were in vain. Be grateful, little one, that I’m so patient.”

You quickly wiped your mouth, placing your toothbrush in the cup on your dresser. You slowly looked around the room for any sign of breaking and entering. There were none. “W- how did--who are you?”

He stood from the bed, hunching over just a little to keep from bumping his head against the ceiling--look at that, the small extra for the high ceilings did come in handy--and walked over to you, stopping you in your tracks. He doubles, almost triple you in size and you take a step back. You looked almost like a rabbit, eyes focusing on the most dangerous thing in the room in case you needed to run. Poor thing just didn't know how trapped you already were.

His large finger curved around your chin, tilting it uncomfortably to make eye contact with him.

“Ryomen Sukuna. King of Demons. And you have caught my interest.”

“Me?”

“I prefer not to repeat myself, little one.” His voice is gruff, and it’s your first sign that maybe this man--demon--thing—isn’t the most patient creature on Earth. “That little… profession of yours, it’s intriguing. You certainly keep me interested in my pastime.”

“You’ve seen my…” Well, that’s a little embarrassing. This all-powerful creature not only noticed you touching yourself to millions but also happened to make a hobby out of it. “Why are you here then?”

“Simple, I want you to submit yourself to me. Put your body to good use.”

"Ah, so you wanna fuck me." He raised his eyebrow, but the interest still painted his face.

"Crude, though I guess expecting you to be a little bashful was an oversight; but yes. I want you. And I'm not asking."

You stared up at him, keeping eye contact as you took deep breaths. Slowly, carefully, you hold your hand out. Sukuna raised an eyebrow at you as you tilted your head expectedly. “Well? Pay up.”

“Excuse me?”

"Even with my life in danger, I'm afraid I won't be doing anything for free, sir. Sorry."

Your blood ran cold in your veins as his red eyes glowered at you, almost glowing in the dim lighting of your room. Your room seemed to grow colder with his mood and you shivered.

"You expect me to pay you?"

You swallowed, clearing your throat before boldly saying, "Yes. I do. It's my job."

Your hands were starting to shake, and despite the resolve in your eyes, the fact that Sukuna could--and probably would-- kill you without so much as a second thought made you wanna curl against him and beg for mercy. But you had your pride, goddammit. And even though your grandma didn't approve of a lot you did, you knew she would at least love you for that much.

Instead of moving his hand and snapping your neck like a twig for wasting his time like you thought he would, he twitched your head side to side, taking in your expression before humming. Before you could even blink, you were on your back. He was sitting in front of you on his knees, and you were folded in half on his lap; both your wrists were trapped in just one of his hands, another of his hands pushed one of your thighs against your chest, the other forced around his waist.

Even with your foot planted on his hard chest, you couldn't even attempt to push him away.

You gasped when his third hand roughly grabbed your cheeks, making you look at him. You started to swarm, and he looked excited at the steady increase of your heartbeat.

"Do you really think you have what it takes to deny me? That I'm giving you a choice?"

Through labored breaths, you answered: "I… I thought we were doing business."

He raised an eyebrow, both intrigued and annoyed. "I have you trapped under me and you still have the nerve to mouth off?"

You let out a shaky laugh, tears starting to form in your eyes regardless of how hard you tried to keep them in. "It's the adrenaline. Sorry."

In the back of your head, you could hear a voice that vaguely sounded like your friend begging you to just be quiet, but you figured you were probably going to die here tonight anyway. Besides, you seemed to make a habit of saying the wrong things at the wrong time, you think it might just be ironic justice that it's what gets you killed.

Instead of the blood-curdling screams being thorn from your throat as Sukuna ripped it out, the only sound that rang through the room was Sukuna's laugh. First muted between his lips then shifting into a deep belly laugh. His eyes are wild, wide with dangerous wonderment, and his smile terribly wide, showing how sharp his teeth were and the warning bells rang louder in your ears. You were so occupied looking at his canines that you failed to register his fourth and last hand was on you until it reached under the hemline of your shorts. You let out a gasp when his fingers slid against your clit down to your opening, the rough callus on the tip in complete contrast with the smoothness caused by your slick.

“Is it all that adrenaline that’s making you this wet, or are you just accustomed to being ready for anything like a slut?”

You jolted, cursing your sensitivity as he massaged your clit. It wasn’t even the entire situation that had aroused you, but with the only sexual attention you received coming through the screen, there weren’t many times that you had been touched by another person. Having his hands on you, pressing against your skin, and maneuvering you however he pleased was just what your body needed to get you in the mood.

“I’m not a slut!” you yelled. He didn't care to respond. He removed his hand from your shorts long enough to pull them off before returning to part your folds and play with your clit.

Wiggling your hands, you hoped that he would loosen his grip on you, but it did nothing. In fact, it made Sukuna hold you a bit tighter, wanting to watch you struggle more. He normally wanted absolute submission from what he wanted to claim, but the show of defiance was almost fun to him; a shocking difference from what he was used to. It reminded him of the past when demons ran free without the worry of priests and purifications, where he’d have the privilege to actually conquer. He licked his lips as you struggled to keep the pleasure from showing on your face; as if you couldn’t fathom enjoying this. He decided he wanted to see how long you could keep that up.

He pushed one of his fingers into you, not caring that just his one finger was about the length of two of yours. He started at a slow pace, wanting to feel your walls pulsing as they tried to quickly get used to his fingers. Heavy breaths accompanied by faint moans leaving your parted lips as he moved. You continued to squirm, but now for a different purpose, wanting his finger to press more firmly against that spot that sent shivers through your entire body. You cursed yourself for looking for pleasure on his fingers.

He smirked at the shaky breaths you made when his hand moved from your face to sit against your neck. “That feel good? You can tell me, little one.” he mocked, pressing against your inner walls to prepare you for another finger. "You should thank me for being so kind, preparing you like this."

You bit your lip to try to keep your voice in, eyes shutting to block him out, not wanting to indulge him by showing him how good you were feeling. Not that he didn’t know it. The way you cant your hips against his hand was needy, almost as if he wasn’t moving fast enough for you, was telling enough. Still, he decided to play your little game.

However, the soft moan that escaped your lips when he pressed against the side of your neck let him know that he was winning. Not wasting a second, he inserted his second finger. It forced a pained moan out of you, toes curling against his chest as your body tensed from being stretched with almost zero warning. You let out a curse when his fingers curled up, increasing the speed as he fucked them into you.

He ignored your pitiful whimpers asking him to wait, back arching as you tried to scoot away from his fingers, already feeling overwhelmed yet not close to coming. You could feel your eyes water as your body begged for a break; you couldn’t even wrap a hand around his bicep to ground yourself.

“S-Sukuna… please it’s--I can’t.”

Just as you thought, he didn’t listen. Blinking a few times and feeling the tears run down your cheeks, you saw Sukuna’s face; condescending, pleased, and aroused beyond belief as he watched you fall apart around his fingers. It’s like he enjoyed the idea of ruining you.

“It’s just two fingers, doll. Are you telling me you can’t even take that? What a worthless whore, after all.” With a laugh coating his words, he sped up the movement of his fingers, and you choked on a moan, a sob quickly following after.

“Y--! You don’t exactly have the most normal fingers!” You struggled to muster. The leg at his waist curling around him and pressing your heel on his back. You briefly wondered if you had enough strength to attempt to kick him, but the hand at your throat moved to grab your ankle, inadvertently pulling you closer on his lap. It was then that you felt the imprints of something large and thick on your ass and lower back, and you shivered.

Sukuna leaned forward, pressing an open mouth kiss against your neck, making sure his teeth scraped against the surface, almost as a reminder that your life was in his hands at the moment. “Hmm, so you still have a bit of fight left in you, do you?”

You refused to answer, biting your bottom lip as hard as you could, too concerned with trying to stay quiet to worry about the threat of drawing blood. For the first time since Sukuna pinned you down, he clicked his tongue in annoyance, one of his hands returning to your face and forcing your jaw apart.

“I grow tired of this damned habit of yours.” Before the irritation could truly settle on his face, he pressed a hard kiss against your lips. He shoved his tongue in your mouth, almost suffocating you with the need to keep his lips against yours. He was brutal with his kiss, almost as if he wanted to hurt you. But you couldn't tell if it was because he didn't realize his own strength in regards to you or if he just didn't care. He gave you no room to breathe, tongue domineering as it claimed you. You tried to bite him, but Sukuna pressed his thumb in as well, hooking it against your molars, and tugged as a warning, disregarding the tears falling because of him.

You let out a groan as he sucked your tongue into his mouth before pulling back. He looked at you as you fought to catch your breath, and was aroused at your tear-stained pitiful face and bruised lips, still held open by his thumb. For a moment he looked like he was contemplating something before gathering the spit in his mouth and letting it drip on your tongue. He moved his thumb to place against your bottom lip and looked at you expectantly.

You swallowed as best as you could as you felt heat rush through your body, the pleasure almost painful as it continued to bottle up.

Sukuna could feel the arousal thumping through his body as you shakingly opened your mouth to show him. "And I didn't even have to tell you what to do. What a good little thing you are."

You knew he didn't mean it, not in the way that should make you tingle, but with the way he just kissed you breathless and his fingers quickly bringing you to your peak, your waterlogged brain couldn't tell much of a difference at this point.

"Haah, Sukuna, 't hurts!" Your body started to tense so much it hurt, your stomach felt tight and you wanted to scream because of all the sensations going through you.

"Poor thing, you wanna cum?" He sounded smug, but you were too focused on trying to calm your nerves before you lost your mind.

"Please! Sukuna, 's too much! I can't—!"

"Then come."

If you thought Sukuna was kind enough to gently work you through your orgasm, you were sorely mistaken. His fingers continued their brutal pace, forcing you through your orgasm, even as your overstimulated body tried to twist and turn away from him. The tears running down your face are almost in tandem with the erratic beating of your heart. The moan you let out bounced against the walls of your apartment and Sukuna reveled in it.

As you came down from your high, Sukuna moved away from you. You shook uncontrollably and you pressed a shaky hand against your lips, embarrassed that you'd been so loud. You wondered if your neighbors were going to complain about you to the landlord in the morning. You wouldn't blame them if they did. You covered your eyes and tried to control your breathing, allowing your body to relax for a moment.

A quick moment was all you were allowed, because soon Sukuna grabbed you again, pinning you under him as he aligned your hips with his. Tired, you looked at him, eyes drinking in the fact that he'd stripped himself, fixated on the tattoos lining his pecs and abs. Your legs parted for him, tensing when you felt his cock brush against your clit as he shifted.

"You'll only be taking one of my cocks tonight, but next time, I'll expect you to take both."

Your eyes widened, quickly looking down when he placed his cock--one of them--against your lower belly, the other pressed against the curve of your ass. It reached just below your belly button, and he was thick enough that if you were to wrap your hand around it, your middle finger and thumb wouldn't be able to touch. It was intimidating and he expected you to take two of those the next time he came?

He smirked, hand holding his length against you, drinking in the sight of his thick shaft on you. "This is how far I'll be, little one."

"It won't—"

"It's going to fit." The look he gave you meant business. He wasn't taking no for an answer, not that he had since the beginning. "I didn't work to open you up only to not fuck you. I'll make it fit."

Sukuna was pleased to see that even as you complained about his length, you sat still as he lined himself up against your hole. You laid down completely, willing yourself to relax as the head of his cock slid against you, toying with your clit then pressing against your entrance.

When he began actually pushing his cock into you, you let out a shocked yelp, tensing while your hands automatically moved to push against his shoulders. He disregarded you, continuing even as you clawed against his thick skin, raking down his chest—not that your nails caused much harm to him.

"Ugh! Wait—fuck!"

"You're so loud," he scoffed, pulling your stiff legs apart and opening you up for himself.

You wished he'd prepped you more. As much as his pace and thick fingers hurt, it really didn't compare to his dick; not even your thickest dildo was as much as Sukuna was. Admittedly, the pressure against your already pulsing walls was nice, but every time he moved it painfully reminded you that Sukuna was making you adjust to him, not letting you. The thought did help you loosen a bit more, but Sukuna could tell he wasn't going to get too far with you as you were, even with the shallow thrusts he was currently doing.

You let out a soft cry as something slimy and thick danced against your inner thigh before moving to your clit. You look down to see a tongue hanging out a mouth on Sukuna's stomach. Your head fell back against the floor with a small thump and you moaned softly. Right, you thought, monster... demon or whatever. You couldn’t find the strength to worry about it, though, since it lapped at the nub, sending pleasant shock waves up your spine while Sukuna split you open on his dick. It wasn't too long after that he finally bottomed out, holding you still as you squirmed to try to get used to him inside you.

"What'd I tell you?" Sukuna asked, snapping his hips one good time and smirking when you cried out in pleasure, "You take it just fine, my little whore."

That thrust was the first of many, and soon he was pulling out all the way to the tip before pushing inside you.

Your mouth dropped open and you couldn’t keep the moans from leaving your mouth. After the first few thrusts, the drag of his cock inside you felt amazing, and you moved your hips in small circles against the tongue. You grabbed his forearms, trying to ground yourself while giving you leverage to thrust against him as well, chasing your pleasure. Sukuna let out a growl, placing one of his hands against your lower stomach and effectively pinning you down. His hips slowed to a stop as he looked down at you.

“And what do you think you’re doing, little one?”

You whined, wiggling against his hold. “Sukuna, please move.”

“Fucking yourself on my cock? What a desperate little thing you are.” Two of his hands moved to your hips while the other two circled behind your back, pulling you up. Your chest pressed against his as he sat back on his thighs. As he moved, you looked down to see the tongue returned back into its mouth.

You looked at Sukuna curiously, moving your hands to grip his shoulders. “But I thought you wanted me to give myself to you?”

“No,” his grip on your hips tightened, slowly lifting you off his cock until only a little was still inside you, “I said I wanted to fuck you.”

With that, he pulled you down on him, making you ride him faster than he was currently fucking you. Although, to say you were riding him would imply you had any control in the matter. He was using you like you were a sextoy, thrusting into you without any abundance or regard to you at all. It seemed like the loud moans were just a plus to him. He pushed another bruising kiss against your lips, drinking in your moans.

You wrapped your arms around him, hoping that your grip on him would keep you in control when you felt another orgasm building, but Sukuna might just be trying to fuck the sense out of you. He swapped out his quick thrusts for slower, harsher ones, thrusting in you and rolling his hips, molding himself against your pulsing walls. Your body tensed and without thinking, you sink your teeth into Sukuna’s shoulder. He groaned as his hips stuttered, thrusting out of rhythm for a second before he resumed.

“How cheeky,” he smirked, one of his hands moving to the back of your neck, wrapping around it harshly and yanking you off of him. “And here I was, thinking I’d treat you nicely.”

You didn’t think two or three slow thrusts would qualify as being ‘treated nicely’, but your mind was miles away at that point. His rapid thrusts returned, and when his hand covered the loud moans escaping your mouth, you knew he planned to finish himself off without any more distractions. You wondered if you should move against him, attempt to speed up the process, but considering his earlier reaction to you rutting against him, you didn’t think that was wise. Besides, considering how he didn’t even want to hear you moan, you figured you were all out of favor, so you had no choice but to take it.

Satisfied with your submission, Sukuna loudly growled. He threw his head back at the feeling of shooting his cum inside you, filling you up as you screamed against his hand. Just as he coated your walls with his cum, you could feel his other dick let out a stream of cum against your ass and back.

He held you still, pulling you flush against him as he used you to ride out his orgasm, a pleased hum rumbling in his chest as he felt you quiver. Your body started to ache almost immediately, and it didn’t help that he kept you sitting on his cock with no sign of moving whatsoever.

“U-uh, Sukuna?” Your throat itched uncomfortably as you tried to talk. A bath and a cup of warm tea definitely had your name on them. Sukuna certainly wasn’t going to take care of you.

He shushed you, a sharpened nail running up and down your spine. “I just gave you a gift, little one, it’s best you don’t waste it.”

Despite your better judgment, you closed your eyes and willed yourself to relax. Letting Sukuna use you was as physically taxing as you expected it would be, and if he planned to repeat this certain act, you were going to need all the rest you could possibly get.

#jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk #jjk x reader #tw dubcon #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna ryomen #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna smut

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chaozsilhouette · 3 years

Text

A Revealing Performance

My rendition for the Shadow Play in @winterpower98's Swap Au.

It was supposed to be a simple thing, then it sort of spiraled into this whole deal. For the effects of the Shadow Lantern, I drew some inspiration from her Cursed Au as I never thought simply using her friends was cruel enough for the Monkey Tyrant.

It serves to show just how far Macaque has grown, but also to highlight just how monstrous he was.

_____________________________

Mei refrained from downing her bubble tea as she waited for the play to start. It had been a rough couple of weeks with Spider Queen and that creepy girl. And failing to find where Xiaotian had run off to after the misunderstanding. When Macaque sent her tickets to the local theatre, she was ashamed to think it was a trap.

Pigsy and Sandy were right. After everything that happened, she needed some serious me time. She had been too stressed.

Besides, everyone knew Macaque was a total theatre nerd. Few people knew that the star puppeteer was actually the Six-Eared Macaque himself. He would totally send her tickets from his stomping grounds as a way to unwind.

It was a shame that Tang couldn’t join them. Apparently, he finally managed to schedule a meeting with the Celestial Realm and was Taking the demon brothers to figure out a new way of sealing the Monkey Tyrant. It was also his chance to explain their little break-in during New Years. He encouraged her to have fun and if it was good, he’d join them for the next showing.

So here they were waiting for the performance to start. Although she wondered what the fake mayor was doing here. They hadn't seen him since he gave her the skeleton key. Still wasn't sure why he had it or why he gave it to her? Supposedly she was only supposed to have it for a day, but he never stopped by to pick it up.

_____________________________

Sun Wukong was a monkey of many talents, but even he had to admit Macaque was a far better storyteller and his mastery of shadows was sheer perfection. But that just made this plan all the more perfect. What better way to teach his wayward beloved’s little flower a lesson than through a trusted medium.

Obtaining a spot in the local theatre was child’s play, a little magic and they were all but begging him to take center stage. Apparently, they had been scrambling to find a new performer after their star puppeteer had to leave for a family emergency (three guesses as to who that was). And with a little glamor, a set of tickets was left at the little flower's doorstep. As far as she knew, Macaque was proud of her progress and believed she had deserved a reward for all her hard work. She was so desperate for something to go right she hardly questioned how her mentor, who was in parts unknown, managed to secure tickets for a new performer.

In his personal dressing room, Wukong delicately touched up his human disguise. Even if he was going to be hidden in his hanfu and cloak, it wouldn’t do to spoil the surprise. Applying his eye shadow with artful flair, the Monkey King took time to appreciate just how handsome he truly was no matter what form he took. Honestly, who would have thought such perfection existed?

A pulse of dark magic drew his attention to his latest partner in crime.

The Shadow Lantern gently floated before him. Its dark magic practically purring at the thought of being used. Wukong could almost laugh at his beloved’s foolishness. He was there when his darling created the lantern, when he infused his own shadows into its very foundation. Did he honestly think such a masterpiece would tolerate being left to collect dust in a cave?

Normally a magical artifact would never consider turning on its master, but after centuries of abandonment, all Wukong had to do was whisper his intentions to return Macaque to his former self to secure its loyalty. The second he first made contact, he could sense a twisted hunger writhing within and with each performance granting it the chance to feed on the life essence of the viewers…. hehe, he almost couldn’t contain himself.

Looking up at the clock, he saw it was just about time for his next performance. His clones had reported the girl’s presence along with the pig and the water demon. Strangely the one with glasses and the little matchstick was absent. No matter, he could make do with two hostages just fine.

After all, the show must go on.

_____________________________

The overhead lights dimmed, signaling the start of the play. Smoke slowly poured from beneath the floorboards, generating an air of mystery. In a flash of golden light, a tall man wearing a beautiful cloak manifested on center stage. The crowd silenced themselves at the display.

“Welcome viewers to a performance you shall never forget!” From the folds of his sleeves, an exquisite lantern floated in front of him. A mesmerizing yet familiar purple glow emanating from the center.

“Our tale tonight is one of love, companionship, and how even the strongest of bonds can be severed through the trickery of the wicked.”

In the background, the shadows twisted and grew in the lantern’s light. Carefully they formed a beautiful scene of a mountain covered in flowers and trees. Attention was gradually guided to the top, where a round stone basked in the sun.

“It all began with the birth of a King.”

The round stone broke, revealing a figure that resembled a monkey. But no, this was a monkey demon, a monkie if you would. The King journeyed down the mountain until he found a tribe of normal monkeys. The group frolicked for a while as the King established himself as the undisputed ruler of the tribe.

A large figure with an ax appeared. The monster brought down his ax upon a small collection of monkeys only to be stopped at the last second by the King. The King used his superior strength to steal the demon’s ax and used it to decapitate the intruder in a single stroke. The monkeys jumped around the King and praised his strength, but the King did not appear satisfied.

“The young King was born with great power and strength, but he sought out more to protect his people.”

The King crafted a raft and set out on a dangerous sea. The King was shown to face off against mountain gods, human warriors, and demonic sorcerers always to reign victorious but never satisfied.

“In his travels, he learned much and faced many enemies, in time his efforts were handsomely rewarded.”

The King climbed a fleet of stairs carved into a mountain to reach a humble monastery. At the top, a stern human stood, but behind him was another monkie. This one however possessed six ears.

“His quest for power led him to a Warrior of potential equaling his own. At first, neither was sure how to react to their mirror, but they quickly forged a comradery that took them far.”

The two monkies trained together, mastering new powers as they sparred.

“Their time together increased their power exponentially and as they grew stronger their feelings blossomed into something beautiful.”

The two were on a cliff overlooking the stars, slowly leaning closer to one another. Eventually, the two faced their opposite and leaned in close.

“Their fates had become intertwined. Their power was unmatched. It was then the King realized what he had been searching for all this time.”

The two shadows merged together in a complex dance until they separated into two beings once again, but not as they began. The two monkeys were now garbed in elaborate, yet practical armor and silks. The King wielded a staff and the Warrior took up a spear.

“Slowly their strength grew to where nothing could challenge them, whether in the Celestial Realm or on Earth.”

The King and Warrior were shown battling heavenly armies and powerful demons with confident smirks. Each battle resoundingly won through their combination of speed, strength, and cunning.

“But it was not enough. The King wished to ensure that he and the Warrior would be able to fight together forever and sought the power and respect needed to secure their future.”

The King took to the Heavens, where he stood before an Emperor in the most extravagant outfit, surrounded by massive guards in magical armor. The Emperor was clearly afraid as the King effortlessly toppled one guard after another, slowly approaching the throne at a steady pace.

“The King’s noble actions were viewed negatively by those who feared his ever-growing power. Eventually, a prison was crafted that could restrain the King, one that not even his beloved Warrior could destroy.”

Just before the King’s latest attack could reach the Emperor, chains wrapped around his limbs and dragged him down to Earth. With a quick flex, the chains shattered, but the King was doomed as a mountain landed on him with a seal placed at the top. The Warrior tried to pry off the seal or find some way to weaken the mountain, his acts growing more desperate with time, yet nothing worked.

“Cruelly, the King was forced to wait until he could be freed, forced to watch his precious Warrior defend their Kingdom on his own.”

With a heavy expression, the Warrior abandoned his efforts to return to the original mountain as dozens of terrifying figures surrounded the monkey inhabitants.

“Centuries passed and their love still burned strong. Soon their patience was rewarded, the King was freed but he was soon trapped in a new prison.”

A monk approached the mountain and removed the seal. The King swiftly destroyed the mountain. The monk humbly bowed to the King and offered fresh clothing and a fillet. The King garbed himself in the gifts only to collapse in agony when the monk prayed.

“Enraged the King played along until the time was right. The King and the Warrior reunited in secret and crafted a plan that would allow them to take their revenge on those that dared to separate them.”

The two monkies hugged and nuzzled each other in appreciation. A quick conversation later, the Warrior changed to resemble the King and joined the monk as the King headed into unknown lands.

“Decades later the King was ready to retrieve his love, confident in his regained strength. But when he arrived the Warrior had changed. It was as if the warrior had lost a crucial part of himself. The Warrior tried to dissuade the King from killing the monk and his companions. He even tried to convince him to give up his rage at the Celestial Realm, believing the war that would ensue wasn't worth it.”

The disguised Warrior was traveling with four colorful characters. The King dropped from the sky in front of the group, a massive crater forming around him. The Warrior regained his true form, but instead of returning to his rightful place, he blocked the King’s view of the monk.

“The King could not believe his ears. This could not be his Warrior. His love always understood his goals and knew why heaven had to pay. The King knew this change was the monk’s fault. The King moved to silence the deceiver in one quick strike only to find it blocked by the Warrior.”

The King and Warrior exchanged blows that tore mountains asunder, split the heavens, and burned down forests. The other demons following the monk tried to aid the warrior, but nothing they did seemed to slow down the King, if anything their attacks only served to further enrage him.

“The two clashed until the Warrior fled with the jailers. Time and time again they clashed, but never could the King reach the Warrior he held in his heart.”

The group fled from the battle, but time and time again the King tracked them down. The locations may have changed, but the carnage after each battle remained as world-shattering as the first. In the end, the Group managed to truly escape, and the Warrior vanished into the shadows he wielded, leaving the King alone with nothing but his memories.

“Even now the King yearns for the companionship of his beloved Warrior, knowing that at his core the Warrior craves the same.”

With the final line sending shivers down the spines of the viewers, the puppeteer vanished in a flash of light.

_____________________________

As Mei waited for her family to walk out, she couldn’t help but think about the play. It almost sounded like they were telling the tale of the Monkey King. But that was ridiculous. No one knew the Monkey King’s origins aside from minor details from the Journey to the West. Besides the narrator seemed to view the Monkey Tryant as a hero and victim. Clearly, that guy needed a reality check.

“Hello, young one.” Nearly choking on the remainder of her tea, Mei turned to see the puppeteer standing behind her with a knowing smile.

His cloak shrouding the top of his face in shadow. For a second, Mei envisioned her father Macaque. He would adore that look. Actually, didn’t she see a similar outfit in his closet on Flower Fruit Mountain? Doesn’t he wear that outfit when he’s hosting a shadow play?

Wait. How did he sneak up on her like that? Was she that out of it?

How long has she been quiet? Crap! Say something! “Oh. Ah-hello. C-can I help you with something?”

“I was about to ask the same. You do know the theatre is going to close soon right?”

“What?” Mei grabbed her phone. The digital clock flashed that it was past nine. That couldn’t be right. That meant she had been waiting for nearly an hour. But where were the others? Surely, they wouldn’t have left without telling her. Were they in trouble?

“Is everything alright?”

“Ah- yeah, everything’s fine.” It’s cool. It’s cool. She could handle this. She just needed to stay calm. “No need to worry about me. I just ah-I have a few questions about your play.”

“Yes.”

“How did you could up with the concept? I mean, no offense, but your premise could be taken the wrong way.” Maybe it was the panic over where her family had disappeared to, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being sized up.

“Hm. Have you ever heard the expression ‘History is written by the winners’?”

“Yes. It’s pretty common.” Like one of the most used sayings in the world.

“The tale was designed to show that love is one of the most cherished feelings of all and that in order to protect it, one must be willing to do anything to keep their loved ones safe. The King only wished to keep his beloved by his side, but the Warrior was misled and forced to battle against his love. That story may belong to only two, but similar tales can be experienced in anyone’s life. Tell me, can you think of a time you fought with those you cared about due to a misunderstanding?”

Without even considering it, horrible memories resurfaced. Mei arguing with MK as she tried to stop him from leaving with the newly released Monkey King. Mei forced to battle Red Son as his mind was slowly consumed by the True Fire of Samadhi. Tang lying to them about his true identity. Macaque leaving when they needed him most without saying why.

“I see you can.” The puppeteer gently guided her back into the main hall, where she took a seat on an empty bench.

“It’s nothing. I just-” She honestly didn’t know why she was pouring out her heart to stranger. Maybe she really was that exhausted. “-there’s so much going on and I’m supposed to be strong no matter what. But sometimes it hurts, just thinking about all my mistakes. Sometimes I wonder if I truly am strong. What if bringing me into this was a mistake?”

“What if it was?” That voice!

Mei turned to see Macaque garbed in a strange outfit, one that honestly reminded her of the Monkey King’s. She was confused. She had never seen him wear anything like that, he looked like the Monkey King’s twisted shadow.

And that expression! Her father Macaque had never made that face before. It looked as though he was reveling in her suffering.

“What’s the matter, little jade? Don’t worry, I won’t leave you alone.” He extended a hand slowly with the intent to cradle her face. A normal gesture he would use to comfort her, but her every instinct was screaming at her to get away.

Mei jumped to her feet and pulled out her spear, aiming it right between the imposter’s eyes. “Enough games!”

Macaque stared at the spear for a second, his fiendish expression only growing more vicious. He threw his head back with a full-bodied laugh, showing how little he thought of her threat. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

In a flash of light, the Monkey Tyrant was standing before her, still wearing his puppeteer disguise. “Wow. About time. For a while, I was wondering if you’d ever figure out it was me.” His red and gold eyes carefully roved over her body, taking in every shake and fearful twitch. “Put down the spear, kid. We both know you’re not nearly good enough to scratch me with such a pitiful copy of the Dragon Blade.”

That may have been true, but she’d sooner make out with DBP in full view of Queen Iron Fan than leave herself completely open before this tyrant. “So the play was from your perspective. I always figured you were delusional, but this is a new low. Where is my family?” She all but growled, unknowingly her canines had slightly elongated in response to her rage.

“They never left. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize this.” The Monkey King took out the lantern, once more bathing the room in that familiar glow.

“What’s the big deal about a lantern?”

The stone monkie found her ignorance all the more entertaining. To think he hadn’t warned her of his own past.

“The big deal is that my dear warrior crafted this lantern long ago. It was his finest work and like everything he made it has multiple uses.” With a simple hand gesture, the silhouettes of Pigsy and Sandy appeared on the walls. “The Shadow Lantern can do more than enhance one’s skills in shadow magic, it can trap the bodies and souls of its targets. So long as the targets are trapped, the lantern can steal the shadows of its victims so its master can use them as a personal army until there is nothing left.”

“You expect me to believe Macaque made something so disgusting?” Even as Mei said it, she couldn’t help but recognize how similar the lantern’s magic was to her teacher’s. It was cool and soothing, but on the edge, there was an unmistakable edge of malice. “Even if he did, I doubt he made it without you whispering in his ears.”

“Oh child, you have no idea how many secrets he keeps from you. Let me share one with you.” The lantern grew brighter, and the silhouettes of her family members gained more substance as they peeled away from the walls.

Mei adjusted herself so all opponents were in her sight, but nothing could stop the sweat collecting on her forehead.

She sensed something powerful appear behind her. Jumping out of the way as a spear nearly severed her arm. She faced her new opponent. Only to almost drop her weapon.

Standing before her was another copy of Macaque only this one was even more disturbing. Its eyes burned with purple light, the shadows loving curled around it, but worst of all was the sneer filled with razor-tipped teeth.

“Did you honestly think my love was always so nice?”

#lego monkie kid #lego monkie kid au #lmk #long xiaojiao #mei #sun wukong #liu er mihou #monkey king #monkie kid swap au #shadow lantern #winterpower98 #i need to lay down #shadow play #monkey tyrant

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