#i might turn the renaissance one into a one or two shot

[rose-n-gunses]

How about a Renaissance or Western hellcheer love story? Ohh a World War 2 hellcheer!

Okay anon I love u for this it was so fun to think about while I was bored out of my mind checking dates at work <3 these turned into less headcanons and more full on fic ideas 😭 (and I wanted to talk about all three so it's kind of long and I put it under a cut)

I know typically Renaissance is thought of as royalty and all that (like renaissance faires) so obviously I could see the typical 'Chrissy's a princess and Eddie's a knight appointed to protect her' and all that but!! What about the Italian Renaissance!!!

What if the Cunninghams are some wealthy influential (Medici-esque) family and Eddie's an artist/musician and despite his distaste for the family he accepts a commission from them because he needs the money so he finds himself painting their family portrait (since they canonically do have that portrait). He's dreading it until he sees Chrissy Cunningham for the first time and is just head over heels. He's fascinated by her because she's the perfect subject and he's kind of obsessed with trying to capture the way the sunlight reflects off of her hair. He wants to paint her smile and the way her nose scrunches when he makes a bad joke and he wants to write melodies with her laugh and sonnets about her voice. Maybe he gets tasked with painting individual portraits of the family. (Or maybe Chrissy just wants one of herself as an excuse to spend more time with him 👀) They talk and he finds out she's also very interested in art and music and not so interested in doing what her mom wants her to do (ie marry Jason). Maybe he teaches her how to paint and lets her practice and use him as a subject (and she's just as equally obsessed with capturing the warmth of his eyes and the way his personality takes up so much space and makes him seem almost larger than life). They're best friends and confidants and despite her family's disapproval they fall in love and have their happy ending where Chrissy leaves her parents and her wealth and her family name behind to be with him because he just Gets Her and Loves Chrissy For Chrissy, not because of her status and family.

And maybe that portrait Eddie painted of her, simply titled Christine (A Beauty), becomes his best known work (like. Mona Lisa levels of fame).

(Also, I could see this story being told as, like, the historical origin story of Christine (A Beauty), the tale of painter Edward Munson and how he fell in love with Christine Cunningham, or the tale of Christine Cunningham and how she left everything she'd ever known behind in pursuit of happiness.)

Changing gears, a Western au I think could involve Chrissy, in the wake of her father's passing, having to step up and taking on a larger responsibility in the family hotel. She hates it. Enter Eddie, a deputy that's been brought to Hawkins on the trail of infamous bank robber and murderer Henry Creel. Maybe Creel is staying in the Cunninghams' hotel, maybe he's targeting Chrissy and/or Max. Maybe Chrissy ends up acting as bait to help Eddie catch Creel. Maybe she goes with Eddie when he eventually leaves Hawkins to return home to his uncle. Who knows.

And then the ww2 au. This is such a unique idea!! I think it would be a soft slow burn where maybe Eddie is injured in the hospital (think demobat-adjacent wounds) and Chrissy's his nurse. Lots of soft tender moments and lots of comfort.

[silverwarewolf]

DUNGEON MESHI EPISODE 24 THOUGHTS

Oh, I had asked to see what the party's thoughts regarding the changeling situation were, especially when it came to their lifespans, but I didn't think it would turn out like this!

GOOD FUCKING JOB, CHILCHUCK. YOU'VE TRAUMATIZED MARCILLE EVEN FURTHER. Oh but I do so love the horrors of this situation of theirs. Marcille babygirl I would like to hug you and have a nice chat.

Anywya, on we go to think about Falin and any solutions that might help us here. Which is great! I love how much foreshadowing there is (in terms of what I've been vaguely told about the manga).

Laios Touden's problem solving skills, everyone.

That's honestly the SICKEST weapon design, I'm so on board with you Laios. This could be Kensuke's Halloween makeover. BUT DONT JUST TAKE THOSE MUSHROOMS WITH YOU OH MY GOD

... was this the opening sequence foreshadowing everyone was freaking out about? was that it? (don't actually tell me, though. if it was it, say yes. if it wasn't, don't say anything)

no comment here I just love them.

I just will never get used to elfshi's hands being Like That. But it's also kinda nice to see him and Izutsumi working along so nicely! Like, don't even get me started on how Izu is presented as the pickiest eater of the party (Marcille has been dethroned severely) and usually you'd see that presented as a Hassle, but here in DM, Senshi doesn't even bat an eye. He knows and respects Izutsumi's tastes and preferences and works his meals out around it! That's such a based thing for him to do. <3

This is a renaissance painting. (I love it when they adapt Ryoko Kui's visual gags and I LOVE when she does zoomed in faces like this. Truly one of the artists ever)

I did not have "Laios gets Pissed On" on my bingo card but every day I grow more and more convinced that the animators KNOW what they're doing and - OH MY GOD IS THAT SENSHI'S DWUSSY. ELFSHI ALTERNATIVE TO PANTY SHOT.

Ah, yes, Izutsumi sprawls all over them when sleeping, we been knew, again it's a little unexpected to see it front and center but I guess it works to demonstrate them returning to - THAT WAS LAIOS??? AND CHILCHUCK IS JUST LIFTING HIS LEG LIKE THAT?? OKAY THEN. SURE.

(and then there's a few more seconds of laiosfoot and laios bedhead)

BUT HEY THEY'RE BACK TO NORMAL

1) Yep, they're back to normal.

2) Laios I love you and I love Gothsuke but someone needs to be careful about biohazards and it's not going to be you.

3) Add this to the "Marcille Donato gets threateningly close to you in three steps" folder.

4) Truly only they can match each other's freak. When the NECROMANCER is telling you not to do something, don't do it! I know last time you smuggled a "normal" sword, it turned out to be useful, but I'm sure that's not the case here!

5) Poor Laios tho. I'll learn to blacksmith just to give you a cool sword. <3

I'm so glad they kept this. One of the silliest touden siblings moments. 10/10 no notes. Also, Falin is never beating the blunt force trauma allegations.

IS THAT CHILCHUCK'S WIFE. ARE YOU - MA'AM. HELLO?

"Why aren't you a twink like I thought you'd be?!" gets adapted! (I'm pretty sure that's the scene meant to be here, anyways)

I get it, girl.

Oh dear, they're going to eat Falin. And SENSHI was the one to suggest it! For a guy who was just fighting the doubts of accidental cannibalism a week ago, you're taking bold steps forward.

(I do love how it mirrors Laios' kindness back then, in truth. Even if it's an idea so shocking and dire at first, it comes from a place of reason and logic and love)

Marcille "I said I wanted to eat her OUT, not eat HER" Donato Izutsumi "That's going to taste gross as fuck" Izutsumi Chilchuck "If it brings her back..." Tims Laios Touden, the man with a thousand things on his head right now, two of which I reckon are "I don't want to eat my sister" and "Dragon-Chicken... what might it taste like?"

Yes, well. Valid as your concerns are, Laios, because how the fuck would five people eat THAT much meat, you can't just ramble on about what dishes you're going to make out of your sister.

(...I get it, though. I mean if you're going to eat, might as well make it good, right? I know no one wants to grill one of Faligon's ribs but I'll go ahead and say it would be worse to tell them to eat her raw)

FUCK! we DID lose those scenes about the twin bell that toshiro kept!! forever sad about that.

oh my godddd they're going back into the dungeonnn we're going to reunite with themmm

I know they're really fucking competent, I mean, Namari and Toshiro are already described as pretty formidable warriors (and we've seen it), and Kabru is... admittedly much more geared to fight humans but he's a decent fighter either way. And a good leader!

Speaking of, where the fuck is everyone else.

I know they're meant to be scary (and I suppose they are! If we have the reference that, firstly, marcille is an excellent spellcaster so these elves could be just as good in their own areas of expertise, yes?, and secondly, the canaries are Well Known)

... plus, Namari, Toshiro and Kabru are wary of them. Namari, Toshiro and Kabru are wary of them.

BUT damn it Lycion, I need to- (gets dragged off stage)

Anyway, while we wait for the next season (WHICH HAS BEEN GREENLIT! WOHOO!), have these wonderful images of chicken falin being a cathedral painting (...if cathedrals ever added dragons, i guess) and my beloveds, who have finally returned!

[hexagonspress]

BE by tothewillofthepeople

Grantaire is earnest in this, and it’s heartbreaking. Enjolras can’t look away. This is just a rehearsal. Grantaire is still wearing skinny jeans. They have lights and phones and textual analysis and thousands of years of history between now and then and yet– When Grantaire speaks, the distance collapses. (Grantaire as Hamlet.)

Title: Middle Ages Deco Headers/Accents: Letter Gothic Standard Body text: Adobe Caslon Pro Case title: Goudy Initialen

38,667 words | 224 pages

Binderary book 1: a long-favourite EXR fic. I love wild Les Mis AUs and I love Shakespeare and this is all of that in such a lovely lovely form. Stage manager Enjolras is inspired. Also, I've been frothing at the mouth to use my special blackletter fonts and go suuuper overboard designing and this was Perfect for that purpose.

More pictures/design/process under the cut.

Design and Construction Case: Flat-back case binding with bradel board covers and spine. The spine cloth is Hollander's pearl linen in charcoal grey. The painted titles were done in Amsterdam acrylic ink in silver, with a pair of scissors because I don't own a painting brush and likely never will. The cover papers are printed on 80gsm white printer paper and glued with a regular Elmer's glue stick and PVA on the turn-ins, and the whole case is sprayed with workable fixatif to (hopefully) preserve it longer-term.

Covers: The front and back covers were designed in Photoshop. The centre image is a William Morris pattern, and the top and bottom little circles are Renaissance printer's ornaments (pngs by the lovely @helle-bored of Renegade Bindery) that I vectorized in Illustrator (Illustrator and I were sworn enemies until this month. Now we're forced friends. Like enemies to lovers).

Insides: Endpapers are a William Morris pattern recoloured in Photoshop to be a richer green and red, obv, for EXR. Printed with inkjet on 80gsm printer paper and glued to gold cardstock, and sewn into the textblock. Endbands are pre-sewn from Hollanders, dyed gold with acrylic ink to match the endpapers.

Typesetting Typeset was done in InDesign. This is a one-shot with scene breaks, so to match the theatre theme of the piece I replaced the horizontal line breaks with flagged scene numbers. I tried to strike a balance in the typesetting between classic Shakespearean aesthetic with the blackletter drop caps and cover fonts versus what you might see in a theatre script book with the monospace accents. The title spread uses a transparent decorative frame, again from Helle's collection; the large box in the middle with the title was part of the original frame and then I duplicated and resized it for the author name and my imprint.

We All Do It, or, the Mistakes Section I somehow managed to print the cover papers nine inches tall and didn't see a problem with it until they came off the printer. Truly who knows how that happened. I was working on the case at two in the morning and cut the spine cloth the wrong length three separate times...earned the measure once cut twice badge big time for that one. The endpapers were an ordeal and a half for real. What I learned: print them too big and glue the cardstock to the back, then trim the paper to size, not the other way around otherwise you'll end up with big ugly gaps where the trimming was a few millimeters off. Whoops.

And...more pictures

I'm particularly pleased with how the covers here came out so here's closeups. Also, the arc on the spine that you can see in the endband on the last one is really pleasing to me lol I fought a war trying to get the flatback hinge calculations right.

[imagineee-123]

⟡₊⊹Introduction Post⊹₊⟡

Hello! I never do posts like this on any of my socials even though I mean to, so I'm gonna finally give this a shot! This might be really long Imao

About my blog:

This blog is currently mostly about my practices as a newer hellenic polytheist and a Hades devotee. But I also post about visual kei and whatever else on this account. (Although I am thinking about separating this content to different blogs)

About me:

I'm Imagineee, but you can call me Lucian (Lu-see-in) or Ciel. Or even Luci for short. My pronouns are he/they! I turned 17 this summer.

I'm on the aroace spectrum (demiromantic and demisexual) as well as being pansexual and a gender non-conforming transmasc. I don't really identify as anything specific when it comes to gender, but I'm definitely not a girl! (Don't she/her me... Pls. ╥﹏╥)

I'm really into vkei and, as stated earlier, a newer hellenic polytheist. I've only been practicing for about a year (when I have the energy), so I still have a lot to learn.

My interests/hobbies:

visual kei and j-fashion

reading up about bandmen I like

Japanese music

music in general

anime

Genshin Impact*

Project Sekai*

Honkai: Star Rail

Twisted Wonderland*

Wuthering Waves

Stardew Valley

art and painting

vocaloid

photography

storing things in my memory boxes

Howl's Moving Castle (book and movie)

collecting manga/figures of things I like

reading about dieties and others' practices

going to graveyards

watching YouTube

(* means I've lost a lot of interest over time but still enjoy these things)

Favorite vkei bands:

It's so hard to pick... I think Plastic Tree, Ninth in Pluto, Fukuro, and Madmans Esprit are some of my favorites.

Favorite music (not vkei):

I listen to pretty much everything. But some of my favorite musicians/groups outside of vkei are Eve, Re:nG, takayan, Gesu No Kiwami Otome, Linkin Park, kikuo, MCR, Cage the Elephant, and Eyedress. I have too many favorites, but it's so hard to cut down because I listen to such a variety of music, and I love it all. Ahhhh

Favorite song atm:

Likes:

Rain

The beach

Fire

Graveyards

The moon

Sweets

Hades ofc

Sleeping in

Renaissance oil paintings

Bees

Crows (birds in general tbh)

Laying in the grass

Other:

My MBTI is INFP-T. My star sign is leo. I use emoticons sometimes. I use :3 and >:3 unironically whenever I'm really happy or excited about something. I own four budgies and two dogs. I also have PTSD and really bad social anxiety. I really want to go to Japan and see a vkei band live one day.

݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ And that is (finally) my intro! I hope we can be friends! ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁

[thecoziestbean]

Forgot to post my little seasonal recap yesterday, so here it is a day late.

(What I planned to do on the left; what I actually did on the right.)

I actually stuck pretty closely to the plan! Which is kind of a miracle because let me tell you, the last few months have been rough. I've had a lot of stressful shit going on irl, so it's been hard to find time, motivation, and inspiration to write.

come out and get some: my first COD (Ghost x f!Reader) fic; I might revisit this little au at some point

Haladriel Week 2024: I wrote another set of drabbles for HW this year. I love the challenge of conveying an idea in exactly 100 words, and I'm pretty happy with how these ones turned out.

kiss the skin that crawls: also for Haladriel Week; the renaissance a/b/o au I've been toying with for ages; I got the first two chapters done and posted

take the stars from my eyes: I absolutely love Poppy & Nori and desperately want a romance between them on the show. This is a slightly angsty double drabble of pure harfoot pining.

The Venus of Valinor: We're getting so close to the end of Venus! I was hoping to finish it before season 2 premiered but that didn't happen, but I at least got another chapter done.

I also did write a lot of Halsin/BG3, but it isn't finished yet (and is also for a zine project so won't be shared for a bit), and wrote some Haladriel mind palace fuckery inspired by the trailers and s2 excitement (that I hope I'll be able to turn into a one shot at some point).

Woof, I needed this. I've felt so creatively drained the last few weeks, really struggling to get any writing done, with the dreaded bad brain telling me I'll never write a good word again. Looking back at the last few months and seeing how much I've done in spite of all the crap going on is a good perspective shift.

The real life shit hasn't let up yet, but in the mean time I'm still writing, even if it's more slowly. And so long as it stays fun, that's all that matters.

[amyreadsandstresses]

AMY'S ONCE IN A CENTURY FIC RECS

Because "daily" couldn't be more of a lie at this point

I stopped for a while bc I've mostly been reading Criminal Minds fics latetly, but it's been so long I figured I might as well drop some stuff here

BBC SHERLOCK:

*How Long? - camerasparring

23k, 6/6, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Past Sherlock Holmes/Sebastian Wilkes, SO GOOD OMG, Separation

Not long after meeting John, Sherlock receives an email from an old acquaintance. Unfortunately, Sherlock has neglected to tell anyone he was once married.

*Winter to Spring - standbygo

19k, 10/10, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Rosie Watson, ANGST, Parenthood, Post Nuclear War, Mycroft Holmes, Happy Ending

Sherlock is babysitting Rosie when the ultimate disaster strikes London. There will be fear, there will be danger, there will be despair - but in the end, there will be love.

CRIMINAL MINDS:

*Fuck the Feds - orphan_account

6k, 9/9, Gen, Punk Spencer, 5+1

The other's start to realise their view of Spencer is far from what he really is. They put him the box of 'geeky virgin' and this is how they realise how wrong they were.

basically 5 +1 things of the team getting clues that reid isn't as straight forward as they thought he was

*dry me off and hold me close - spencers-renaissance (tomlinsoul)

5k, 1/1, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Disabled Spencer Reid, Implied/Referenced Ableism, Team as a Family, Fluff

Derek has finally relented and is bringing his boyfriend Spencer to meet the rest of the team. That means, though, he has to finally tell them about his boyfriend's disability. Terrified that they'll react badly, he puts it off until he can't anymore. Turns out he was worried for nothing.

*I Can't Recall The Last Time I Was Kissed - TheNameIsBritney

17k, 1/1, Spencer Reid/Derek Morgan, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hospitals, Slow Burn

After Reid is shot on a date, the team have to rush to find the person who did this to him and bring them to justice. However, Reid isn't being entirely forthcoming about all of the details, leaving Morgan to wonder just what it is Reid is hiding from them.

*Wrong Life - EllisLuie

71k, 22/22, Spencer Reid & David Rossi, Canon Divergance, Morgan & Reid Bromance, UFFF SO GOOD

David Rossi's son was kidnapped when he was four, and two years later David and Carolyn were led to believe that he was murdered. However, years later, the BAU team gets a case that sheds some light on Rossi's son - and tells him that maybe James is closer than he thought.

*Little Miracles - KatinaMoon

14k, 10/10, JJ & Spencer Reid Iconic Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Spencer Reid, BAMF JJ, Autistic Spencer Reid

When a case goes drastically wrong, Reid is forced to put his brain to good use; helping JJ deliver her baby while FBI headquarters burns around them.

*See me, hear me, love me. - seeds

*can you see where the wind is? - renbuckleydiaz

4k, 1/1, JJ & Spencer Reid, Hurt/Comfort, Worried BAU, Snow Storm

No matter how hard he cried or how much he begged, she didn't wake up. Grunting with the strain it took, Spencer bent slightly to slide one arm under her knees, and he hoisted her up into his arms, the limbs already beginning to ache. But he stubbornly held on, and after taking a few stumbling steps, he continued on. 

"Please, JJ. . ."

*The Saw You Say It Verse - orphan_account

9k, 8 works, Spencer Reid/Derek Morgan, Deaf Spencer Reid, Ableism, BAU as Family, ASL

WORK 1: "I mean it." Spencer signed. "You interpret for me the whole time or not at all, don't leave me out half way through the conversation. I try to keep up - you have to meet me half way."

Hotch and Morgan lose Spencer in translation at the scene of a crime and unintentionally push him out. Spencer doesn't let it lie when they get back to their temporary base...

[justforbooks]

The photographer Paolo Di Paolo, who has died aged 98, documented the renaissance of Italy following the dark days of the second world war, capturing that country’s 1950s and 60s glamour. His star shone brightly for 15 years before he turned his back on photography, but in that time he recorded the luminosity of cultural figures such as Pier Paolo Pasolini, Gina Lollobrigida and Tennessee Williams, as well as the optimism and dignity of ordinary people.

His pictures captured the shift from a more innocent, rural life, in a style that mirrored the neorealism movement in Italian film, as embodied in the shot of three boys on a bucolic hill looking towards the sprawl of Rome. His keen eye recorded the societal tension between the haves and have-nots, but his humanist approach highlighted the elegance of every person, regardless of circumstance. He said: “You might not know the subject but you understand the situation. In every image there is a story to tell … that is my law.”

Di Paolo started out as a self-taught amateur, taking photographs for pleasure with a considered approach. “Each shot had to be a good one. If the situation was not as I had in my mind, I wouldn’t take the picture.”

In 1954, he took his photos to Mario Pannunzio, the editor of the influential weekly current affairs magazine Il Mondo. Pannunzio recognised Di Paolo’s talent, and the photographer found his spiritual home.

He earned money working for other publications, notably Tempo, who sent him on assignment abroad. However, it was on home soil, on the self-titled 1959 assignment for Successo magazine, The Long Road of Sand, that Di Paolo produced some of his finest reportage. He embarked on a road trip along the coast in his Arnolt MG, with the author and poet Pasolini in the passenger seat, documenting Italians on vacation at the dawn of a new era. Di Paolo said: “I was looking for an Italy that looked to the future.”

His intelligence, empathy and discretion garnered trust and allowed him to take many candid portraits of major cultural figures including Sophia Loren applying makeup, Marcello Mastroianni sipping coffee and Kim Novak ironing. He formed a strong bond with the enigmatic actor Anna Magnani and his portraits of her with her son capture, and are captured by, intimacy.

Paolo was born into a poor family in the village of Larino, in Molise. His father, Michele Di Paolo, ran a small shop that sold tobacco and salt and his mother, Michelina (nee Lallo), was a smallholder and a skilled painter and embroiderer. He had five step-siblings from his father’s two previous marriages.

He attended the village school then moved to Rome to complete the final year of his studies at Liceo Classico Augusto, before returning to Larino. During the war he served in the Granatieri (Grenadiers) near his home, but did not see action. Afterwards he began writing for local newspapers, but he wanted more from life.

In 1949, at the age of 24, he left home to study history and philosophy at La Sapienza University of Rome. He intended to return to Larino to become a teacher there, but fell in with a group of young artists that was a hotbed of ideas and creativity, and realised he needed to explore a different path.

He had been making ends meet working at a tourism magazine, and was on his way to their offices in 1953 when he saw and fell in love with a Leica IIIc camera in the window of a nearby opticians. He had found the means with which to express himself.

He resigned from his job and used his severance money to buy the camera. Abandoning his studies shortly before graduation, he threw himself into the new humanist movement in photography. “The strength and enthusiasm that motivated us young people was overwhelming: our happiness was intoxicating.”

However in 1966, with the rise of television and the dawn of salacious celebrity culture, Il Mondo closed. Di Paolo was devastated. He wrote a telegram to Pannunzio: “ Today … the ambition to be a photographer has died.”

The following year Di Paolo photographed the Valentino haute couture show, but he was becoming increasingly disillusioned. In 1968 he went to see a photo editor who wanted him to exploit his society contacts, to get “some spice”.

Di Paolo’s strong ethical sense clashed with this new aggressive style and he refused to be associated with the paparazzi. At the peak of his powers, he hung up his camera and shut away his 250,000 negatives, prints and slides.

He moved to the countryside outside Rome, taking a job as an art director for the carabinieri (Italy’s regional police). Over the next 40 years he produced books, which included his photos of the cadets’ lives, and calendars, for the force. In 1973, he married Elena Marcelli, his former assistant, and they had two children, Michele and Silvia. He lived a quiet life and indulged his passions for winemaking, dogs and vintage cars.

In 1997, Silvia was hunting for a pair of skis in the cellar of her parents’ home when she was shocked to discover his photographic archive. She had no idea her father had been a photographer. She asked him about his work but he was reluctant to speak about it. It would take years of cajoling before he allowed Silvia to bring his work back to life.

Finally, recognition flowed. His first exhibition, Il Mio Mondo, was held at the gallery il museo del louvre in Rome, in 2016. Three years later, the MAXXI museum in the city staged a major retrospective, Mondo Perduto, with an accompanying monograph that is the only collection of his work to date.

Pierpaolo Piccioli, the creative director of Valentino, saw the MAXXI exhibition and, inspired by Di Paolo’s 1967 Valentino pictures, invited the then 94-year-old to photograph behind the scenes at the fashion house’s 2020 spring/summer couture show in Paris.

A documentary about Di Paolo’s life and work, The Treasure of His Youth, by the fashion photographer Bruce Weber, premiered at the Rome film festival in 2021 and is due for release in the UK next year. In May, to coincide with his 98th birthday, Di Paolo was awarded an honorary degree from La Sapienza.

He is survived by Elena, his children and two grandchildren, Matilde and Leonardo.

🔔 Paolo Di Paolo, photographer, born 17 May 1925; died 12 June 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[deepdarkdelights]

I just finished reading Predator and Purgatory and omg. So much to unpack in just those two stories. First off, I was surprised to hear about Jungkook’s character in Purgatory. I wasn’t expecting him to be so newly added from 1985. It was interesting to hear that he was proposing as a college professor since the MC was attending college. I’m guessing that’s the same college he was attending. If it is, it’s such a good connection. Also it’s interesting to read how different Jungkook and Yoongi are with their new vampire lines. Omg Purgatory was something else. Such a heavy concept. I believe that after death there is an after mass like heaven. And sometimes for people they might experience that place between life and death, kinda like ghosts. I agree with that the MC said at the beginning about life not being meaningless and it just depends on how you view and life it. But I can definitely understand Yoongi’s position on how he views life. His interactions with the MC we’re so adorable and just overall sweet. The twist about her was so sad. And during that scene where Namjoon was forcibly turning her into one of the while Yoongi was shouting at him to stop was heartbreaking😭 He watched the person he loved go through the same ending as he did. So far I’m honestly not liking Namjoon’s character haha. It seems like he’s just picking people to be in his family. And even forcing and tricking it to some of them. I’m very interested on how his story is going to be. And I’m very interested on his background. What got him to be in that position? When did it happen? How was his human life? Since he found Yoongi in the 1600s he was definitely alive long before that. Anyway, in conclusion they were both really good. Can’t wait to read the rest❤️

Oooooh, it's been a while since I got a long ask, and oh, how I adore them! So much to talk about, let's go!

So, for Jungkook's character, I had originally planned for him to be much older! In my mind, he was closer to 100-150 years old. BUT, this was before I decided to make the Predator Universe. Originally, it was just supposed to be a one-shot with just JK's fic. So, I had some adjusting to do. Namjoon was actually the one posing as a professor, that was how he met JK in 1985 and convinced him to allow him to turn him. After that JK was essentially a bloodthirsty wild child so how we see him in his fic is how he has been for a long time.

Also...if anyone can guess why I chose 1985 as his creation date you get a metaphorical gold star 😂

But yeah, Yoongi's fic was next and he was just a complete 180 from JK's character. His fic was also a great way for me to work through my own existential crises and my views on life and death. It was certainly a fun exercise.

And for Namjoon, his character will be fun to develop. And you are definitely right, he was alive before he met Yoongi in the 1600s. I think I mentioned in some asks that he was turned during the later half of the Renaissance period? 🤔

But yeah! There's just a lot going on! I can't wait to see what you think about the rest of the series, I seriously love talking about my works like this!

[andrews-reviews-and-thoughts]

Andrew’s Review of The Lion King (2019) and Knives Out

   I have two movies to talk about. The first is the 2019 remake of The Lion King, or as I like to call it, Ingonyama nengw’ enamaRemake. I did not see it in theaters due to the not-so positive reviews, and instead saw Aladdin (2019) to avoid it (which was nice, about a 6 or 7/10, but clearly was inferior to the original and could have used some tuning up). And after seeing it on Disney+…Yeaaahhh, I chose wisely to avoid wasting my time at a theater.

   Now the one positive thing there is to say about Ingonyama nengw’ enamaRemake is that, in terms of revolutionary visual effects (or, animation, since this is 99.9% animated), it does look extremely good at replicating realism. With every grass, animal, fur, movement, whatever, it shows how far computer-animated technology has gone. But that is where the positivity ends, since the way the remake tells the story is what breaks this movie.

   Now while, yes, it is remaking The Lion King, it does so in a way that is Boring. There can be times where it is nearly shot-for-shot, while other times, it pads out a scene of someone or something traveling just to show how good the visuals are. Either way though, neither help make this interesting, and it does not help either that the characters are not as engaging as before, with most of the actors giving an alright performance while attempting to emulate the ones from before. The sole exceptions are Billy Eichner and Seth Rogen giving their takes to Timon & Pumbaa; James Earl Jones as Mufasa making us wonder if age has caught up with his acting or if he just did not give as much energy as he could have (2019 Mufasa: “is that a challenge ?”); Keegan Michael-Key and Eric Andre as Not-Banzai & Not-Ed not being as funny; and Florence Kasumba giving a fierce take to Shenzi.

   And then there are the visuals themselves. While it does stay realistic, it does so to a fault by preventing what was once an animated animals movie from being creative. Are the songs as vibrant and fun as before? Nope, they mostly consist of the characters running about with the soundtrack sounding nearly the same, except for ‘Be Prepared’, which is turned into an odd song-speech. Does Rafiki use his staff all the time? Nope, he instead acts like a monkey the entire time, Even when he brings his staff-stick at the end just to attack like a real monkey, while also calling it an old friend for unexplained reasons! Is Mufasa’s death scene as powerful as befor-NOPE!!! It help shows how not making the animals emote like in The Jungle Book (2016) can have people Not connect to them, and quite possibly Laugh at their ‘facial expressions’ not matching the mood of the scene! (2019 Simba looks like he is roaring while sillily saying: “Nooooooooo.”)

   So yeah, if you were wondering which Disney Remake is probably worth skipping, this one would be a good contender (and considering how it is an unnecessary remake of not just a great Disney Renaissance film, but one that everyone in the world must know about, that is not really too surprising). Now despite this technically being an animated film, I will go the live-action movie route and just give the overall rating, which is a 5/10 for forgetting that it is more than what it has become.

   Thankfully, I also saw a great movie as well, and that is Rian Johnson’s murder-mystery, Knives Out, and honestly, this might be my favorite live-action movie of 2019 I have seen so far. Keep in mind, this is a movie where not spoiling it for your first watch is an Important requirement, so I will try my best to keep things spoiler-free as possible. As a murder-mystery, while I am not very familiar with that genre, I can say with absolute certainty that Rian Johnson made sure to make this an Interesting and Complex one, making us unsure of who to trust or suspect, and keep surprising us even when we think we have been given a good amount of the true story. And by the end of the third act, even the most-tough-to-express-emotions-at-a-movie person like me will be amazed at what is revealed. Another important part of the movie is its political message, which is a bit difficult to describe through words, but the best way I could put it is that it points out the hypocrisy of rich, white established families, while also acknowledging some issues surrounding immigration.

   And then there are the characters, who help bring the story and message together, and help make this experience unforgettable. Starting with the main ones we focus on the most, there is Benoit Blanc, a detective who is trying to investigate and solve the case; Harlan Thrombey, the wealthy novelist who has mysteriously died; Ransom Drysdale, the rude and jerkish member of the Thrombey family; and Marta Cabrera, the Thrombeys’ house servant who may be at the center of this mystery, and also has a gag reflex whenever she lies. Sounds a bit silly and ridiculous, I know, but it doesn’t just end up as a silly running gag. And that leads to the strength of these characters; they could just be as typical as I made them sound, but thanks to the strong writing and use of surprises, they end up being more than just their roles.

   And then there are the rest of the Thrombeys. There are some notable individuals, like Richard, Joni, and Walt, who have some trouble with Harlan; Linda, who acts like the head of the family; and Meg and Jacob, with the former being friendly with Marta, and the latter who is literally portrayed as a kid always being an alt-right troll on his phone. Now while it could be possible that some of the Thrombeys did not get focused on a whole lot, it probably does not matter because, when they are put together as a whole, they are meant to help represent the film’s message, and that is as an entitled family filled with people who are either ‘nice’, or blatantly racist. As for the other characters, there is Detective Lieutenant Elliott and Trooper Wagner, the regular cops assigned to the case, with Elliott being the more rational one and Wagner being a fanboy of Blanc and Harlan’s works, and other characters like Fran, Nana, and Alan Stevens who are meant to help move the plot along, while also bringing in more twists and turns. And to top it all off, the cast in here is Just Great! If anything, it feel likes this is a Perfect cast, with actors like Daniel Craig, Christopher Plummer, Chris Evans, Ana de Armas, Jamie Lee Curtis, and many more. Granted, I haven’t seen much of their works, but I feel safe in believing that they are not being themselves when bringing life to these characters.

   Overall, Knives Out is just a Great movie that is worth seeing, and probably several times, with a very impressive story that keeps on surprising, a wonderful cast full of great characters, a nice use of a political message, and some nice visuals with the Thrombey mansion, the camerawork, and how almost every shot feels like it has some sort of purpose. Does this mean this gets a great rating? OF COURSE IT DOES! This film gets a solid 10/10 for its sharp wit and clever script. Oh, and one more thin-Ransom: “Eat $%#^. Eat $%#^. Definitely eat $%#^.” Yeaah, don’t expect Chris Evans to be as kind as Captain America, and do expect tons of cursing. Walt: “I ain’t eating one iota of $%#^!”

[lhs3020b]

Technology in Faerun

This is a) an extremely "me"-ish post, b) one you basically have to be me to care about and c) also EXTREMELY spoilery, especially for Act III of Baldur's Gate 3.

Still, this is a topic I've been thinking about, and you're reading my Tumblr (so sorry!), so here we go...

On the one hand, the tech level in BG3 does seem to be oriented more around "rule of cool" than anything else. But on the other, there are some interesting little details, and perhaps (while it's subtle) a hint or two in-game of a scenario that fits it all together.

First of all, for maximum whiplash, should you get into the prison underneath the House of Hope, you'll have a complex battle involving magic, bladed weapons, bows and so on ... and in the background you can watch the Saturn V-style rocket motors that hold the whole complex up in the air over Avernus. No, really, you literally can. Here's a relevant screenshot:

It even looks like the Saturn V engine, you know?

(Apparently Raphael - or perhaps Hope - has done some really interesting work on in-flight stability and fuel injection; the House of Hope has remarkably-minimal turbulence and there's no hint of any kind of asymetrical thrust issues. Anyway.)

Across most of the game, the technology level seems to be vaguely late-medieval/early-Renaissance, though with a few interesting oddities. (I can't recall seeing a single horse anywhere in the game - which, interestingly, may also explain why the lance is a weapon-class that's not present.)

The first hint that this wasn't the entire situation came in, of all places, the hospital in Reithwin. You find an elevator there that's strongly-implied to be electric. It's located in an area where the shadow curse is strong enough to put fires out, which also would presumably prevent steam-driven systems, but it still works, and it even has glowing lights on it. Also, and I guess this is the money shot, if you look closely, the machinery emits sparks when it's in motion. Like badly-maintained electrics might. Also, inside the operating theatre, if you look carefully on top of some of the bookcases, there are things that look remarkably-similar to early, crude electric filament lamps. Granted they might not be that - none of them are operational, anyway - but, it's an interesting possibility.

But there's more. If you explore far enough in the Underdark, you'll find an abandoned wizard's tower. In the basement, there's a machine canonically-called a generator; feed it sussur blossoms and it powers up the whole building. You actually get treated to a cutscene of all the lights coming on and the elevator waking up. You can also find a note in the building referring to the work of one of its former occupants, and their "lightning inventions".

Well. Lightning. There we have it - they canonically do have electricity at least in a few places in Faerun. The means by which it's generated, at least at the tower, in interesting. It's not quite spelt out, but the most notable property of the sussur tree is its anti-magic field, so this kind of implies that the generator is somehow using this to produce electricity. (It also implies a connection between electromagnetism and magic - Faerun's physics model must be "fun"!) Elsewhere in the Underdark there's also something that looks suspiciously like a railway line, albeit one that's inoperative. Later on, if you explore far enough into the Underdark, you'll find the Grymforge, which while obviously at least partly-magical in character, is also clearly a rather-advanced piece of machinery.

The biggest surprises, though, come in Baldur's Gate itself.

Inside the Steel Watcher factory, you find things like this:

Wiring, pipes, cybernetics, glowing bulbs, spinny vaguely-dynamo-ish things ... while the vibe is all "dark and Satanic mills", it's also kind of turn-of-the-20th-Century too. This isn't medieval technology here. This is stuff that's not so far removed from what we use.

And interestingly, it's not just restricted entirely to this location, either. If you find your way into the Counting House vaults, you can find a note warning against using "devices powered by bottled lightning" inside the main vault, due to flooding. Bottled lightning - OK, so the bank apparently has power too! But then, the alarm systems in the main area do look suspiciously-electrical in some ways ... now, if only they could get their plumbing sorted out!

However, the pockets of semi-modern technology do seem to be quite localised. Most of what there is seems to be either highly-experimental (a powerful wizard's personal science project) or associated with powerful and wealthy institutions in the big city. And even there, the most advanced systems seem to be associated with the Gondians and their work. There also seems to be a suggestion that these innovations are quite new, and there doesn't seem to be have been many attempts to scale or mass-produce the equipment. The one exception to this pattern might be Reithwin, but the game strongly suggests that pre-curse Reithwin was a prosperous place, and on a main trade route to Baldur's Gate too, so it's entirely-plausible that the local elite might have been able to benefit from new ideas in the metropole. Perhaps the House of Healing in Reithwin was able to acquire a few very early prototypes from the Gondians' workshops, just before the curse fell? That could explain the elevator, and what I suspect are filament lamps?

As for the lack of wider advancement in Baldur's Gate itself, honestly I think we can pin the blame for this one directly on the city's horrifyingly-toxic politics. Gortash is a devotee of the God of Tyranny, so of course he doesn't want to share his toys. The city is allowed to have just enough advanced industry to support his plans for his dictatorship, but of course he's not going to share that power with the wider population! (The Counting House is presumably a special case for this rule - I wouldn't be surprised if there's quite a complex dynamic of power-balancing between Gortash and the financiers, but it is in his interests to share some things with "the money", if you will.)

Lastly, another factor might be that most of the actual R&D work seems to be happening either with the followers of specific gods - such as Gond! - or various wizards. What we see of their world is rather mixed - many wizards are awful (hi, Lorroakan!), though there are exceptions too (overall Rolan is, ultimately, a decent person). They don't seem to tend to work together, and as far as I've seen, there doesn't seem to be any equivalent of a university system or public education system. If a wizard dies, it seems quite possible their research might die with them, which is surely going to put a crimp on development! Meanwhile, with regards to the more "industrially-minded" gods like Gond, who knows how willing they are for their devotees to share their work widely? (Let's face it, a lot of Faerun's deities kinda suck - Gale has a point when he warns against seeking divine intervention, I think.)

Anyway, food for thought...

[jkfree]

Pes 17 free

You can also alter the ‘support range’ (how far players look to spread themselves out in order to receive passes) and height of the defensive line, using two gauges which run from 1 to 10. Positioning (maintain formation/flexible)ĭefensive style (all out defence/frontline pressure) How exactly do the new 'Advanced Tactics' options work?Īs soon as you jump into the edit line-up screen, you’re presented with seven tactics fields (four attacking, three defensive) to instantly tinker with – in addition to swapping players in and out, natch.Įach of these fields currently contains two options, with (I’m reliably informed) many more to come between now and the game’s autumn release.Īttacking styles (counter attack/possession game) It’s a brilliant, satisfying little detail which suggests Konami is really pushing hard to deliver the beautiful game’s intricacies in addition to its fundamentals. Instead of successful shots sagging into the net, some come flying back out and pinball around the box – and when that happens you can slam the ball home for a second time. It’s worth nothing, too, that net physics are astonishingly lifelike now. No modifier button or skill move involved: again, the game reads what you’re trying to do and delivers the most appropriate animation for it. Similarly, I see Welbeck redirect a knee-height cross narrowly over with a clever heel flick. PES 2017 makes fantastic use of contextual animations, too: when I hold the button to shoot with Torres but the ball arrives behind him, he instinctively attempts to backheel it goalwards. Now it’s truly possible to drill shots into all four corners of the goal. In PES 2016 I found it hard to get true lift into my pops at goal if felt that the game needed me to keep the ball low in order to score. Like the passing, it feels entirely natural, and awards you the sense that you’re in control of professionals. There are matches where I carve out delicate, incisive passing moves and repeatedly threaten with my wide men, without ever needing to lay a thumb on the right stick. Genuinely intricate, accurate passing enables you to recycle possession in tight areas while waiting to unleash a killer ball to your centre forward or overlapping full-back, and that upgraded control means you can truly beat an opponent – beat a succession of opponents – using sudden changes of pace, or deft turns. Where PES 2017 really shines is in the final third of the pitch. Now aerial trajectories look and feel just right, while there's a seamlessness to trapping and running with the ball, headers, deflections, everything really. The little stutter each time a player took a touch when dribbling similarly dampened authenticity. In PES 2016, my immersion wavered every time a goal kick took on the trajectory of a beach ball once off the ground. In PES 2017, under- or overhit a similar pass and the recipient might need an extra split-second to trap it, but I see zero balls spanged out of play due to slightly imprecise controller inputs.īall physics have also improved markedly. So whereas in FIFA 16 a diagonal pass from, say, centre back to right midfielder might fly out of play if you didn’t get the intended angle perfect via the left stick, PES is more forgiving.

Konami is bigging up improved passing precision and ball control this year, and it is right to: players truly caress the ball to one another, and the game engine does a sublime job of facilitating your attempts to play dreamboat football. (And I write that as someone who has chosen FIFA over PES for the entirety of the PS3 and PS4 eras.)Ī small caveat: so far, I've only been able to play as four teams: Arsenal, Atletico Madrid, France, and Germany. On the evidence of my hands-on – four hours behind closed doors at Konami – it plays a wonderful game of football. You’re right that the PS3 years weren’t overly kind to Pro Evo, but it’s been enjoying a renaissance over the last two seasons, and PES 2017 feels like the happy culmination of a three-year rebuilding project. Is there any hope becomes a fantastic simulator again?

[lascldaddy]

How to play champions league on pes 2017 online with friens

#HOW TO PLAY CHAMPIONS LEAGUE ON PES 2017 ONLINE WITH FRIENS PRO#

#HOW TO PLAY CHAMPIONS LEAGUE ON PES 2017 ONLINE WITH FRIENS PS4#

#HOW TO PLAY CHAMPIONS LEAGUE ON PES 2017 ONLINE WITH FRIENS SIMULATOR#

Instead of successful shots sagging into the net, some come flying back out and pinball around the box – and when that happens you can slam the ball home for a second time. It’s worth nothing, too, that net physics are astonishingly lifelike now. No modifier button or skill move involved: again, the game reads what you’re trying to do and delivers the most appropriate animation for it. Similarly, I see Welbeck redirect a knee-height cross narrowly over with a clever heel flick. PES 2017 makes fantastic use of contextual animations, too: when I hold the button to shoot with Torres but the ball arrives behind him, he instinctively attempts to backheel it goalwards. Now it’s truly possible to drill shots into all four corners of the goal. In PES 2016 I found it hard to get true lift into my pops at goal if felt that the game needed me to keep the ball low in order to score. Like the passing, it feels entirely natural, and awards you the sense that you’re in control of professionals. There are matches where I carve out delicate, incisive passing moves and repeatedly threaten with my wide men, without ever needing to lay a thumb on the right stick. Genuinely intricate, accurate passing enables you to recycle possession in tight areas while waiting to unleash a killer ball to your centre forward or overlapping full-back, and that upgraded control means you can truly beat an opponent – beat a succession of opponents – using sudden changes of pace, or deft turns. Where PES 2017 really shines is in the final third of the pitch. Now aerial trajectories look and feel just right, while there's a seamlessness to trapping and running with the ball, headers, deflections, everything really. The little stutter each time a player took a touch when dribbling similarly dampened authenticity. In PES 2016, my immersion wavered every time a goal kick took on the trajectory of a beach ball once off the ground. In PES 2017, under- or overhit a similar pass and the recipient might need an extra split-second to trap it, but I see zero balls spanged out of play due to slightly imprecise controller inputs.īall physics have also improved markedly. So whereas in FIFA 16 a diagonal pass from, say, centre back to right midfielder might fly out of play if you didn’t get the intended angle perfect via the left stick, PES is more forgiving. Konami is bigging up improved passing precision and ball control this year, and it is right to: players truly caress the ball to one another, and the game engine does a sublime job of facilitating your attempts to play dreamboat football.

#HOW TO PLAY CHAMPIONS LEAGUE ON PES 2017 ONLINE WITH FRIENS PS4#

(And I write that as someone who has chosen FIFA over PES for the entirety of the PS3 and PS4 eras.)Ī small caveat: so far, I've only been able to play as four teams: Arsenal, Atletico Madrid, France, and Germany. On the evidence of my hands-on – four hours behind closed doors at Konami – it plays a wonderful game of football.

#HOW TO PLAY CHAMPIONS LEAGUE ON PES 2017 ONLINE WITH FRIENS PRO#

You’re right that the PS3 years weren’t overly kind to Pro Evo, but it’s been enjoying a renaissance over the last two seasons, and PES 2017 feels like the happy culmination of a three-year rebuilding project.

#HOW TO PLAY CHAMPIONS LEAGUE ON PES 2017 ONLINE WITH FRIENS SIMULATOR#

Is there any hope becomes a fantastic simulator again?

[snackhobi]

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

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

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

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

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

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

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

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

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

(You’d phrased it differently.

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

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

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

Unfortunately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

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

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

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

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

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

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

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

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

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he walks into your workshop.

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

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

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

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

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

“Y/n?” 

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

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

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

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

“Who did this to you?”

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

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

“Who did this to you?”

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

There's a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

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

“One of the cousins?”

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

Yoongi always pays his debts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t call me baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yoongi?”

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

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

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

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

“Bye.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were on the way.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re finally back.”

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

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

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

“All good.” 

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

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

Because it’s yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

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

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

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

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

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

“How much is it?”

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

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

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says. 

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in response?

You just smile.

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

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

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

(You look good like this.)

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

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

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to eat you alive.

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

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

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

“Shameless.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not done with you yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay.”

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

He hadn’t been planning to.

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

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

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

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

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

“I kill a lot of people.”

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

A pause. 

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d be offended if you did.”

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

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

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

[starryevermore]

the road to the altar: the big day ✧ ari levinson

let’s ride ✧ a biker!ari levinson series | pinterest board | ao3

pairing: biker!ari levinson x single mom!reader

summary: you and ari say “i do”. 

word count: 2,338

warnings?: tooth-rotting fluff, pet name (sweetpea) 

Countdown to the Big Day: Zero Days

If you thought you were nervous at your final dress fitting, it had nothing on what you were experiencing at this very moment. Everything was a flurry around you as the makeup artist swiped eyeshadow across your lids, the hair stylist fixing your hair. Somewhere behind you, Yelena was complaining about the lack of snacks in the room while Sarah tried to wrangle the Liam, AJ, and Cass, who were trying to avoid putting on their tuxes. Nat was off somewhere, telling one of the photographers all the things you and Ari wanted to get shots of before people started arriving and messing with the decorations. Another photographer was in the room, capturing the moments of you getting ready. 

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, almost startled by the change. You wore makeup regularly, sure, but bridal makeup? The woman who stared back in the mirror looked like you, but different. Almost regal. Some sort of ethereal quality about her. 

“You must got some sort of magic in that eyeshadow palette,” you told the makeup artist. 

“Don’t need magic when the subject is so beautiful already,” she said, grabbing the bottle of setting spray and uncapping it. “Shut your eyes for a second, okay?”

You obliged, feeling the mist of the spray coating your face. When you opened your eyes, she passed you a fan so you could dry your face while she grabbed the mascara. She’d said she liked to put the mascara on after the setting spray, something about it sticking better to people’s lashes. Plus, you were less likely to have to fix up runny mascara that way. 

“Alright,” the hair stylist said, “does it look how you want?”

You looked back to the mirror, turning your head slightly to look at the different angles. “Could you pin down this section here? It looks like I’m going to get some flyaways at the first gust of wind.”

“Of course,” she said, grabbing a couple of bobby pins and securing the hair you were talking about. 

“Oh my god! You look stunning!” Yelena said, finally abandoning her pursuit of snacks and looking over at you. 

“Wait til you see her in her dress,” Sarah said, re-entering the room after getting the boys to the room Ari, Sam, and Bucky were getting ready in. 

“Y’all flatter me,” you said. The makeup artist started applying your mascara. “How are the guys holding up?”

“I put Bucky in charge of getting the kiddos in their tuxes,” Sarah said. “Ari looked really excited. Kept asking how you were doing.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. Said he was ready to do the first look as soon as you were.”

A first look—it had been something Sarah and Bucky did at their wedding. Instead of waiting to see each other when you were walking down the aisle, the two of you would see each other before the ceremony actually started. It let you get all the emotional jitters out early, giving time to do any makeup touch-ups if you cried a little too hard. Plus the pictures you could get? Oh, it was wonderful. And you couldn’t wait to do it. 

Once your makeup and hair were officially finished, you got out of the chair and Sarah brought your dress over. You shed the robe you were given, and the girls helped you into the dress. Nat laced up the back, you staring at the mirror, tears pricking at your eyes. 

“You look amazing,” Nat said. “Sarah told me how pretty you looked in your dress, but nothing beats seeing it in person.”

“Ari might pass out when he sees you,” Yelena says. 

You laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far. Maybe pretend to pass out.”

Your dress was truly beautiful. It was a champagne color, off the shoulder with big, puffy, bubble-like sleeves. It had a low back, and a pretty corset. You pictured yourself as the subject of a Renaissance painting. One of a goddess, lounged out in nature, the kind of painting that would be the bane of students’ existence as they had to analyze it over and over and over again. The kind of painting that someone would hang a print of in their home, marveling at its beauty. The kind of painting that was loved and beloved. 

“Can I see Ari now?” You looked over at Sarah. “You said he was ready when I was, right?”

“I’ll get him down to the spot you were talking about, okay? Then you come down in a few minutes.”

Sarah disappeared from the room and, as you waited, you looked out the window, seeing her and Ari out in the garden. You smiled, admiring the way the tux fit him. Even from afar, he looked so handsome. You reached down, gathering some of your dress, Nat and Yelena gathering the rest, and made your way downstairs. 

Ari’s back was to you when you got outside. Both of the photographers were there, too. One was behind you to catch Ari’s face, and the other was behind Ari to catch yours. Your heart thumped in your chest as you walked up to him, Ari bouncing on the balls of his feet as he was equally nervous. You reached your spot and Nat and Yelena let go of your dress, making it look nice and pretty before taking a few steps back. 

Taking a deep breath, you reached over and tapped on Ari’s shoulder. Slowly, Ari turned, his baby blue eyes immediately filling with tears, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. 

“You weren’t supposed to cry so soon! Now I’m gonna cry!” you said, already wiping away the tears spilling out of your own eyes. 

Ari reached out, taking your face in his big hands, his thumbs swiping over your tears. “Oh, sweetpea, you look so beautiful. My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

“You look so handsome, too,” you said, leaning into one of his hands, sniffling. “You cleaned up your beard.”

“Debated on shaving it—”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t!” you said, adding a dramatic gasp. “You know how much I love your beard. Would feel like I was marrying another man if you shaved it off.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” Ari said. He leaned down, nuzzling his nose against yours. His breath fanned over your face as he asked, “Is it bad luck if I kiss you now?”

“I don’t know about bad luck, but I sure want you to kiss me now,” you said, your lips ghosting over his.

“Your wish is my command.”

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to celebrate the love between Ari Levinson and Sweetpea—” Sam coughed, sending you a wink. “—excuse me, Y/N Y/L/N, and to join these two in matrimony. Ari and Sweetpea elected to write their vows, which they will exchange now. Ari?”

Ari looked to you, his eyes shining with tears again. He took your hands in his, running his thumbs over the tops of your hands. “Sweetpea,” he said, “you have made me the happiest I have ever been in my entire life. I’ve been alone for a long, long time. I used to think I’d always be alone. I’d accepted that. But that minute I saw you—the most beautiful woman in the world with the most adorable kid, standing right next to my bike…God, I just knew I wanted to be a part of your life. Didn’t matter what the capacity it was. I just wanted to be a part of it.”

“I didn’t make it easy for you.”

The crowd laughed, and Ari did, too. “No, you didn’t. But I wouldn’t have had it any other way. You were worth it. You were worth every second. Back when I thought I’d be alone forever, I was sure no one would ever love me. But being with you…Even before we started dating, I felt loved. Even before you knew it. Even when your heart was still guarded and you were scared to let me in. And I loved you, too. I always will. When you finally let your walls go down, when you let me love you and you let yourself love me…I swore I would make sure you knew that I would always be there for you. That, anything you wanted, I would provide. Because you made me the happiest man in the world, and all I ever wanted was to make you just as happy, if not happier. Sweetpea—Y/N Y/L/N, I can’t believe that this is the life that I’m now living, but I couldn’t be more grateful for it. I will always love you, through this life and whatever life comes next. I mean it.”

“Oh, Ari—”

“Ah, ah! No kissing until I say so!” Sam teased. “Sweetpea, would you like to say your vows?”

You nodded, sniffling. Behind you, Sarah handed you a tissue, which you took, wiping at your eyes. “Shoot, it’s hard to come after something as sweet as that, but I sure will try.” You looked at Ari, a smile curving across your lips. “Ari Levinson, you are the most amazing man I have ever met. Before I met you, I was sure I’d never love another man again. I didn’t really want to, if I was being honest. It had just been me and Liam for so many years. I got by with just me and him for that entire time. I was scared that if I let another man into my life that Liam or I or both would get attached, and then he would leave, and we’d both be worse off for it. I pushed out a lot of people because of it. But you…You always stayed. I gave every reason for you to run. I was cold, I was a tiny bit judgmental, it took me ages to finally let you even be a friend. But no matter how hard I pushed, you always stayed.”

“I always will.”

“I know, and I’ve never had someone love me like that. Someone who looked at me and decided that I was worth every bit of trouble I gave. And, God, that scared me even more. I was terrified that the second I let you in, you’d just decide I actually wasn’t worth all that and leave. And I really couldn’t handle that. But then you left town for a week for work, and I…hated every second you were gone. I hated being away from you. I didn’t realize how much I cared until you’d left, and I knew that I couldn’t keep doing things like that anymore. I couldn’t keep pushing you away. Not when I loved you. Letting you in was the second best thing that’s ever happened in my life.”

“The first being Liam?”

“The first being Liam. And I haven’t regretted this decision—except, perhaps, that I made you wait as long as I did. Because loving you, Ari…It’s indescribable. You don’t even have to give me anything, you don’t have to do anything beyond being yourself, and I would feel like I was crowned queen of the world. I never thought I’d love a man like this, but I’m so glad I did, and I’m so glad it’s you.”

Ari started to lean in, his hand reaching up to cup your face, but Sam immediately smacked it. “Nuh uh! We exchange rings and then I say when we do the kissing!”

Ari rolled his eyes dramatically, before turning around, and kneeling down to Liam’s height. “Got the rings, bub?”

Liam nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the tiny velvet bag they were being housed in. He opened the bag, and gave Ari the rings. 

“Thanks, bub.”

“No problem, Dad,” Liam said, “but don’t make Mom cry like that again, okay?”

“Oh, it’s happy tears, baby!” you laughed. 

“Hmm. Well, don’t make her cry that hard out of sadness.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Ari rose back up and turned around, handing you his ring and holding onto yours. “Ready, Sam.”

“Alright, Ari, please place the ring on Sweetpea’s finger and repeat after me.”

Ari placed the ring on your left ring finger. Sam said the words first, a sentence at a time, with Ari repeating, “The fitting of this ring with its unending circle symbolizes my everlasting love for you. The placing of this on your finger is the fulfillment of my dreams to have you as my friend, my love, my wife, to live as one forever. With this ring, I give you my heart. From this day forward, you shall not walk alone. My heart will be your shelter, and my arms will be your home.”

Sam turned to you, doing the same process as you placed the ring on Ari’s finger, you repeating, “The fitting of this ring with its unending circle symbolizes my everlasting love for you. The placing of this on your finger is the fulfillment of my dreams to have you as my friend, my love, my husband, to live as one forever. With this ring, I give you my heart. From this day forward, you shall not walk alone. My heart will be your shelter, and my arms will be your home.”

Sam grinned, finally saying, “By the power vested in me under the laws of the great state of Louisiana, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Sam looked over at Ari, nodding his head, saying, “Alright, go on, kiss her like you mean it.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Ari said. He took you in his arms, spinning you and dipping you, kissing you hard. “I love you, sweetpea,” he mumbled against your lips. 

“I love you too, lover boy,” you said. 

“Think we can skip the reception and go straight to the honeymoon?”

“Are you kidding? I wanna eat the cake!”

“Fine, fine,” Ari said. “Cake, then honeymoon.”

“You’re rotten.”

“And you love me for it, Mrs. Levinson.”

“Damn right I do, Mr. Levinson.”

[queenshelby]

Foreigner – Peaky Blinder Fanfic

PART TWO – GETTING DOWN TO BUSINESS

Featuring: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warning: SMUT

Words: 5093

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

Business Meeting

It was a long night for Tommy. But, as usual, he woke up early to attend business matters and liaise with Arthur and Polly about how to handle the recent interference by agent Cooper, an investigator of the Crown, with the latest shipment of heroin from the Chinese.

Abrahama Gold was arrested in the process and Tommy had to plan his next move. It was unclear to Tommy how agent Cooper got wind of the shipment. Someone must have informed him, but who? Police in Birmingham are on Tommy’s payroll and Tommy has recently taken out his competitor. There was no one Tommy could think of who had a vested interest in informing agent Cooper of the shipment.

Of course, shipments often got interfered with but generally the interferers were gangs or business men who wanted to take the profits from the sale of the products themselves. Being ratted out to the Crown as unusual.

As Tommy and Polly were arguing on how to deal with the situation, there was a knock on the door of Tommy’s office.

‘Finn, come in’ Tommy said as he saw Finn glancing through the small glass window beside his office door.

‘You wanted to see me Tommy’ Finn said.

‘Yes’ Tommy said as he lit himself a cigarette. ‘Sit down’ he added.

Finn sat down without speaking a word, waiting for Tommy to continue.

‘The woman you drove back to her residence last night…where was she staying?’ Tommy asked, following which Finn told him that you were staying at the Renaissance Hotel.

‘Tommy, I don’t think now is the right time to discuss your fancy for yet another woman who you will get bored off in a few weeks’ Polly said angrily as she already heard from the barmaid at the Garrison about the mysterious young woman who Tommy had bandaged up last night.

‘Are you talking about the girl you sat with last night?’ Arthur asked as a slight chuckle escaped him. ‘You don’t think she is a bit young for you brother? She is 25 at the most’ Arthur added with laughter.

‘Fuck off Arthur’ Tommy said firmly, before carrying on.

‘Something seemed off about her. I believe that she is looking for connections to export alcohol and drugs to America which, I think, is interesting considering that Esme Bortelli’s men are also staying at the Renaissance Hotel and are in town to discuss business of some sort. I did my research on Esme and it turns out that Esme’s affiliate is Manfred Conner, the father of Lucas Conner.’ Tommy added.

‘The 16-year-old boy who Arthur shot 8 years ago? Do you think that there is connection between that woman at the Garrison last night and the tip off?’ Polly asked.

‘I don’t think she made the tip off Polly. But, I also don’t think that our friend Manfred is here to advance Esme’s business interests. Something seems off.’ Tommy said.

‘Also, there were two men at the Garrison last night asking questions. I believe that they were after Arthur and I think that Manfred sent them’ Tommy added.

‘Where are the men now?’ Arthur asked

‘They are held by Abrahama’s men at the old steel factory. Go and make them talk and send them back to Conner with a message’ Tommy instructed.

‘Do you think we set up a meeting with Giovanni Sabini first? He might have some sort of connection’ Polly asked.

‘Not yet’ Tommy responded. ‘I will talk to the girl first. She must be an affiliate of Bortelli or Conner. I might be able to get to her and see what Conner’s plan is and whether he is looking after Esme’s business interests or not’ Tommy said, causing Polly to roll her eyes.

‘Of course…Thomas Shelby. You will talk to her…’ Polly said with laughter.

‘I am willing to go further than talking if it benefits our operations Polly’ Tommy said.

‘I see your tactics have not changed when it comes to dealing with women in this business’ Polly said. ‘So, your plan is to manipulate her into trusting you to get your way?’ Polly added.

‘I might try, depending on the circumstances’ Tommy responded.

‘That may have worked with Jesse Eden, but with this woman, it may be a much more dangerous game that you are playing Tommy. If she is related to Bortelli and you screw with her, you may find yourself at war with the West Coast Mafia’ Polly said concerned.

‘Not if we struck the right deal with Bortelli’ Tommy said before taking a pause. ‘Unfortunately, we will need her for this as I do not trust Manfred Conner and his men’ Tommy said.

‘Be careful Tommy’ Polly said.

‘Always’ Tommy grinned before ending the business meeting and engaging Lizzy to track you down in order to get more information about what he might be dealing with.

Meeting Again

Fortunately, it wasn’t difficult for Lizzy to find you as your father got the hotel staff to keep close tabs on you after last night’s adventure.

Thus, just after you sat down and ordered dinner at the hotel’s bar, you heard a familiar voice from behind you.

‘Good evening Y/N’ the voice said.

‘Good evening sir, what a pleasant surprise’ you responded as you turned around and noticed the same man you met last night standing behind you.

Without asking for your approval and with great confidence and a touch of arrogance, the man sat down across from you.

‘How is your knee?’ he asked as the waitress brought him a glass of whiskey.

‘It’s much better, thank you…Did you just order this?’ you asked surprised as you did not notice him speak with the waitress.

‘I don’t have to, I am regular’ the man responded.

‘Right’ you smiled. ‘So, you are here to have dinner, on your own?’ you asked.

‘No, I already ate. I am here to help you Y/N’ the man said as he lit himself a cigarette.

‘Help me? With what?’ you asked surprised.

‘Alcohol, cocaine, heroin, whatever you need. Of course, it comes at a price’ the man said calmly but yet determined.

You werent sure whether he was fishing for information after last night or whether he knew that you were here on behalf of your aunt to struck a deal with Thomas Shelby.

‘Listen, Mr…?’ you responded as you did not know his name and, before you could continue with your sentence, the man responded ‘Shelby’.

‘Shelby? As in Thomas Shelby?’ you asked surprised. You heard of Thomas Shelby on many occasions but never imagined him to be anything like the man sitting right in front of you. You had always imagined him to be an old man who smelled like cigar smoke and who looked somewhat scary, almost rough and aggressive.

‘Yes, Thomas Shelby’ Tommy said. ‘So, either you really didn’t know who I was or you have something to hide. Which one is it Y/N?’ Tommy added.

‘I really had no idea. I am so sorry’ you responded.

‘Alright, I believe you. You seem like a trustworthy young woman’ Tommy said.

‘Well thank you Mr Shelby, but I have to go’ you said with a haste as you grabbed your bag. You were intimidated by Tommy and worried that you might find yourself in trouble real soon if you continue talking to him without first speaking to your aunt.

‘Y/N’ Tommy said as he stood up from his chair just as you were about to leave the table.

‘Yes, Mr Shelby?’ you responded while turning around briefly.

‘Let me know when you are ready talk business and give my regards to Esme when you speak to her’ Tommy said as he gave you a card with his office address and telephone connection.

You knew exactly that he was playing you. It was obvious. But you didn’t know why and what his end game was. Your father and aunt Esme had warned you about him on numerous occasions. He was a gambling man and he was calculated and dangerous.

Important Call

As you returned to your hotel room, you were looking for your father to discuss what had just happened. But, he wasn’t there.

He left you a note saying that he had business to attend to. This was rather frustrating for you as he had not discussed any business matters with you since you had arrived in Birmingham. This was contrary to aunt Esme’s instructions. After all, you are the one looking after the finances and laundering of the profits.

Since your father was preoccupied with what appeared to be his own matters, you didn’t waste any time and called aunt Esme to tell her who you had met and to seek further instructions.

Her instructions were simple. She told you to see Thomas Shelby as he had suggested. She also became suspicious about your father’s behaviour after you explained the situation and told you not to get your father involved until the deal is done.

You didn’t like going behind your father’s back but yet you felt as though you had to protect him. He has been hot headed lately and not has not been smart when it came to business matters.

You, on the other hand, took after your mother. You were level headed. You despised violence and believed that all conflicts could be negotiated. Your aunt always used to tell you that you should become a politician as you had excellent negotiation skills. In the same vein, she believed that you can stand up against Thomas Shelby and negotiate the deal with him on her behalf. She trusted you and you respected her wishes.

Business Negotiations

Just as aunt Esme had instructed you, the following day, you attended Thomas Shelby’s office to discuss a deal between his family and yours.

‘Mr Shelby, there is a woman here for you. She said she wants to talk about a business opportunity with you’ Tommy’s receptionist said.

‘Send her in Amy, thank you’ Tommy said, knowing that it would be you.

‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon Y/N. Please sit’ Tommy said as he poured a glass of whisky and handed it to you.

You were nervous and intimidated. Your hands were shaking as you held onto the glass of whiskey. He was handsome and kind but yet you were afraid of him in a way.

‘Now what do you need Y/N?’ Tommy asked.

‘Distribution of alcohol, cocaine and heroin to Atlanta’ you said.

‘I already have a supply chain to Atlanta. But you already know this’ Tommy said. ‘So, what is in it for me other than trouble with my current supplier?’ he asked.

‘15% of the profits and we take the losses for any product ceased’ you said, causing Tommy to laugh.

‘No’ Tommy said firmly as he starred into your eyes. He was standing right in front of you. So close and so intimidating.

‘You are in the wrong business Love’ he added with a chuckle since you didn’t respond to his firm ‘no’. He clearly did not take you seriously.

You built up all of your courage and stood up, right in front of Tommy, and firmly put your glass onto his desk.

‘With all due respect Mr Shelby, I know for a fact that this is more than Sabini offers you’ you said as you looked into his hypnotising blue eyes.

A strange sensation overcame Tommy. Something he hadn’t felt before. It was a feeling of warmth and coldness at the same time as you stood in front of him with all that confidence you had inside of you. He certainly did not expect this.

‘You would know that Sabini is paying more than you just offered me. Unless, of course, you have been sloppy when doing research’ Tommy said as he gently moved some of your hair out of your face and behind your ear.

‘Yes, but how many shipments did you lose in Atlanta since taking over. I count two so far and the losses were excessive’ you said nervously as you could feel Tommy’s warm breath on your neck.

‘40%, you take the losses in Atlanta and I will deal with Sabini’ Tommy whispered into your ear while his hand was still running over your neck gently. His warm breath besides your ear sent shivers down your neck and you wanted nothing more than for him to kiss you.

But Tommy knew exactly what he was doing and it became clear to you that he wasn’t going to give you what you wanted. What you didn’t know was that he was still playing you and his strategy was working.

‘I cannot agree to this Mr Shelby’ you answered nervously as you moved your head, hoping to catch Tommy’s lips with yours.

‘Well, that is too bad’ Tommy said just before he pulled away from you. ‘You will need to come back with a better offer’ he said as he walked around the table and sat down on his chair.

‘Thank you for your time Mr Shelby’ you said nervously as you grabbed your bag from the desk. You bit your lip as your legs were still shaking nervously before walking towards the door.

‘I hope to see you soon Y/N’ Tommy said as you left his office.

It took you some time to collect your thoughts after the meeting. It was intense and your mind was racing with all sorts of things, not just business. ‘What was this man doing to you?’ you thought to yourself.

The Charity Gala

The following day, your father was invited by Thomas Shelby to attend a charity event. It was obvious that Thomas wanted to talk business and he wanted to do so in a public place.

The invitation was sent days ago, just as you arrived at the Renaissance Hotel. Tommy knew Esme’s men were in town and he had a good guess about what they wanted. But, Thomas Shelby doesn’t take any risks. Him and your father had history.

You were concerned that Tommy would speak with your father about having met you and the deal on the table. Therefore, you decided to attend the event as well, despite your father’s wishes against it.

As you walked down the stairs in the lobby, you saw Tommy greeting your father.

‘Mr Conner, it is a pleasure to meet you again’ Tommy said as he shook your father’s hand.

‘I can’t say that the pleasure is on my side’ your father responded without any attempt to introduce you to Tommy. It was rather awkward and you could not help yourself but stare at Tommy.

Fortunately for you, Tommy could sense the awkwardness and was determined to end it.

‘Is this your business partner?’ Tommy asked your father as he gazed over to you.

‘She is my daughter’ your father said, just as you interrupted.

‘I am representing my aunt Esme’s business interests. I am in charge of finances’ you explained as you shook Tommy’s hand, pretending that you haven’t met him before.

‘Pleasure to meet you Miss or Mrs…?’ Tommy played along.

‘Miss. Y/N Conner’ you responded before you went on to ask ‘Do you dance Mr Shelby?’

‘I do’ Tommy said as he offered you his hand and guided you towards the dancefloor, leaving your father speechless.

You imagined that your father would have been rather annoyed to see you walk off with Thomas Shelby, but you really needed to speak with Tommy, alone.

‘Thank you for playing along’ you whispered into Tommy’s ear as you began to dance.

‘Pleasure’ Tommy responded as he was leading the dance.

‘You did not mention that Manfred Connor is your father’ Tommy said as the dancefloor began to fill up.

‘I didn’t think that it was relevant. My aunt authorised me to negotiate with you. My father will only be involved when the deal is being put in action’ you responded, causing Tommy to chuckle.

‘I think that your father has a mind of his own. You and your aunt should be careful’ Tommy said.

‘What do you mean?’ you asked concerned.

‘You do not need to concern yourself with this tonight Y/N’ Tommy said in response.

‘Well, I have spoken to my aunt, she is agreeable to 25%’ you said, causing Tommy to laugh.

‘You know I will not agree to 25%’ Tommy said.

‘I told her that but I have an offer you cannot refuse Mr Shelby’ you whispered back just as the music stopped.

‘Meet me at Room 1801 in 30 minutes and we can discuss’ Tommy said as he walked you back to your father.

‘Thank you for the dance, Miss Conner. Please excuse me’ Tommy said as your father requested a meeting with Tommy.

You were still unsure whether Tommy was still playing you or whether he was genuinely interested in making a deal. Or perhaps, was he interested in something else you wondered.  

A Business Meeting of a different kind

Half an hour later, just as agreed, you walked up to Room 1801.

The door to the room was open. You entered but Tommy was not there. ‘He must not be known to be punctual’ you thought.

It was rather awkward, discussing business matters on your own with a man like this.

The room you were in was quite obviously designated for meetings of this kind. Unlike other hotel rooms, this room had a large table and a drink cart with an assortment of top shelf whiskeys and snacks.

There were stacks of papers on one of the side boards and, most interestingly, there was no bed in this room.

You poured yourself a glass of whiskey and sat down at the table until, not long, Tommy entered the room.

‘My apologies Y/N, I was held up’ Tommy said.

‘With my father?’ you asked.

‘He desperately wanted to know where I am holding the men he sent after me a few days ago’ Tommy said.

‘Sent after you, why?’ you asked.

‘I am yet to figure this out’ Tommy said.

‘You aren’t going to take me hostage, are you?’ you chuckled.

‘You have nothing to worry about Y/N’ Tommy said with some laughter. ‘I am here to talk business. I respect you and your aunt but, unfortunately, I wasn’t left with much of a choice other than to deal with Sabini a few months ago’ Tommy said as he poured himself a drink.

When you looked at him sip on his whiskey, your lips tingled and your mind wandered to delicious places.

While you hardly knew him, you knew that kissing him would be like heaven and sin combined. You wanted to kiss those lips and feel his body pressed against yours, and the closer he got as you spoke, you thought it may happen.

‘So, what is this offer I cannot refuse?’ Tommy said as he stood right in front of you.

‘We can offer you exclusive distribution to the West Coast, not just Atlanta’ you said as you bit your lip.

‘At 40%?’ Tommy asked, causing you to shake your head nervously.

‘That’s a shame. What else can you offer me?’ he asked.

‘Uhm’ you said quietly as you were lost for words.

Within moments, the space between you closed as Tommy leaned in and pressed his body against yours.

‘That is my offer Mr Shelby, exclusive distribution at 25%’ you said with a shaky voice.

‘I will think about it’ Tommy whispered into your ear just before he gently kissed your neck while sliding a hand between the buttons on your shirt. You loved the way he made you feel…sexy, powerful and desired.

As Tommy continued to kiss your neck, you gasped as his hand brushed your skin.

‘You have 24 hours to consider this offer Mrs Shelby’ you said with a gasp as you tilted your head back into him, reaching a hand up, grabbing the back of his neck to pull his mouth down onto your skin once more.

‘Call me Tommy’ he chuckled as he could feel how much you wanted him.

He unbuttoned your blouse skillfully, reaching under your bra to run his finger along the smooth skin of your breast, and gripping a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He rubbed it gently, stimulating your desire.

You haven’t been with any man like him before and moaned as he teased you.

Tommy’s mouth left a trail of fire as he brushed your hair aside, and moved his lips to your shoulder, while reaching down to the hem of your skirt.

After hiking the skirt up around your waist, Tommy slid his hand down your thigh. His touch sent your pulse into overdrive.

‘Tommy’ you said quietly as you were overpowered by his touch. You knew this was a terrible idea and Tommy could sense your concerns in the tone of your voice.

‘Do you want me to stop Y/N?’ Tommy asked as his hand paused, causing you to bite your lips and shake your head.

You have only been with one man before and Tommy was sensing your lack of experience and slowed down.

His lips slowly moved from your neck and shoulders to your mouth while his hand was still beneath your skirt on the outside of your thigh.

His lips tasted like sweet whiskey and his kisses were gentle and slow.

Your heart was pounding and Tommy could feel your sense of apprehension.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stop?’ he asked again quietly, causing you take shake your head again and respond with a quite ‘no’.

‘Alright’ he said gently as he slipped his hand to the inside of your thigh. With a gentle moan you arched your back as he slid a finger under your panty and into the soft folds of your skin.

‘Tommy’ you moaned as your spread your legs wider and grabbed his hand, pressing his finger deeper into you.

‘You are so wet’ Tommy whispered into your ear as his fingers went in and out of your entrance slowly.

‘God, I want you Tommy’ you whispered as his erection was pushing against you.

Tommy slid in another finger, opening you up. His rhythm was skilled and your legs were beginning to weaken in anticipation.

‘Don’t…not yet’ Tommy whispered as he could feel your walls tightening around his fingers. You were so close.

Tommy removed his fingers from your entrance and pushed down your panties until they dropped to the floor.

When Tommy looked at you the way he did in that moment, you felt wanted and confident.

You skillfully lifted the toe of your heel and kicked your panties aside, while unbuckling Tommy’s belt.

But in that moment, Tommy backed off. It was like he was in a trance and had changed his mind all of a sudden.

‘What’s wrong?’ you asked surprised.

‘Y/N, perhaps this is a bad idea’ Tommy said with guilt. He knew that what he was doing was calculated, but he felt an attraction towards you which made him uncomfortable. This attraction changed the entire dynamic of this game for him. He had an intense desire to be with you and this was something he didn’t expect. It was almost like he was losing control in the moment.

‘Are you not attracted to me?’ you asked as an uncomfortable hot flush rushed over your neck and spine.

‘I am, but it doesn’t make it right Y/N, you are like what, 23, 24 at the most, and we may soon be in business together’ Tommy said.

’22 actually and, so what? You have never slept with any of your female acquaintances before? I find this hard to believe’ you laughed.

‘Not with an acquaintance 15 years younger than me, no’ Tommy said.

‘It’s sex Tommy, not marriage…’ you laughed before pulling him closer towards you.

‘I want you, please, just this once’ you whispered into his ear while your hands returned to his belt and trousers. ‘Despite, this may relieve some of the tension between us, don’t you think?’ you continued.

‘Fuck’ Tommy said with a deep voice and, without any warning, Tommy lifted your leg around him and leaned in, pressing your back against the wall. After pulling your bra down, he leaned down and sucked the taut skin of your nipple, flicking it with his tongue, as you reached for his cock greedily, wrapping your hand around its shaft.

At the same time, Tommy returned his fingers to your inside, pumping them in and out gently.

‘Are you sure this is what you want Y/N?’ Tommy asked in between quiet moans.

‘I am sure’ you whispered as you were stroking his hard cock.

Tommy removed his fingers from inside you, brought them up to your mouth, and ran them along your lower lip, watching with lustful eyes as you licked his fingers, tasting yourself.

‘I need you inside of me’ you begged with your hand still around him, running the tip of his cock against the inside of your thigh.

Tommy’s eyes burned as your moist heat made him grow harder in your grasp, and you began to ache, waiting for the moment you dreamed about since the night you met him.

Finally, Tommy lined himself up with your entrance.

As he entered you, a bolt of electricity shot through your body which erased all rational thought, filling your head with visions of only of them.

Locking eyes, he guided himself into you, filling you completely with his first penetration. The desire you felt at that moment was overpowering, and you opened your legs as wide as they would go, taking him in hungrily.

‘How does that feel?’ Tommy asked with one hand on your hip and the other reaching for your hand, pinning it above your head.

But, you couldn’t speak and only responded with a nod. He took your breath away and you were too caught up in the exquisite pleasure of finally having him.

As he began to move, your bodies fell into sync. It felt insanely good.

His movements started of gently, giving you plenty of time to adjust. After all, he could tell that you hadn’t had much experience.

As he was thrusting into you, his lips wandered down your neck while quiet moans escaped him. You tried hard to stay quiet yourself but the sensations you were experiencing were way to intense.

‘Tommy, fuck’ you moaned loudly, causing Tommy to grin. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the loudness of the sounds that you were making.

Removing his hand that had held yours firm above your head, Tommy reached for your other leg and pulled it around him, cupping your round buttocks in his hands, bringing you down onto him faster.

As he was thrusting into you harder, you closed your eyes, feeling him fill you and enjoying the warmth that was building as he hit your pleasure spot over and over.

‘God, you feel good’ Tommy huffed as his breath was growing labored and beads of sweat formed on his temples.

At this moment, you could tell that his desire for you was real. He enjoyed every moment of being inside of you.

It wasn’t long until you begged Tommy to go even harder before reaching for his lower lip with your mouth, pulling it between your teeth.

Tommy complied, bending his knees, slamming into you with more force.

‘Oh god Tommy’ you moaned loudly as your body was tensing up.

Tommy could tell that you were trying to hold back on your orgasm. The sensation was quite unfamiliar to you and you did not know what to expect. Your ex never got you to this point and you were completely overwhelmed by the pleasure running through your body.

‘Let go’ Tommy whispered into your ear while pushing into you as your sweat covered bodies stuck together.  

‘No’ you responded in between laboured breaths as you bit your lip.

‘Do it for me’ Tommy ordered, after which you leaned in for his mouth with your own, and kissed him deeply while you swiveled your hips in coordination with his while your tongues dancing with one another.

Once your mouths parted, Tommy looked deep into your eyes. His eyes were full of fire as he slid his finger between the slick slit between your legs, encouraging your building orgasm with his fingers.

His thrusts became harder and deeper while his fingers began to move faster.

You knew that the exquisite moment of your climax was seconds away and closed your eyes.

As you turned your head to the side, your lips parted and you cried out Tommy’s name louder than before while your body began to shake with each powerful release.

As your orgasm washed over you, Tommy was getting closer to his own release. Hearing the sounds you were making were sending him over the edge within seconds. With one loud moan, Tommy released and his body was shaking as he filled you with his warm cum.

Just as he came inside of you, you exchanged more passionate kisses before your lips slowly drifted apart.

‘Are you alright?’ Tommy asked softly once his breathing slowed.

‘Never been better’ you responded as you leaned your forehead to his, breathing him in one last time, before sliding one leg down, placing a foot gingerly on the floor, and then the other.

’24 hours Tommy’ you said as grabbed your panties from the floor. You could feel his warm cum dripping out of you as you put them back on, but it didn’t bother you. To the contrary, you loved the feeling of it.

‘You better get back downstairs before someone really thinks that I kidnapped you’ Tommy said as he handed you your blouse.

‘Good idea’ you responded as you pressed your lips onto Tommy’s quickly one more time.

‘This was a once off Y/N’ Tommy said.

‘I know, that’s why I stole this last kiss’ you responded with a smile. ‘Give me five-minute head start, would you?’ you added as you pinned up your hair and walked towards the door.

Tommy nodded. He was left speechless, which wasn’t something that had happened often.

Was it him who had a hold of you, or was it you who had a hold of him?

To be continued….

[infernalrevenge]

Super duper insecure Moreau watching Beauty and the Beast with ray of sunshine reader who has no idea how close to home the movie's gonna hit him? Drabble pls 💛

YOOOOO THIS IS SO CUTE I'm more than happy to fulfill this request. Everyone needs to give fishy boi some well-deserved love NOW (I made it just a little angsty but it gets sweet in the end, I promise.)

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"You've never seen a Disney movie?"

You're not really sure why you were so surprised -- he lives in the middle of an obscure Romanian village that looks as if they haven't upgraded their technology in over seventy years. The most modern thing you've seen around was the television he used to watch old soap operas.

But here you were now, huddled next to your beau watching Beauty and the Beast on your laptop. Of course you had to start with one of the classics -- this was part of the studio's Renaissance for a reason. You had laid a comfortable spot for yourselves on a soft blanket in a corner of his hut. Every now and then, you glanced over to him, just to see the adorable wide-eyed look of wonder on his face.

How could he not be amazed when everything about this movie was beautiful! The colors, the music, the movement of the characters -- everything was so alive, so vibrant, so exciting! Deep inside, Moreau had always longed for adventure the way Belle did. He would dream of a time where he could maybe leave his reservoir to see the world, in the great wide somewhere. He mostly wanted to explore the ocean, but based on your stories, he wasn't sure how he would fare in a saltwater environment when he was used to freshwater.

Meeting the Beast for the first time though frightened the poor man, at how aggressive and dangerous he was. The more he watched the cursed prince interact with everyone around him at the beginning of the movie, the more his true fear was coming to light: Was... was he like that? Was he going to drive everyone away someday too, cursed to be like this for eternity? They shared a backstory, after all -- doomed to wretchedness and to be reviled by everyone.

All, except one.

Seeing Belle get through to the hurting man inside the Beast hit so close to home. He looked up at you -- the one who saw his flaws, and accepted them anyway. His own Beauty. When you two locked eyes, you smiled and took his hand, nodding back to the screen to encourage him to keep watching. He had to see their "happily ever after."

But when it did, it felt almost... bittersweet for him. The magical transformation of the Beast to a handsome prince after Belle confessed her love left him feeling unfulfilled, like a hollow victory. Did it really have to be this way?

Was it selfish of him to wish that that never happened? Maybe the Beast didn't have to "back to normal" and become human again. Maybe he could have stayed as he was, but Belle would still love him. She would love him regardless, right?

He glanced to you from the corner of his eye, the rare moment you kept your focus on the screen.

Was it selfish of him to want you to stay, even if he won't become a handsome prince? To love him regardless?

"So what'd you think?" you asked, the end credits rolling through the screen as you enthusiastically turned to him.

He was silent, lost in thought as he stared at the shadow behind the screen. You moved closer, squeezing his hand, "Sal?"

"Y/N, am I... am I like the Beast?"

You raised an eyebrow in confusion, "What do you mean?"

"Do you think we're the same? Do you think he's like me or I'm like him?"

Okay, that didn't completely answer your question, he merely reiterated his point. Still, you tried to answer him. "Uh, well I guess there are some ways you're similar? You're both strong, protective, thoughtful, eager to please-- but in a good way! Just... yeah, there are some things that are the same."

He focused on the screen again, watching the Beast's name roll up on the screen.

"So the things not the same are the end."

Again, you were confused, "Sal, what are you talking about?"

"I'm... not a prince. Not handsome. Not human. Just," he raises his hands, letting go of yours as he shrugged, "Just this."

"And what's wrong with 'this'? What's wrong with you?" He looked like he was about to answer, but you shot it down as quick as you could.

"No, nothing's wrong with you, babe."

Tears started to spill over to his face, shaking his head like he didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to be lied to. "No no, you can't be happy with me. I'm not like the prince. Not gonna turn into someone handsome, ever."

"Sal, Sal," you called to him, gently taking both his hands in an effort to calm him down. "Babe please, deep breaths. In and out, okay?"

He was sniffling a lot, but he nodded and tried to follow your instructions as best as he could. The last thing you wanted was anxiety-induced acid vomit in here, and least of all an upset Moreau.

"Look at me, love." You held his face with both hands, cradling him like he was the most precious thing in the world. And he was. "Salvatore, I don't need a prince to have my happily ever after. I have you."

You gave him a gentle smile, "You are all I need." And finally, a soft kiss on the lips to punctuate your point.

He seemed almost too stunned to respond, mouth ajar as he looked at you with wet eyes. Slowly, a smile of his own came to his face, leaning his forehead against yours as he felt something burst in his chest -- happiness.

He may have been cursed, but you were a blessing to him. He might even start to believe that he was one to you too.