#more random dialogue wip things | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

suzukiblu · 20 days ago

Note

Hey, I was reading through "kidnapping your soulmate for fun and profit" (which I adore, Tim's plot to kidnap Kon is gonna go great with definitely no more derailments for sure) and it seems like there's at least one post missing? Between the one ending with the "You didn't even look at me, though." "Didn't I?" dialogue to the one starting with "Superboy carts him halfway across town" without actually showing Superboy finding out about Tim's matching soulmark.

I . . . what the actual fuck, haha, there's like a good 700 words of PRETTY IMPORTANT CONVERSATION missing there and I cannot find ANY sign of any posts that should have them, mis-tagged or not, so like . . . Tumblr, what. Or ME what. Either Tumblr fucked up or I fucked up, and hell if I know which at this point. I could swear I posted those words, but god knows what happened to them and I am definitely not gonna go through ALL of this blog figuring out why they're not where they're supposed to be, so WELP, fuckit, here's just everything of this WIP so far all together and all in order behind the cut: 16.7k of an incredibly normal Tim Drake being an incredibly normal civilian about this situation.

Apparently Cadmus knew Experiment Thirteen was the one to invest in because Experiment Thirteen had a soulmark.

Apparently Cadmus also considered terminating Experiment Thirteen because Experiment Thirteen had a soulmark.

Tim knows this because he broke into the place and stole a copy of Superboy's file the day after they met. He also knows what Superboy's soulmark looks like, because these absolute bastards not only took multiple pictures of it, they put those pictures in his fucking file. Not even, like, classified or tucked away behind a firewall or a password or anything. Not even in a separate folder. Just right there in his standard file where literally any random scientist or doctor or goddamn intern could trip right over them without even meaning to.

Forget the fucking mind control; that's fucked up.

So yeah. Tim knows what Superboy's soulmark looks like. It's a stark, dark red, all sharp angles slung low in the V of his Adonis belt and cutting from one hip to the other, looking not unlike a stylized bird in flight coming at the viewer head-on. Bold. Undeniable. Very much like Superboy himself, really.

And exactly like the mark that came in on Tim when, he now knows, Superboy was first put together in a fucking petri dish. So that's . . . a whole thing, there.

Well. At least his soulmate is only literally fifteen years younger than him, not physically and mentally.

Although that doesn't really seem like a big improvement, to be honest.

Tim didn't even know he was into guys, actually? Definitely didn't know Superboy was into guys, all things considered. Like, he would not expect somebody like him to ever be subtle about who or what he was into.

Maybe they're platonics, Tim tries to tell himself. The fact that his first reflex upon learning that Superboy was his soulmate was to immediately question his own sexuality doesn't really support that theory, though.

Though it does help explain why Poison Ivy putting her hands on the guy had pissed him off so bad.

Like. It very much does.

Tim doesn't actually know what to do about this. Bruce still thinks he doesn't even have a soulmate, due to Tim previously really, really not wanting to deal with the absolute embarrassment of admitting that said soulmate was an actual fucking baby, so Tim never got the Bat-version of the soulmate talk. Bruce'd sat him down to give it to him when he'd first become Robin, but Tim hadn't had a mark then, obviously, so they'd both just assumed he didn't have to worry about it. Tim is pretty sure Bruce had been as relieved as he had to dodge that particular bullet, really. Apparently Dick had needed visual aids and hadn't understood the "gilly talk" version. And Jason had had questions.

Lots of questions.

Creative ones.

Sometimes Tim suspects Jason might've been an asshole. Like, just a little bit of one.

So no, Tim does not blame Bruce for deciding to skip that particular talk with him, especially when they'd both thought he wasn't gonna need to know any of it anyway.

So . . . yeah. He doesn't know how he's supposed to approach this situation. Obviously telling Superboy that they're soulmates would compromise Tim's secret identity and therefore Bruce's, and everybody and their damn mother knows Superboy himself doesn't even have a secret identity so it's not like Tim can figure that out and approach him that way.

On the other hand, not telling him that they're soulmates isn't a great start to being soulmates, now is it.

Crap, Tim thinks.

Then he calls Dick, because if he has to sit through the Bat-version of the soulmate talk, at least maybe Dick will be slightly less embarrassing to hear it from.

As long as there's no visual aids involved, anyway.

"Hey, Tim," Dick greets as he picks up the phone. Tim has a carefully crafted plan of attack, of course; several, in fact. He's got all sorts of subtle ways to lead the conversation without revealing anything too damning or too specific and while keeping everything in hypotheticals. Just making the whole thing either a quick thought exercise or casual curiosity from an unmarked kid who's heard one too many soulmate stories and wants to know more. So Tim's prepared. Tim's ready.

Tim panics.

"Poison Ivy kissed my soulmate and I want to burn down her entire life," he blurts.

"Uh," Dick says. "You're . . . gonna have to catch me up a little here, baby bird. For starters, I thought you didn't have a soulmate."

"I didn't," Tim says as he starts to pace back and forth across his bedroom floor, because he's already screwed this up so there's no point in playing coy now. "Then some dickheads in Metropolis decided to steal Superman's dead body and make a cocky asshole with douchey shades and a leather fetish out of it."

"Ohhhhh boy," Dick says. "What'd B say?"

"I found out like half an hour ago and you're the only person I've told, so nothing yet," Tim says. "What's the Bat-protocol for finding out your soulmate is somebody in the community, exactly? Specifically somebody in douchey shades?"

"Depends," Dick says. "How'd the kid react?"

". . . I don't know how to say this without sounding like a total creep, but he doesn't know," Tim admits with a wince. "I broke into Cadmus to make a copy of his file after I met him and they just . . . had his soulmark in it. Like. There wasn't even a password. It wasn't even in an isolated folder. It was just there."

"That is the most fucked-up thing I've heard since the last time I had to talk to Jervis Tetch," Dick mutters in obvious disgust. "Alright, well, how are you reacting, then?"

"My soulmate is a baby," Tim grumbles disgruntledly, dropping into his desk chair. "A baby who is also a teenager."

"Tim, you're a teenager too," Dick reminds him wryly. "You are very much so a teenager too, in fact."

"Yeah, and it sucks," Tim says emphatically. "And I have, like, actual legal guardians and a home and a trust fund. Superboy just lives somewhere in Hawaii with a sleazy businessman and his kid and some random guy from Cadmus!"

"That's, uh, actually not great," Dick says, sounding a little troubled.

"You think?!" Tim demands. "He's a baby! An infant! And he lives with his frigging manager!"

"What the actual hell," Dick says.

"Just–is it ethical to kidnap your own soulmate and does that even matter if they're not legally a person and so you couldn't actually be charged for anything anyway?" Tim mutters speculatively, drumming his fingers on his desk for a moment and then booting up his computer. "I mean, B can't get mad at me for doing it if the courts can't get me for doing it, right?"

"Wait, Superboy's not legally a person?" Dick asks incredulously.

"Nope," Tim says. "Which neither Cadmus nor the sleazebag selling his likeness for a living has in any way tried to correct, for the record. Technically he's classified as intellectual property, but Cadmus forfeited legal possession when Superman turned up alive again, presumably to avoid Superman ever finding out that they'd had said legal possession, so technically if I went and kidnapped him it'd be more like . . . salvage, maybe? Like, in the eyes of the law, I mean."

"Yeah, okay, in that case kidnapping your own soulmate might be less an ethics question and more a moral obligation," Dick says.

"Good point," Tim says, frowning consideringly as he pulls up his browser. "Do you think if I just do it as Tim Drake I can avoid compromising my identity?"

"I have no idea but if I were you I'd already be booking my flight and thinking up a cheap excuse to 'accidentally' flash a teen heartthrob superhero my soulmark anyway," Dick says.

"I am already booking my flight," Tim says mid-click of said booking. "Although, uh, flashing him our particular soulmark might require, like . . . third base, and I don't even know if he likes guys. I don't even know if he knows if he likes guys, he's like five minutes out of the cloning tube and like, I'm literally fifteen and don't know if I like guys, so why the hell would he?"

"Okay, yeah, that could be an issue," Dick says. "Hm. Wardrobe malfunction? Slutty beach day? Wet T-shirt contest?"

"I'm not above any of those options at this point, frankly," Tim grumbles, even though those ideas are all very "Nightwing" and not very "Robin". Technically he shouldn't be approaching this like Robin would anyway, because god forbid Superboy recognize his methodology.

Slutty beach day might have to be a thing, Tim realizes with resigned dread. He is really not comfortable with slutty beach day being a thing.

. . . maybe if he just gets lucky, he can catch Superboy having his own slutty beach day. Not to make any assumptions, just Tim's pretty sure if either of them were ever going to be the type to wear a speedo or low-waisted swim trunks or just walk around with their soulmark out in general . . .

Which, in Superboy's defense, well–his soulmark is already on file with Cadmus, so yeah. He might not even care if other people see it or not, considering that.

Then again, if Tim knew that a bunch of random strangers who'd wanted to mind-control him had all seen and taken pictures of his soulmark, he'd never wear anything that risked exposing it again. Like. Ever. Possibly he'd just live and die in a wetsuit. Or coveralls. Overalls. Or just–whatever. Something like that.

. . . come to think of it, Superboy's costume is all one piece, isn't it.

Cadmus is full of assholes, Tim decides as he confirms his booking, then gets up to throw together a go-bag. He has no plan whatsoever, but whatever; it's a twelve-hour flight. He's gonna have time to think something up.

One go-through with airport security and a twelve-hour flight later, Tim has not thought anything up.

Dammit.

It's early morning in Honolulu and Tim is very, very tired. He didn't sleep on the flight because he was making plans, but to be honest said plans are all shit. His best option is gonna take six months to fully execute, for starters. Which is a reasonable amount of time to have to spend getting a near-complete stranger to trust you enough to let you kidnap them away from everything and everyone they know, he knows, but still. It's not even that solid a plan, even discounting the frustrating time delay. It's just the best of a bad lot.

Maybe Tim should've, like . . . actually stopped long enough to tell Bruce what he was doing and get some advice. Or at least Alfred, anyway.

Just . . . it's fine, Tim tells himself as he and his go-bag get a taxi. This is just preliminary work anyway. Recon more than anything else. Ideally he'll manage to "meet" Superboy, but he's not dumb enough to think he's going to get the guy to like him this quick, much less trust him. The goal is "passing awareness of his civilian identity's existence" and nothing else.

Then the street kind of blows up in front of his taxi.

So that's a whole thing.

And here's Tim without so much as a damn domino in his pocket.

People are screaming, things are very literally on fire, and some rando in lycra is yelling at the cop car on the corner. Normal Tuesday, really, except it's broad fucking daylight and again Tim doesn't have a mask on him, much less his bo staff or utility belt or anything actually any kind of useful.

Fuck airport security, Tim thinks.

"Who's the jerk with the monologue?" he asks the driver, who seems largely nonplussed by the whole situation and has definitely left the meter running while they're trapped between the other cars and the blown-up street. Priorities, Tim guesses. Can't blame a guy for having them.

"Beats me, man," the driver says with a shrug. "I don't keep track of the spandex set, I just take the necessary detours around 'em when I'm working."

"That might be lycra," Tim says, reaching for his wallet. "But fair enough. How much do I owe you?"

He doesn't have a mask right now, no, but he can't just leave civilians unprotected. He can at least help people get out of the area and maybe distract the lycra rando for a bit, if it comes to it. If nothing else, he can–

Somebody in flashy red and blue and a black leather jacket crash-lands on top of the lycra rando with very deliberate flair and a very loud crow, and then the street blows up again.

This time, though, the explosion is definitely telekinetic in origin.

Specifically tactile telekinetic, Tim thinks it's safe to assume.

He pays the driver, then grabs his go-bag and gets to getting people out of the area as subtly as possible while Superboy and the lycra rando tear up the street even worse. Like, almost impressively worse. Tim really wouldn't have thought the damage could even get that much worse, but they both find a way.

He is going to have such a hard time convincing Bruce to let him drag Superboy to Gotham.

Well, it's a six-month plan. Maybe the guy will mellow out a bit somewhere in there. Learn some subtlety. Pick up a bit of finesse.

Tim isn't actually that delusional, obviously, but that's the lie he's gonna tell Batman when he pitches it.

Superboy takes down the lycra rando without Tim having to improvise any assists, fortunately, and Tim manages to keep any civilians from getting in the other's way as he handles the fight. The street officially looks like a gravel road, but nobody's dead or even particularly injured–to surprising degrees, in fact–so Tim will take it. Superboy doesn't seem concerned, though a few of the civilians mutter disparaging things about what this is going to do to their commute.

Tim technically understands their point, but also Superboy did just save at least those cops from getting blown up and the street was already pretty much fucked before he even got here, so he's not sure why they're all complaining about being alive and in one piece. People in Gotham are more intimately familiar with their own mortality than most private citizens, though, and also just grateful when it's not the Joker, so maybe it's just a regional thing.

He shoos the last few civilians over to the EMTs to get checked out and starts trying to figure out his own exit strategy for this situation before any cops try to write his name down or something. Chances of getting Superboy's attention right now are slim, so it'd be best to just–

"Hey, man," Superboy says, landing lightly right beside him. "Thanks for the assist. Saw you getting people out of the way, made things way easier."

Tim stares at him.

"You didn't even look at me, though," he says reflexively. Superboy grins at him.

"Didn't I?" he asks. His suit is torn right across his stomach and low down along his hips. His soulmark is not even slightly obscured and he is going to absolutely no effort to hide any part of it.

Tim has never experienced something this convenient in his life.

So yeah, Bruce is definitely going to assume that he deliberately hired some metahuman stranger to go to Hawaii and rip up Superboy's clothes in very indecent and very public fashion when he tells him this story.

Frankly, that would've been a better plan than the slutty beach day one, so maybe Tim will just pretend that he did.

"Uh," Tim says, really not sure what to say right now. Superboy flashes him the cocky smirk from all those lame teen magazine posters, still not going to any kind of effort to cover his soulmark.

Tim hates Cadmus, but also is kind of embarrassingly affected to be seeing his mark on someone else's skin live and in person. With the photos, he was more distracted by the violation of their existence than anything else, but here and now Superboy is just standing in front of him with their mark bared for the whole damn world to see like he wants it seen. Like he wants Tim to see it.

Like he wants everyone to know that he belongs to someone and exactly who that someone just so happens to be.

So yeah. Tim is . . . affected.

Tim is definitely, definitely affected.

And increasingly less convinced of any possibility of this bond being platonic, too, because there is no way in hell that their mark looks half as good on him as it does on Superboy. Like. Not a chance.

Tim really, really wants to touch it, which is technically SOP with soulmarks but is also a bit more fraught of an experience when said soulmarks are more suggestively placed. And they are very much in public right now, so, uh . . . yeah.

So that's a thing and all.

"Alright there, man?" Superboy asks, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. "Didn't get your bell rung or anything, did you?"

Tim decides to just accept the gift the universe has given him and go for broke here.

"This is really forward of me, to be honest, but that's me," he says, gesturing meaningfully at Superboy's soulmark. Superboy blinks. Tilts his head. Tim assumes he doesn't believe him, because why the hell would he believe a random stranger just saying that to him in the middle of what is technically a crime scene and completely out of nowhere, and resigns himself to having to flash his own mark on a public street with a bunch of way too interested people around. It's unfortunate and not remotely to plan, but there's no way he'll get Superboy actually alone this easy, so . . .

"What, seriously?" Superboy says, looking bemused.

"Seriously," Tim confirms.

Superboy blinks again. Tim puts on a carefully sheepish smile and steels himself to–

Superboy jerks forward and grabs him, and the next thing Tim knows they're a couple hundred feet up in the air and zipping off to . . . who the hell knows where, even. Tim was so genuinely not expecting this turn of events that he didn't even register the instinct to hit Superboy with a nerve strike for lunging at him like that.

Is he being kidnapped? Is that what's happening right now?

. . . well, it'd be fair, admittedly.

At least Superboy went with bridal style over, like, a fireman's carry.

Not that bridal style doesn't have its own attached embarrassments, but still.

Tim avoids doing anything as stupid as staring at Superboy's very close face and pretends to be interested in the view. It is a nice one, so it's not hard. Kinda makes him wish he had his camera on him, to be honest. Superboy doesn't say anything, so he doesn't either. He doesn't know how well they could hear each other with the wind in their ears anyway; according to those files from Cadmus, Superboy's not due to develop super-hearing for at least another year or two, and Tim definitely doesn't have it either, so it's probably just better to wait for the moment to avoid having to yell.

Superboy carts him halfway across town and then lands them on a totally random-seeming rooftop that Tim assumes he has some reason to have chosen, though hell if he can tell what it was. The sight lines are all terrible and there are literally no defensible positions, and there's not even a single decent hiding place or useful perch.

The local architecture is definitely nothing like Gotham's.

"Uh," Superboy says as he lets Tim down on the roof, taking a step back from him and suddenly looking embarrassed as he pushes those ridiculous douchey shades of his up into his hair. "I maybe could've thought that one through a little better."

"Well, I'm assuming you want to see my mark too, and this is better than me flashing it in front of the local press," Tim says, trying not to smile too wryly at the guy.

Superboy blushes.

Welp, there's another strike against platonic.

"Um, yeah, I–" Superboy starts awkwardly, still blushing, and Tim decides to put them both out of their misery by lifting his shirt and tugging down his waistband just enough to reveal his share of their soulmark. Superboy visibly forgets what he was saying and just stares at it.

"Honestly, I'm pretty relieved," Tim says as he directs Smiling Normal Civilian Face #4 at Superboy and tries not to get flustered by said staring. "I was absolutely expecting to have to deal with a literal baby in my future and I just don't need a soulmate who's gonna think Vena Cava is old news."

Superboy flicks his eyes back up to Tim's face and sort of . . . grins, kind of, and looks unexpectedly . . . happy, almost? Tim thinks?

Huh.

Weird.

"Uh, I . . ." Superboy starts, then just trails off like he's lost for words or maybe just not quite sure what to say.

"Do you want to touch it?" Tim offers, because that's normal social behavior with a first recognition of matching soulmarks, and only realizes why maybe that wasn't the best suggestion when Superboy blushes even darker. Which–well, Tim might be blushing a little too, now.

They really did get a pretty suggestive placement for their mark.

"Uh–sure?" Superboy says, then somehow turns even redder and sputters: "I mean yeah! Yes. Definitely."

Okay, Tim probably isn't straight. And this mark probably isn't platonic.

That is . . . a lot to deal with right now, so he just buries it under Smiling Normal Civilian Face #4 and tries not to blush any harder himself as Superboy strips off his gloves and shoves them into his jacket pockets and then sort of–pauses, seeming a little uncertain, which is very weird to see on him. Superboy is the opposite of uncertain–to a fault, is he the opposite of uncertain.

Then again, this is literally the second time they've met and most of what Tim knows about him came from either a Cadmus file or tabloid news and teen zine interviews, so maybe he's been making some assumptions here.

"Together?" he suggests, holding up his own hands. Superboy nods immediately, his face still flushed almost as red as their mark.

"Together," he agrees, and they both reach out at the same time. Superboy slips his fingers up under Tim's shirt and Tim slips his own between the torn edges of Superboy's suit, and they both just . . . touch.

Tim's surprised, a little, by how soft and near-reverent Superboy is about it, and puts another strike against platonic. Then he immediately gets distracted, because touching your soulmate's mark is apparently very distracting. His fingers feel warm; his body feels warm. And Superboy feels . . .

The empathy bond that Tim had always assumed to be exaggerated or romanticized settles in soft and warm and with a sense of rightness, and Tim feels a sort of nervous excitement and hesitant hope and an entirely unanticipated shyness and sweetness and softness where he was really expecting to get more like . . . brash and cocky reckless energy and just . . . very different things, really. This is really just not what he expected to get from Superboy, of all people.

Not even a little bit, is this what he expected.

And Superboy . . . Superboy looks flushed and flustered and fascinated, and Tim has the thought that if they, like . . . hugged or something like this, then their marks would touch each other, and then they'd be sharing the empathy bond through them directly, and . . .

Yeah, okay. That's . . . a thought, definitely.

Fuck.

. . . although if either of them were, like . . . turned on or hard or anything, then they'd–never mind.

Any potential platonic-ness of this mark is really, really losing ground here.

Tim really does not know how he worked with Superboy last time without tripping over himself, at this point, but to be fair at the time he hadn't known what the guy would look like with his costume all ripped up and their shared soulmark exposed for the whole damn world to see.

Tim is definitely, definitely kidnapping this guy. If it takes six months or six years, he's kidnapping him. He absolutely refuses to leave that soft little curl of shy hope and unexpected sweetness in this goddamn bullshit situation. He is kidnapping him and getting him legally recognized as a person and out of the stupid predatory contract with his manager and out from under Cadmus's supervision, and he is burning down literally anyone who tries to stop him at literally any point during the whole process.

He will burn down fucking Superman if he has to. And also the US government and all of Cadmus and–

Just–anyone. Literally anyone it takes.

"What's your name?" Superboy blurts, and Tim cannot believe he didn't even fucking introduce himself before asking the guy to touch his soulmark. What kind of fucking idiot is he, exactly?

"Tim," he says quickly. "Um–Tim Drake. I'm from Gotham. Just, you know, visiting."

"Hi, Tim," Superboy says, and gives him a soft little smile that all those lame teen magazine posters don't even deserve. Tim's heart does a rapid series of Dick-Grayson-level acrobatics in his chest. God, he hopes Superboy doesn't have super-hearing yet. He doesn't, right? God.

Just–god. So, so many gods.

"Hi," Tim echoes, feeling ridiculous. He clears his throat, then reclaims his hands from Superboy's soulmark. Superboy bites his lip, then does the same and takes a step back.

Tim wants to throw himself off this roof, but unfortunately the lack of grapple is going to interfere with that theoretical escape attempt. Crap.

Superboy's hands are still bare.

So is his soulmark.

"You did good with that guy who wrecked the street," Tim says, putting on Smiling Normal Civilian Face #2, which is a little more reserved than #4. Superboy turns red again.

"Technically I also wrecked the street," he says, looking embarrassed.

"It was already a wreck when you got there," Tim snorts. Property doesn't mean shit next to people. "And this way nobody died or got hurt too bad."

"You helped with that part," Superboy says, still red-faced. "Made it a lot easier to keep everybody safe with somebody who was thinking straight about getting them all out of the way, like I said. It's hard to, uh–concentrate on that many at once, you know?"

"Keeping track of where all the civilians are has to be a pain in a fight," Tim agrees, though he tries to make it sound more like he's following Superboy's logic than already fully aware of the vitality of situational awareness from his own vigilante gig. Superboy blinks, cocking his head.

"Oh–no, that part's easy," he says. "I can feel everybody. It's just, uh . . . actively spreading the force field out that much? I gotta concentrate a lot harder. So it's just way easier when nobody's in the line of fire."

Tim . . . pauses. Tilts his head. He is, technically, aware of how Superboy's tactile telekinesis works, but that sounded like . . .

"Sorry," he says. "You had everybody there in your TTK field?"

"Mostly," Superboy says. "Like I said, it's hard to concentrate on that many people, especially if they're running around all freaked out."

"Why would you split your focus like that?" Tim asks, a little mystified. Though he guesses this explains how Superboy noticed what he was doing without ever actually looking at him, come to think. "Doesn't it weaken your powers?"

"Well, yeah, but that dude was blowing up the whole street, man," Superboy says, making a face. "Somebody could've gotten shrapneled or something."

It occurs to Tim, slowly, that the amount of injured civilians really wasn't as high as it should've been, and in fact most of the injuries he did see had almost definitely been caused in the initial attack. So that means . . .

Oh.

. . . huh.

"Huh," he says. "I didn't realize that was something you could do.”

"I try not to advertise that one," Superboy says sheepishly. "So, uh, bad guys won't start going after civilians harder when I'm fighting 'em. Or pick crowded areas to pick fights in."

"I was under the impression that you advertised most of what your powers can do," Tim says wryly, though again, he did get that impression from stolen files and cheap magazines.

"Well, yeah," Superboy says with an awkward shrug. "Otherwise people don't think I'm doing anything. Like, that I'm just punching stuff or whatever. Uh, so–how long are you in town for, then?"

"Just for the day," Tim says while making further mental re-evaluations of his soulmate. And it's an admittedly terrible cover, but–"I'm flying back to Gotham on a redeye. I just dropped in to get some time to myself, but I've got school on Monday and a paper to write for it. You know how it is."

"Not so much, man, I don't do that," Superboy says, and Tim . . . pauses, again.

"You don't . . . what, go to school?" he asks.

"Naw," Superboy says, shaking his head. "On account of supervillains attack it when I do.”

"So you're home-schooled?" Tim assumes, trying not to cringe at the idea of Rex Leech teaching Superboy math or economics or anything even vaguely in that wheelhouse. That could not possibly end well.

"Naw," Superboy repeats with another shrug. "Got superhero shit to do. And also, like, brand deals to do. Not really my thing anyway."

. . . Tim is reminded, again, that Superboy is not in fact legally a person and is therefore not in any way protected by labor laws, and Rex Leech and every single dodgy opportunist he's been selling Superboy's likeness to probably knows that. Not even the laws intended for civilians or metahumans or minors or animals would apply, in fact.

Fuck.

The next six months of this kidnapping plot are going to be an agonizing wait, Tim's already realizing.

Fuuuuuck.

"Oh, I see," he observes non-committally, trying to figure out if he can move up that six-month timeline somehow. There's got to be some corner he can cut or something he can cheat, if he just–

"Do you wanna hang out for a little while before you leave the island?" Superboy asks hopefully. Tim stares blankly at him for a moment. What kind of question is that? Most people would be upset to find out they'd only have a little while to hang out with a newly-discovered soulmate, but Superboy's asking like he expects him to want to just . . . what, swap cell phone numbers and then go on about their original plans for the day?

First of all: no. Second of all, Superboy doesn't know it, but this is Tim’s plan for the day, so still no.

"That sounds cool, yeah," Tim says, applying Smiling Normal Civilian Face #5, which is a little softer. Superboy brightens, inexplicably turning red again. Tim has the even more inexplicable urge to pat his head about it.

This is definitely not a platonic soulmark, no.

Okay, so Tim's . . . gay, he guesses? Bi? Pan? Just–some sexual orientation that includes telekinetic alien hybrids that are at least male-presenting, anyway. That or Superboy is a trans girl and just not out yet, which he supposes is an equally logical option.

. . . probably Tim being at least a little bit gay is likelier, though, because Superboy really is a look in that torn-up skin-tight costume he's (she’s?) barely wearing right now. Though Tim could also be bi and Superboy could be trans; it's not like either of those possibilities precludes the other. Actually, that combination would probably work out pretty well, right? In theory?

At least, he assumes it would. Tim has admittedly not looked into that kind of thing too much, what with assuming it wasn't ever going to be directly relevant to his life. He infiltrated a GSA-style support group for a month and a half once for Robin-business and that's all he's really got to go on. His cover had been "kid with a newly-out older brother who was seeking basic information", just to minimize any potential concern about him dropping off the face of the earth after the necessary recon in the center was done, so he hadn't had to know anything even then, really.

Apparently he should've been paying less attention to the layout and staff and more to the actual conversations.

Go figure.

"We could go grab some lunch," Superboy suggests, leaning towards him a bit. "I know all the best local places. Like, the not-touristy shit, I mean. Or maybe hit the beach?"

"This is going to sound ridiculous, but I didn't pack a swimsuit," Tim admits. The possibility of the slutty beach day plan would've required a very different cut of swimsuit than his usual trunks, so he'd just figured he'd just buy a new one if he needed it.

"I could lend you one," Superboy offers. He’s a little bigger and broader than Tim is, so Tim’s sure they don’t wear the same size, though he supposes if he had a pair of trunks with a drawstring waistband, or at least an elastic one . . .

"Do you have a spare?" Tim asks, mildly dreading the thought. He's a Gothamite. They're not bred for the beach. And also, that would entail wearing Superboy’s clothes.

Why didn’t he just say yes to lunch? Why is he stupid?

"It's Hawaii, dude," Superboy says with a laugh, flashing him a wide grin. "Half my closet is swimsuits. Actually pretty sure I have more swimsuits than T-shirts, come to think.”

Tim isn't sure if that means Superboy likes the beach that much–which would admittedly make sense for a Kryptonian hybrid, given the ridiculous amount of yellow sun that's out there free for the taking–or if that means that Superboy just literally never wears civilian clothes. He must sometimes, right? In theory?

. . . Tim hates Rex Leech, he's pretty sure. Like. Really, really hates him. And also Cadmus. And Superman is on thin fucking ice, at this point.

Very thin ice.

He could get out the kryptonite ring again, if he had to. Like, that's an option that happens to be available to him. Just in case.

"We could do the beach," he says as he reverts to Smiling Normal Civilian Face #5, because he’s an idiot, apparently. "Since it is Hawaii and all."

"Cool," Superboy says, grinning wider for a moment before seeming to remember himself and straightening back up from leaning in so close. "Uh–cool, yeah! C'mon, I'll give you a lift."

Tim, again, doesn't even have time to register the instinct to hit Superboy with a nerve strike before he's in the guy's arms and they're taking off into the air again. Does Superboy have super-speed? Tim was pretty sure he didn't. Like, at least not yet, anyway. Maybe all that constant island sun is paying off early.

Hm. Note to self: look into that. He should really know if his soulmate has super-speed or not.

Superboy doesn't actually tell Tim where they're going, but Tim assumes "his place" is a safe enough bet. Which is . . . a whole thing, actually, since it includes a marked risk of running into Rex Leech, who Tim absolutely cannot threaten this time. Which is really unfortunate, frankly.

Then again, maybe if he can get the slime alone while Superboy is digging out that swimsuit for him, he can say something with some plausible deniability to it and Smiling Gotham Civilian Face (Nighttime Edition), which Tim has on good authority terrifies just about every other possible flavor of Normal Civilian. At least in the States, anyway.

He'll have enough mercy not to use the Crime Alley version on the guy.

Maybe.

The flight isn't long, but the view is still nice, so Tim wouldn't have minded either way. Superboy sneaks a few glances at him from behind his sunglasses and Tim politely pretends not to notice so he doesn't have to deal with the weird fluttery feeling it puts in his stomach every time he does. It's not like Superboy can't feel him perfectly well with his tactile telekinesis right now, and also just his normal sense of touch; there's no real reason to keep sneaking peeks at him unless–

. . . wait. How well can Superboy feel him with his tactile telekinesis right now? Like . . . exactly how well?

Oh god, Tim thinks, and desperately pretends that his only concern in regards to the answer to that question is if Superboy might notice he has more muscle and scars than a normal civilian should, whether they're from Gotham or not.

Actually, if he can potentially feel something as subtle as scars–

Oh god, Tim thinks again, and then very quickly stops thinking altogether in self-defense.

The flight to Superboy’s presumable place isn’t too long, like he said, so Tim manages to keep his brain from running off in too many buck-wild directions, and they’re landing in front of a big but slightly shoddy-looking plain wooden house before he’s catastrophized too badly. Or like . . . maybe not too badly. In theory. Probably.

Superboy lands in front of the porch and the little group of people who appear to have been talking on and around it, and doesn’t even let Tim down before he’s excitedly blurting, “Everybody, this is Tim, he’s my soulmate! Tim, this is, uh . . . everybody.”

Tim’s done his research at this point, so he recognizes Rex Leech sitting in a chair on the porch, Dubbilex sitting in another with a ratty-looking little white dog in his lap, Tana Moon standing by the steps, and Roxy Leech sitting on them. He doesn’t know the dog’s name or whose it is, but the rest of them he’s researched, for obvious reasons. They all look startled, then bewildered.

Tim feels a little awkward about the whole situation, considering Superboy still hasn’t let him down from the bridal carry, but ignores it in favor of Smiling Civilian Face #4 and a polite little wave.

“Nice to meet you, everybody,” he says.

They all stare at him blankly for an awkwardly long moment, at which point Superboy finally seems to realize he should put him down, and then Roxy Leech lights up and jumps to her feet to run over.

“Oh my god, SB, that’s amazin’!” she says brightly. Tim immediately clocks her as full of shit, but more in the sense of “trying to be happy for someone when not remotely happy herself” than “just being a fake asshole”. “Hi, Tim! I’m Roxy!”

“Hi, Roxy,” Tim says, offering her a handshake to go with Smiling Civilian Face #4. She throws her arms around him and hugs him instead. Again, he’s too baffled to register the nerve-strike instinct. “Um . . . hi?”

Dubbilex gets up and comes over with the ratty little dog in his arms and stares intently at Tim, who does his Bat-training best to think nothing but normal civilian thoughts. The dog sniffs him curiously and then jumps out of Dubbilex’s arms and straight for him. Tim barely catches it in time, which means now he’s got a dog and Roxy attached to him. Which . . . okay, sure. This might as well happen.

Oh god, the dog’s licking him now. Why is the dog licking him now?

“Krypto seems to approve of you,” Dubbilex observes. Tim continues to think very normal civilian thoughts, and Dubbilex tilts his head, looking . . . thoughtful.

. . . Tim hopes these are normal civilian thoughts.

“He’s cute,” he lies with Smiling Civilian Face #2, taking a blind guess on canine gender. The dog–Krypto, apparently–looks like a wriggly wet rag, actually, but that’s not the dog’s fault. Well, aside from the wriggling. Dubbilex still looks thoughtful.

“Don’t lick him, you little shit,” Superboy says, eyeing Krypto dubiously.

“Aw, you don’t think your soulmate’s lickable, SB?” Roxy asks with a sly grin, and Superboy turns bright red.

“Don’t you lick him either,” he threatens, grabbing her off Tim and floating up into the air a few feet with her in his arms. She cackles delightedly and throws her arms around his neck. Tim wonders if she’s his girlfriend. It’d track with her being anxious about him finding his soulmate, but recon on Superboy’s interpersonal relationships was . . . unclear.

Meaning, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out if the guy was platonic about a single woman or girl in his life, so who fucking knows.

Tim really doesn’t know what that means for their mark, considering.

He pats Krypto’s head, for lack of a better idea, and gets slobbered on again for it. Dubbilex still looks thoughtful. Rex and Tana come over a bit more grudgingly than he and Roxy did, Rex looking leery and Tana just barely frowning. Tim pretends to be an oblivious moron and ignores both their suspicious expressions to keep up Smiling Civilian Face #4. He is a perfectly normal civilian with a perfectly normal smile and perfectly normal thoughts, and that is all. Really.

( and he’s going to get Superboy away from this fucking BULLSHIT living situation and into literally ANYTHING better, and away from Rex Leech and Cadmus and every single shitty person who’s trying to take advantage of him, and into legal recognition as an actual fucking PERSON while he’s at it, no matter which politicians he has to Bat-blackmail into passing some goddamn LEGISLATION already! )

Dubbilex tilts his head. Tim doesn’t panic, because he’s a perfectly normal civilian having perfectly normal civilian thoughts. There’s absolutely nothing in his head that Dubbilex would hear and think was weird. Nothing. Normal thoughts. All of them. Normal.

. . . Tim needs to work on his normal civilian thoughts, maybe. Like, just a little.

“A pleasure to meet you, Tim,” Dubbilex says, tone mostly neutral but still polite. “My name is Dubbilex.”

“Nice to meet you too, Dubbilex,” Tim says like someone who definitely didn't already know that. He puts on Smiling Civilian Face #11: “Meet the Parents” Edition. It is . . . not actually one he's really had to use before. Like, not even with Ariana or–and actually also it’s probably not the right face to be using either, really, but Dubbilex is the closest thing to a not-an-asshole adult in Superboy’s life and he doesn’t want to be an asshole to him.

Unless he turns out to be one after all, in which case all bets are off. But only then, obviously.

“You sure this guy’s your soulmate, Kid? Not just some weirdo fan trying to take advantage or something?” Rex Leech asks suspiciously as he finally comes over, folding his arms and narrowing his eyes at Tim skeptically. Tim finds that a deeply ironic statement. And also a deeply hypocritical statement.

Prick. Like Leech hasn’t been taking advantage of Superboy since he first fucking heard of–

Civilian thoughts. Niiiiice civilian thoughts. Nice and normal and civilian, just like all his thoughts. Normally!

. . . don’t think about white elephants, Tim tells himself, and immediately winds up with a full stampede of albino pachyderms in his head.

It’s not non-civilian thoughts, so he’ll take it.

“Relax, Rex, he showed me his mark,” Superboy says as he lets Roxy back down and lands again, the tips of his ears turning just a little bit pink. Tim considers both the reaction and the fact that he just noticed said reaction, then puts another point in under “not platonic”. It’s . . . getting to be a lot of points, at this point. No pun intended. “It matches. Like, it definitely matches.”

Superboy doesn’t mention the fact that they’ve already touched each other’s marks to confirm, even though that’s a pretty normal thing to do upon mark-recognition. Tim makes a mental note of that, but doesn’t comment. He assumes there’s a reason for it, or otherwise why wouldn’t he? Not like Leech could argue with that, after all.

Tana Moon follows Leech over to the group, looking a little wary herself. Tim sizes her up in his peripheral vision, pretending not to notice her approach. He’s “just” found out who his soulmate is, so he can sell the illusion of only paying attention to Superboy right now. It’s not an unusual reaction.

It’s a pretty typical one, actually. The fact that Superboy decided to immediately show him off to everyone he knows is actually the less usual option, in fact. Not unheard of either, of course, but still. A lot of newly-discovered soulmates tend to just forget about the outside world for a few hours. Or days, even. A few missing person cases that Tim’s been involved in solving turned out to be cases of “I met my soulmate and we just eloped/ran away/went on a road trip/holed up in a hotel room without telling anyone”.

Tim had thought it was ridiculous at the time, if obviously preferable to ending up with either a dead body or a traumatized victim, but Tim is currently in the process of planning an ethically-necessary kidnapping less than twenty-four hours after first cracking into Superboy’s file and not that much longer after first meeting him, so he supposes soulmates just bring out most people’s less pragmatic sides.

Though he personally thinks carefully-planned ethical kidnappings are an improvement on spontaneous weekends in Vegas, pragmatically-speaking. But whatever.

“He showed you?” Tana Moon says, glancing Tim over suspiciously. Superboy’s face reddens this time and he tugs at the slash in his own suit.

“He, uh, saw mine first,” he says. “Kinda got into it with a dude downtown and Tim here was in the area, and like, he recognized it, obviously.”

“It’s fairly noticeable as a mark,” Tim supplies helpfully, figuring he should be being supportive of his soulmate here, and also be shutting Rex Leech up as efficiently as possible. “And Superboy came over to check on me after the fight, so it was hard to miss.”

“Sure it was,” Leech says, his face souring. “So then you won’t mind showin’ yours to–”

“Shut up, Dad!” Roxy hisses, kicking him viciously hard in the ankle. Leech yelps in pain. Roxy is immediately his favorite, Tim decides. By far Roxy is his favorite. The dog’s kind of cute and Dubbilex seems decent, but definitely Roxy is his favorite.

Her dad definitely fucking sucks, though.

And as for Tana Moon . . .

“You’re a tourist?” Tana says, just barely frowning down at Tim. She’s taller than him. She’s also taller than Superboy, because she’s a grown-ass woman and why, exactly, is a reporter even here right now? How is that necessary or reasonable?

. . . admittedly she’s also taller than Leech and he’s a middle-aged man, but that’s not the point here. If Tim has to “no comment” this situation and figure out how to get either his parents or Bruce to kill a story, he absolutely will. He isn’t even slightly gonna hesitate there. He is gonna the opposite of hesitate, in fact.

“Yes,” he lies, which might not endear him to Moon, given she’s a native, but is better than confessing to having premeditated designs on kidnapping a teen idol superhero. Especially to a reporter.

Even if it is legally salvage.

“I’m just in town for the day,” he continues. “I needed to get away for a little while, you know how it is.”

“Sure,” Moon says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Who doesn’t.”

“He’s from Gotham. And he helped the civilians get out of the area while I was fighting that guy downtown!” Superboy says eagerly, which is . . . odd, actually, and throws Tim off a bit. That seems like a weird thing for Superboy to be eager about, considering. Like . . . just very weird.

“Well, that’s a Gotham thing, probably,” Tim says, putting on a sheepish Civilian Smile (#7). “We’re used to rogue attacks with area of effect concerns involved, so we get pretty good at clearing a street.”

“You did awesome, man!” Superboy says, grinning excitedly at him. That is . . . still weird, yeah. Tim really doesn’t get it.

Well, maybe Superboy’s just relieved to have a soulmate who knows how to stay out of the line of fire and what to do in a crisis, given how often crisises probably come up in his life. That would make sense, considering.

“It was nothing, just a little light crowd control,” Tim tries, assuming that’s what a normal civilian would say. Probably, right? Almost definitely. “Nobody even needed any urgent medical attention. And you used your TTK really strategically and contained the guy too, that was much more impressive to pull off in a mess like that.”

Yeah, that was normal civilian talk, he thinks, pleased with himself for managing it.

Superboy turns pink, then grins again. Dubbilex . . . tilts his head.

Normal. Normal. Normal civilian. That’s what Tim is. A civilian! Who’s normal! Very, very normal!

Normal.

He smiles Normal Civilian Smile #4 and pats Krypto’s head again. Krypto makes an enthusiastic attempt at licking his fingers off.

Ew.

“‘Light crowd control’,” Moon echoes. That’s what Tim said, yeah, so he’s not sure why she’s repeating it. Well–reporter, again, so it’s probably a trap.

It’s almost definitely a trap, actually.

Really definitely it’s a trap.

“Sorry to just show up like this, hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he says to Roxy and Dubbilex with a smile, politely pretending not to be ignoring Moon. He is definitely ignoring Moon, though. Again: reporter. She may not be a Lois Lane or even a Vicki Vale, but he’s still not giving her any information he can avoid giving her. And he’ll just ignore Leech while he’s at it, too.

“I invited you, dude!” Superboy says with a laugh, shaking his head. “We’re gonna hit the beach for a while, go hang out. Just swung by to grab Tim a swimsuit I can lend him.”

“You came to Hawaii to ‘get away’ and didn’t pack a swimsuit?” Moon says skeptically.

“Yup,” Tim replies with the most placidly innocent expression he’s ever worn in his life. Nothing. He is giving her nothing. Let all her reporter instincts strike against mirrored glass and high-security privacy windows and come to naught.

Moon stares at him in silence, clearly waiting for him to fill it. Tim doesn’t fall for the incredibly obvious bait and just keeps the placidly innocent expression on.

She frowns.

“C’mon, man,” Superboy says cheerfully, apparently–and fortunately–oblivious to their stand-off. He grabs Tim’s arm and drags him towards the front porch. Tim seriously doubts its structural stability, from the look of it, but tactile telekinesis is hard to argue with.

The steps manage not to collapse–possibly also because of tactile telekinesis, Tim can’t help suspecting–and Superboy pulls him straight into the house, which is . . . not particularly well taken care of, no surprise. The furniture looks like it all came from a thrift store, and not a nice thrift store.

Admittedly Tim’s upbringing might be showing here, but also the corners need swept and there’s random boxes of assorted Superboy merch everywhere, most of which looks like cheap junk, and a huge stack of mail and four empty pizza boxes on the coffee table and overflowing trash cans with random junk scattered around, and it’s just . . . it doesn’t look taken care of, no. Which is something Tim would expect from a teenager or two, and maybe Dubbilex doesn’t know how chore wheels work or whatever, but fucking Rex Leech should at least be capable of getting out the broom once a week.

Assuming there is one, anyway. Tim isn’t particularly optimistic on that one, honestly.

Superboy’s room is even messier than the living room, covered in dirty clothes and abandoned comics and crumpled-up papers, but Tim’s bedroom looks like a bomb went off in it so he’s not gonna judge. Anyway, that’s Superboy’s personal space, not a common area. He can keep it however he likes, Tim figures.

Somebody should really sweep that living room, though. And throw out those old pizza boxes, too.

Tim isn’t judging, just–well, no, he is very much judging, actually. Specifically what he’s judging is Rex Leech, noted asshole sleazeball manager with predatory business tactics.

Fuck that guy, seriously.

“You want trunks or a speedo?” Superboy asks as he lets go of his arm to fly over to the cluttered dresser. Tim turns seventeen different shades of red and nearly disassociates.

“Trunks,” he says quickly. “Please.”

“Gotcha, man,” Superboy says easily, and then all the dresser drawers yank out at once and dump out crumpled piles of . . . mostly swimsuits and super-suits, it looks like, yeah. Like, basically nothing else but swimsuits and super-suits and a couple of cheesy-looking Hawaiian shirts.

Well, that might be one lonely, lonely pair of cutoffs sticking out from underneath the swimsuits. But otherwise, that’s pretty much it, yeah.

Fuck, that’s depressing, Tim thinks.

Superboy comes back over with an armful of swimsuits, just about all of which have the S-shield either printed or stitched on them. Tim wonders why the guy even has this many swimsuits, especially considering he barely has any other clothes at all. At least not as far as he can see, anyway.

He also wonders if he’s gonna die if he wears Superboy’s clothes. Is that a thing that might happen? Because it really might happen, yeah.

Also wearing something with an S-shield on it feels like just a little too much to handle right now, so Tim’s hoping for a basic black option to be buried somewhere in that pile. Given Superboy’s apparent fashion sense, it seems unlikely, but hope springs eternal.

“Take a look, see what’s good,” Superboy says, dumping the entire armful of swimsuits on Tim. Tim’s just grateful he remembered to stick to just the trunks, at this point.

“So you spend a lot of time on the beach, huh?” he says wryly.

“C’mon, man, it’s Hawaii,” Superboy says with a sheepish grin. “And I mean, I look good in anything but wet leather is just not a comfortable fit, you know?”

“I guess it wouldn’t be, no,” Tim says, giving him Civilian Smile #4 again. Superboy’s ears redden a little again, and then he leans back and zips back across the room to shove all his drawers back shut. Tim lays out the pile of swimsuits on the bed, since it’s right there anyway, and then immediately feels embarrassed to be this close to Superboy’s bed. Which is stupid, even if they aren’t platonics. They’ve just met; it’s not like anything’s gonna happen.

. . . even if Superboy is a notorious flirt and totally shameless and–

Tim is just not gonna pursue that line of thought right now, he decides. Just for his own sanity and all.

He accidentally knocks some paper off the bed as he’s laying out the suits to get a look at them, and reflexively leans down to pick it up. The room’s a mess, yeah, but it’s Superboy’s mess. It’s still rude to just drop shit wherever.

The paper isn’t as crumpled as some of the others, and Tim sees a glimpse of color as he picks it up. His inner detective reflexively wonders what it is, and . . .

Tim uncrumples the paper a little, and blinks down at it in surprise. It’s a little kid’s drawing, it looks like. A sunny beach rendered in bright colored pencil and simple, awkward shapes all painstakingly but clumsily colored in and–

Superboy’s suddenly right back next to him snatching the paper from him and immediately hiding it behind his back, looking absolutely mortified. Tim’s confused, for a moment. What’s he embarrassed about? It’s obviously not anything he’d have drawn himself. It’s probably just something a fan or a neighbor’s kid gave him, or . . .

Tim pauses. Then he recontextualizes just how much crumpled-up paper is lying around Superboy’s room and wonders, very briefly, if a bunch of STEM majors with delusions of grandeur would’ve bothered programming their custom-designed “Superman” with anything resembling art skills.

So . . . maybe that is something Superboy drew himself. If Cadmus didn’t program him with the muscle memory or knowledge of how to draw . . . well, then he probably would draw like a little kid, wouldn’t he.

And given Superboy’s cocky, braggart personality and defensive ego and how all that paper is all crumpled up as if in frustration . . .

“Gift from a fan?” Tim “assumes” with Smiling Civilian Face #4, pretending to be oblivious.

“Uh–yeah!” Superboy blurts quickly as he jumps on the provided excuse, though he keeps the paper behind his back. “Yeah, just–you know, just some kid gave it to me at a signing, whatever. Uh, bathroom’s through there, if you wanna get changed. Or like, whatever.”

“Thanks,” Tim says, and resists the itching urge to peek at a few more of those crumpled-up papers. It’s just a lot of paper, especially if Superboy’s upset with the results.

He wonders why the guy draws so much, if he’s that frustrated and embarrassed by it. Maybe it’s a rebellion thing, since it’s something Cadmus didn’t want him to know how to do. Tim would definitely understand that logic, if he were in Superboy’s situation. Or maybe he’s just bothered not to know how and trying to teach himself to make up for the perceived failing.

Or maybe he just likes it, Tim supposes. That’s an option too.

Probably a less likely one, though, given that it’s Superboy. Not to be an asshole or anything, just it’s a lot easier picturing the guy assuming he should be able to do something and getting fixated on trying to pull it off than just, like . . . liking to draw. Also, judging by all that balled-up paper, it doesn’t seem like there’s all that much there for him to “like”, either.

Tim takes the plainest set of trunks with a drawstring waist, which are black and dark blue but still have an S-shield iron-on patch sewn onto their waistband, for whatever reason, and ducks into the bathroom with them. He realizes belatedly that said S-shield is probably going to rest right up against his soulmark, then feels like an idiot for feeling flustered by that idea and just sets his bag against the wall and starts getting undressed.

He’s definitely wearing one of the spare shirts in his go-bag for this, he decides as he stuffs his clothes into his bag. Just–definitely, yeah.

The trunks fit once he cinches the drawstring enough, but the S-shield definitely does rest right against his soulmark. Tim has never actually considered the sight of the S-shield to be, like . . . relevant or interesting outside of work, but he’s realizing that he sure does feel differently about it now that he knows his soulmate’s one of the people wearing it.

Which is a little ironic, really, considering Superboy wears the S-shield as a branding thing or whatever and lets Leech slap it on whatever cheap shitty merch he can think of. Like, he’s probably the least respectful S-wearer there is.

Tim pulls on a plain clean T-shirt and a short-sleeve button-down to go over it, figuring that’s beach-friendly enough. He should’ve packed sunglasses, probably, but he was a little distracted by his kidnapping plans and didn’t think to.

Seriously. He didn’t think to bring sunglasses to Hawaii.

This whole situation definitely has him off his game, yeah.

Soulmate thing, he guesses.

Tim eyes himself in the bathroom mirror, mentally decides he’s being an idiot to worry about how he looks right now, and then grabs his bag and heads back out into the bedroom. Superboy’s changed into low-waisted S-shield-themed trunks of his own and flip-flops and nothing else, which does in fact give Tim an embarrassingly good and embarrassingly distracting view of their soulmark. It’s not quite distracting enough for him to miss the fact that the amount of crumpled papers strewn around the room has noticeably decreased, though. And there’s definitely more of them sticking out from under the bed and dresser and in the back of the closet than there previously were.

Which is kinda cute, honestly, but Tim should probably not say that. Like, ever.

“Thanks for waiting,” he says, smiling Normal Civilian Smile #4 at Superboy as he hitches his bag up a little higher on his shoulder. “And for the loan.”

Superboy stares blankly at him for half a second, then seems to startle a little and puffs himself up.

“Uh–sure, yeah!” he says quickly. “No problem, man. Anytime.”

“‘Anytime’ seems pretty open, as an offer,” Tim jokes, because normal civilians make that kind of joke, and Superboy turns red.

“Oh, uh–you know what I mean!” he sputters awkwardly, holding his hands up, which seems kind of a lot as a reaction, and then somehow manages to nearly knock over his dresser without even touching it. Well–that'd be the TTK, Tim guesses.

It wasn't even that much of a joke. Like, lame suburban dad joke territory, that's all.

“I do, yeah,” he says with a wry smile. Superboy finds a way to turn even redder and shoves his dresser back into a corner. That also seems like kind of a lot as a reaction, but Tim doesn't comment. Just seems, well . . . awkward? Unnecessary? “Are we good to go, then?”

“Um, yeah, yeah,” Superboy says, clearing his throat and then zipping out into the hall. Tim wonders if he always flies indoors this much. “All good, dude! Let's head out.”

“Sure,” Tim says, keeping the smile on. Superboy is still red, but floats along down the hall. Tim follows. Okay. They’re almost definitely not platonic, but Superboy clearly isn’t any more sure what to do with that than Tim is, so . . . small favors, he guesses. Like–that they’re at least roughly on the same page there, he means.

Unless he’s just reading into things because of weird personal biases he didn’t even know he had, and Superboy is completely straight and just kind of socially awkward around civilians, and Tim’s just being socially pressured by the background radiation of living in a society that over-values romantic soulmates in comparison to platonic ones and sometimes disavows the value of platonic soulmates altogether.

He supposes technically they could be familial, rare as that is. It’s not like he really knows how he’d feel about having a brother. Dick’s the closest thing to one he’s ever had, and that’s just . . . not actually the same thing, obviously, even if sometimes he wishes . . .

Anyway. It doesn’t matter. He’s pretty sure having a brother wouldn’t in any way involve this level of embarrassment and unexpected hormones and just general sexuality-questioning over every little thing. Like, that seems very much not like what having a brother would be like. So–maybe he isn’t straight, or maybe Superboy’s not actually a boy, or maybe both of those things are true, or maybe he’s just really, really bad at having a soulmate.

Entirely possible, under the circumstances. Tim’s not really all that good at getting close to people. If he got a little confused about how to handle having a soulmate, well . . . that wouldn’t really be a surprise, would it.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to have to figure out how to come out to his dad or Dana or the goddamn Batman.

One or the other, probably.

. . . statistically speaking, the likelier explanation probably is not wanting to come out to the goddamn Batman.

“Wanna fly someplace or just chill on the beach out front?” Superboy asks as he floats backwards into the living room. Krypto runs up and jumps on Tim excitedly, his tail wagging so hard his whole little body’s wagging with it. He’s a weird-looking little mutt, but he’s really friendly, apparently. “Krypto, oh my god, get off him.”

“I don't mind,” Tim says, leaning down to give Krypto a polite little pat on the head. Krypto barks happily and wags his tail so hard he knocks himself over.

Yeah, weird dog in general, Tim thinks. But again, really friendly.

“We can go wherever,” he says. “You're the local, you know the best places to get a little time alone to hang out, right?”

“‘Alone’?” Superboy repeats, his ears reddening again as he somehow manages to trip in mid-air and hits his head on the doorframe. Tim can probably safely write off the idea of “platonic” at this point, but is still a little bit wary of his personal bias interfering. Though . . . “Uh–yeah! Totally! Yeah! We can do that!”

Yeah, Superboy really isn’t selling the “platonic” idea here either.

Does Tim have a boyfriend now? Is this how boyfriends happen?

. . . well, or a girlfriend, maybe. He still hasn’t ruled out the “maybe Superboy’s just trans” option. That seems like a thing that might confuse his sexuality a little, if nothing else.

This is definitely not anything like any previous girlfriend-getting he’s experienced, though. Like, not even a little bit. He’s not complaining, exactly, because admittedly it’s actually a little bit easier going into a new relationship with a plan and a cover established, even if the plan is still in flux and the relationship’s “romantic” vs “platonic” status is still unclear. It’s still something he can approach like a case, which is much more straightforward than just floundering around trying to figure out how normal people work.

And Superboy’s about as far from a “normal person” as it gets, so really, this is a pretty ideal set-up on Tim’s end.

Hopefully Superboy feels similarly, though he also, like . . . is lacking some pretty important information there, so . . . yeah, that might be an issue. Bruce would definitely not have appreciated Robin telling Superboy he was his soulmate, though, and who knows how Superboy would’ve even taken that. Going in as a civilian is going pretty smoothly, though, so Tim’s pretty sure it was the right choice.

Hopefully it was, anyway.

“Cool,” Tim says, keeping up the placid harmless civilian face and thoughts and Totally-Not-A-Vigilante vibes. Superboy does a very bad job of pretending he didn’t just bump into the doorframe and ducks back outside, putting on a cocky grin of his own as he does. It occurs to Tim, briefly, that maybe Superboy has his own catalog of performative expressions. None of his friends really seem to, but Superboy is in the community too, so . . . well, it’d make sense, right?

Also he does sell his likeness via a sleazy manager’s sleazy business deals, so yeah. It does kind of make sense.

Huh. That’s . . . a thought, he guesses.

Not a thought he’d really had yet.

Just . . . something they might have in common, Tim guesses.

Though so is being in the community to begin with, obviously. And they're physiologically about the same age and have similar coloring, though Superboy is–well, not actually mixed with East Asian, because Krypton did not have an actual place called “Asia”, but he does have subtle hints of that look, same as Superman. Easy to mistake for just being white, but recognizable if you know what you're looking for. Superboy would be at least half-white given Westfield's DNA, Tim guesses, but . . .

Yeah, no, he doesn't even know how to begin to figure out the nuances of racial identity on a dead planet he knows next to nothing about, much less any potential experience parallels there might be for a second-generation half-alien immigrant with effectively zero access to their own culture, but maybe he could–

Right, okay, he needs to focus here. There's some fascinating stuff there that he can theorize about and investigate later, once he's kidnapped Superboy properly. The kidnapping is the current priority, though. Like, it is very much the current priority.

Tim follows Superboy back out onto the porch. Everyone else is still out there, which is fine in regards to Roxy and Dubbilex and not fine in regards to Leech and . . . well, jury's out on Moon, maybe.

Also the dog. He doesn't really know about the dog. Though said dog does run after him and jump up for attention wagging his scruffy little tail hard enough to wag his whole little body, which is sort of cute.

Or as cute as a wet dishrag can get, anyway.

Tim’s trying not to judge Krypto for that, since obviously he didn't ask to be born as the living embodiment of a wet dishrag, and anyway he's a really friendly dog, so judging by appearances seems like a dick move. Even if Tim kind of wants to iron him, to be honest. Steam-clean, maybe.

At least take him to a decent groomer, if nothing else.

“Down, you little shit, Jesus!” Kon says, scowling down at Krypto and trying to shoo him away. Krypto growls at him, which seems weird, then goes back to fawning all over Tim. Tim leans down and pats his head, figuring it might calm him down.

“It’s okay,” he says. “He is cute.”

“Whatever,” Superboy grumbles, folding his arms and inexplicably glowering at his dog.

“You gonna go swim, or just hang out?” Roxy asks curiously as she comes over to them again.

“Oh, we’re–” Superboy starts, but Moon cuts him off.

“Want some company?” Moon inquires, pleasant and suspicious all at once. Superboy looks–conflicted, momentarily, and then awkward.

“Um, well–Tim’s only in town for today, so . . . next time?” he hedges. Tim resists the urge to eye Moon. Can I just spontaneously insert myself in your first day with your brand-new soulmate? is incredibly rude, as a suggestion. And incredibly fucking disrespectful to boot. Like, what entitled-ass kind of thing is that to ask, exactly?

How old is she again? Twenty? Twenty-one? He should look that up later. Well–no, she’d graduated college and started her career by the time Superman had died, which was a good eight or nine months ago now, so unless she skipped a grade or two in there, she’s gotta be closer to twenty-four, if not twenty-five or twenty-six.

That’s . . . a thought, considering there is definitely news footage of Superboy kissing her in Metropolis. Like, Tim very definitely saw news footage of Superboy kissing her in Metropolis. And she was very definitely kissing him too.

In retrospect, that seems like something someone should’ve, like . . . done something about? Or at least addressed? And is definitely further proof of how fucking useless and slimy Rex Leech is. Sure, let the five-minute-old clone make out with a twentysomething reporter and hang out with her at home; all publicity is good publicity, so it’s fine, right? Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?

Tim is going to absolutely decimate that bastard’s credit the first chance he gets. Leech probably already has terrible credit, mind, but he’ll make it worse. He’ll find a way.

. . . though he’ll wait until he’s sure Roxy is eighteen and financially independent, he doesn’t actually know if she is or not. Roxy seems nice, she doesn’t deserve that particular fallout.

“It’d be nice to get to know each other later, I’m sure,” Tim says before Moon can say anything, smiling Gala Smile #1 at her, which is a targeted psychological attack and not actually very moral to be trotting out this quick, probably.

He has no regrets, for the record. Absolutely none.

Moon narrows her eyes suspiciously. Tim blithely strokes Krypto’s ears, Gala Smile #1 flawless and unphased.

“I’m sure,” she “agrees” frostily. Superboy remains apparently oblivious to the tension and grins brightly at both of them.

“Cool!” he says. Oh, sweet summer child who has clearly never socialized with sharks, Tim thinks resignedly, petting Krypto again. Has Leech taught him literally nothing about conversational warfare, for fuck’s sake? At least living with your sleaze of a manager should be good for that, dammit!

Then again, Leech is probably not actually competent enough to teach Superboy anything actually useful, so maybe that’s for the best.

If nothing else, Superman could’ve taught him a bit of “bless your heart”, but apparently that’s not a thing either.

Tim has a brief moment of dread that maybe underneath his personal list of performative expressions, Superboy might just be a straightforward and honest person, which is a concerning thought. He doesn’t even know how to talk to a straightforward and honest person at this point, after this long as Batman’s emotional support sidekick. How do you form a lasting relationship with someone who isn’t habitually using at least three layers of double-talk and constantly locked in on all your microexpressions, anyway?

That’s going to be a weird experience, yeah.

“Ready to go?” Superboy asks Tim, grinning brighter at him. Tim feels momentarily overwhelmed and just sort of . . . has to collect himself about that, a little.

Or a lot.

“Lead the way,” he says, smiling at him. He’s flustered enough to forget to use an appropriately-planned smile, which is embarrassing, but Superboy just grins even brighter–which should not be physically possible, but apparently is–and reaches out to scoop him up into his arms and into the air again as Krypto lets out an offended bark. It’s totally overkill and not even slightly necessary.

Tim isn’t complaining, just–well–

It’s really flustering.

“Air Superboy up, up, and away!” Superboy says cheerfully as they float up over the others’ heads. His face is way too close to Tim’s face.

Tim is gonna need a bit longer to collect himself this time, he’s pretty sure.

“Do I get an in-flight meal?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Superboy laughs, which is even worse than his grin, and then takes off across the beachfront with him. It’s another bridal carry, which is quietly mortifying but could be worse, probably. Maybe.

Somehow.

Superboy flies them straight across the beach and then straight out over the water, skimming them along just above the waves. Tim makes a briefly startled noise, reflexively tightening his grip on the strap of his bag.

“This isn’t waterproof,” he says just as reflexively, and Superboy laughs again.

“I’m not gonna drop you, dude,” he says. Tim actually more assumed Superboy was intending to either dive-bomb them both into the water or just dump him in on purpose, because that seems like Superboy’s sense of humor, but maybe that was an unfair assumption.

He really is not prepared for how it feels to be held in close against Superboy’s bare chest and arms like this, even if he’s still wearing a shirt himself. The idea of possibly doing that while they’re both wet seems a lot worse.

Yeah. Definitely worse.

Tim should’ve worn long sleeves. And maybe a wetsuit. And maybe a few layers on top of that.

Jesus.

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” he says, barely resisting the urge to loop his arms around Superboy’s neck as the other hangs a right and swoops them back around towards shore. Flying over the water like this is a pretty cool experience, admittedly, now that he’s not worried about Superboy dumping him in the water.

Well. Less worried, anyway.

Camera next time, Tim promises himself, glancing back over Superboy’s shoulder towards the shining horizon. The sun reflects off the waves bright and beautiful, and the sky is a smooth and perfect blue dotted with sparse but billowing clouds, and everything smells like salt and sea and leather, which is probably Superboy, even without the jacket on anymore.

Definitely camera next time.

“Definitely holding you to that, actually,” he says, and Superboy laughs again and brings them down in the surf just past the tideline with a splash. Neither the splash or the water goes high enough to soak Tim's bag, so he figures it could've been worse.

Assuming Superboy isn't planning to toss him or anything before he can put his bag down somewhere safe, anyway.

They both settle down into the surf and onto their feet, and Tim becomes very aware of how close together they’re standing and also how very, very shirtless Superboy is, and in fact the only thing between their soulmarks is the very thin layer of cotton of Tim’s own shirt, and if he leaned in just a little bit . . .

Jesus, Tim thinks faintly, and forces himself to take a step back before he can make it weird.

He smiles Generically Pleasant Civilian Smile #2 just to make sure he doesn’t look like a creep or anything, and Superboy grins excitedly at him. Tim allows himself all of two seconds to be overwhelmed by that gorgeous expression and their physical closeness and the reflection of the light in Superboy’s eyes, as bright and perfectly blue as both the sky and water, and then reasserts standard operating procedures and keeps Generically Pleasant Civilian Smile #2 locked in place on his face.

“The water’s really warm,” he observes, glancing down at it. “Is that normal?”

It’s probably not an impending supervillain thing, he tells himself.

Maybe global warming or something, though.

“I mean, feels normal to me?” Superboy says with a shrug. Tim considers mentioning the average ocean temperature, comparatively speaking, or at least the average temperature of the water off the docks in Gotham. Admittedly, Gotham waters barely count as “water”, legally speaking, but that’s not the point.

“It’s pretty out here,” he says instead, and Superboy grins at him and leans in. He’s pretty sure it’s more an instinctive thing than a deliberate one, just from the way Superboy does it, but that doesn’t exactly make it less flattering.

Or flustering.

“I mean, it’s Hawaii, man!” Superboy says, grinning wider before kicking at the surf. “‘Course it’s gonna be pretty!”

Actually you specifically are possibly the prettiest damn thing that I have ever seen, Tim thinks, but isn’t stupid enough to actually let out of his mouth. Superboy, unfortunately, continues to be all warm and grinning and lit up by island sun. Tim did not come prepared enough for this.

“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I’d be the guy who came to Hawaii and got a monsoon,” he says wryly, and Superboy laughs brightly.

Tim really did not come prepared enough for this. Like, not at all. Not even slightly.

“Guess you’d just have to come back, then,” Superboy says, grinning wider again and kicking at the surf again as he floats back up out of it. It’s–weird, a little, looking up at him like this.

Well, not weird, just . . . yeah.

Something like that.

“Guess so,” Tim agrees, feeling embarrassingly flustered. Superboy’s friends can probably still see them from the porch, distant though it is, but part of him is still just considering very weird and dumb and insane ideas like maybe tugging Superboy back down to earth and into the surf and just . . . confirming the little sexuality crisis he’s been having since breaking into the other’s file and seeing their soulmark in it, maybe.

Just, you know, ruling things out. Making deductions. Going through the process of elimination.

Kissing him, maybe.

He could very, very much kiss Superboy right now. They’re on a gorgeous beach in the surf and under the sun and Superboy is floating in front of him and grinning as happy and excited as could be and Tim’s stomach is fluttering in a stupid and also-embarrassing way, and . . .

He could kiss him. That’s all.

“I mean, it’s a nice place to visit, right?” Superboy says casually, linking his hands together behind his back.

“The tourism industry seems to think so,” Tim says, wry again, and wonders what the “normal civilian who didn’t come here specifically looking for his soulmate to kidnap/salvage him to begin with” thing to say is here. He has absolutely no idea, because he actually has absolutely no idea how normal civilians react to superheroes. Robin is . . . not exactly an urban myth, necessarily, but definitely not a publicly-recognized superhero. He’s a vigilante that’s just barely allowed to operate outside the law, and not one with any kind of publicity or celebrity involved.

Superboy, on the other hand, is not only a superhero, but a professional superhero. He’s selling his likeness and doing events and has signed a stupid predatory contract with a sleaze of a manager that technically shouldn’t even be legal, given Superboy isn’t even considered a legal person by the government. Apparently no one has ever realized that, though, or at least no one’s ever let Superboy realize that.

Tim really doesn’t love that that’s a thing, to put it mildly.

Actually, he just fucking hates it.

Superboy laughs, and looks very, very pretty doing it. Tim continues to wonder what a normal civilian would do here, and for lack of a better idea falls back on small talk.

God, his best plan right now is small talk. What is his life, even?

No wonder he’s gonna have to take six months to kidnap Superboy, ugh.

“So, uh–this seems like a weird question to be bringing up this late in the conversation, but what’s your name?” he asks, because it’s occurred to him that he actually has no idea what Superboy goes by when he’s off-duty. He knows he doesn’t have a secret identity, obviously, but there’s no way his friends just call him “Superboy”. Well–maybe his slimy asshole manager does, but otherwise. “I mean, if that’s okay to ask. Marks or not, I understand if you don’t feel like we’re there yet, given the whole superhero thing and all.”

Robin knows Superboy doesn’t have a secret identity, after all, but Tim Drake is a normal civilian and shouldn’t act like he knows too much about any superhero in general, so–

“Naw, it’s fine, I don’t even have one,” Superboy says, for some reason just beaming at him, which is . . . weird, Tim thinks, but nowhere near as weird as that answer is.

“You don’t . . . have one?” he repeats slowly, and Superboy shrugs easily. “Like–not at all?”

“Yeah, everybody pretty much just calls me 'Kid' or 'SB', when it's not Superboy,” Superboy confirms. “Oh, and Knockout calls me 'Pup' when she's around but like, that's really just a 'her' thing and she’s low-key a supervillain, so yeah. So, you know, you can call me whatever.”

Tim stares blankly at him for a long, long moment, speed-runs all five stages of grief, and also discovers a couple of new and unexpected ones.

Alright. Well, he officially regrets literally nothing about this impending kidnapping.

“Oh, okay,” he says. “Um–sorry, I guess I just assumed you’d have a more . . . civilian-ish name too, I guess?”

“I’m a clone, man,” Superboy says, looking like he thinks Tim’s said something funny. “The only other name I’ve got is ‘Experiment Thirteen’, which is definitely not something I answer to.”

Tim discovers a few more stages of grief that hit with all the subtlety of a spiked baseball bat and makes himself nod as much like a normal person as he can.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’d go for that one if I were you either,” he says. “Kind of a mouthful, if nothing else.”

Superboy laughs, then grins at him again. He is actually doing so, so much of that, Tim’s realizing. Tim was really not prepared for how much of that he’s been doing, in fact. He just did not come prepared for any of that at all. He’s got some nebulous kidnapping plans, but everything else here–from the supervillain attack to Superboy’s ripped suit and exposed soulmark–has been a crime of opportunity.

He probably should’ve done more research. Actually, he definitely should’ve done more research. He kind of just panicked and bought a ticket and flew right over, and just because Dick didn’t stop him doesn’t mean it was a good idea. He just–he should’ve done more research. Planned more. Not shown up without something concrete.

Admittedly Superboy doesn’t hate him yet or anything, but this was just . . . yeah, this was not his brightest idea at all. Not even slightly.

Why didn’t he do more research?

“You really can just call me whatever you wanna, don’t worry about it,” Superboy says with another one of those too-easy shrugs as he settles back down into the surf, which, unfortunately, puts him back into kissing range and is therefore incredibly distracting.

Dammit, Tim thinks, trying to beat his stupid teenage hormones into order. Why is he even a teenager at all? It’s so inconvenient. He really needs to live to twenty just so he can stop being one, because god forbid he die at fifteen too and end up, like, a teenage ghost or something. He would just not be okay with that. He feels even worse for Jason thinking about that, actually.

“Whatever I want?” he repeats, because he’s an idiot with no control over his hormones whatsoever.

He really needs to make it to twenty.

“Well, except for Experiment Thirteen. That one sucks,” Superboy says with another grin. Tim politely pretends not to notice the slight tightening of the corners of the other’s mouth as he says it.

“Uh, okay,” he says, clearing his throat. He guesses Superboy doesn’t really care what his name is, then, but being told to just call him whatever he wants to is . . . well, a weird feeling, maybe. “What do you do when you just want to be a civilian for a while, though?”

“I don’t,” Superboy says.

“. . . don’t . . . what?” Tim asks slowly, not sure if he should be dreading the answer or not, but–

“Be a civilian,” Superboy says.

Tim’s running out of new stages of grief, he’s pretty sure.

“Ah,” he says.

Superboy–for a second, Tim thinks he looks self-conscious, but then he’s grinning again before he can be sure, and . . .

“Why would I, man?” Superboy says, puffing up proudly. “I’m Superboy! Nothing else I’d rather be.”

Given how limited Superboy’s options for anything “else” he could be probably are . . . well, Tim’s not sure what to think of that statement. He doesn’t think it’s anything good, whatever it is.

Yeah, he thinks as he looks at Superboy’s too-bright grin and thinks about how he just said "nothing" and not "no one". Definitely not anything good. Whether that was intentional or just an unknowing slip . . . well, who wouldn’t pick being “Superboy” over being “Experiment Thirteen”?

And what else would Superboy even know how to pick, if he thought those were his only options?

“Doesn’t that get . . . tiring?” Tim asks carefully. “Being Superboy all the time?”

Superboy blinks. Tilts his head.

And so, so obviously doesn’t understand the question.

Dammit, Tim thinks.

“Naw, man,” Superboy says confidently, grinning at him. “It’s great!”

Tim genuinely cannot imagine how it could even be mediocre. They’re very different people, obviously, but–always? Always being the hero persona? Only being the hero persona?

Not even being able to call it a persona, because it was all you ever were or had been?

Even normal celebrities dress down sometimes or try to sneak around under the radar. A celebrity superhero . . . how does Superboy even do anything? Ever? It’s not like he lives in a gated community or a wealthy area or around any other famous people or superheroes; he’s an anomaly in both Hawaii in general and in his neighborhood specifically, as far as Tim can tell. Well–as much as he’s in a “neighborhood”, anyway. There seems to be a decent amount of space between houses, which makes Tim wonder exactly how expensive this house was, especially since it’s basically right on the beach, but also it’s not in particularly good condition and–

God, he really wants a look at the setup of Superboy’s licensing deals, actually. And his bank balances and investments and just anything like that. And specifically, Rex Leech’s finances in relation to those deals and balances and investments.

Seriously, fuck that guy. Tim wouldn’t trust Rex Leech with his spare change, much less literally everything about the entire livelihood of a teen idol with limited legal personhood.

“Oh, cool,” he says with a very careful reissue of Civilian Smile #7, trying to sound like he isn’t actively fantasizing about faxing all of Rex Leech’s tax returns for the last entirety-of-Superboy’s-existence to the IRS with some very pointed notes in red pen.

Very pointed.

Superboy grins at him again. Tim thinks he’s going to have to start just inventing new stages of grief, at this point. The current ones aren’t going to cover this situation.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, I just thought it might be a little harder to hang out together if you’re really never doing the civilian look,” he tries, and Superboy–stills, suddenly, and the grin vanishes all at once. Tim has a moment to be split between having an anxiety attack about having said the wrong thing or having an anxiety attack about the supervillain attack that’s about to land on his head when he still doesn’t have a mask, and then–

“You–what?” Superboy asks, looking startled. “I mean, uh–like–you wouldn’t get bored doin’ that?”

“. . . hanging out with you?” Tim asks blankly. They’re soulmates. And also Superboy is quite possibly the literally least boring person he has ever met, douchey shades or not, and the list of “least boring” people in his life includes Bruce and Dick and more superheroes than he could shake his bo stick at. How is someone getting bored around him even a concern that would occur to Superboy? Like, literally ever?

“No, I mean–” Superboy turns red, looking briefly embarrassed. “You wouldn’t have more fun hangin’ out with Superboy than just, uh–some guy?”

It takes all of Tim’s Bat-training and gala-experience to not stare at him over that. That–what kind of question is that?

“I mean, I’m just some guy,” he lies. “But I just meant it’d be way easier to hang out if we weren’t having to deal with people bugging you for selfies or autographs or whatever all the time, you know?”

“I–uh, I guess,” Superboy says, still looking flustered. “Like–probably, I guess.”

“Also I don’t want, like, a Gotham rogue randomly deciding you being in town is a good reason to start some shit,” Tim says wryly, because he definitely does not want that, in fact. “Feel like Batman wouldn’t like that very much.”

“You believe in Batman, dude?” Superboy asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

“You’re a half-alien clone and you think Batman’s hard to believe in?” Tim attempts to deflect with, because that was definitely a fuck-up on his part, and Superboy just laughs.

“No, man, I just have literally never met a Gothamite who’d admit to believing Batman was a real dude,” he says. “I literally met Robin like a week ago and, like, pretty sure he was low-key trying to convince me he didn’t believe Batman existed.”

It was not even a week, Tim thinks, mildly indignant for no good reason, then puts Dubious Civilian Expression #1 on his face and rolls his eyes.

“Okay, Batman’s one thing, but no one actually thinks Robin’s real,” he snorts, and Superboy laughs again, sounding straight-up delighted about it.

“No, he totally is!” he protests, grinning at him again too and linking his hands together behind his back as he leans towards him, which is incredibly, incredibly distracting for him. “Dude’s got the sick flips and everything and I totally saved his ass from Metallo. And, uh, then he totally saved my ass from Poison Ivy. Long story. Also he’s got a stick up his ass, like legit you would think that was where he kept that quarterstaff thing of his.”

This is a dangerous topic, Tim recognizes while forcing down the instinct to reply it’s a bo staff, actually, they’re pretty different, and tries to figure out how to change the subject as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Robin talk is not a good idea right now, when there’s a risk of Superboy possibly noticing something about him, what with meeting Robin a reasonably fresh experience in his mind.

Not that fresh, apparently, since he thinks it was “like a week” ago. But whatever. Not the point. Tim’s just annoyed by the inaccurate intel.

. . . seriously. A week?

“Batman or not, you apparently already have beef with Poison Ivy, so definitely I’d be worried about you being publicly in town without needing to pack a super-powered weed-whacker,” he says wryly instead of anything more damning or secret-identity-blowing. Superboy looks–weird, for a moment, leaning back a little bit to straighten back up.

“You’d, like–actually be cool with me visiting you in Gotham? Like–that wouldn’t be annoying or whatever?” he asks, sounding just barely uncertain about it, and Tim again has to force himself not to stare at him. First: Superboy being any kind of uncertain whatsoever is the weirdest thing he’s ever seen, and second: they’re soulmates. People will spend a lot more time with their soulmates than occasionally visiting each other in different cities, especially five minutes after meeting them when they’re still trying to figure out who and what they are to each other. Again: Tim has investigated multiple missing persons cases that turned out to be “I found my soulmate” cases! Multiple! In Gotham, even!

“Yes,” he says instead of any of that. “I would actually really like you to, in fact.”

“Oh,” Superboy says, and turns red again. “I–uh–yeah, I guess that’d be cheaper than you needing to buy a plane ticket or run up your phone bill if you ever feel like shooting the shit or whatever, huh?”

“I have unlimited minutes, actually,” Tim says, forcing down another stare. The staring would not help, at this moment. Or like–ever, probably. “And the plane ticket was only like a week’s allowance, plus my dad’s got a disgusting amount of frequent flyer miles saved up he never remembers to use anyway. I’ll buy you a plane ticket if you don’t feel like flying yourself.”

“. . . uh,” Superboy says. Tim should stop talking, probably, but–

“Also you’re my soulmate,” he says. “I could get, I dunno, an after-school job if I actually needed to cover anything like that. I just figured we could take turns flying over or something. I mean, if you decided to go to college in Gotham in a couple years or something I wouldn’t complain, obviously, just we’ve just met and that seems like a bit much to suggest first thing. Especially, uh, since you don’t actually have any transcripts, apparently. Um. Just, well, if you ever did want to be a civilian sometimes . . . like, eventually, I mean? Well, Gotham would probably be a good place to hide a Super, right? Nobody’d expect to see you there, and it’s not like you can’t commute.”

Superboy is staring at him now. Tim thinks maybe he said something wrong after all. Or maybe the lycra rando is about to jump him from behind.

Fifty-fifty, given the way his life tends to go.

“Um,” he says. “Like–no pressure or anything. I could also look into colleges out here, do you know if there’s any good programming–uh, programs around? Like just tech in general.”

Superboy is still staring at him.

. . . okay, at this point, it’s probably that Tim said something wrong, yeah.

God, he’s usually so much better at subtle social manipulations. Is this the panicking thing again? Is he panicking again?

Apparently, yeah.

“Um,” Tim says again. Superboy jolts like he’s just gotten shocked by static electricity or something and turns blazingly red.

That is definitely not a color achievable by human circulatory systems, yeah.

“Uh!” Superboy says, looking incredibly awkward for a second and then clearly forcing a casual, cocky pose as he raises an eyebrow at him with a smirk. It might come across as more convincingly casual if he weren’t still blushing, but Tim isn’t going to judge; blushing is generally an involuntary response. “I dunno, man, I don’t ask the college babes what their classes are like, you know? Not really my priority in the conversation.”

. . . Tim might judge a little. Just, like–in passing.

He really needs to figure out if they’re platonic or not. Just–very much so does he need to figure that out.

“Well, if you get the chance next time, maybe you could just see what they think about the curriculum,” he suggests, because maybe they are platonic, and Superboy–hesitates, for a second, and then Tim’s not sure if he said something stupid or not, and then Superboy just grins at him again, crooked and easy, and it sort of fries Tim’s brain a little.

Okay, so like . . . uh. Another mark against platonic, Tim guesses while he’s trying to remember how his slightly-fried brain even works. At least another mark against platonic on his end, anyway. Superboy talking about “college babes” is kind of a mark for platonic, admittedly.

Unfortunately, Tim is still the guy whose first reaction to finding out Superboy was his soulmate was “wait, am I gay?”, so . . . yeah.

So like, that’s a few things he’s gonna have to process at some point this week, he guesses.

He can probably fit it in Thursday, he tells himself.

“I mean, if you want me to chat up some campus coeds for ya, I guess I can be a soul-bro like that,” Superboy says, grinning wider. His grin is unfortunately gorgeous, and the statement is unfortunately heterosexual. Or at least very strongly platonic-soulmate-leaning, anyway.

And Tim, to his awkward embarrassment, thinks he might actually be disappointed by that.

. . . maybe he’ll fit in his processing on Sunday, he amends. Sunday he has a little more spare time to work with, and there’s just . . . going to be a lot of it, definitely.

Just a lot.

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #conner kent #dc robin #superboy #wip: kidnapping your soulmate for fun and profit #anonymous

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bonus-links · 5 months ago

Note

Director's commentary maybe?

HELLO!! lots to say abt this one

i have this diagram with the entire plot of bonus links on it where every plot point is a digital sticky note. anyway the note for this update was just called "loft and wolf talk about being assholes". The original intent was for them to talk a bit more about how they both left their families behind (re: the party update) but the scene ended up taking itself in a different direction, as they so often do. I've saved that dialogue for later tho >:-)

this panel? bane of my existence to color. you would think after 3 years of making these comics I would have learned how to color night time lighting. ANYWAY. i think it's really funny that Wake is the only one managing to get a good night of sleep 😂 good for him

this whole scene was originally also going to be at night but a) i am so tired of night lighting and b) i thought this kind of morning twilight was appropriate for this conversation :-) it turned out a little brighter than intended maybe but I did my best lol

one more thing to keep loft up at night forever

this is directly referenced from this TP screenshot, I think from the mortal draw training. one of the overall themes for this update is, loosely, the ghosts haunting everyone, so. hello hero's shade :D and hi mask

speaking of ghosts haunting everyone, Loft's BG is the pattern I use on Fi's text boxes, and Wolf's is the shattered mirror of twilight

i also set up these shots to kind of parallel each other; wolf and loft coming to an understanding, while slate and champion can't. another parallel being how Fi is silent the way Champion is silent.

I'm not gonna comment too much on Champion and Slate's conversation (or lack thereof lol), but I will say that Champion's role in the story is like. one part literal and one part metaphorical. Champion is not fully the person he was when he was alive. It's the ghost of him in all senses of the word. something to keep in mind

in regards to the fairies, that's actually a total happy accident 😭 i was just sort of coloring them at random, but it really does look like it could be Ciela, Leaf, and Neri 🥺 i'll leave that interpretation up to you guys

omg also if you saw the WIP for the last page on Patreon, I had originally drawn Slate without his tunic. Literally the only reason i changed it was bc I felt like the page needed the pop of green from his tunic lol the dark color of his turtleneck kept getting lost in the bg. so yes I did have to go back and redraw/recolor every panel 😭

that's all for now, thanks for reading!

#directors commentary #ask #bonus content #bonus links

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joons-cinnamon-bun · 5 months ago

Text

The Case of Us.

Summary: You and Namjoon are an unlikely pair, clashing from the start. He’s a seasoned detective, used to working alone and running on instinct. You, a rookie, fresh off acing your detective exam, ready to prove yourself. At first, you butt heads—your sharp, hardheaded approach grating against his calm, measured demeanor. But there's an undeniable pull between the two of you, an unspoken understanding that begins to form as you both tackle case after case. Through the chaos of the job, you rely on each other more and more. And though you're still figuring out the balance between the stubborn rookie and the seasoned detective, you both know one thing for certain—you're a hell of a team. A/N: Oh Hey everyone... So, I did it again—I got overwhelmed by life and felt the need to write... And you know the drill. (I ended up re-reading Chapter 4 of Holiday Pretense so many times that I couldn’t tell what was repeating and what was just my brain spiraling. And i guess I rage-quit for the day) So instead, I ended up writing something completely different. But this time, it's really random and far "into the story". Also, that pancake dialogue is loosely inspired by a conversation from "Castle"-oldish detective serries i love to this day. Call it a teaser if you will? (I wanna know if anyone would be interested in something like this.) (besides those 5 wips i have already lol. i need professional help 😓🥲) (thank you always @callmenoona25 for proofreading. love you) Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: detective/ thriller. neo noir(?) Rating: explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: Guns. Mentions of serial killers and bodies. Crimes. Corpses. police/detective lingo. Detective Yoongi and Jungkook being the best duo. (Also, if you know me. I tend to keep it light- not very gore. But i do have a genuine obsession with true crime/detective stories/criminology. So this might turn off some readers. proceed at your own discretion) tag list: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch7 @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne @oneshallsmile

The dead of night. The scent of rain still clung stubbornly to the damp, heavy air, even hours after the downpour had stopped. Your tv was on, though it was on mute.

Then you heard it.

A sound—a shuffle by the doorway.

Instinct took over. The lights went dark in an instant, your hand moving with practiced ease to the gun at your hip. You gripped it tight, steady, breath held as you listened.

The sounds didn’t stop. The lock turned. The knob twisted.

Before the intruder could take a step inside, you struck—slamming your full weight against him, pinning him to the doorframe, gun pressed firm against his throat.

“Holy shit-!”

A familiar voice. Your grip tightened for just a second before recognition set in.

“Namjoon?” you didn’t lower the gun.

“Who else would it be?” his tone was maddeningly casual, one hand gripping your wrist, pushing the barrel down to his chest, right above his heart. “Just— don’t shoot the face.”

Your pulse was still hammering in your ears, the rush of the adrenaline refusing to fade. You let out a slow breath, easing the gun off his chest but not fully lowering it.

Namjoon let out a short chuckle- half amused, half exasperation. “Nice to see you too,” he muttered, rolling his shoulder as if shaking off the impact.

“You could’ve called.” you shot back, eyes still sharp, scanning his face in the dim light. he looked tired, damp hair falling messily over his forehead, his clothes wrinkled like he’d been running all night.

“And argue with you over the phone?” he asked, rubbing at his throat where the gun had pressed, “I think it worked out better this way.”

Your gaze flicked to the door, still slightly ajar. “You picked the lock?!”

He shrugged. “Old habits.”

You exhaled through your nose, finally lowering the gun all the way. “What the hell are you doing here, Namjoon?”

His smirk faltered slightly. For the first time, you noticed the tension in his jaw, the way is fingers curled slightly over the damp paper bags he was carrying.

“I-” he took a breath, like the confession hurt, “I’m worried about you.”

You huff, incredulous, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. Clearly.” he gestured vaguely towards the gun in your hand. “Doesn’t change the fact that as your supervisor and partner, I worry about you.” He moved with ease, setting the bags on your kitchen table, leaving a trail of wet footsteps all across your tile floor.

“Namjoon, I’m not a rookie anymore.”

Namjoon let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning against the counter. “I never said you were.”

You crossed your arms, watching him. “Then stop treating me like one.”

His eyes flicked to yours—sharp, unreadable. “If you want me to stop, then quit making it so damn easy to worry.”

That shut you up for a second.

The weight of his words lingered in the space between you, thick as the humidity still clinging to the air. You glanced at the paper bags on the table, the edges crumpled from his grip. “What’s this?”

“Dinner.” He peeled one open, pulling out a takeout container. “Figured you haven’t eaten.”

You frowned, but your stomach betrayed you with a quiet growl. Namjoon heard it—of course he did—and the smirk that tugged at his lips made you want to shoot him just on principle.

“I was going to eat.”

“Yeah?” He arched a brow, flipping open the container. “What, exactly? Stale instant noodles? Maybe those grotesque granola bars you like to keep in your purse and only eat after they expire?”

You huffed but didn’t deny it.

Namjoon grabbed a pair of chopsticks and held them out. “Sit. Eat.”

“Is this standard procedure with all your trainees?” The sarcasm was thick in your voice, but you still took a seat across from him.

“Just the ones that get themselves targeted by serial killers.”

Your grip on the chopsticks faltered for just a second.

Then you scoffed. “That supposed to be a joke?”

Namjoon didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

Your stomach twisted.

“I’m serious.” His voice had dropped, low and steady, the kind that sent a chill down your spine. “We need to talk.”

You eyed him warily, then set the container down. “About what?”

Namjoon exhaled, rubbing at his temple like he already regretted this conversation. “There was another one.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around the edge of the table. “Where?”

“Downtown. Two blocks from our last case.”

You didn’t need him to elaborate. Your mind was already connecting the dots, pulling up images you didn’t want to see.

Same M.O.? You almost asked, but you already knew the answer.

Namjoon watched you carefully, like he was waiting for the realization to hit.

It did.

“That’s why you’re here.” The words tasted bitter. “You think I’m next.”

His jaw tightened. “And you clearly agree. Why else would you sleep with your gun strapped to your hip?”

“I think you guys are overreacting.”

“Is that why you called the protection detail off? You were supposed to have uniforms watching you right now.”

“The captain is being absurd.” You take a bite of rice “Much like you are right now.” You argue between mouthfuls.

“You’re impossible.” He watched you with that usual superior look of his, that challenging glare that made your blood boil.

“So, what? You decided to break in and deliver takeout because you think I have a target on my back?”

Namjoon’s expression didn’t shift. If anything, his silence spoke louder than any answer he could’ve given.

Your stomach churned—not from the food, but from the implications hanging between you.

He wasn’t here just because he thought you were in danger.

He was here because he knew you were.

“I’m staying the night.”

You snapped. “Oh, like hell you are!”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. He just set down his chopsticks and looked you dead in the eye, his gaze unwavering.

“I’m staying the night,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You shot him a look that could cut glass, but his expression didn’t change. There was something in his eyes—something you couldn't quite place.

“Not a chance, Namjoon,” you snapped, pushing yourself away from the table. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, you need to not get killed.”

The words snapped like a gunshot between you, sharp and final.

Neither of you spoke.

Outside, the rain threatened to start again, fat droplets tapping against the glass.

You held his stare, your jaw clenched and shoulders squared, the air between you so tense it felt like either of you might snap.

“Fine.” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “But you sleep on the couch.”

Namjoon’s lips twitched into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Deal,” he said, nodding in silent agreement as he slowly backed away from the table. He didn’t argue further—there was nothing left to say once the terms were set. “I also got us a bottle of wine to celebrate you finally taking an order from me.”

“You’re impossible,” you counter, using his earlier line.

You resumed eating, though the rice had lost its appeal. Each bite felt heavy, burdened by the tension between you. Every clink of chopsticks and scrape of ceramic against the table punctuated the silence like a metronome counting down the moments until something else would shatter the uneasy calm.

Namjoon didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen counter, where the bottle of wine sat like a silent witness to the strange turn of events. He seemed content to let the silence stretch between you, his presence still an unspoken weight in the room.

The tension was thick, almost suffocating, but you didn’t care to break it. Not yet. The thoughts swirling in your head—the things you hadn’t said out loud—kept you rooted in place. The noise of the rain outside, once soothing, now only added to the discomfort that crawled under your skin.

Namjoon poured two glasses of wine, his movements slow and deliberate. When he placed one in front of you, you took it without a word. He watched you for a beat, his eyes searching, trying to gauge what was really going on beneath the surface.

You took a sip, the warmth of the wine doing little to ease the cold unease that wrapped around you. The day, the case, everything was starting to feel too close, too personal. And Namjoon’s silent presence wasn’t helping, no matter how much it was meant to comfort.

After a few minutes, Namjoon cleared his throat softly, watching you look down into your glass. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if I set up my gear in the living room?” he asked, voice low. “Just in case we need to move fast.”

You frowned, glancing toward the door where the muted TV light played over the wall. “It’s your turn to be my backup tonight,” you muttered, half teasing, half warning.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I never leave your side—even if I’m on the couch,” he replied, a trace of amusement in his tone that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You shot him a sidelong look, then set your glass down. “Get your things, Namjoon. And for the record, I’d prefer not to have a detective rummaging through my living room,” you added, attempting to lighten your tone despite the unease creeping in.

He smirked. “I’ll try to behave,” he said with a wink that belied the seriousness behind his words.

Moments later, the quiet hum of preparation filled the apartment. Namjoon unpacked his duffel bag with the methodical precision of someone who’d been in high-stakes situations far too many times. You found yourself glancing repeatedly at the window, where the rain began to fall again in earnest, drumming against the glass like a ragged heartbeat.

“I’ll fetch you some blankets.”

“A few pillows too.”

You chuckle, “Do you want a facemask too?”

Namjoon looked up from his bag, a playful glint in his eyes despite the tension hanging in the air. “Only if it comes with a side of earplugs,” he teased, the corner of his lips twitching upward.

You rolled your eyes, standing up from the table and moving toward the closet “Yeah, baby boy needs his beauty sleep.”

You tossed the blanket and pillows onto the couch, but as you straightened up, the sound of the rain outside seemed to deepen, becoming almost repetitive in its heaviness. For a moment, neither of you spoke—just the low hum of the apartment and the soft drum of water against glass.

Namjoon broke the silence with a more serious note. “Try and get some rest. You’ve had a long week.”

You paused, turning to face him, your gaze met his, and for a moment, the usual banter was gone, replaced by something more sincere—something that tugged at the edges of your own quiet worry. You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come right away, and you debated if you even wanted to let them out.

“Thank you.”

Namjoon’s gaze softened, the seriousness in his face fading into something just slightly softer.

He nodded slowly, as if accepting your gratitude, though his lips didn’t curve into a smile. There was something grounding about the way he held your gaze, like he understood more than you were saying.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he murmured, his voice low, but the words carried weight. “It’s what we do.”

You exhaled quietly, finally giving in to the tension in your shoulders. “Yeah, well... it’s still nice to hear.” You couldn’t stop yourself from adding, the soft edge to your tone. “Thank you for being here. And for dinner.”

“It’s no problem,” he said quietly, his voice steady but gentle. “You know I’ve got your back.”

“Yeah.” You still sigh despite yourself, pushing towards the bedroom “Goodnight Joon.”

Namjoon watched you as you moved toward the bedroom, his eyes soft, but there was a hint of something unreadable in them. He remained silent for a moment, just watching you before speaking in that calm, reassuring tone of his.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly, though his voice lingered in the space between you, grounding you in the moment.

You didn’t turn back, but his presence, quiet and constant, felt like a weight lifted, even just for tonight. The quiet murmur of the rain outside seemed softer, less oppressive as you closed the door behind you.

~~~

The smell of pancakes felt foreign in your apartment. The rich, buttery scent filled the air, its warmth cutting through the cool, damp atmosphere of the morning. You blinked a few times, trying to shake off the grogginess, your mind still hazy from sleep. It took a few seconds for you to process what was happening.

Namjoon.

You could hear the faint sound of him humming, the clink of utensils, the quiet sizzle of batter on the griddle. The peacefulness of it felt almost surreal after the tension of the night before.

Rubbing your eyes, you stepped out of the bedroom, the coolness of the floor beneath your feet grounding you back in reality. You walked toward the kitchen, where Namjoon was flipping pancakes like he’d done this a hundred times in your kitchen—like he belonged there.

He glanced up when you appeared, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it was the kind of smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. The weight of last night still hung in the air between you.

“Morning,” he greeted softly, the scent of coffee following the pancakes.

You blinked at the scene, still a little dazed. “Did you... make this?” You gestured toward the stack of golden pancakes, the syrup bottle, and the neatly placed plates.

“I wanted to make eggs. But they expired last year, and your bacon had something growing on it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. We need to go to the precinct.”

“Will you relax? Just sit down and eat.”

You shot him a look, but he was already plating another pancake, as if he were completely unfazed by the chaos that had defined your life for the last few days.

“I’m serious, Namjoon. We don’t have time for breakfast. The precinct is waiting, and you’ve got a duty.” You gestured vaguely to the mess of plates and syrup bottles, your voice tightening slightly despite the absurdity of the moment.

He turned to you with an almost exasperated expression, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You need food. We both do. The precinct will be there when we're ready. In the meantime, we sit. We eat. You get a few minutes to breathe.”

You huffed in frustration but couldn't deny the logic behind his words. He was right, you were barely functioning on caffeine and adrenaline, and you needed a break—even if just for a few minutes.

“Fine,” you muttered, sitting down at the table. “But as soon as we're done, we're out the door. No more distractions.”

Namjoon gave you a nod, his tone still light. “Oh, I forgot the newspaper.” He turned off the stove and did his little half-jog to the door.

But as soon as he twisted the doorknob, the door slammed open against the weight of the body propped against it. A sickening thud reverberating through the apartment. Your heart skipped a beat as the sight of the corpse registered in an instant—its pale, lifeless face staring up at you, eyes vacant and unseeing. The air in the room felt like it had thickened, the weight of the situation crashing down on you.

Namjoon froze for a moment, his hand still on the doorknob. Then, without a word, he stepped back, his body moving with precision as he grabbed his cell and tossed it to you.

“Call the precinct.” He instructed, fetching his gun in an instant “And stay back.”

Your fingers trembled as you caught the phone, the shock still running through your veins. You barely registered the coldness of the device against your palm, too focused on the scene in front of you. The body. The blood that had pooled around it, seeping into the carpet like it was part of the apartment itself.

You fumbled with the phone, dialling the precinct, your breath hitching in your throat. The line rang once, twice, before someone picked up, their voice professional, unaware of the horror unfolding in your living room.

“112, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Detective Hwang, badge number 1209. There’s a body on my front door.”

The voice on the other end of the line shifted instantly, now alert. “Detective Hwang, stay on the line. Is the scene secure? Do you need assistance?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice tight as you tried to steady your breathing. “We have a body. It's… propped against the door. Get someone here immediately.”

“Understood, Detective. Stay where you are. Officers are on their way. Do not engage with the scene further.”

You glanced over at Namjoon, who was crouched by the body now, his gun trained at the door as he assessed the situation. He didn't flinch or pause, moving with the practiced calm that had always been his trademark.

It took less than 8 minutes for your apartment to be crawling with uniforms, CSU, and of course, Detective Yoongi and Jungkook.

“So,” Jungkook was talking to Namjoon, merely a few steps away from where you sat at the kitchen table across from Yoongi. “Wine glasses.”

“Yeah, Namjoon brought dinner and wine.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Namjoon with a smirk. “Dinner and wine, huh? Cozy night in?”

Namjoon shot him a deadpan look. “It was supposed to be breakfast, too, until we were rudely interrupted by a corpse.”

Jungkook let out a low whistle, shaking his head “Pancakes?”

You glanced over at him, confused.

“So, nothing else happened?” Jungkook continued undeterred.

“Jungkook what are you on about?”

“Well, you know what they say about pancakes.” Yoongi replied, though his eyes were still glued to his notepad.

You narrowed your eyes, glancing between Yoongi and Jungkook. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do they say about pancakes?”

Jungkook grinned like he’d been waiting for you to ask. “Pancakes are the best way to say ‘Hey, thanks for that amazing sex last night.’”

You choked on absolutely nothing, spluttering as Namjoon let out the world’s longest sigh beside you.

“Oh my God,” Namjoon muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we not do this right now?”

Yoongi finally glanced up from his notepad, entirely unbothered. “It’s a well-documented theory.”

Jungkook nodded, very seriously. “Classic post-hookup breakfast. Means it was so good that one of you felt compelled to whip up something warm and sweet the next morning.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “It was just breakfast, Jungkook.”

“Was it?” Jungkook teased, crossing his arms. “Because the way I see it, there are two wine glasses on the counter, Namjoon sleeping over, and pancakes on the table.”

Namjoon made a noise somewhere between a groan and a death rattle. “I hate all of you.”

You threw up your hands. “For the last time, nothing happened!”

Yoongi huffed, and Jungkook shook his head as he jotted down on his notepad “witness refuses to cooperate.”

You gawked at him. “Are you seriously writing that down?”

Jungkook nodded, scribbling dramatically. “Refuses to acknowledge the overwhelming evidence of post-coital carbohydrates-”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

Namjoon, looking moments away from actual homicide, turned to Yoongi. “Please arrest him for obstruction.”

Yoongi barely held back a smirk. “Tempting.”

#namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #namjoon imagine #bts smut #namjoon scenarios #namjoon smut #bts x fem!reader

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nuggetpool-hi · 6 months ago

Note

i am gonna eat ur poolverine FUCKING WHOLE

MORE MORE MORE MORE I AM SO HUNGRYYYYYYY

My to-do list is so huge I havent even done HALF

I wanna do screenshot redraws- aus- I have comic dialogues, random oufits, random art, scenes, I got 1 animatic storyboarded and 2 animation wips AND SO MUCH MORE LIKE WTF WHEN AM I GOING TO DO ALL OF THIS

anyway old thing again

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winterarmyy · 2 years ago

Text

Must Be Fate

Prequel to And You're Mine. This is the story of how Y/N first met her cute, chubby alpha!bucky.

Summary: Y/N has been crossing paths with this particularly sweet alpha all day long; this must be fate right?

Navigation: Prequel || Main Story I || Main Story II || Main Story III

Pairing: chubby alpha!bucky x omega!female!reader

Words: 4.2k++

Warnings: a/b/o dynamics. fluffy stuff. sort of fated mate themed because... love at first scent(?). instant love. the reader was just smitten without even knowing bucky's name, alpine making her appearance, 99.9% reader's pov because she's the one who fell in love and remembers him. Dialogue? almost little to none (I AM SO SORRY FOR THAT). And I little shout out to one of my favourite book.

P/S: Been busy these few days, i just graduated my bachelor's degree, then went through the whole job hunting process and somehow managed to land an offer (in another state btw), then went on a stressful house hunting journey and managed to get decent place. Yknow, all those "adulting" stuff (that i am not ready to face). But yeah, here's a little something from my wip that I managed to finish. Happy reading! 🤍

Read my other works here: Masterlist

Y/N herself might not notice it, but she had been stealing glances through the pretense of the book she was supposed to be reading for quite some time now. Not that she wanted to be distracted anyway; she was rather enjoying her current read, especially the banter between main characters, Liesel and Rudy.

Yet for some reason, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the particular alpha sitting on the park bench, right across from her.

It seemed that the man was also distracted with his own personal dilemma as his thoughts were lost within the arrangement of peonies in his hand. There was this deep frown decorating his features yet his eyes translates a different type of emotion. More gloomy, more somber. And Y/N knew exactly why.

She never meant to follow Bucky around, in fact, she didn’t. It just happened that his paths were fated to intertwined with hers; and it all started that afternoon.

The bus was packed full, albeit it was Saturday, but thankfully she managed to find herself a seat.

Since Y/N was getting closer to her heat, in about a week or so, and her scent blockers were nearly out. She just got back from a nearby clinic to restock and now she had a full day for herself.

The thing about her pre-heat condition is that she was fortunate to not experience the normally unpleasant symptoms like any omega would; she doesn't get irritated easily and she didn't have to go through those random aches and fever.

However, she had a particular symptom that differs from the other omega; which involve the irregular increase of her scent.

During pre-heat and all throughout the actual heat, Y/N’s scent tripled the amount of a normal omega in heat. And since, she refused to take suppressants, the doctor prescribed her with a high dosage of scent blockers instead; to mask her scent completely during pre-heat.

Besides her own scent thickens and heighten, her sense of smell was also affected. It will become so senstive that she can smell everything and everyone, all at the same time.

Unfortunately for her, there weren’t any medication to combat that issue and the only solution she could do was wearing a mask to lessen affect of other people’s scents. But of course, the mask can only do so much especially when she was in a tight confinement of a bus with – what feels like – 2000 people crammed into it.

Too many potent scents coming from every direction, that her head spun into nausea.

Sure, she might be a little bit exaggerating about the amount of people in the bus, but it felt awfully like it when the bus stopped in every bus stop in its route; she can physically feel the inertia of the force pushing her to lean forward.

Thank god, she was sitting down; she managed to hold on the seat in front of her for support. Often times she would whisper her apologies to the man sitting in front for the sudden push of her hand, And most times he only nodded without looking back.

But at one of those stops, unfortunately, the teenager standing next to her bumped his head right onto the metal pole. Poor thing quickly scurried out of the bus in pain and embarrassment.

The density of people became lesser at that stop, but not enough to empty any seat in the bus. Though it worked well for her that most of the strong scents were fading into a much more bearable capacity for her to endure.

While streams of people exited the bus, only one came aboard; a sweet old lady. The moment Y/N saw her, she was already thinking of giving up her seat, but the man sitting in front of her beat her to it as he swiftly stood on his feet and help the old lady to his seat.

The old lady gushed and thanked the man, dearly patted his cheeks like any grandmother would do to their grandchildren.

And in that brief moment of time, when he moved, Y/N picked up a particularly sweet scent trailing behind him and when he came back, it hits her like a train. At first, she can sense some sort of floral; roses and jasmine but with time the smoky sandalwood and spicy cinnamon seeped through. The combination of sweet and woody notes made such a warm and captivating scent.

She never knew an alpha can smell this good.

Her eyes fluttered close as the alluring scent flooded her brain, letting his scent creates the dreamy images of his fingers lacing between hers as they walk in the rain, or him cuddling her in the heat of the fireplace during the winter, or his body trapping her by the back as she takes his huge delicious kno—whoa.

That was way too vivid and a tad too far.

She was so enthralled by his scent that she forgot to even look at the man’s face. And a mistake it was for her to take a peek because he is absolutely gorgeous. The brown locks on his head was neat and clean that she just wanted to make a mess out of it. His eyes were pretty in steel-blue and his plush lips was simply a sin to look at.

Though some would argue about the lack of shape in his jawline, the same one that was hidden between his chin; she didn’t care at all, rather she was particularly fond of the softness on his chubby cheeks. Shaved so clean and smooth that she couldn't find a single razor cut on his skin.

They look so cute and kissable. She want to kiss his cheeks, his lips, and every part of his ridiculously handsome face. She wanted kiss him so badly.

And those intrusive thoughts made her almost missed her stop.

Y/N panicked when she scurried out of the bus that she didn't even thought to ask him for his name or number; anything.

But then again, she wasn't the type to be so bold in the first place; she knew wouldn't have the courage to even speak a word to him. His scent alone almost pushed her into a frenzy, so imagine if he would look at her with those beautiful eyes of his, smile at her, talk to her?

She'd simply die. She was sure of it.

So, with regrets Y/N walked towards the familiar road right into the local bookstore that she often visits. Thinking that this encounter would probably be forgotten by the end of the day.

Then she spent hours in that shop trying to find the perfect book to put her out of the miserable reading slump she was currently in. While her eyes skim over the covers of the book in display, in the back of her head, Y/N was almost certain of how unlikely it was for her to see the alpha ever again.

Couple of turns later, her footsteps trailed back to the space in between the bookshelves next to the huge glass window of the store. Still glancing absentmindedly at the book covers particular on the historical fiction isle. She halted when she saw it, the book that people had been recommending to her, 'The Book Thief'.

After reading the summary behind the book, she felt drawn to it almost instantly. Thinking that maybe this would be the book that will replenish her interest of reading back to its utmost glory.

But when she lifted her head up, she froze yet again. This time, not because the sight of a book. But it was the silhouette of the alpha she saw in the bus. Instinctively, her feet step closer to the glass window, to have a better look at the man across the road.

The alpha had just exited the flower shop opposite from where she was standing, with a gorgeous bouquet of peonies in his hands. Now that she looked closely, his hands were covered with black leather gloves; it intrigued her and she wondered about the story behind it.

Y/N wasn't that dense; she could see it right away from the way he dressed, to the choice of gift he went for. She knew instantly that the alpha was probably going out on a date.

And that stung her a little bit. How nice it must be to be his date, his girl, his omega.

Funny of her to think so when she never really talked to the guy. Let alone know him well enough to decided whether he's a good alpha or not. But something about him felt right to her.

But, sometimes it'll be like that. Falling in love so strongly, so instantly. And there's nothing wrong with it, as long as you know how to protect yourself; your body, your heart.

When her gaze moved upwards to his face; and her heart almost escaped her body. It was so quick, so faint. But, she saw his smile. It wasn't for her but it was so pretty. Y/N felt like a bow just struck her chest and the cupid was trying to pull it back out.

She knew full well how she probably need to move on from this delusional crush of hers yet her eyes still longingly lingered at his moving figure, walking farther away from her sight.

When she thought that would be the last time she saw him, she was utterly wrong. Now, it felt like devilish cupid was toying with her heart as their path crossed yet again, this time at a nearby cafe.

She didn't notice him at first, at least until she placed her orders and saw him sitting alone at the far corner of the cafe. He seemed to be waiting for his date; the flowers laid perfectly on the seat next to him.

In contrast of the few looks of his that she had witness before, the alpha's demeanour indicates anxiousness.

His heel keeps tapping the floor, causing his knees to jump up and down, as he fiddled with his phone. Occasionally, he would look at the time and put it down. Just to do the same thing over again only seconds later.

And that made her wondered if this was his first date with whomever the person he was supposed to be seeing. She knew those feelings all too well. It was only canon that he felt the jitters on his first date, she'd been there too.

When her drink was served, Y/N decided to stay awhile longer. She didn't know what she was expecting from this but she wanted to make sure he was okay. Or maybe she just wanted to see who was the lucky girl. So she found herself a seat, a little bit discrete yet enough to see him from where she sat.

Pulling out her new purchase, she decided to pass the time with some light reading, maybe getting herself comfortable with the world building in the book and get to know the main characters in the process. In between those moments, Y/N would peek above the book, particularly at the sight of that beautiful stranger from across the room.

Pages upon pages she drowned herself to the words of the author that she didn't notice how time flies passing the half an hour mark; and the cafe started to get more crowded and rowdier. Certainly, the amount of potent scents had were floating around her were slowly getting to her.

Y/N knew if she stayed a longer, she'd surely throw up whatever drink she just had. So, she decided to leave. But not before glancing at the alpha – who was still waiting for his date – for one last time, then she pulled the door open and walked away.

Certainly, that was supposed to be the last time she see him right? Nope. The universe proved her wrong when the man found a seat on the bench opposite her. With the same bouquet of flowers in his hands.

And at this point, she thought that this must be fate. There's no other explanation than this.

When she lowered her book again, she saw a white feline rubbing its head on Bucky's legs. It was too far to hear its voice but considering the amount of time its mouth open, Y/N figured it was meowing at him.

Probably to get his attention, or just wanted to comfort the alpha because just from the look of it, she knew he was stood up by his date. And Y/N was unexpectedly mad about it; maybe it was from personal experience or maybe it was just because she couldn't accept the fact that this fine, gorgeous, sweet alpha was being stood up.

Y/N watched how Bucky put away the flowers and scooped the cat onto his lap. He squinted his eyes at the ball of fur and spoke something. She hadn't had a clue what he said but it was probably along the lines, "Are you lost, little one?" He scratched its chin and neck while trying to see if it has a collar.

After so long of seeing that deep grumpy-looking frown on his face, Bucky finally graced her with another smile when the cat tried to rub its nose on his cheeks. Its whiskers tickled his nose and had trigger a laugh out of him.

God, Y/N had never been so desperate to be a cat in her life. She wanted to be that cat; sitting on his lap like she owns that place, making him smile and laugh like that. She wanted nothing more that to do so; to please him in a way that would make her own heart full.

Her daydream was cut short though, when a heavy scent of cigarettes and rum invaded her space. In fact it was so thick and potent, but considering the lanky alpha was sitting right next to her it was inevitable.

Y/N didn't want to be rude; because if she just walk away to find a different spot to sit at, then it would seem rude to the man. Her heighten sense of smell was to be blamed, not the man who was simply sitting next to her, enjoying the park as much as everybody else does.

So, she stayed.

But in those few minutes that she stayed, she might have re-adjust her mask a few times, as if it would help to lessen the scent. But, she did it anyway. And that was all she did. Yet somehow, it managed to rub the alpha in a wrong way.

"Ya got a problem with my scent, beta?" He snarled, clearly he was drunk. And a drunk alpha in the middle of the day was never a good sign.

Though she was relieved to know that the scent blockers worked just fine. Otherwise, she might push the alpha into a rut if he got even a single whiff of her scent.

The alpha growled as she put some space between them instead of answering his question. "Are you even listening to me?! Answer me, you dumb bitch!" His aggressiveness went from zero to hundred real quick when he yanked her by the hand, pulling her closer towards him.

Y/N's book fell from the force of his strength and she yelped in pain and fear. Though she usually know how to put up a brave face and fight back, but the sudden change of his action and emotion didn't gave her time to prepare her; mentally, physically.

With her omega tendencies on default, her body coward to his force and her voice tremble, "L-let me go!" She tried to twist her hand to escape but his grasp only grew stronger.

He pulled her to stand up, "You think a beta like you can look down on me? You and that omega are the same! Bunch of good for thing bitches. Gonna teach you a good lesson for disrespecting an alpha like me!" He roared with words of his drunken concerns, truth of his wounded ego.

Her blood pumped faster through her veins and her breaths increases behind her mask. When she saw his hand rose, Y/N shut her eyes, whimpering in fear as she turned her head away, waiting for the pain strike her but it never happened.

It between those short heavy breaths, she caught a whiff of Bucky's scent. And surely, it gave her the comfort she needed to calm down, guiding her to open her eyes and witness her saviour stopping the unhinged alpha's strike.

Then what happend next was so fast; the way Bucky forced him to release her, and the way the left of his gloved hand wrapped around the alpha's neck, choking the air out of his wind pipe.

Bucky growled something in the alpha's ear, but Y/N couldn't hear it over her own beating heart. She didn't need to, not when the pale look of the man's face says it all. As soon as Bucky loosen his grip, the other alpha stumbled backwards and made a run for his life.

That does tend to happened when Bucky was literally threatened to tear his limbs apart if he touch the woman ever again.

When the panic didn't die like Y/N hoped for, Bucky quickly came to her side; respectfully close while avoiding any sort of skinship. He whispered words of comfort and sweet nothings, "It's okay, you're okay. You're safe now."

His voice was like magic, especially when it managed to calm her so easily. Y/N can feel herself melting, like a marshmallow hovering over the flames; like an ice cream under the summer sun. She took a deep breath of his sweet scent and exhaled a long sigh, "Thank you. Thank you for that." she said.

Bucky bent down to pick up her book and patted the dust off, "It's no big deal, here." He handed the book. She gladly took it from his hand, gripping it tight to her chest.

Her head was still fuzzy from the rush of adrenaline, she couldn't think of a single coherent thought other than gratitude towards her saviour, "Yeah, thank you." She probably didn't even notice that she was talking to the alpha she was crushing on the whole day.

Looking at her shaken state, Bucky was worried of her, "Are you going to be okay?" He asked.

Y/N's mind didn't process his question fast enough to for a confident reply to form, "Huh? Yeah, of course. I'll be fine. Couple of deep breaths should do the trick."

"Are you sure?" Bucky was sceptical but she quickly assured him, "Absolutely!"

He nodded slowly as if she failed to convince him, yet he didn't want to push her too much, "If you say so..."

She let out a another long sigh and said, "Thank you again, really. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Bucky simply chuckled at her words, "You know, you've said 'thank you' way too many times now, doll. Plus, it is an utmost honor of an alpha to save a damsel in distress." He jest.

Which was quickly agreed by a mewl coming from his chest, "Meow!" Y/N didn't even notice the white cat nestling comfortably in his leather jacket, albeit it was zipped up until only its' head peeking out of the dark fabric.

"See? She agrees." Bucky shrugged as if the cat's opinion was the only valid opinion in this situation.

"I did say it a lot, did I?" Y/N cooed as she pet the cat on its' head, smiling at the softness of its' fur against her skin before looking back at the blue eyes of his, "Sorry." She instinctively apologized.

Bucky shook his head and reminded her, "Don't be."

That was when Bucky's phone rang, a call from Steve, "Hey, you're here? Where are you? Oh there. Yeah, I can see you, punk. You don't need wave at me like that. Yeah, I'll be right there. Please don't let Sam join you. God stop that is fucking embarrassing." He muttered as he looked over how his friends were literally halfway out of the car window, waving at him like a bunch of kids.

Bucky snuck his phone back into his pocket and said, "I'd offer you a ride but the car's full with dumbasses and I wouldn't recommend a sweet thing like you to associate with them in any way."

He managed to pull a short laugh out of her, "Oh, no need to do so. I live close by. Don't need to worry about me just..." her trails stopped mid way.

Only for Bucky to continue with a question, "...Just??"

"Do you mind giving those to me?" Y/N pointed at the flowers in his hand. She knew he was contemplating to throw it away because he had been glancing at the trash way too many times at the first couple of minutes when he sat on that bench across from her.

Y/N noticed how his expression changed, he looked confused but didn't frown upon the idea. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation as she waited patiently for his respond. But he just continued to stare at her, almost blankly but not quite lost. It was as if he was mesmerized by something.

The silence was getting louder than the crowds surrounding them so she decided to explain, "You see, I've never received flowers from anybody before. So, I'm curious how it feels like to receive one." She tried to come up with excuses, though she was still telling the truth. No one she dated had ever gave her flower before, probably deeming it as old-fashioned.

But, she loves those old fashioned gesture the most.

Y/N saw how he hesitated when he stared at the bouquet, his face getting tense by the seconds. She recognize that expression, she knew right away he was holding back his feelings.

But it quickly shifted into a gentle smile, "Pretty flowers for the pretty lady." He whispered under his breath. Bucky didn't waste his time hesitating this time and handed the bouquet to her.

Though she was asking for it but she didn't expect him to really give it to her. This was the first time she ever got flowers from a man. An alpha that she was pretty much head over heels for nonetheless.

Letting her emotions unfiltered, "Thank you!" she squealed as she reach out her hand. As she brought the bouquet closer to her face, she pulled down her mask, inhaling the sweet fragrant of the soft pastel peonies.

Even if her lower face hidden behind the flowers, Bucky swore he saw a burst of sparkles beamed from her upon receiving those flowers. It fascinated him because he never knew that someone could be this happy just from getting such small gift, from a complete stranger he might add.

For a second there, he thought that he would've give her a whole garden of flowers just to see her shine like that again. It felt so good and somehow fulfilling to see her happy like this.

Y/N unknowingly smiled as she let herself lost in the intoxicating scent. And when her eyes fluttered open, a deep chuckle distracted her from the trance. Looking up, as he eyes peeking through the blooming flowers, she finally saw that endearing smile that she wanted to see.

But that wonderful fleeting moment didn't last long as she was hoping for when she heard a group of man shouting for the alpha, "Hey, loverboy! We have a birthday party to get to. Natasha would be pissed if we're late. Again!"

As Bucky shouted back his own sassy counter, Y/N's head was filled with thoughts of kissing him. She didn't particularly know why but she had the need to do it.

Why would she ever do this to a man – who probably currently thinking that she was a creep – that she barely knew?

Even with those unconscious questions, she found her body moved on its own.

When he turned around, Y/N was already on her tip toe, her face was so close to his, while her hand softly cupped his chubby cheeks. She pressed a tender kiss on one of the side soft sides and prayed to God that he couldn't hear how her heart was desprete to escape the confinement of her ribcage.

Y/N placed her mask back before pulling away, only to preen at how she managed to stun him into a red mess of shock, "Thank you for saving me, alpha." Her eyes curved as a sign of a smile before she turn around, almost running away.

She certainly didn't give him a chance to at least know her name, let alone get to know her.

Midway through her path, Y/N abruptly stopped and turned around, her eyes met his curious ones and her heart fluttered, "Thank you for the flowers! I love them!" she shouted with a wide smile on her lips and brightest expression of her face, even if it was blocked by the mask.

Though Bucky could probably translate her eagerness and sincerity from how animatedly joyful she was waving at him. He smiled as he watched the girl ran away with her small steps, almost resembling a hopping bunny.

As Y/N skipped her way home, her lips aches for more of the alpha's softness, her heart yearned for his comforting presense and her glands certainly burned for his mark. And even though she went home not knowing his name, or his contact number. She believed that if he was truly her fated mate, then they will surely meet again someday.

End.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: Thank you for loving this couple as much as I do, guys. I noticed a lot of you have been requesting chubby alpha!bucky ever since I first published the first one. So I hope you enjoyed this one. More to come from them. But meanwhile, drop your thoughts?

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #alpha!bucky #chubby!bucky

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