#digital docketing

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[sclappin]

Said something to @agaricandmoss about how my Warden wants to study Zevran like a bug, and then this happened.

[kirby-the-gorb]

[otherworldworldy]

Black Unicorn ✨

[handinlovablehand]

i really really like the tapas version of the banner so it's getting its own post

[pumaskulls]

struggling to like anything I sketch tonight, so instead of AF stuff I returned to an old sketch of Cloudy's brother to finish designing him! now if only I could remember what the fuck I wanna name him

[kithtaehyung]

minted (explicit) | myg

title: minted (explicit) pairing: street king!yoongi x street cart vendor!reader rating/genre: explicit (18+) ; angst , suspense , smut ; haegeum au , gang au summary: all you do is wake up, sell your fruit on the dusty streets below your flat, and go to sleep. but everything changes when a customer you always look forward to seeing turns out to be dangerous. really, really dangerous. note: again, this wasn't on the docket for 2024 until i saw one (1) mint yoongi edit on my pinterest feed💀 anyways, this is dedicated to hali @sailoryooons for ur belated bday, nary @joonary for being a cutie pie and letting me adopt the tangerine cart girl idea in general, and luce @minttangerines for ur url and for being a wonderful friend. love you all! warnings: this series may not be for everyone, language, violence, weapons (guns/knives/chopsticks/etc.), blood/wounds mentions, drugs, alcohol, murder, gang activity, poor reader is just trying to get through the day, mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, tatted!yoongi, his eyebrow is pierced, tension, slow burn, choking, reader suffers from “my cabbages” levels of disaster, slight e2l, fight sequences, multiple future explicit scenes, yoongi deserves his own warning, chains but who is ever ever shocked, graphic depictions of violence drop date: august 5th, 2024, 9:03pm est word count: 9.4k aiyaaa✌ mood playlist: here

—

—

Ever since you could remember, gang activity in your town has run unchecked. 

Anything goes. Rough fights out of nowhere, car chases busting streets, or even random delinquents snatching food on the run, dust kicking up onto stock they left behind. 

And out of all the districts, yours is begrudgingly the second worst. 

Why? You still aren’t completely sure. But you do know that the darkest is reserved for the underbelly that only slithers in rumors. A place in which you will never find yourself. 

But you do wonder what must happen there to warrant the winning title because each day here is a battle to keep yourself afloat. 

All you do is sell fruit. Why are you fighting for your life every week? Why can’t you exchange goods for money in peace? If you could compare it to the movies you grew up watching on an outdated television, it’s a grungy reflection of the wild west.

But through all the shit you’ve chosen to endure, at least one person is always kind enough to buy his wares and go.

And today is no different.

You still don’t know his name. But you yearn to. Because his hair is the color of magic and rebellion, and his tattoos really set off that bright mop of locks. 

If those lethal, piercing eyes weren’t enough.

When he lifts three long digits, it takes all your strength to nod and get his purchase together. This is the part that never changes, either.

Just like always. One, three, or five fingers for tangerines. Never two, never four, and never any other fruits. 

It’s charming, in a way. As if he’s more particular than most about what he wants—a trait elusive to many.

Like clockwork, you would hand his order over in thin plastic, and he would walk away to hitch a ride on a passing cart. Just like he does right now with a lazy gait, white tee billowing from his jeans. 

Another day. Another exchange.

In the wavy heat of summer, you sigh. Wondering if anything is ever going to change, and if you would ever get to know more about your most frequent, most mysterious patron.

After a while, you do try talking to him. 

Those looks of confusion slowly turn into little hums or grunts, then into single words that keep you going for days. Even though you rarely hear it, his voice is just as attractive as he is. 

One day, you offer him a plantain, handing it over and telling him it’s on the house. 

“Thanks,” he says amongst the clinks and conversations of the street, pocketing the food away. 

When he does, you see a flash of black metal, and you already know what he’s carrying. You’re used to seeing all sorts of those around nowadays. In this district, you’d be shocked if he didn’t have an arsenal on his person while traveling through.

Besides. Even you have a couple collecting dust in your own flat, handed down by extended family but never used.

“If you ever need anything other than tangerines,” you start with a point to his pants, “Please buy those instead.” 

He’s unmoving. Blinks are all you get so you have no choice but to explain,

“I’m so tired of eating them with everything.” 

When he huffs in amusement, your heart flutters thrice. There’s no reason for a sheen of sweat and sticky mint locks to be so deadly. 

“Then eat something else,” is all the stranger advises before walking off. 

Well.

Even though you don’t have much of a choice, the guy does have a point. You wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest if his aim’s just as straightforward as his wit.

Once one exchange lasts longer than a sentence, the two of you start little conversations during his visits. Which prove more fatal than normal since he’d rest his tattoos on the top shelf of your cart. 

From what you can make out, there are creatures stretching in beautiful teal and vivid orange, and even striking white on his other arm. They ripple so well with his veins, a canvas that sways and hypnotizes with every drum of his fingers. 

You know what they symbolize, though it’s unique to have all of them together. 

Taboo, even. 

But you can’t hold back your admiration because of the sheer beauty. What would they feel like if you just… 

“You always stare this long?”

Shit. “Oh, sorry. I just… I rarely see anyone’s ink up close.”

To your dismay, he takes his arm back. “I don’t have a lot of time today, princess.”

“Right, sorry. Hold on,” you respond, cringing hard at blurting two apologies in a ten second span. 

Meanwhile, your way too handsome regular cocks a brow, clearly comfortable making you squirm as you hand over his bag. 

Effortless. In your chaotic life, It’s almost intoxicating feeling someone this resolute in their whole demeanor. If only you could be so commanding and assured one day. 

But here you stand instead, pretending to count fruit you one hundred percent know the stock of already. “Your art is really nice, by the way,” you admit to your inventory. “All the high-powers. I like what you picked.”

“Didn’t choose these.”

Ah. Way to assume things. 

Raising your head, you make to apologize a third time.

But he’s already retreating with his tangerines, hand stuffed in a pocket and beautiful waves a little less vibrant than you recall. 

“What.” 

“I worry sometimes.” 

His gaze lifts. “About me?” 

“Yeah.” 

You don’t know why you choose to say that of all things. But it’s honest. You always wonder about him and think about the weapon in his jeans. Does he use it? Does he ever need to? 

Maybe you should pick up a hobby or two.

Fingers resting dangerously close, he asks with a tilt of his head, “What would you do, doll? If something happened to someone like me.” 

Someone like him? What does that mean? 

Great. Now you have even more to wonder about, as if he knew that was your exact predicament.

You stare, roaming along his arms before meeting his eyes—almost. “Find someone else to buy my tangerines.” 

Huffing, his brows tick up with his mouth. “I respect that.” His attention doesn’t leave your face as he slowly takes his purchase. “See ya.” 

“Bye,” you whisper back, watching him go. More thoughts and concerns bouncing around your mind in the sticky heat of midday. 

These little nicknames he’s using also aren’t helping your issue in the slightest. 

It starts when you hear shouting from a block down.

“Here they come!”

“Bunch of idiots this time.”

“What do you mean this time?”

Rough raiders this early? They should know it’s almost time for Dragon’s sweep. Bold.

After you hear the telltale yells, clanks, and bangs, your section of the street braces for impact. 

And it swoops in like a whirlwind, ruffians tearing through, pillaging and stealing and swiping goods into thick woven baskets. 

Baskets? The usual suspects always carry leather bags. You assume because of their sturdiness and inconspicuous nature, but what do you really know.

Here it goes again. 

As your fruit is taken right from your cart, you sink to your toes, mourning the regular loss of your menu.

No use fighting. Like every other time, you all let it happen because there’s no point in trying to protect anything that isn’t valuable. Perishables and small homemade goods aren’t worth getting gutted over. Truly, the worst losses you suffer are when—

Your cart shifts violently before thieves topple it over, cracking one of your wheels and splitting the wooden boards in three places.

Springing to your feet, you douse the perpetrators in anger, “What the hell!”

“Oh, this was yours?” Someone chides while his cronies run past. “Thanks for the oranges, love!”

“They’re tangerines!” you correct at his retreating back, kicking your cart before yelping at your bad decision. “Damn it…”

Back to your knees you go. Head drooping, arms encircling, and disappointment pooling around like a shadow.

More shouts and feet in the road rampage through. Then it gets quieter. And quieter. 

Then it’s done.

After silence swells in the wake of chaos, groans start making their way down the street. 

“What’d they get from you this time,” you ask your neighbor, a charming old man selling anything from bowls to wide, round frying pans. 

Looking over his little wreckage, he blinks hard. “They got my woks. Nothing as bad as yours. You okay?” 

Walking over to help clean his mess up first, you bend down with a sigh, “I’ll be alright. But it still sucks.. My poor tangerines..” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Not much to do about it now,” you resign, all your energy taken from you, too. 

A little bit of time passes as you complete your usual round of help, though this raid was worse than others. As they all give their thanks, you keep thinking about how to make the whole situation better. Moreso for them than you because you’ve always been one of the least vulnerable ones on the block.

“You should find another place to sell, dear.” 

In disagreement, you slip into a saddened smile. “I can’t leave you guys,” you explain to the lady you’re holding pails for. “Who will help clean everything up?” 

“Don’t underestimate your elders now.” 

“Fair,” you respond through a chuckle, handing her one of the metal buckets. “If only better protection was an option around here.”

“You know the rules,” another shop owner drones through lingering spices, “Dragon won’t protect us if it isn’t in their own interests.” 

Unfortunately, he’s right. Every single raid that hasn’t coincided with a gang sweep goes overlooked. Even the city police don't bother coming down your street anymore, which is another issue in itself.

If only Tiger or Crane had been the high-powers in place instead. 

At least they seem to be more fair.

After you finish helping, you finally venture back to your own cart, realizing that the trek is a lot further than you thought. 

Did you really walk so far this time? The damage was dealt for much more than a block at this point. 

Not like you need to sprint back, though. What’s left to steal? Everything you got swept into those woven containers.

Still so odd…

But not as odd as the sight that greets you on your return. 

Because instead of seeing your wreckage of a cart tilted and abysmal, it’s upright and being mended.

By none other than your favorite set of hands.  

What the hell? What’s he doing here? You quite literally have nothing to give so there’s no reason for him to spare a second at your broken stand. 

Fast-walking, you hastily try to halt his help, “Oh, shit, you don’t have to—” 

“Course I don’t.” 

That shuts you up. In your split second of silence, you note with agony that his hair is messily tied in a minted bun. Are his sleeves bunched at his biceps, too? Great. What were you even telling him again? 

Ah, yes. You were telling this mystery of a man that he doesn’t have to literally put your stand back together. “Seriously, I got it.” 

“Don’t sweat it.” 

“But it’s my cart, I don’t need your—”

With one look over his shoulder, your mouth snaps shut. And suddenly can’t move to argue again. 

What the hell is up with today? 

Forget all that. What’s he doing? At least you’re familiar with all the shop owners and vendors on your block, though you can’t say you wouldn’t do the same thing for someone you don’t know. But this guy has always been so standoffish and barely approachable. So how is he lending both hands to help you right now? 

Whatever. If he’s gonna be as stubborn as this heat, you can be, too. 

Scanning the area for scattered tools, you find a sun-warmed hammer and get to work, fixing one end of the cart while he works on the other. When you feel his gaze on your working shoulder, it takes massive strength to ignore him—even if you wanna know what his issue is and why he smells really, really good this afternoon.

Looks like you need more nails for this board to fit. When your eyes find a couple on the ground, you clinch a second piece between your teeth while hammering in the first. 

Sounds stop at your side, but you wait until you pluck the metal nail from your mouth and stamp it in to look over.

Oh. He’s eyeing the hammer. Not you. Obviously. 

You wordlessly hand it over, arm slicked with exertion. Because after the day you’ve had, you don’t feel like everything needs a spoken sentence attached. 

It takes the guy a bit to take it from you, but when he does, he holds your stare. “Thanks.” 

You simply nod, eyes sticking to him as he works on the tattier side wait it looks almost new. Better than it has in a very long time. Did he really get that much done in the time you were gone? There’s been great care taken during his repair if that’s the case.  

Hmm. You finally learn something about your favorite customer. Maybe he’s just been a mechanic or carpenter this whole time? 

Contemplative, you get up on sore legs to walk to your cooler—something thankfully missed by the rough raiders. Digging through the clinkage, you retrieve a local beer you recently procured from the restaurant across the street. 

It’s not much. Absolute bottom shelf. But it’s all you got other than a few pieces of oni-coin, so he’s gonna have to deal with it.

When you offer the glass, your regular eyes it for a moment. More than enough time for you to get a good look at his striking floral top.

Well. Mechanic and carpenter are out of the question because that one piece of clothing looks more expensive than your entire apartment building.

Who even is this guy? Now you feel destitute handing him something so cheap.

Just when you think he’s gonna refuse, he takes the beer and smoothly shucks it open, suddenly making you wonder how a bracelet can do that and why it was so attractive.

God. You need to walk straight to the nearest inlet stream and dunk your head right in.

“Thank you,” you whisper, gulping at his full swigs. “You really didn’t have to do all this.” 

“Got some time to kill,” he shrugs. Standing, the man takes another sip, peering along the street with sunlit eyes. With the bottle near his mouth, he murmurs, “You really need to set up somewhere else, doll. This street’s turning into a hot spot.” 

Squinting up at the long lines of clothes and curtains floating in the breeze, you sigh at the building nearest. “I live close,” you sulk. “And this is the easiest place to get to.” 

Those are excuses. Just tell him the real reason you won’t venture out and plop yourself somewhere more profitable. Well, maybe not all of the reasons, but the main one. 

Leaning back on your cart, you stare at the loose dirt, swiping some with your shoes. “Maybe I’m just used to it at this point.” 

He won’t respond. Or he’ll respond in his own way, which is mostly silence. 

But a bright strand falls over his face before he hums, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

Many people have warned you at this point. It’s basically your stubborn and spiteful nature that’s making you stay in the first place. Why would you move when you chose to be here? Why leave a place you actively choose to call home? 

Fighting spirit quelled, you nod right to your stand as you count what’s salvageable. “I know, but I like it here.” When he lifts an unbelieving brow, you look away. “It’s true. But trust me, if there was a way to just make it all stop, I’d take it.” 

He takes another swig, both of you looking into the street and watching things slowly get back to normal pace. Adults and kids alike are back to wandering around, buying what’s left and offering condolences. 

“I’m not fixing another cart,” your patron turned repairman grunts, motioning to your wheel as he steps back. “So don’t fuck this one up.” 

Huh? It wasn’t your fault! All the accidents and chaos that blow through aren’t something you can control oh he’s grinning. Why is he grinning? Why do you feel hot all over? 

His teeth shine in daylight. “I’m messing with you.” 

Ah. 

This version of him is not good for you at all.

When he starts to walk away, you blurt out a quick, “Wait!” 

Shit! Why did you do that? What are you possibly supposed to say right now? All you wanted was to see him a little longer… And while staring at his backside would be more than enough, you kinda wanted to actually talk. 

What do you do? He stopped; he’s waiting. 

And he looks impatient as hell. 

Snapping into action, you round your cart and trot over, offering your name as if you didn’t just give up where you lived. 

Then—without thinking—you ask for his with the most curious, innocent, “What’s yours?” 

Silence has never been so booming.

In the dusty swirls of your street, you wait with a back that’s getting sweatier and colder with each passing second. 

Was that not okay to ask? Did you fuck up with a single question? 

Perfect. You just blew your one good thing about being out here. Wincing, you crush your words so hard you think your teeth will break into dust, drifting off into the very breeze wafting his striking locks. 

After a condescending puff, he only smirks.

Then he takes one step. And another. And another.

The air around you melts, weighing on your shoulders while lighting them aflame all at once. It’s a feeling you can’t describe to anyone else, because they would just need to stand next to this man to believe it. 

Checking to see if the street is clear, your best customer leans over. Slowly. Purposefully. “Yoongi,” he offers with a voice so handsome you’ll think about it for days. “But don’t fucking tell anyone.” 

Oh. 

Why did… you kinda like that? 

Blinking, you swallow. “I won’t.” 

This is when he’s supposed to just leave. He’d walk away, bag swinging with his strides. But ever keeping you on your sore toes, the man just chuckles low before rasping out the most devilish sentence in existence, 

“Always took you for a good girl.”

Then he backs away, turning on his heel and leaving you a statue in the street.

Yoongi. 

For a hardened soul, his name is so… 

Tender. 

For the next sixty days, you don’t get ransacked once. 

But there’s also been no sight of Yoongi. 

As the weeks trudge by, you can’t decide which outcome is worse.

The skies are magnificent today. But obviously at a molten price.

“Thank you for trying,” you say to a lovely wares owner before venturing back out into simmering streets. Exhaling, you wipe sweat from your brow, squinting before choosing to walk left or right. 

Left seems promising. 

You’ve been searching for hours now, perusing through shops, checking out vendors both nice and catty. But after a whole day’s search, you still haven’t found what you’re looking for. 

It’s nothing urgent or pressing. But you would at least like to be prepared. 

Since your initial mission is a bust, hopefully your next one makes up for it before you melt right into gravel and dirt.

Find a meal.

Walking along the busy roads, you pass a few options and keep them in mind, making sure to greet a fellow tangerine cart vendor with a smile. Hopefully they do well today.

A couple steps further, a giant cooler catches your eye. Seafood of all types lie inside along cubes of ice, and you weigh the pros and cons of smelling like fish just to have a cool head.

But before you can make any choices, the smell of spices and hearty soup softly pull your feet inside the restaurant nearby. 

What’s here? Noodles? You’re always down for that. Apparently even in scorching weather.

After ordering, you take your seat at a random middle table in a chair facing the entrance. 

Always facing the entrance.

Damn. You really need to accomplish what you set out to do. But sunset is fast approaching these days, and you aren’t anywhere close to home. All you have time for now is eating and heading out. 

The service here is quick, at least. You’re already thanking the owner for sliding a bowl in front of your sweaty form. 

With a head full of thoughts, you stare into nothing, stirring your noodles and waiting for the heat to die down. 

Maybe you should’ve just walked a shorter distance and checked the shops you originally wanted to browse. If things went to plan, you could’ve been back by now, freshly showered and curling up on a worn down bed. 

But instead, your feet are sore, your head is anything but washed, and you have to trek home empty-handed—on the first day off you’ve had in months. 

Defeated, you sigh, going back to your bowl and watching sliced vegetables swirl in aromatic broth. 

At least the food in this area seems good. And the fading decor really adds to the… 

Ambiance. 

Wait. 

Dragons. A lot of them. 

You can’t pull your eyes away from the crew walking in, bringing heat from the sweltering sun in their eyes and donning their telltale, striking teal. 

But you can only kid yourself for so long because the one that truly has your gaze tethered is the man in front. The one you haven’t seen in weeks. The one looking right back at you with a visage so shadowed you feel like moving tables to let him pass. 

…Yoongi? 

His jacket. The colors.

He’s in Dragon?

Suddenly his hair makes terrifying sense.

As his guys stalk through, you swallow hard, not expecting to see him and having no earthly idea what to do with this harrowing information. There are so many thoughts overlapping each other that they all amalgamate into one huge batch of sludge. 

Aren’t you smack dab in Crane territory? There’ve been white suits peppering the streets everywhere. 

So what the hell is Dragon doing here?

From the slight confusion pinching his forehead, you know Yoongi didn’t expect to see you, either. Which makes it even weirder when he slowly takes your chopsticks right from your fingers. 

Hold on, what—

“What are you—”

A lone, long digit over lips is the only response you get, silencing you immediately before you whip your head around to watch him rush past. 

All of them waste no time tearing up the stairs, a myriad of blues blending with gritty paint and smoke. 

And just like that, your reunion is over. 

Home. You need to go home. Leave, leave, leave, because something is bound to be going down upstai—

A thud faintly shoots out into the staircase, and you spin around again in your chair, eyes snapping to the ceiling. 

Shit. 

Even though you’re on high alert, you realize with a quick sweep that no one else is noticing. Or moving. Or even paying attention to anything else but their own company. 

Does no one else care about the commotion? Do hits happen in this area that often? 

Mind running, you can’t decide what to do. Because even though Yoongi’s guys have plenty of weapons, he clearly had nothing since he needed to borrow your damn eating utensils.

Another crash rains dust on conversations around your shoulders, causing you to look up one last time. 

Go home, go home, go home. In what universe would Yoongi himself ever need your help here? 

With one more look at your noodles, you curl your lips before biting a side. 

Already yelling at yourself for choosing to book it towards the back staircase. 

Shit shit shit this is so stupid. This is probably the worst decision you’re gonna make in your life.

But your gut is churning thinking about Yoongi. Even a seasoned swordsman needs expertise to wield mere chopsticks and win. 

Fuck, if you succeeded in your search today, you probably could’ve been a little more useful. 

Swiping your own set of red from a nearby cup, you hightail it up, slowing as you round a corner and immediately hear multiple clangs and scuffles beyond the last turn.

Stop. You can go back. You can still turn around and go home.

An inhale.

Your feet propel you up and into a dark hall. As you slowly slide along the wall, your gut churns and churns. At a bang, you crouch with a skipped beat of your heart.

This is really, really dumb. But you can’t stop yourself and you have no clue why.

Nothing happens around you. So you keep going. With each careful slide of your foot, you get closer and closer to the noise.

Approaching the corner, you very slowly stick your head out for a peek.

And it’s pure commotion. Pure chaos. Holy shit, what is going on? 

Fuck, there’s already a body lying limp on the floor meters away—

Your chopsticks. You wanna hurl.

But a man flies out of a room ahead before he grips and wrestles with another, and you reel yourself back to avoid being seen by either one.

Where is Yoongi? Is he okay? Did he leave already?

You give one more peek, scanning the long raucous corridor as swift as you can to see any sign of.. Mint.

He’s still here. How’s he just walking so nonchalant as his crew fucks shit up? Crap, he just went into a room and out of sight. 

“Where’d they go?”

“Upstairs!”

Fuck, that was in the restaurant! Get up get up you have no choice but to hide now. 

With pounding steps, you rush forward and book it, entering a large room to dive behind some steel shelving and large, woven baskets right as more Dragons come in behind with fists clenched.

Breathe. Steady. Calm the fuck down.

The grunts rush to the hallway to join the fray, and you wait in the now pungent solitude of your room. With only a still body to accompany you. 

What do you do? What even can you do? 

Just as nerves grip your stomach like a vice, Yoongi strides into the open area, heading right for the exit and not even sparing his kill a glance. 

Go. Go now. Why can’t you move? Why aren’t your hands letting go of your cold confinement? It smells like death and blood and you need to leave with the only person you know—or don’t—so why can’t your feet just fucking—

Someone else slithers into the room. A man in brown with a knife. A knife, a knife, a knife he’s getting faster and Yoongi doesn’t hear him the guy is too quiet fuck! “Yoongi!” 

It all happens before your brain can paint the bloody picture. Shooting out from your hiding spot, you race towards the assassin, slamming into their lanky build just in time.  

Both of you topple to the ground, your target roaring in pain and twisting like hell to fight back fuck you didn’t get him how you needed to he’s got you—

Pain erupts in your hip as you’re grabbed, the room spinning as you’re thrown to the side and your ear hitting concrete right before chopsticks ping down. Thinking quick, you knee the guy as hard as you can, scrambling to finish the job because if you don’t, you’re gone gone gone.

“Bitch!” Your opponent clutches your shirt right as you reach for the nearest red pair, seizing your throat right as you grip and swing them around to stab the other side of his neck with a yell.

Luckiest timing of your life. 

“Hng!” Fuck, he’s still holding down hard and choking, choking, squeezing. “Fuck you!” 

Fight back. Keep the weapon inside he’s too strong finish him finish him. 

Darkness. Ink drops in water. Your vision taints as your grip loosens, and you can only hope that Yoongi got away safe. He had to. At least you… Were able to do… 

This one thing… 

…

Oxygen and life rush back into your lungs, color burning through your esophagus as you gasp for sweet sweet air. Right as you come to, all you witness is the heavy heel of a boot twisting the forearm latched onto you. 

And when the shoe leaves your vision. Lifeless eyes stare back.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck that was close. Oh god. You actually did it. Oh fuck. 

Coughing, you rush up as you get tugged and pulled right against chains and embroidery, your ears ringing with a gravelly command and glass breaking in the nearby corridor,

“Don’t say my fuckin’ name so loud.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Yoongi roughly lets you go before pinning you with pure anger. Not to say thank you. Not to tell you any words of gratitude at all. The only other thing he finds the need to say is simply, 

“You shouldn’t be up here.” 

What the fuck. You just murdered someone for him and this is all you get? Eyes welling, you feel your body slick and sticky with crimson when you turn, coughing and spitting out regret before you wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, “That’s—that’s all you have to say?” 

Dread swirls around your stomach like poison.

But the sternness from before completely vanishes as Yoongi lifts your chin. His eyes scan your throat and chest, and you rip your head away from his touch because he is not excused just yet. 

“It’s not mine,” you snap, knowing exactly what he’s looking for and what you must look like to him. Dirty. Gross. Certainly a far image from the girl selling tangerines.

But your face is gently held again, and somehow this softer turn carries more strength to swivel you forward. 

Why is Yoongi still looking? Now he’s holding your gaze as if he’s never seen you before. What’s that about? You’re still the same, the same, the same.

…Are you?

More crashes and shots are heard down the hall, and Yoongi snaps his head up in an instant. 

God, you smell. You reek. Your nose is tainted and your hands even more so. There’s no way he’s gonna have anything to do with you now. 

But you get the shock of the century when the man commands you to come along. “Let’s go.” 

Absolutely not. This is all you got in you for a lifetime. “What? No, no, no. No way, I’m going home.”

“And they’ll follow you the whole way back.” 

“I—I didn’t mean to—” 

Shots ring out before grunts barrel out into the short hallway. All of them piling out from crevasses and hidden passages. 

You give one more look at the two men now crumpled on the ground, bile rising up and threatening to spill. 

“Tough shit, princess. You did, now live with it.” 

Live with it. How poetic. 

You were protecting him. You did what you had to do. But you have blood on your hands again and now Yoongi will see you as something else besides a fucking street vendor. 

“Are you coming or not?”

You’re gonna puke your guts out.

With a stilted cry, you bend to snatch your weapons up yet again—gagging at the squelches and much deeper red—before following Yoongi’s long steps. 

Your hands. They’re shaking so bad you can’t even pocket the chopsticks properly. But you finally get them down, crushing your palms and squeezing just to stop them from rattling. 

When you wait behind Yoongi checking the corner, you turn around to make sure you aren’t being followed. And seeing the hallway still a moving mass of broken glass and hard swings, you think you’re safe. 

The stairs feel so different on the way down. Is that because you feel completely changed? There’s no coming back from this. Another side of you died right alongside those two people upstairs. 

No time to think about that. You have to follow his lead. And he’s slowing down why is he slowing down? 

Oh. Normal. Be normal to not garner suspicion. You have to do the same. 

Wait. You can’t go down there with a shirt full of stained evidence! Grabbing him and pulling back, you whisper, “Yoongi—”

His growl is so fierce your head spins, “What the fuck did I say about my n—”

“My clothes,” you panic. “I can’t.” 

Yoongi gives you a quick look before gripping the duffle strap. Brows lowered, he grits out while dumping it, “Lose the shirt.” 

“What?” 

“Do it.” 

“Where’d he go?”

“It’s gone!”

Your heads snap up before you lock eyes. And he doesn’t need to say anything to show you what he’s thinking behind those minted bangs.

As you hastily strip, your brain works in weird ways. Instead of processing how you very much need to hurry the fuck up, you lament the bra of choice today. And how sweaty you look. Because of course those are your thoughts of choice right now. 

Something’s dumped on you before your shirt hits the ground, and you think about its warmth before you realize exactly what’s on your shoulders. “You sure?” 

He’s already heading down. Oh god. You’re really putting this on shit shit shit. 

You’re quick to slip into the material before checking for your chopsticks, rushing down the rest of the stairs to meet him. Nerves firing on all cylinders, you follow Yoongi out of the restaurant with a single, disturbing thought. 

This is going too well. 

But you’re passing tables, you’re walking by the fish display, don’t fucking sob you’re out in the street now. 

Relax. You’re walking. His white tee is flawless and people have no clue you left a bloody shirt on a stairwell. Don’t fucking cry.

But suddenly.

Shouting erupts behind you both, just as a cop car rolls past the restaurant only to get surrounded. 

And with one look back, your brain freezes. Right before Yoongi sounds a little too delighted to say something so foreboding,

“Looks like you’re in it now.”

Adrenaline spikes as you burst into motion. Hot summer air stings your lungs as legs propel you forward, with nothing in sight except for your partner in high crime. 

Yoongi’s right. 

You’re in it now. 

And just like the delinquents that you despise, the two of you both kick up dust on the run. 

You’re really doing this. 

Holy shit, you’re really doing this and there’s no waking up, no jolting awake, no pinching yourself to know that it’s all a dream. The only thing pinching is your sides, fresh stings of karma with each heavy footstep through crowded streets, buildings, levels, wherever the fuck you go. 

At least Yoongi is commanding as he leads you through the city—clearly from a heap of experience. Though rattled, you follow him with more adrenaline than questions. Because running is all you know. Run, run, run, escaping is your only objective and you cannot let up even once.

Your feet pelt down a staircase before you leap onto a disposal bin, impact denting as you follow Yoongi’s long strides across the colorful tops. Shouts and metal pings echo behind you as your chasers catch up, and you grit your teeth so hard they rattle as you jump to alley ground. “Fuck!”

Searing, searing pain rushes through your legs as you twist and wind through busy corridors, squeezing into the gaps Yoongi finds as he barrels in front. 

“Get back here!” 

“You fuckers!”

Who’s following you? Are they even Crane? You don’t see a shred of white on their clothes at all so are they working for some random guy Yoongi stole from?

When you watch him turn at the shouting, all thoughts vanish as your gut churns. 

He’s grinning.

You just killed someone for him. And he probably has more blood on his hands than you can imagine. 

And he’s… enjoying this? 

You feel sick, mind blazing with a million red warning signs. How could you ever have had feelings for h—

You bounce off a passerby as you run, grunting at the sudden pain in your shoulder when another person rams into your back and topples you over, dirt scraping into your palms and knees. 

Shit shit shit it’s so dusty on the ground and all you see are traveling shoes where are you? Where is he did he leave did he even see you fall? It’s too condensed here there’s no way he’s not taking the next chance to disappear.

Forget all of that, they’re coming. The chasers are coming and you see them see you down get up get up get up what the fuck get up now.

Ripping out a groan, you rush to your feet as soon as someone swoops in, bashing someone right behind you with someone’s crate of fruit. 

Yoongi? He waited for you?

“Go!” 

Both of you hightail it with you now in the lead, and your eyes buzz as you slip through holes in the crowd. Left, left, right, around, left again, between. 

An intersection ahead. Yes. Lose everyone in the vehicle traffic or hitch a ride with a stranger. Fascinating how the survival tactics that spawn from your block develop in real time on the run.

Almost there, almost there, almost there—fuck! 

Whiffing in front of your nose, a metal weapon smacks the ground at your toes. 

Flailing, you dodge the next swing, ducking before you see a black duffle smack your assailant in the face. 

Keep going. Finish him and get away. As Yoongi shifts left, you lunge forward, sending a swift punch to the guy’s ribs that hurt like hell goddamn oh fuck someone brought a knife!

“Yoongi!” Just as the surrounding civilians yell and clear out, you rush toward his aid before you’re tackled, air whooshing out of your lungs as your back pummels into gravel. Fuck fuck fuck this masked woman also has a dagger. A thick one. Don’t let her win don’t let her win hold on for dear fucking life. 

Did you think you’d find yourself in a grudge match to keep metal from sinking into your chest today? No. Ever? Also no. 

Your arms are shaking. Shots ring out. Sweat is your enemy. The street is in uproar. Where’s Yoongi did he hear you? Fuck, the metal tip is pricking you now this is— 

Mercifully, your attacker yelps as something slams into her side, dark brown clothes crumpling before you’re hoisted upward and dragged back into the crowd. 

“Let me go or I’ll kick your ass—”

“You good?” 

Oh, it’s Yoongi. Again. Okay. Eyes swirling, you lock onto the gun held flush in his other hand before you nod. “I—I think so—”

“Then keep up.” 

Winding between people, you’re only focused on getting away. But when you catch glimpses of him, he’s back to his glint. He’s exhilarated.

If only you were both doing anything else. If only you weren’t so queasy and guilty and loathing of your own self.

Right as you finally burst into bustling traffic, Yoongi boldly stops a taxi at its hood, motioning you to follow him inside. 

Shocked but head reeling, you open the door closest to your sweaty legs and slide in. 

And before you can even greet the shouting driver, Yoongi pulls you to his side and rushes something out in your ear, 

“Kiss me.” 

“I said get out!” 

“What?” 

“Come here.” 

You’ve kissed before. Not many times, but enough to know that this man knows what the fuck he’s doing because you feel like your soul just abandoned you to exist in this car forever. You don’t know why this is happening or where this came from, but his lips feel as soft as his name and as deadly as the gun he’s pulling on your driver—

“Han Station,” he drawls, halting time and space. “Or your papers are burned by morning.” 

Oh. 

You were just… Oh. 

Lips puffed and head swirling, you sit frozen in your spot, marinating in the realization that the best kiss of your life was a mere distraction. And as you watch Yoongi keep his aim straight, you assume he probably didn’t even think much of it, either. 

“…I thought you looked familiar,” the driver slowly grits, hands gripping his wheel before he shakes his head. “You’re a little far from home.”

You think that’s all he’s gonna say. But his eyes are sharp in the rear view mirror, knowing a gun is pointed straight at his dome. “Aren’t you.”

What is he getting at you need to leave fast—

“Agust.” 

…Huh? 

Agust? 

This is the first time you feel a heartbeat against your arm, and you hold a breath as Yoongi tightens his fingers on the gun. 

When he doesn’t reply, the car fills to the brim with tension, and you feel crushed by its liquid weight. 

Don’t you have to go? Aren’t you in a chase? Are you getting a little too hot?

When you go to slide to your own side of the car for some space, the hand around your shoulder squeezes. 

And you’re more confused, exhausted, and thrown off than ever. 

“Han Station,” is all Yoongi—Agust?—repeats, voice ice. “Now.”

To which the taxi driver stares, standing his ground until he breaks eye contact first to obey. 

“Fuckin’ Dragons and their useless whores.”

Oh, fuck that. 

Before you can lunge forward to outright strangle the man, Yoongi does something that has your eyes magnifying into saucers and hands shooting up to your mouth.

He fires the gun straight at the man’s thigh, yelps leaving both the driver's throat and yours holy fuck! 

“You bastard—”

“You’ll live. Drive.”

“Fucking—fuck!”

The car shifts through traffic, swerving left and right and cutting off slower vehicles. When force smushes you closer into Yoongi’s side, you can’t help but notice how fit he is, and how calm he’s being despite the whole chase. Despite that spike in adrenaline. Despite blowing a hole in a stranger’s leg for six words.

He also feels really, really good against your side, but you can’t let that matter anytime soon. There’s absolutely no way you can let this dangerous man in, especially after this entire nightmare of a day. 

So you swallow, trying to compartmentalize because you’ll reach insanity if you don’t.

Does anyone out there know you took a life minutes ago? Or hours ago? You just kissed a criminal five and a half minutes ago. Would they care about that, too?

The window is suddenly much more interesting than any of your wandering, slingshot thoughts. 

Wait. It’s very pretty in this area, and you finally can tell some semblance of where you are. Because you only know of one part of the city that looks like this, and it’s deep in Crane territory. 

Did you both really make it this far? 

Carefully tended to, it’s a lot greener on the sidewalks, and more open on the roads. And it’s on one of these roads that you finally notice the sunset, gold accents shining on sleek street signs and the tops of buildings that seem much more at rest than you do. 

Rest. Sleep. Home. 

With the luck you’re having, it would be a miracle and a half to reach even one of the three. 

Did you get followed? You don’t know how much longer you can run, so you really fucking hope not. 

“Almost there,” Yoongi whispers, voice scratching your ear in the worst and best ways. “When we get out, move your ass.” 

When you watch the wary, heavy breathing driver in his rear view mirror, you bite out, “I know how to get out of a car, thanks.” 

“Just listen to me.”

“Why?”

“Do you trust me?” 

“No.” 

That came out quicker than you could stop it. But Yoongi only lets silence come between you before he squeezes your shoulder. When he speaks, you can hear how carved out his smirk is without even seeing it, 

“Good girl.”

And you spoke the truth. It wouldn’t have come out so fast if it weren’t. But you know to at least follow his advice here because he’s kept you alive thus far. He didn’t need to drag you out and protect you the whole way, so it’s not like he would steer you wrong here. Right? 

Right? 

“Here,” Yoongi orders before the car slows to a stop. 

That wasn’t so bad. You can get out normally now so why did Yoongi say—

Right as your foot hits ground, the taxi peels out, forcing you to throw yourself out of the side before the rest of your body leaves with it. 

Fucking hell that hurt what the fuck was that for? 

Dirt and dust coats your tongue before you do anything to spit it out. Saliva rushes from your glands as you cough and hack, all while feeling every muscle group in your body begging to not stand up. 

But you feel rough, commanding hands on your arms. “You good?”

“Yeah—”

“Then get up. Get up.”

Straining and wincing like hell, you follow Yoongi’s lead yet again. Because you hear cars rolling up with bad intentions and that means you have to sprint again. 

What the fuck did Yoongi steal? And how the hell are these guys still on your tail? Their resources have got to be as good as Crane’s and yet, they don’t feel the same at all. 

You’re hobbling, but you’re going. You’re rushing. You’re going to get through this alive. 

Instead of heading into the underground, you find yourself ascending a flight of steps. Rumbles and rattles hit your ears as you realize exactly what kind of station this is—one you haven’t seen anywhere in your district. 

Han Station is a floating railway? 

Holy shit, where are you?

Yoongi skids around a corner before you plant hard to stop yourself, only to see him clash with someone before something connects right with your stomach, and you crumple before you feel a solid hit to your head. 

Oh.

The world spins and moves as you hear vibrations, slowed sounds that could be shouts. Gunshots? Or maybe songs? You don’t truly know but your head is aching—

Your arm rushes up to block something before your body follows, and you scream before gripping whatever you can and flipping a whole body forward. 

Reality crashes back into your ears as you snap out of your head. 

You haven’t had to do that maneuver in forever. Was muscle memory more than enough?

“Come on!”

Go. Go, follow him, both of you need to get to the rail shit it’s leaving!

The blaring reverberates through the air, pinging off metal and wheels screeching on the track lines as you bolt for the open doors.

Mid-stride, Yoongi swings to look at the people barreling up the stairs. “One more time: do you trust me?”

“No!”

“Good”—his hands grip your waist—“Jump!”

Head empty, you leap onto the railcar right as it starts to pick up speed, and you watch in horror as Yoongi empties his clip behind him until he can’t anymore. 

“Yoo—” Fuck, what was his name? He seems to not prefer the one you call him and that has to be for good reason. What was it?

You’re leaving. He’s gritting his teeth while hitting the bottom of his gun but he needs to get up! What was his fucking name! 

“Agust!” 

Yoongi finally whips his head around, dashing to the end of the train and straining to carry the duffle. 

He needs to launch it or leave it behind. There’s no way he’s not being weighed down so hard. “Here!” you yell, knowing that look is only reserved for people he doesn’t want to trust. It’s normal. But it still stings. “Hurry up!”

After one more second, he swings it around and flings, leaping onto the side handrail after you get blasted by the bag holy fuck that hurt. 

He was running with this the whole time? No wonder his shoulders are so cut this is heavy.

Straining, you peek out into the wind, seeing Yoongi holding on and scooting along thin steprails towards your awaiting hands.

Shit, this is dangerous. Buildings and the city below fly by, and a parallel train whooshes and roars past as you finally tug him inside with shaky wheezes.

Just like that.

You made it out.

What the fuck. You did it. No one else was able to get onto the train. You’re safe for now. 

Finally, finally, finally able to breathe. 

But goddamn, you both stand out like blood on a blank page.

As you struggle to fully stand, you notice everyone else on the train—well-kept, carrying themselves in sleek linens and lush outfits, hair done beautifully and to perfection. 

Which makes it unsurprising that plenty of them regard the pair of you with suspicion and morbid curiosity. While intrigue covers the one with an unfairly handsome face, zings of jealousy and judgment fire your way. 

You feel so out of place. You are so out of place. But that doesn’t give anyone the right to look at you like filth. The words from the taxi driver pierce your brain again, and you feel rage and pain bubble up to your tongue,

“Anyone got something they wanna sa—”

But Yoongi does something that has your brain chemistry altering because he casually bends a knee in front of you while holding the top rail, forcing you back into the side of the train car and only seeing his jewelry. 

When your eyes snap to his, he regards you before peering outside. “Stop,” he mutters. “You're causing a scene.”

“Me?” Oh, he has some nerve. “What did I do, you’re the one—”

“Quiet.”

Ridiculous. Huffing, you let disagreement tug your lips while joining him in watching the world go by. 

Realizing with a pang that you are probably never getting back home. You’re never gonna see your favorite neighbor with his woks and caterpillar eyebrows. All the produce you were planning to sell will only succumb to mold and time. 

Your tangerines… 

When a tear falls, it glints in your reflection before quickly being swiped away. 

No. Don’t do any of that here where people can see—where he can see. No one will know what the hell you just went through today. Be normal, strong, normal. 

The ride lasts a little longer, with people coming and going during each stop. When there are seats open, neither you nor Yoongi move to take them. The two of you stay glued where you stand.

Silent, together, and covered in hidden blood.

The next stop seems to be in a quieter sector of the city. All around you are buildings you’ve never seen before stretching miles into the sky, and the streets are so neatly paved you’re convinced they’re fake. 

“This is us,” Yoongi whispers, hand guiding your hip to move toward the doors.

Skin scorching under his touch, you can only nod.

Where are you now? Where are you getting off? 

You both exit the train with a few others, and you watch with heightened curiosity as they carry satchels and wear shoes that look horribly uncomfortable. As you move down the steps, you keep craning your neck to take everything in, and more questions fill your head than answers. 

But the truth remains even as you and Yoongi stop in front of your destination.

You cannot run anymore. Even if more of whoever those guys were showed up, you may just choose to sit down instead of take another stride. Besides, your body is still running a thousand steps even though you haven’t moved since getting on the train anyway. After today, the chase may never stop.

“We’ll stay here.” 

We? Stay? 

“Here? This place is…” You keep peering up and up, the top of the building so high your neck hurts. It’s so foreign and magical your only adjective is a quiet, “Nice.” 

At your side, Yoongi seems annoyed when he asks, “Expect something different?” 

“Yeah, like… I dunno, a secret lair or something.” 

Air whooshes from his nostrils, but there’s a stark absence of a smile. Looking up at the building, too, he explains something that you’ve never heard of before,

“We’re in a grey zone. No one will follow us here.” 

Right. Because that somehow makes sense to regular civilians like you. Because you are one, are one, are one. “Allegedly,” you scoff, not knowing what to believe anymore.  

Yoongi pauses before heading up, and his agreement makes you look. “Allegedly.” 

Mm. 

After taking the tiny steps to the entrance, you wonder what he must be thinking bringing your haphazard look in tow. 

Because he could’ve left you behind at any point in time. But he didn’t. What does that mean? Why is he keeping you alive and at his side?

While you’re taking in the opulent and vast lobby, Yoongi guides you toward the front desk, shifting the duffle on his shoulder. 

This place is gorgeous. Nothing like you’ve ever seen. How were they able to install a waterfall in a building? What kind of money does this so-called grey zone have? 

Yoongi nods toward the concierge, who quickly nods back and scurries away and into a room.

If you weren’t so tired, you could probably make something of that exchange. But you are very much exhausted so frankly, you don’t give a shit right now. 

Although. You do give a shit about the fingers suddenly interlacing with your own. As your hand is held, you shoot your best client a look so potent he stares back. “What now,” you snip, question low and dripping with distrust. 

Unfazed, Yoongi slowly pulls you into his side, a steady hand coming up to wrap around your tired hips. So nonchalant, so lax, so confusing as he murmurs,

“Just wanted to.”

Your heart trips into the next beat.

On sore legs, you wait until the concierge comes back with a key, eyes swiping over you as if they finally noticed your existence. Which seems to perplex them as they hand over the metal device.

And Yoongi just takes it, not a word said before he directs you across the lobby to what look like elevators.

Even these look fancy as fuck. Wherever you are and whatever this place is, you feel even more out of place than on that judgy train. 

A hotel worker bows before he motions to the opening doors. “Nice to see you again,” he murmurs to the ground, seemingly expecting the same non-response given to the front desk. “Would you like the usual, Mister—” 

“No,” Yoongi clips him off. “Not this time.” 

“Understood.” 

Brows pinched, you’re starting to get a weird feeling. 

How does everyone know Yoongi so well here? He said this was a grey zone, which you’d think would be akin to a neutral or non-threatening one. So why does it feel like he’s got this area on lock? Who exactly are you getting into an elevator with? 

…Who exactly did you save? 

Yoongi was right when he said you’re in it now. But faced with more questions surrounding him than anything or anyone else, you’re starting to wonder what pit of hell you dropped yourself into. 

Especially after catching the look of utter panic from the serviceman. 

Right before sliding doors shut the world out. 

—

—

⟶ what do we feel! | 🥢 join the taglist 🥢 | masterlist

a/n: thank you all for being so patient as i work through this! it was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but i like, need characters to get to know and learn about one another before heading into spice lmao. I NEED PLOT OK. THERE WILL BE LOTS OF SMUT I PROMISE DSHFKDSF we just gotta get through the slow burn first >:)) a/n 2: if there's something you liked about this or a line/scene/whatever thing you enjoyed, feel free to let me know! feedback is never expected, but always appreciated. if the interest level is high, that adds motivation like no other. thank you all for reading! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ minted masterlist

[song-witch]

In The Dark

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff

Word Count: 2798

Warnings: Mafia AU. Alcohol. Pregnancy. Alluding to smut.

A/N: I've had this fic on the docket for so long, so here it is. lmk if i missed anything!

Wanda sighed for what felt like the millionth time that night, letting her eyes flutter open. Her hands limply dragged across the duvet, a gesture that had become second nature as her pregnancy progressed, as if it would soothe both hers and the baby’s restlessness. There was no point in trying to sleep if it wouldn’t come. She was unsure if it was due to her own anxiousness or the babies, though it did just about as much good to dwell on it as it did to try and sleep. The sound of the screen door banging shut followed by the heavy front door pulled her out of her reverie, her entire body freezing for a moment.

“Baby?” Wanda called out, reclining her head back so her voice hopefully reached the entryway; thickly swallowing. The house was quiet besides the sound of someone moving around. With a frown, she turned over her left shoulder, her eyebrows furrowing at the bright ‘3:46 am’ from the digital clock glowing back at her in a dreadful shade of neon red. Forgoing both the lamp on the nightstand and her slippers, Wanda made her way to the bedroom door, one hand on the knob and the other against the door as she pressed her ear to the wood. 

Her heart beat faster from the sound of silence, biting her lip. She had options here. She could open the door, confront whoever was in the kitchen, pray to something that it was Natasha or someone she sent, and happily go back to bed. She could go lay back down, ignore whoever was in the house, and stay in a puddle of fear until something happened. Her last option was sliding shoes on, opening the door, and bolting out the back door. That somehow felt like an overreaction – like how whoever was in their home would have heard her and come to collect collateral damage. Given her struggle with sleeping throughout the entire night, the second option would be dumb as well. Instead she was left with the first option, confronting the intruder. 

Despite the Nat in her head telling her to pick the third option, she opened the door, heart simultaneously dropping to a pit in her stomach, somersaulting, and jumping to her throat, before repeating in that order. The brunette carefully listened to the sound of a glass clinking against the kitchen table, followed by a cabinet door closing, its eerie thud echoing into the hall. 

This only served to confuse her further, prompting her to exit the bedroom and slowly walk down the hallway, sticking against the wall. She chose to keep the lights off, knowing that if something went wrong, she knew the layout of her home without the lights on which would give her an upper hand against a potentially dangerous intruder – yet another thing Nat taught her. 

The soft yellow light of the kitchen spilled out into the living room, not entirely unusual as Wanda always left the light above the sink on when Nat was working late. The sound of people talking, presumably two men based on the deep tones, ringing through the space. By the time she made it to the living room, she was beginning to question her choice of approaching whoever was in the kitchen having a drink, glancing around the shadowed part of the living room in something akin to despair. The best she could do was grab a throw pillow, knowing the lamps would cause too much racket and hung photo frames wouldn’t do much. She held the pillow in front of her, as if the steel blue pillow smaller than her pregnant stomach was as intimidating as an actual weapon. 

With a deep breath, the brunette turned the corner, raising the pillow in front of her head, cowering just slightly. She waited, and waited, and waited. Nothing happened. No sound, movement, nothing but stillness. Breath still held in her chest, she slowly lowered her weapon of choice, squinting over the seam of it. 

“Nat?” The brunette dropped the pillow in favor of pursuing the other woman, a shaking breath leaving her chest as tears filled her eyes. She paid no attention to the men sitting at the dining table, time seemingly moving in slow motion as she stepped over the pillow, arms already subconsciously reaching upwards to wrap around the redhead’s neck. Natasha stood silently with a look thrown at the men, her whiskey glass hitting the table with the same resounding ‘clunk’ it had earlier, meeting the younger woman in an embrace, her arms wrapping tightly around her waist.

“Hey, sweetheart.” The redhead mumbled against the brunette’s hair, pressing a kiss where her forehead met her hairline. She resisted the urge to smooth her hair down, more than aware of her men watching them. Wanda’s chin shook against where it was hidden in the junction of the older’s neck, sobs barely contained with deep breaths. 

“Where were you?” She just barely managed to keep her voice even and maybe even a little serious, her emotions running rampant. She wanted to yell at her wife, sob, ravish her, and yell some more. Instead, she pulled back, one hand swiping at her eyes while the other continued to twist the baby hairs at the top of the redhead’s neck between her fingers.

“Did Carol not call you?” Natasha looked down at her with a no-nonsense look, her arms still wrapped, albeit loosely, around her waist.

“N-no,” Wanda shook her head, wiping her sleeve under her nose, “N-no one did. I thought you we-were dead.” The word alone brought unwanted tears to her eyes, gasping in a breath. It was something she hated doing; worrying about Nat returning home any day of the week, especially after an exchange like today. She hated always being on the edge of her seat, waiting for the call that her wife was in critical condition or she was downright gone. And yet, she continued to love and in turn be loved by Nat, willing to live with that fear. Now that they had a baby on the way though, she was beginning to question that decision. 

“I can assure you I’m very much alive, love.” Natasha chuckled, the rasp that had Wanda swooning over her after their first-ever interaction thickly coating her words. Yet, Wanda didn’t laugh like she normally would, frowning even more. 

“It’s n-not funny, Nat!” Wanda watched as Nat winced slightly at the sheer shrillness of her voice, though she couldn’t care less. She crossed her arms on top of her stomach, resisting the urge to poke at Nat’s chest to further her point. 

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” With a sigh similar to Wanda’s earlier she pulled the woman back into her chest, softly rubbing her back. Natasha fully expected Wanda to pull away, to lecture her on how unfair it was to her, as if she didn’t understand. She did the opposite, though, melting into the embrace with a sob. 

“I d-don’t… I- we can’t lose you, Nat.” Wanda blubbered into her neck, grasping at the fabric of the redhead’s shirt with balled fists. She allowed herself to cry, beyond caring about what the men in the room would think, letting her wife rock them softly. 

At the questioning glances from Steve and Bucky, along with them softly murmuring to each other, Nat nodded. She momentarily stopped rubbing circles into the brunette’s back to raise a finger, circling it twice in the air as a silent command to secure the perimeter before they left before letting it drop to its original position. She let the younger cry, softly shushing her as her sobs grew into a volume that Natasha could only describe as painful. By the time Wanda had calmed down, both men had left, leaving the two alone for the first time in far too many days. “I’ve got you, Wanda. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” The redhead pulled back gently, forcing her wife to look her in the eyes. Wanda hiccuped as she searched Nat’s face, dropping her shirt to cup her cheeks, as if she needed to confirm the redhead was real. 

“I love you so much, Wanda. You of all people should know you won’t get rid of me that easily.” With a softness that was reserved for only Wanda, Nat swiped the woman’s tears away, pressing twin kisses beneath her eyes. 

“I love you too, Nat.” Wanda’s voice shook as she leaned up, softly pressing her lips against the chapped ones of her wife. She didn’t mind though, as it only further confirmed that she was in fact standing there with her, alive and healthy as can be. Natasha kissed back as, if not more, fervently than the brunette, sliding her hands under the fabric of a shirt Wanda must have pulled from somewhere deep in the closet. Even just the slightest touch had her melting and whimpering into her mouth, deepening the kiss with a swipe of her tongue against Nat’s lips. Nat all but easily obliged, trying to pull the brunette impossibly closer against her body. Wanda went easily, humming softly as they explored one another, as if they hadn’t numerous times before. Her hands smoothed everywhere on the redhead’s face, a sense of urgency taking control.

Before they could get any further, though, Wanda pulled away with a slight gasp, taking in deep breaths. “Is everything okay? Is the baby alright?” The redhead’s right hand curved around the woman’s waist to rest on her stomach, concern written across her features. Had she not been through a whirlwind of emotions, Wanda would have smiled at how concerned she was, instead the corners of her lips just barely raised. 

“We’re okay. I think he’s upset that his mama wasn’t going to come home for a bedtime story.” Wanda fixed her wife with a stern look, raising an eyebrow. She didn’t mean for it to be as snarky as it had been, but she felt the older deserved it after not contacting her for days on end. She would’ve been fine if one of the members had so much as texted her, yet nothing. Almost as if the baby was agreeing with her, it kicked where Nat’s hand was resting. If there was one thing that was certain about their child, they wouldn’t be afraid to speak their mind. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. She thinks it's bedtime.” Natasha rolled her eyes, though a smirk pulled at her features. She could hardly be upset with the brunette. It had been nearly a whole week since she had been home, let alone been in contact with the woman. Had it been two years ago, she wouldn’t have cared. Would have left the brunette to wallow in her own disdain and anger for far longer without a care in the world. Now though, she couldn’t do that. Couldn’t leave her wife for more than a week, even before she was pregnant. It almost made her emotional to see just how far they had come. Almost. 

“He, Nat. Our baby is a boy.” Wanda shook her head, a fond smile tugging at her lips. She’d be damned if their baby turned out to be a girl. Months of being wrong and the redhead would only become cockier. 

“And how do you know? For all it’s worth, sprout could be an actual sprout.” Nat shot back, raising an eyebrow as she moved away from the brunette. She downed the rest of her drink easily, swiping the back of her hand against her mouth with a satisfying sigh. Knowing how much it irked the younger to leave her dishes out, she deposited in the sink, with a silent promise of washing it the next day, moving towards the cabinet in the back corner to put the Whiskey back in its case. 

“Unless that turkey baster was filled with something else, I highly doubt there’s a plant inside of me.” Wanda crossed her arms over her belly, both eyebrows raised and her lips pushed slightly forward, as if willing the older to test her. Nat chortled at that, stopping in the middle of the kitchen to fully take in the joke. Her hands landed on her hips, smiling at the younger. 

“That was a good one, baby. I wouldn’t be so convinced though, based on how much watermelon I’ve bought in the last two weeks alone.” She fixed the woman with a cocky smile, padding towards her. Despite her joking tone, Wanda looked at her incredulously, nearly scoffing at her. 

“Keep talking, Nat. You won’t be laughing when you’re left high and dry until he’s born.” She merely shrugged, more than willing to stick to her words and deal with the consequences of them if it meant Nat listened. 

“You wouldn’t.” Natasha’s face set, her smile dropping, eyes squinting. Despite the fact that she herself was the one who managed their relationship for a good chunk of it, she knew how stubborn the brunette could be. She just hoped she was joking, for the sake of both of them. She was met with another shrug, neither confirming nor denying her claim. Natasha only sighed in response, dropping their teasing altogether and instead wrapping an arm around the brunette, turning the light off as they began towards their room.

The house was quiet as the two made their way to the bedroom, the darkness of the house still washing out the hallway. It was easy enough to fall in step next to one another, a move written into their muscle memory, if not their biology at that point. Tension pulled between the two of them, apparent as they each approached their own side of the bed. With the grace of something similar to a toddler, Wanda sat on the edge of the king mattress, quietly observing her wife. 

Natasha moved around the room silently, shedding her weapons in various drawers, her path methodical and obviously walked before. She paid no attention to the brunette’s eyes following her around the space, nor did she see how tight-strung she was, her back rigid and eyes glossed over. And yet, she could still feel it. Though she did nothing but carry out the little routine she had, changing into something far more suitable for pajamas than dress pants and a crisp, buttoned shirt, locking herself in the bathroom to finish up.

Wanda pursed her lips at the sound of the en suite locking, dragging her feet up and under the covers. Humming, she reached for the glass of water on her nightstand, sipping the beverage in the dim light of bathroom light spilling out from around the door. She took her time, listening to her spouse rummage around. It was funny just how domestic it all felt, how the boss of a mafia that spent her free time killing people could be so… soft. 

There was a time when she thought she would never leave what she had considered this godforsaken bedroom, tied to a bed that wasn’t hers and stripped of every joy she had ever known. Yet, here she was, free to roam wherever she wanted, with a wife who doted on her like there was no tomorrow, the shimmer of love in her eyes. It made her want to laugh at how ironic the whole thing was. How could she, a small-town girl with a bad attitude, end up with one of the wealthiest people in a whole nother country, pregnant with their child? Arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her back to reality, setting her glass down before looking at the redhead.

“Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.” Natasha’s raspy voice vibrated against her stomach, head perched on the topmost swell of it. Wanda allowed her hand to drop so she could hold the redhead’s face, tilting her head just slightly. 

“Just… thinking.” She smiled softly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She met the woman’s eyes, holding them even as the urge to look away grew stronger. 

“Talk to me, Wanda.” Nat urged gently, a softness much like the one earlier shining through. Wanda lived for these moments, yearned for them. The moments in between, the ones no one bats an eye at, yet, everyone longs for. 

“You know I love you?” 

It was less of a question and more insecurity, uncertainty momentarily crossing her features. At this, Nat’s expression mirrored her earlier one, confusion on her face cocked to the side. 

“And I love you.” The redhead decided to play along, though she had no idea where the brunette was going. She watched as the younger blinked, her eyes clouded with skepticism and something else. 

“Show me. Show me how much you love me.”

[ms-cellanies]

@russalex @angreav @iamthebadwolf85  @catedevalois @maneth985   @ogtumble @amatasera @fuckdumblr  @ladyoftheteaandblood @sirrah22 @iris-collects @larouau12 @ughseriously @usearki @ladytuarach @glendathegoodone @cricketcat9 @aregrettablehullabaloo @micaleann @toasty-hancock @hellcatblues  @middleagedandoutoftouch @sabbykatt3 @cursethedarkness @gretchenk0720  @aliceliddellsmirror @inkededucatednnerdy @notpedeka @photoboybg69  @contemplatingoutlander @nildespirandum @izhunny @ladytigrane @wolfsmom1 @phoenix-maat @writernotwaiting  @glitterypeanutmugnickel  @captain-krazy @bitchycatwizard @paulfe  @mishlady @dorcascristyforever @beerboy100 @ultimatenutshackfangirl  @lokilickedme @bakufuhakutaku  @a-sundry-bag @prettyhatemachine01 @texmexdarling @oshea52   @evieplease @queen-of-cats  @jimbr549  @ladygreytea76 @posttexasstressdisorder @azusalover

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Sara Boboltz at HuffPost:

President Donald Trump signed an executive order Tuesday outlining sweeping changes to the way federal elections are carried out nationwide, a responsibility the Constitution explicitly assigns to the states and Congress. During a White House signing ceremony, staff secretary Will Scharf called the order “the farthest reaching executive action taken” in U.S. history. It is very likely to face legal challenges. If implemented, however, it would dramatically increase Trump’s influence over the way Americans exercise their most fundamental civic right. The order reflects many of the falsehoods and conspiracy theories Trump has spread about federal election security. It directs federal agencies and officials to change the federal voter registration form to require proof of citizenship, such as a passport or Real ID. It aims to bar states from counting mail-in ballots that arrive after Election Day, regardless of state laws on postmarking, and it directs the Justice Department to track and prosecute what the Trump administration considers election crimes.

The text of the order points out that the Department of Homeland Security is tasked with protecting critical infrastructure and argues that election infrastructure fits that description. It instructs the secretary of Homeland Security, alongside the attorney general, to “review and report on the security of all electronic systems used in the voter registration and voting process.” Trump has long championed paper ballots, falsely suggesting digital voting machines provide opportunity for fraud. States that do not comply with Trump’s order face the threat of having federal funds cut off. Election fraud is very rare. After the 2020 presidential election, dozens of lawsuits failed to surface evidence of widespread illegal ballots or other meddling. Attorney Marc Elias, founder of the voting rights advocacy group Democracy Docket, said his organization planned to sue the Trump administration over the order.

Anti-American tyrant Donald Trump signed an executive order Tuesday to radically overhaul administration of federal elections that belongs to Congress and the states. The provisions include the barring of counting VBM ballots that arrive post-election day, require proof of citizenship, and directing the DOJ to track down “election crimes.”

See Also:

The Guardian: Trump signs executive order that will upend US voter registration processes

The Parnas Perspective (Aaron Parnas): BREAKING: Donald Trump Just Overhauled America's Electoral System

[recordtime]

Add all your licenses and qualifications in one place

It is common for job sites these days to ask for various qualifications you may have. For example, some may ask for your asbestos awareness certificate, your driver's license and more. Further, governments have also begun asking for proof of covid-19 vaccinations. Most states require workers to have had at-least 1 shot of the vaccination and booked the second, in order to operate at a job site. Below, we show you how you can use Record TIME’s brand new feature to track and add various types of qualifications to your account. It is a simple process and you can use the app to accomplish this.

[battleangel]

FREE PALESTINE MOVEMENT FAILED

What Hasnt Worked

•Calling Congress members

•Calling Senator

•Signing online petitions

•Attending marches, protests & rallies

•Sharing, resharing, commenting posts online

•None of the above has led to an official arms embargo or permanent ceasefire agreement.

The Ongoing Genocidal Issue

•Per Lancet, 200k Palestinian civilians have been killed by Israel in the genocide since last October including over 40k children.

•Over 20k Palestinian children are missing with many of the missing children being trafficked into sex trafficking rings.

•Tens of thousands of Palestinian civilians remain buried under tons of rubble which will take years to clear.

•Forced starvation & famine perpetrated by Israel continues in Palestine with millions of Palestinians at risk of dying of starvation.

•Winter has arrived in Palestine & Palestinian civilians — including infants — are freezing to death in tents without electricity, heat and some are even without blankets in single digit temperatures.

•Multiple Palestinian infants — some only days old — have died of heart attacks due to the constant, severe, relentless, maniacal bombing by Israel.

•There are images & videos of injured, wounded & dying Palestinian civilians being devoured alive by dogs & cats who are themselves being starved by the genocidal Israeli occupational forces.

•The last functioning hospital in North Gaza — Kamal Adwan Hospital — was besieged by Israel two days ago.

•The doctors & patients at Kamal Adwan Hospital were forcibly evacuated — including critically ill patients on oxygen support & nebulizers.

•The patients at Kamal Adwan Hospital were told they would be evacuated to another hospital via ambulance.

•There have not been reports yet of what happened to the doctors at Kamal Adwan Hospital but the Director of the hospital has been detained.

•Israel did this to another Palestinian hospital only a few months ago — Al-Shifa Hospital.

•It is clear that the IOF will follow the same playbook with Kamal Adwan Hospital — the doctors will be detained, arrested, abused, & tortured — then some of the doctors will be killed & the remaining doctors will be released.

•The infants at Al-Shifa Hospital were left behind by the IOF and there were subsequent videos & images of the deceased infants decomposing corpses.

•It is obvious the same fate awaits the now forcibly evacuated doctors & patients from Kamal Adwan Hospital.

Effective Activism?

•What is effective beyond current BDS (Boycott Divest Sanctions) strategy targeting Chevron, AXA, Siemens, etc. — which has not yet worked?

•As Israels genocide continues unabated, unimpeded & continuously funded by & with weapons provided by the United States.

•Over a year into the onslaught, Israel continues to expand its genocidal aggression to include Occupied Palestinian Territory (OPT) — North Gaza, South Gaza, Rafah, West Bank, East Jerusalem; Lebanon; Syria; Yemen & Iran.

Suggested Actions

Action #1: Mass Strike

•Suggestion: A general strike in the United States where 3.5% of the working population or 11 million Americans strike.

•Action Item: Sign the general strike card:

https://generalstrikeus.com/strikecard?fbclid=PAZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAaYrjr4EPUbi7STRSXWejtl9t9axeG70svJcfMCLULy-4OvrHdOWS3EKUBk_aem_0wjAyUoBvXmGBEUR8rVtrA

Action #2: Suing US Government for Genocide

•Suggestion: US citizens in all 50 states follow Californias lead & file lawsuits against their respective state governments for providing “Israeli military aid to support the genocide in Gaza” which violated the constitutional rights of their constituents by using their taxes “for the unlawful purpose of complicity in genocide.”

•Action Item: Read the lawsuit below, track its progress & determine if you can file a similar lawsuit in your home state.

COURT: N.D. Cal.

TRACK DOCKET: No. 3:24-cv-09213 (Bloomberg Law subscription)

Where does pro-Palestine movement go from here?

•We have all been doing the same exact things for over a year with exactly zero results & extremely minimal “wins”(Maersk, cities divesting their bonds, etc.) — but no official arms embargo & no permanent ceasefire agreement.

•Hundreds of thousands of Palestinian civilians have been slaughtered, starved, literally scared to death via heart attack due to relentless bombing, shot at point blank range in the heart, head & stomach including children & infants, burned alive in tents, buried alive in mass graves, tortured in detention centers.

•Children & infants butchered, women murdered, men slaughtered, disabled & elderly civilians ran over by tanks…

•It isnt enough to share & reshare images & videos of the genocide, tweet your support for Palestine, call your Congress members & Senators, sign online petitions, attend rallies marches protests & die-ins — we have all been doing exactly this day in & day out for over a year yet there is STILL no official arms embargo & no permanent ceasefire agreement.

At a Year Plus — Whats Next?

•Along with continuing BDS (boycott divest sanction) efforts as they have been proven to work in the past against the apartheid government in South Africa in the 80s & 90s —

•Along with signing the strike card & striking if you economically & financially can —

•Along with researching the possibility of filing a lawsuit against your elected state officials in your individual state for voting for funding for Israel which violates our constitutional rights as United States constituents as it is using our tax payer dollars “for the unlawful purpose of complicity in genocide” —

Dont Just Reshare Videos — Think

•Lets also ask ourselves what else we can do in this moment beyond just resharing videos on Instagram & Twitter.

•We need to do everything in our power to bring about an official arms embargo & permanent ceasefire agreement.

What Can We Do?

•Share this post. Comment this post with your own ideas. Tag pro-Pali accounts in the comments.

No Complacency During Genocide

•Palestinian civilians continue to be burned alive, buried alive, shot at point blank range in the head heart & stomach, tortured, traumatized, starved to death, repeatedly forcibly evacuated, relentlessly bombed, endlessly humiliated, threatened, intimidated, coerced, gaslit, imprisoned, subjugated, repressed, cut into pieces, dismembered & literally devoured alive by starved dogs & cats.

•We cant allow ourselves to fall into a complacent repetitive lull of “watch reshare retweet wash rinse repeat”.

•What can we do to actually bring about an official arms embargo & permanent ceasefire agreement?

•We have “raised awareness” online, marched, protested, rallied, died in & birddogged — it hasnt worked.

•We need to do more.

•Comment. Share. Think!

•🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸 🍉🍉🍉❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

[kirby-the-gorb]

(not of kirbs, this is actually day 2197 of kirbs, but day 1266 of my va disability appeal sitting in the queue <3 happy disability pride month!)

[grfn-btbtas]

the other thing about x files I think I appreciate is all the old school office supplies around, the big bulky file folders with glossy photo prints and paperwork inside, the various kinds of paperwork dockets and interdepartment envelopes, the rolodexes, the legal pads on everyone's desks. All processes that have been and probably were digitized over the course of the show's run...

[posttexasstressdisorder]

Marc Elias

Earlier today, the billionaire owner of The Washington Post published a statement on Elon Musk’s X platform announcing that Bezos was seizing control of the newspaper’s opinion section.

No longer will the once-proud publication feature a diversity of perspectives. Instead, it will impose a right-wing libertarian litmus test:

“We will be writing every day in support and defense of two pillars: personal liberties and free markets… Viewpoints opposing those pillars will be left to be published by others.”

This is an unsurprising surprise, since Bezos shamefully pulled the paper’s endorsement of Kamala Harris last fall.

I founded Democracy Docket in 2020, during Donald Trump’s last assault on democracy, with the mission of becoming the leading digital news platform dedicated to information, analysis and opinion on voting rights and elections in the courts.

Over the past five years, we have done just that.

From U.S. senators to local officials, cultural leaders to community activists, we have published over 200 opinion pieces promoting democracy from a broad range of perspectives — and we always will. In addition to the hundreds of op-eds from leaders across the pro-democracy space, we also launched a contributor program that offers diverse opinions and amplifies the voices of experts and advocates who write monthly articles on a range of critical topics within voting and democracy.

Whether it’s an op-ed about court reform, the threats sheriffs pose to our democracy or how abortion rights are being threatened across states, our contributors take an unapologetically pro-democracy approach to each and every piece they write for Democracy Docket.

The Washington Post’s decision to abandon democracy in broad daylight is shameful and cowardly. As legacy media retreats, Democracy Docket is stepping forward.

For individuals and organizations seeking to publish pro-democracy perspectives, we encourage you to submit your content to us here. And for readers looking for smart, fearless pro-democracy coverage, we say: Welcome.

If you want to take your readership to the next level and support our pro-democracy mission, consider becoming a premium member for $10/month or $120/year. Your contribution is the most direct way of ensuring our 19-person team can keep up with the inundation of news and work to publish hundreds more pro-democracy op-eds in the coming months.

We are in an existential fight for the future of our democracy. While legacy media and its billionaire owners bend the knee, Democracy Docket stands tall. We will never compromise. We will never bow. We will never obey.BECOME A MEMBER

We also understand that not everyone is able to make this commitment, which is why our free daily and weekly newsletters aren’t going anywhere! If you prefer not to receive samples of our premium content and only want our free daily and weekly newsletters, you can opt out here.

For questions about your subscription or general support, visit our FAQ page here.

[darkeagleruins]

EXTREMELY SERIOUS The Biden Administration proposed a new national identification card system for undocumented immigrants, “ICE Secure Docket Card program” first reported in 2022

FOX confirms this program is beginning THIS SUMMER JUST IN TIME FOR THE ELECTION

“Taxpayer-funded ID program for illegal immigrants expected to begin this summer” - Fox News “

Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) is eyeing a summer rollout for a controversial ID card pilot program for illegal immigrants being released into the U.S. And the agency hopes it will modernize the documentation process for removal proceedings.”

“The ICE Secure Docket Card program was first reported on in 2022, and Fox Digital obtained images of the card last year. Now, ICE is planning a limited rollout of the program. ICE confirmed to Fox News Digital this week the pilot program is expected to commence this summer with the distribution of approximately 10,000 cards. While the agency stressed that plans are "pre-decisional" and still subject to change, it is expected the cards will be issued in three or four locations in the U.S.”

“Did you know that the Biden Administration proposed National ID Cards for undocumented immigrants? The Biden Administration has proposed a new national identification card system for undocumented immigrants, which is called the I Secure docket card program. This would give migrants who cross the US Mexico border and other immigrants without legal status temporary ID cards.

This can help them navigate their immigration cases or removal court proceedings. Remember this is just a proposal and the details of the pilot program have not been finalized, but the ID cards are likely to include a photo, biographical information, and a QR code that would allow the holder to access their court information and immigration documents online.

This would also help them with their court hearings where they have to physically check-in at government offices. It would likely streamline the current immigration system and increase efficiency and communication. What do you think? Let me know in the comments and follow me for more immigration news.”

Wonder what else these ID cards could be used for??