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fatherfigurefusion · 1 year

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A Calming After-Party

Pairings: TomoSaaya, HaguAko, TsuguSayo, MayaEve, MasuRokka, TsukuRui, other mentioned ships

Words: 2228

AO3 Link

While Afterglow's drummer always had a reputation for being hardy and resilient, it didn't take a genius to know that even someone with that sort of reputation has her limits. With her skin gaining both goosebumps and a blue tint, Tomoe's bones felt more like solid blocks of ice. After spending the past couple of days preparing and doing the heavy lifting for the downtown shopping district's annual Christmas party, a fair bit of respite (especially with her girlfriend) is exactly what the doctor ordered.

With the snow of the downtown street getting rhythmically crunched under her boots, the redhead, along with the other shopping district girls, had all but one objective in mind: get back home for the after-party at the Hikawa household. In contrast to the large-scale Christmas parties that are the usual hallmark of the downtown shopping district, the after-party is far more relaxing and the perfect antidote for the hectic atmosphere of the shopping district's Christmas parties.

The idea of the calming after-party was proposed by the latest additions to the shopping district's roster. As chronic workaholics themselves, they could easily recognize the negative effects of each girl's workaholic schedule, especially during the holiday season. While not professionals in the craft, Sayo, Maya, and Rui managed to arrange some soothing refreshments that are slated to be enjoyed by the household's fireplace. The allure of refreshments by the warm fireplace while being cuddled up with their lovers was enough to sway even the most ardent of workaholics.

It didn't take long before the group reached the Hikawa household and the tall redhead leading the group knocked on the front door. A couple of footsteps later, the door was opened to reveal none other than Sayo on the other end. With her long blue hair in a ponytail and an apron wrapped around her upper half, it was clear that the guitarist was just about wrapped up with preparing the refreshments.

Sayo: (smiling) Welcome back, everybody. Come on in.

Each of the girls made their way into the house in a single-file line, and the group of girls felt an instant sense of relief, as the warm interior of the house relieved their bodies of the outside world's frigidness.

Upon seeing Tsugumi still shivering and exhausted, Sayo was quick to escort her girlfriend to one of the living room's couches and drape a soft yellow blanket around the keyboardist's body. The docile smile and soft "Thank you..." from the brunette caused Sayo to smile back, with a noticeable blush spreading across her cheeks.

The bluenette was snapped out of this tender moment with a tap on her shoulder. Turning around, Sayo could see Masuki's baggy and intimidating eyes staring back at her. As if attempting to one-up her in the sapphic chivalry territory, the blonde was carrying Rokka in her muscular arms. In lieu of speaking, Masuki vaguely gestured over to the pile of blankets by the side of the couch. Understanding the gestures, Sayo passed one of the blankets to Masuki, who went over to one of the other couches, laid Rokka on her lap, and draped the blanket over both of their tired bodies.

Trying their best to support the cold and tired bodies of each other, Saaya and Tomoe lethargically stumbled over each other trying to get to one of the couches. Once the two girls managed to make their way to a couch, both of their bodies collapsed onto the comfy cushions.

Tomoe: (exhausted) Man! What a long day that sure was! Now, I'm spent!

Sayo: (in slight jest) I believe that statement could be applied to all of us, Tomoe-san.

After a few minutes of the group settling down into the calming atmosphere of the Hikawa household, Maya and Rui stepped out of the kitchen. Much like Sayo, they were both clad in aprons.

Maya: (smiling proudly) Hey, you guys! The peppermint fudge cookies are all ready!

Rui: (nodding) The same goes for the hot chocolate and warm milk.

Needless to say, Eve's lethargy didn't stop her from rushing over and giving Maya one of her infamous bear hugs, which caused Maya to nearly collapse to the ground. Despite having been a victim of Eve's hug attacks even before they started dating, the snow-haired girl's hugs never failed to make Maya's face resemble a bespectacled tomato.

Eve: (slowly getting more and more tired with every word) Maya-san! Hagu! Hagu...Haguuuu...

Even though the denizens of Eve's Dreamland threaten to wrestle away her grasp of the world around her, the half-Finn's iron vice of a grip still continues to hold onto her girlfriend with all of her might. Maya, after taking a good half-minute to fight off her blush, managed to adjust herself, so her PDA-heavy girlfriend wouldn't interfere with her already shaky waitressing skills.

Upon seeing Maya struggling with the plates, Tsukushi was quick to rush forward and puff up her chest with her usual false-bravado-filled smirk. However, just about anybody could see just how exhausted the pint-sized drum major is.

Tsukushi: (clearly exhausted) N-Not to worry, Maya-senpai! I could help with your waitering! Just leave it to meee...

The long yawn that capped off Tsukushi's sentence and the increasingly-unintelligible denial of said yawn was all it took for Rui to take action herself.

Rui: (looking down) My apologies, Tsukushi-san. But this is for the sake of your own well-being.

Without any further words, the violinist scooped the petite drummer up into her arms and carried the now-speechless girl to one of the couches. After witnessing this rather uncharacteristic display of princeliness, Tsukushi's mouth hung agape and her blushing levels could put Maya's prior blushing levels to shame. After that princely display, Rui ushered both herself and Maya (as well as Maya's clingy girlfriend) back to the kitchen, in order to fetch the refreshments. While none of the other girls could see it, the tall violinist is trying her hardest to fight back her very own blush, that Maya had to bite her tongue in order to not commentate on, lest she get accused of hypocrisy.

Tomoe: (smirking confidently) Damn! Rui's got some ikemen game! Seta-senpai really did choose the right gal for that butler café stint!

Sayo: (smirking back) As Tsugumi-san would have probably said, "We've educated the next generation well."

Saaya: (mid-yawn) I'd say Tsugu's got the right idea...the family's really growin' these days...

As her posture gave in from exhaustion, the ponytailed drummer's head fell from her girlfriend's shoulder to her lap. Upon feeling her girlfriend's head on her lap and seeing her adorable sleepy face, Tomoe's brain effectively short-circuited, as the redhead's face quickly turned the same shade as her hair.

Sayo: (confused) On the subject of "family", where are-

Snapping the group of girls out of the calming atmosphere, two jarringly-energetic girls rushed into the household, trailing snow behind them, as they made a beeline to the warming fireplace. Considering she lives with a certain individual that can put both girls' energy to shame, Sayo could barely scold the spry duo for tracking snow into her house.

Hagumi: (relieved) Ah~! So warm and toasty!

Ako: (dramatically) This denizen of the hellfires is truly pleased to be back in her domain. Even she couldn't endure her icy combat against her beloved Sunshine Knight forever.

Sayo: (confused) To this day, I still can barely understand how you two can remain so spry. Especially after such a busy day.

Ako: (dramatically) Heh! Is it not obvious? I have the power of family and my darling Sunshine Knight on my side!

In response to her girlfriend's proud boast, Hagumi pounced onto the pigtailed girl with one of her signature warmth-filled hugs, with a cheerful cry of "Ako-chiiiin!"

Sayo: (pensively) That I understand. You seemed particularly keen on assisting Tomoe-san with the festivities.

Ako: (happily) It's not just her! The whole shopping district is like a family to me! I've gotta have my family's back, after all! Cuz I know they've got mine!

Momentarily raising her head from Tomoe's lap, Saaya gave a thumbs-up to Ako, as if to say "Yeah! You get it!".

Hagumi: (cheerfully) Yeah! And Hagumi can't believe how many people are in the Shopping District family. It started with just Saaya, Hagumi, Tomo-chin, Tsugu, and Ako-chin! But ever since Tsugu-chin hired both Eve-chin and Tsuku, as well as Massu and Rokka-chin coming into town, the family has gotten even bigger! Oh! And because Rui-Rui, Maya-san, and Sayo-senpai are dating members of the family, they are now part of the family too! Oh, and I can't forget Hina-chan and Aya-senpai, cuz Hina's your sister and Aya's her girlfriend!

Ako: (shocked) Oh! I've just realized something! We almost have a full Drummer's Club in this family!

As if communicating in a secret code, Ako started making drumming noises, that the other drummers were all too eager to copy. Even Maya, who was in another room, started communicating in these drumming noises, much to the confusion of the tall violinist next to her.

Sayo: (internally) I wonder what makes the shopping district attract so many drummers...

Hagumi: (sadly looking away) If only Kano-chan-senpai could be a part of this...

Tomoe: (pensively) Maybe if we add in every band girl in food services...

Tomoe: (slowly getting more surprised) Let's see...So that's Kanon-san, Himari, and Nanami...But if we go by that in-law rule, that would also include Misaki, Rimi, Seta-senpai, and Mashiro....Damn, that's a lot of people in our food services family...Just imagine Moca's jealousy at all this Yamabuki Bakery proximity...

The people surrounding Tomoe were rather confused as to how the redhead knows so much about who's dating who, until they remember Tomoe's proximity with one of Garupa's biggest shippers and matchmakers, Moca Aoba.

Any more ensuing banter was eventually cut off by Rui and Maya's return. The two girls pushed a couple of ottomans near the couches, in order to accommodate for the girls that can't move from their respective spots, thanks to their sleepy girlfriends. After setting the refreshments down on the coffee table and ottomans, Maya took over one of the empty spots on the couch and pulled a green-and-purple-striped blanket over both her and the clingy, sleepy form of her girlfriend. The violinist was quick to follow, setting Tsukushi into her lap and pulling a green and purple blanket over both her and the petite drummer's body.

Sayo: (smiling) Now then, shall we commence the after-party?

A soft chorus of affirmation was all the confirmation needed for the after-party to begin.

Inside jokes and banter filled the room with the pleasant sound of laughter, and the warm and sweet chocolatey refreshments seemed to be able to sweeten and warm up the immediate atmosphere as well. And with the sweetened and warmed-up atmosphere of the Hikawa household, it didn't take long before the sleepiness spread over to each member of the shopping district family.

Despite entering the building with the most energy, it didn't take long for both Ako and Hagumi to grab a bunch of unused blankets and pillows, before promptly collapsing close together in the middle of the warm and toasty mound.

As one of the most visibly tired of the bunch, Tsukushi was quick to become the next one to succumb to her sleepiness. With Tsukushi's soothing snores and heartbeat lulling Rui to sleep, the dark-haired violinist was quick to follow her girlfriend into Dreamland. As someone in a similar situation with her own girlfriend, Masuki followed suite.

Tsugumi and Saaya were quick to hit the sack, leaving Tomoe and Sayo as the only ones who can be charitably considered "awake", as seeing all of the sleeping couples around them looked to be almost hypnotic in its tranquility.

Tomoe: (tiredly smiling) Sayo-san, thanks a lot...this after-party was honestly just what the doctor ordered...

Sayo: (tiredly smiling back) If you are going to give credit, it is only fair you should give that credit to Yamato-san and Yashio-san, as well. But it's like Udagawa-san said...I know this family has my metaphorical back...so it is only appropriate that I return the favor...

Tomoe: (mid-yawn) Now you get it...alright...g'night, Sayo...

Sayo: (already nodding off) Good night, Tomoe...

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

It was the crack of dawn, and after spending the whole night at her precious pink paramour's house, Hina rushed back over to her house and opened the front door with zero hesitation. While Hina would normally greet the household with a very loud "ONEE-CHAN! I'M HOME!", once Hina saw all of the sleeping couples in the living room, her normally loud mouth was sealed shut. Almost instantly, a brand-new priority took place in her mind, as she took out her phone.

After all, what sort of Wingmanning-Guitarist Club member would she be, if she didn't post this heartwarming scene in the group chat for her fellow wingwoman to see?

She could easily picture the reactions of each guitarist: Tae will compare all the sleeping couples to some of her rabbits, Moca will be really jealous of all the Yamabuki Bakery proximity, Kaoru will break out into some dramatic and flowery poetry that's taken way out of context, Touko will post this on social media for others to see, Rokka will get instantly embarrassed at the sudden publicity, and Hina will have to bear the brunt of her sister's inevitable wrath.

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felassan · 3 years

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Dragon Age development insights and highlights from Bioware: Stories and Secrets from 25 Years of Game Development

Some really tasty factoids here.

Cut for length.

Dragon Age: Origins

The continent of Thedas was at one point going to be named Pelledia, a name initially floated by James Ohlen

“Qunari” was a temporary name that ended up unintentionally sticking, much like “Thedas”

Mary Kirby wrote the Landsmeet. To this day, nobody understands how it works, except possibly her. If she’s “really really drunk” she can explain how it works. There’s as many words in it as Sten’s entire conversations put together

Concept art for Thedosian art - as in in-world art - draws heavily on Renaissance-era portraiture, the Art Nouveau movement, religious styles and media like stained glass, and favorite pieces from the golden age of illustrations in the early 20th century

Andrastianism in-world (art-wise) is depicted in wildly different methods depending on who in-world made the art in question. “One religion, 3 different lenses”. There’s the Chantry take, the Orlesian take and the Fereldan take; each with its own different interpretations, different mediums and different stories

The stained glass images were drawn by Nick Thornborrow for DAI, to decorate religious spaces in that game “and beyond”

irl Viking art influenced Ferelden

Greek and Italian art influenced Orlais

The book also had other insights into and anecdotes from the development of DAO, but I’ve transcribed them recently as they’re essentially the stories DG has recently been relating on the awesome Summerfall Studios DAO playthrough Twitch streams. (On those streams he provides dev commentary while Liam Esler plays through DA. The ones with DG are currently once every two weeks. Check them out! Here’s a calendar where you can check when the next one is) Instead of repeating myself I’ll just provide the link to the first transcript. From there you can navigate to the subsequent parts. Note these streams are ongoing. At this point I will also point you to a related post which is cliff notes of the Dragon Age chapter in Jason Schreier’s book Blood Sweat and Pixels.

Dragon Age II

DAO had the longest development period in BioWare history. In contrast DA2 had the shortest

Initially DA2 was going to be an expansion to DAO. A few months in EA said “Yeah, expansions like these don’t sell very well, so let’s make it a sequel.” So it suddenly became DA2 and they had to make it even bigger, although they still only had 1.5 years of time in which to do this

Production of DA2 officially lasted only 9 months, and at the time the team was still supporting live content for DAO! They finished development that January after the design team crunched all the way through the holiday period that year. Then it went to cert 9 times

The limited time they had is why the story takes place mostly in and around 1 city, and over 7 years (so it was temporal, rather than over physical distance, because a more expansive world would have taken more irl time to make)

They had no time to review even the main plot. Mike Laidlaw pitched the idea of 3 stories taking place at different points in the PC’s life, tied together by Varric’s recollections of events. DG rolled with this and made 1 presentation on the idea. This presentation was then approved and off they went

As they were writing DG realized that there was going to be no oversight and that everything was going to be a ‘first draft’. “Because nobody had time.” He sat down with the writers and said “Look, here’s the conditions we’re working under. A lot of what we’re putting out is gonna be raw. We’re not going to get the editing we need. We’re not going to get the kind of iteration we need. So I’m going to trust you all to do your best work.”

Looking back, DG has mixed feelings on DA2. “A lot of corners were cut. The public perception was that it was smaller than DAO. That’s a sin on its own.”

Despite this he thinks DA2 has some of the best writing in the series, especially character-wise. The DA2 chars are his favorite

The pace with which production progressed may in some ways have helped. “When we do a lot of revision, we often file away [as in buff off] some of the good writing as well. Somehow DA2′s whirlwind process resulted in some really good writing”

The pace meant chars landed on the writers in various stages of completion. For example Isabela was fairly defined due to appearing in DAO. In contrast Varric at the start was just that single piece of widely-shown concept art

Varric was conceived as a storyteller not a fighter. His skills are talking and bullshitting. Hence the question became, so what does this guy do in combat? The direction was to make him as different as possible to Oghren, so not a warrior. He couldn’t be a dual-wielding rogue in order to differentiate him from Bela. But you can’t really picture this guy with a bow. “For a dwarf, it would probably be a crossbow. We didn’t have crossbows, or we only had crossbows for the darkspawn. And they were part of the models. We didn’t have a separate crossbow that was equip-able by the chars. They had to like, crop one off a darkspawn and remodel it. And that became Bianca” (quote: Mary Kirby)

“Dwarven mages are exceedingly rare.” [???]

If DAO was a classic fantasy painting, DA2 was a screenshot from a Kurosawa film or a northern Renaissance painting. (Here Matt Rhodes was commenting on art style)

John Epler: “In any one of our games, there’s a 95% chance that if you turn the camera away from what it’s looking at, you’ll see all kinds of janky stuff. The moment we know the camera is no longer facing someone, we no longer care what happens to them. We will teleport people around. We will jump people around. We will literally have someone walk off screen and then we will shift them 1000 meters down, because we’re fixing some bug.” John also talked about this camera stuff in a recent charity Twitch stream for Gamers For Groceries. There’s a writeup of that stream here

Designing Kirkwall pushed concept artists to the limits of visual storytelling, because it has a long history that they wanted to be present. It was once the hub of Tevinter’s slave empire, so it needed to look brutal and harsh, but it also then needed to feel reclaimed, evolved, and with elements of contemporary Free Marches culture

The initial plan was for DA titles to be distinguished by subtitles not numbers, so that each experience could stand on its own rather than feel like a sequel or continuation. (My note: New PCs in each entry make sense then when you consider this and other factoids we know like how DA is the story of the world not of any one PC). Later, DA2′s name was made DA2 in a bid to more clearly connect the game to its predecessor. For DAI they returned to the original naming convention. (My note: so I’d reckon they’d be continuing the subtitle naming convention for DA4)

DA2 was initially code-named “Nug Storm”, strictly internally

The Cancelled DA2 Expansion - Exalted March

This was a precursor to DAI

It was meant to bridge the gap between DA2 and DAI

It focused on the fallout from Kirkwall’s explosion, with Cory serving as the villain

Meredith’s red lyrium statue was basically going to infest Kirkwall and it would end up [with what would end up] the red templars taking over Kirkwall and essentially being Cory’s army

To stop him Hawke would have recruited various factions, including Bela’s Felicisima Armada and the Qunari at Estwatch, forcing Hawke to split loyalties and risk relationships in the process

It was meant to bring DA2′s story to an end and end in Varric’s death. DG was very happy with this because all of DA2 is Varric’s tale. The expansion was supposed to start at the moment Cassandra’s interrogation of him ended in the present. “And we finished off the story with Varric having this heroic death.” It tied things up and would have broken many fan hearts, something BioWare writers notoriously enjoy. But between a transition to the new Frostbite engine and the scope of DAI, the decision was made to cancel EM, work any hard-to-lose concepts into DAI, and in the process save Varric’s life. DG has talked about the Varric dying thing before

Concept art for EM explored new areas previously not depicted in the DA universe, with costumes that reflected next steps for familiar chars. Varric was going to war, what would he have worn? With Anders, if he survived DA2, the plan was to present a redeemed Warden

A char that vaguely resembled Sera in DAI was first concepted for EM. This fact was mentioned near this concept art (see the female elf) and this concept art of Bethany with the blond bob

The writers sketched out plans to end it with Hawke having the option to marry their LI. This included alternate ceremonies for party members like Bethany and Sebastian if the player opted not to wed. There was even a wedding dress made for Hawke. This asset made it into DAI (Sera and Cullen’s weddings in Trespasser). The dress can also be seen in DAI during an ambient NPC wedding after completing a chain of war table missions

The destruction of a Chantry was explored in concept art as it might have happened in EM. This idea ended up carrying over to the beginning of DAI. (My note: Lol, the idea that DA2 could have had 2 Chantries being destroyed in it 😆)

World of Thedas

Sheryl Chee and Mary Kirby started with “a disgusting little dish called fluffy mackerel pudding”. In the middle of DAO’s busy dev period one of them (they can’t remember who) found a recipe online for this, scanned in from a 70s cookbook. “I don’t understand why it was fluffy. Why would you want fluffy mackerel pudding?” MK says. “We loved it so much we included it in a DAO codex.”

This led them to create more food for Thedas, full recipes included, like a Fereldan turnip and barley stew from MK and SC’s Starkhaven fish and egg pie. The fish pie became Sebastian’s favorite. “To me it made sense for it to be fish pie because a lot of the Free Marches are on the coast”, SC says, “It was something that was popular in medieval times, so I thought, let’s make a fish pie! I looked at medieval recipes and I concocted a fish pie which I fed to my partner, and he was like ‘This is not terrible’”

For WoT the whole studio was asked to contribute family recipes which might have a place in Thedas. SC adapted these to fit in one Thedosian culture or another, including a beloved banana bread that localization producer Melanie Fleming would regularly bake to keep the DA team motivated. “Melanie’s banana bread got us through Inquisition”

DAI

It says part of DAI takes place in or near the border with Nevarra [???]

This game was aimed to be bigger than DA2 and even DAO in every conceivable way

The first hour had to do a lot of heavy lifting, tying together the events of DAO and DA2 while introducing a new PC, new followers etc in the aftermath of the big attack. DG rewrote it 7 times then Lukas Kristjanson did 2 more passes

DG: “Our problem is always that our endings are so important, but we leave them to last, when we have no time. I kept pushing on DAI: ‘Can we work on the ending now? Can we work on the ending now? Can we do it early on?’ Because I knew exactly what it was going to be. But despite the fact that it kept getting scheduled, whenever the schedule started falling behind, it kept getting pushed back... so, of course, it got left til last again.”

“The reveal of the story’s real antagonist, Solas, a follower until the end, when he betrayed the player”. “Solas’ story remains a main thread in Inquisition’s long-awaited follow-up” [these aren’t DG quotes, just bits of general text]

Over the course of development they had 8 full-time writers and 4 editors working on it. Other writers joined later to help wrangle what ended up being close to 1 million words of dialogue and unspoken text. While many teams moved to a more open concept style of work for DAI, the writers remained tucked away in their own room, a choice DG says was necessary, given how much they talked. All the talking had a purpose ofc as if someone hit a bump or wall in their writing they would open the problem up to the room

As writing on a project like DAI progresses, the writers grow punchier and weirder things make it into the game. This is especially the case towards the end of a project (they get tired, burned out)

Banter and codexes require less ‘buy-in’ (DG has talked about this concept a few times on the Twitch streams) from other designers. DG liked to leave banter for last as a reward because it was fun. Banter begins as lists of topics for 2 followers to discuss. These may progress over time or be one off exchanges. One banter script can balloon to well over 10k words. “The banter was always huge because we were always like, laughing, and really at that point, our fields of fucks were rather barren, so we would just do whatever”

The bog unicorn happened pretty much by accident. It was designed by Matt Rhodes and was one of his fav things to design. They needed horse variations and he had already designed an undead variant which was a bog mummy [bog body]. irl these are preserved in a much different way to traditional mummies. When someone dies in a bog their skin turns black and raisin-like. The examples we know of tend to have bright red hair for whatever reason. It’s a very striking look and MR wanted to do a horse version of this as he thought it’d be neat. 5 mins before the review meeting for it he had a big ‘Aha!’ moment, quickly looked up a rusty old Viking sword, and photoshopped it through its skull like that was how it died. “And I was like, ‘I just made a unicorn. Alright, in it goes!’” It got approved. “So we built the thing. It fit. It told a little story”

With the irl Inquisition longsword, one of the objects they tested its cleaving ability on was a plush version of Leliana’s nug Schmooples

The concept art team explored a wide variety of visuals for the Inquisitor’s signature mark. It needed to look powerful and raw but couldn’t look like a horrific wound. In some cases, as cool as the idea looked on paper, they just weren’t technically feasible, especially as they had to be able to fit on any number of different bodies

Bug report: “Endlessly spawning mounts! At one point during development, Inquisitors could summon a new horse every time they whistled, allowing them to amass a near infinite number of eager steeds that faithfully followed them across Thedas. “You could go charging across levels and they’d all gallop behind you,” Jen Cheverie says, “It was beautiful.” Trotting into town became an epic horse siege as a tidal wave of mounts enveloped the streets. Jen called it her Army of Ponies”

The giants came from DA Week, an internal period when devs can pursue different individual creative projects that in some way benefit DA. They also had a board game from one of these that they were going to put in but they didn’t have time. It’s referenced though. It was dwarven chess

Josie’s outfit is made of gold silk and patterned velvet, with leather at her waist. She carries “an ornate ledger” and she has “an ornamented collar sitting around her neck, finished by a brilliant red ruby, like a drop of Antivan wine in a sunbeam”

Iron Bull’s armor is leather. His loose pantaloons and leather boots give him agility to charge

On DAI in particular, concept artists took special care to make sure costumes would be realistic, at least in a practical ‘this obeys the laws of physics and textiles’ sense. “While on Inquisition, we thought about cosplay from a concept art perspective. Given how incredible a lot of [cosplays] are, I now am not worried about them. In fact in some cases in the future I want to throw them curveballs like, ‘All right, you clever bastards. Let’s see if you can do this!’”

2 geese that nested on the office building and had chicks were named Ganders and Arishonk (it wasn’t known who was the mom or the dad). Other possible names were Carver Honke, Bethany Honke, Urdnot Pecks, Quackwall, Cassandra Pentagoose, the Iron Bill, Shepbird, Garroose, Admiral Quackett, Scout Honking, HChick-47 and Darth Malgoose

Bug report: “The surprising adventures of Ser Noodles!” DAI was the first time the series had a mount feature, meaning this had a lot of bugs. A lot of the teams’ favorite bugs were to do with the mounts. There was a period of time where the Inquisitor’s horse seemed to lose all bone and muscle in its legs. They had a week or so where all quadruped legs were broken. It was a bit noticeable in things like nugs and other small beasties but the horse was insanely obvious. “The first time we summoned the horse [for this] and started running around, the entire QA exploration room just exploded with laughter.” Its legs flapped around like cooked fettucine, leading testers to lovingly nickname it Ser Noodles. At galloping speeds the legs almost looked like helicopter blades, especially when footage was set to classic pieces such as Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries

For DAI the artists were asked questions like “What would Morrigan wear to a formal ball? Can Cassandra pull off a jaunty hat?”

On DAI storyboarding became the norm. John Epler: “Cinematic design for the longest time was the Wild West. It was ‘here’s a bunch of content, now do it however you want’, which resulted in some successes and some failures.” Storyboarding gave designers a consistent visual blueprint based on ideas from designers, writers and concept artists

Quote from a storyboard by Nick Thornborrow (the Inquisitor going into the party at the end of basegame sequence): “Until Corypheus revealed himself they could not see the single hand behind the chaos. A magister and a darkspawn combined. The ultimate evil. So evil. Eviler than puppy-killers and egg farts combined.”

A general note on concept art:

In the early stages of any project, before the concept artists are aware of any writing, they like to just draw what they think cool story moments could be. It’s not unusual for the team to then be inspired by these and fold them into the game as the project progresses

– From Bioware: Stories and Secrets from 25 Years of Game Development

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ncssian · 3 years

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A Favor: Part Twenty-Seven

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: working a full time job + part time job tutoring english + applying for scholarships + still having free time left is a lot harder than i thought it would be. which is my way of saying this chapter should've been done a week ago lol.

i call this my goodbye chapter b/c goodbyes are made.

***

As Nesta brings the last of her things into the cabin, Azriel takes the last of his stuff out.

Standing beside Cassian, Nesta watches Azriel shut the trunk over the final box of his belongings. With all the extra stuff he stole from the cabin, it almost seemed like everything wouldn’t fit into his tiny car, but here he is. Ready to go.

He dusts off his leather jacket and approaches her and Cassian. “This is goodbye,” he says, coming to a stop before them.

Nesta once thought this would be the happiest day of her life, second to her wedding day. She should have predicted that her rightful joy would be extinguished by sentimentality.

Cassian claps Azriel on the shoulder, the two brothers having already said their goodbyes in private. Still, Nesta can see a little sorrow in Cassian’s eyes, as if he also got too used to having Az around all the time.

Azriel, the dick, reveals nothing through his eyes. Neither does Nesta.

The two of them look at each other awkwardly for a moment, and then he comes in to hug her. Nesta hugs him back, arms crossing around his broad back, but it has the same stiffness as two Barbie dolls being made to kiss each other.

When Azriel tries to pull away, Nesta clutches him to her with surprising strength. “I know about the picture,” she says lowly in his ear.

“Too late to take it back now.” She might feel him smile on top of her hair.

Nesta lets go of Azriel swiftly, having had enough physical contact with him to last a year. “Drive safe, so Elain can find you in one piece,” she orders.

Azriel grimaces at that, reminded of what waits for him in Velaris. Whatever Elain decides to give him, it’ll probably be deserved.

“I’ll get going then.” Az starts backing away, and Nesta hears Cassian sniffle. She looks toward her boyfriend in concern, but he circles his huge arms around her shoulders and pulls her back to his chest before she can catch him getting teary-eyed.

They watch Azriel get in his car and drive away. Nesta waves until the car disappears fully into the thickness of the surrounding trees, waves until her arms are too tired to keep going.

Once Az is gone, she turns in Cassian’s embrace and jumps up into his arms. Her legs hook around his hips and his hands fit themselves under her thighs. She smiles and tells him, “Let’s go home.”

Ten minutes later, they find themselves sitting in the silence of the kitchen. It’s the quiet of a house adjusting to a missing person, and Azriel’s absence is tangible.

Cassian is the first to break the silence. “Do you think he’s past city limits by now?” he asks as he stirs his coffee.

“No.” Nesta turns the page of her book, focused on reading. “Not if he stopped by Gwyn’s before leaving.”

She hears Cassian stop stirring. “What does that mean?” he says.

Nesta looks up at him and shrugs. “It means he probably wants to say goodbye to her.”

***

“One charge of assault, one for battery, and one huge lawsuit against my company,” Rhys reads aloud from the file in front of him.

Cassian waves a hand in dismissal. “Just make it go away like you always do.”

Rhysand’s near-violet eyes narrow with barely restrained rage. “Cassian. You shattered an employee’s hand.”

“Hey, O’Connell.” Cassian strolled up to him early last Monday morning. The underground parking lot was near empty at this hour, since most workers wouldn’t come in until nine. “How was the rest of your weekend?”

O’Connell looked up from getting his bag out of his car, clearly surprised to see Cassian willingly make small talk with him. “It was good,” he answered lightly. “You left Velaris early, though.”

“Yeah, about that.” Cassian came to a stop by O’Connell’s car and held out his hand, catching the car door before it could be shut. “I had to take my girlfriend home.”

O’Connell looked confused, but nodded along. “That’s nice. Can you—?” He gestured at the car door, indicating to Cassian to let go.

Cassian didn’t. “What hand did you use?”

“Excuse me?”

“When you touched her,” Cassian clarified. “What hand did you use when you touched her?”

O’Connell’s look of confusion morphed into one of contempt. “What the hell are you talking about, man?”

“Nesta Archeron.” Cassian straightened up, hand tightening over the top of the car door. “Your old college friend.” Realization dawned across O’Connell’s face, but he still hadn’t answered Cassian’s question.

“If you don’t tell me now, I’ll have to take my pick.” Cassian clicked his tongue in disappointment. “You’re left-handed, aren’t you?” He snatched up O’Connell’s left hand, and in a flash O’Connell was pressed up against the car, his hand pinned to the doorframe.

“Hey, wait, what are you—” O’Connell protested.

The sound of a car door slamming shut on a hand was louder than Cassian expected. It was the crunch of bones and muscle followed by immediate screaming.

“It could have been worse,” Cassian said flatly over O’Connell’s cries of pain. “It could have been your tongue, since you like talking shit so much.”

Cassian blinks out of the memory. “So what if I did?” he shrugs in response to Rhys.

“You are a member of my inner circle,” Rhysand fumes. “Keith O’Connell is a respected figure in our industry and a higher up from Vanserra and Co., and the head of our Milan outpost, but you saw fit to take out justice on him without asking me first.”

“You had nothing to do with it.”

“That is not up to you!” Rhysand jabs a finger at Cassian. “What will our shareholders think when they hear about this? What will the board members say?”

Cassian is starting to get irritated now. “They won’t find out, because you won’t tell them,” he says firmly. “We both know you’ve covered up worse things to fit your agenda, but it’s a problem if I don’t want a creepy bastard working under my jurisdiction?”

Having learned most of his business tricks from his father, Rhys is no perfectly clean CEO himself. He would’ve done far worse to O’Connell if it was Feyre in Nesta’s place, and he would have ended it all with a speech about how abusers and their sympathizers have no place at Night Court Inc.

The thought only inflames Cassian more; maybe he’s still riding off the anger of O’Connell making Nesta cry.

Tempering his feelings, he tells Rhys, “When you’re done shutting O’Connell up,” because Rhys would do it no matter how angry he pretended to be, “make sure Nesta never finds out about this.”

Rhys sits back in his chair, a bitter smirk pulling at his mouth. “Afraid she’ll be horrified of what a brute her sweet boyfriend is?”

Cassian nearly snorts at the image of Nesta recoiling at a broken hand. She’d probably call him weak for not shoving O’Connell into a ravine. “No,” he answers tiredly. “It’s not violence that offends her, but if she finds out it was in her name… I don’t want to put that on her shoulders.” Which is a shame, because in any other situation Nesta would love to hear about the unfortunate circumstances that led to O’Connell quitting his job.

Rhys lets loose a long sigh. “Damn, you both scare me.” After a few moments, he asks, “Now what are we going to do about Milan?”

***

Life after moving in with Cassian passes by quickly, and before Nesta knows it, she’s completed her second year of law school.

As for the boys who were some of her first friends and drinking companions, back when Nesta barely knew the definition of a friend—today they complete their final year of law school.

Nesta fans herself with the pamphlet she was handed at the beginning of the graduation ceremony, trying to stop the harsh morning sun from melting the makeup off her face. The audience is packed like sardines onto one huge field, and the announcer on stage hasn’t even reached the last names that start with D. Eris, Justinian, and Isaac are all near the bottom of the alphabet.

“Do we really need to be here today?” Nesta murmurs to Emerie, squirming in her metal foldout chair.

Sitting at her right, Emerie throws her a scolding look. “Don’t be like that. We’re never going to see these guys again.”

Nesta sincerely doubts that, considering how none of the guys are moving more than a few hours away. But her uterus is raising hell right now, even though her new meds have put a stop to her periods. Paired with the ache in her back from these terrible chairs, she’s about to call it quits and go straight home.

“Nesta!”

She whips her head to the left, finding Elain striding through the row of chairs to reach the empty seat beside her.

Like watching the Red Sea part, everyone in the row pulls their feet back and makes themselves as small as possible so Elain can have a clear walkway.

Nesta moves the purse she used to save Elain’s seat aside, and Elain drops her butt onto the little foldout chair like it’s a throne.

“A little warm for an outdoor ceremony, don’t you think?” Elain fans her face.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here, you know,” Nesta says.

“Eris made me. I haven’t talked to him since I broke up with his brother, but I think he wants to look like he has a lot of friends here.”

“Yeah, that checks out,” Emerie mutters from Nesta’s other side.

Elain seems to take notice of Emerie for the first time, and her Southern charm turns on like a switch. “Oh my, I don’t think we’ve met.”

Elain introduces herself and Emerie does the same, smiling and nodding politely, and Nesta can’t even decide if she likes this crossover because she’s too busy massaging her aching abdomen.

A string of “Excuse me, sorry!”s go up in the row they’re sitting in, and a moment later a familiar face plops down on the chair to Emerie’s right.

Gwyn leans over Emerie and holds a bottle of Advil out to Nesta. “This is all I could find in my car, babe.”

Nesta releases a sigh of relief and snatches the bottle. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

Elain’s gaze moves to the medicine, then to Gwyn. “You must be Gwyn.” She offers a smile. “I’m Nesta’s sister, Elain.”

Gwyn’s eyes widen imperceptibly, and Nesta realizes she should have warned Gwyn that Elain would be here.

Going off how Gwyn’s been acting the last few weeks, Nesta can only assume that she influenced Azriel’s final decision to move away, whether directly or indirectly. Nesta doesn’t even know much about what happened between the two of them during their weird sex deal, considering that she and Gwyn promised to never discuss such horrible things with each other.

All Nesta knows is that Azriel is Gwyn’s closest male friend, and close friends that have also slept together probably don’t want to bump into each other’s exes without warning.

“Are you here to see Eris graduate, too?” Elain asks.

Gwyn looks like a deer caught in headlights. “Who? Oh—no, I’m just here so we can drive to brunch together after.” Her voice gets quieter with each word, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Nice to meet you,” she adds in a murmur, her face a furious shade of red. She quickly looks forward at the stage as if the graduation ceremony is the most fascinating thing ever.

Elain doesn’t note the odd behavior, instead refocusing on the Advil pills that Nesta pops into her mouth and swallows dry. “Are you still hurting?” Elain says, furrowing her thin brows. “I thought you got that problem fixed.”

Nesta tries not to snort as she accepts the bottle of water that Emerie wordlessly passes her. “You can’t ‘fix’ endometriosis, Elain. That’s not how it works.”

“Oh. Well how was I supposed to know that?”

Nesta slides unamused hooded eyes to her sister. Before she can retort anything, Emerie elbows her hard. “Look, it’s Isaac!”

She refocuses on the ceremony, cheering and clapping half-heartedly as Isaac takes the stage. It’s not that she doesn’t care about her study buddies; it’s just that she feels like shit right now.

Justinian follows suit a few minutes later, grinning and waving when he spies Emerie cheering for him. Gwyn is distracted on her phone through all of it.

The Advil has finally started to kick in when Nesta murmurs to Elain, “How is Azriel adjusting to being back in the city?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Elain answers innocently. “I haven’t seen much of him since he returned.”

“Just spill it,” Nesta says. “Azriel wouldn’t tell me anything, so I’m assuming he’s humiliated about it.”

Elain sighs, delicately pushing her hair behind her shoulder. “He came to me to talk. I heard him out, and then we went back to his apartment for coffee, and then I took my fabric scissors and cut out the crotch from all his pants.”

Nesta raises a brow. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

Nesta shrugs, turning back to face the stage. “It’s good enough. I could have done worse.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not me, isn’t it?” Elain snips.

Nesta won’t say it, but she supposes she is a little happy for Elain. In fact, she thinks this might be the first time Elain has stood up for herself instead of letting Nesta handle it.

After the ceremony is over, Emerie goes off to congratulate Isaac and Justinian. Gwyn follows so she can get away from Elain, and Nesta, being sweaty and overstimulated and more than ready to leave, settles for waving her arms and grinning at the boys from across the field.

She’s about to say goodbye to Elain and make a beeline for the parking lot when she spots a head of shining red hair approaching her. No—make that two heads.

Eris looked unbearably snooty as he received his degree, likely smug with the fact that he has a comfortable job at a family friend’s corporate law firm lined up for him after he passes the Bar. Nesta admits that she’s a little disappointed in him: after all his talk of working hard and being the smartest person in the room, he ended up riding his father’s coattails to a disgustingly high salary. But maybe that is hard work for him, considering that there was such a ruckus in the Vanserra family when he chose to go into law instead of business.

As for Lucien… Well, Nesta really has no idea what the kid does, but she knows he looks good, better than the last time she saw him. An early summer tan makes him glow in comparison to his brother, while lean forearms are revealed under the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt. He looks comfortable in a way he wasn’t at Thanksgiving all those months ago.

Even with his ex standing just a few feet away.

“Elain,” Lucien greets her with a foxlike smile.

Elain rolls her eyes in response and turns to Eris. “Congratulations on graduating, hun. Now that we’re even, kindly delete my number from your phone and never call me again.”

Even? Nesta raises a brow, wondering what that could possibly mean.

“I take it this is goodbye?” Eris tells her.

“I’m already leaving,” Elain says sweetly. She blows a kiss at Eris, then Nesta. “Feel better soon,” she chirps at her, before striding away in her pastel pink heels.

Very jealous of Elain getting to escape before she can, Nesta calls after her, “Hot date to catch?” She’s wearing the signature perfume she usually does when meeting with a man.

Elain tosses over her shoulder, “Something like that.” Her purse swings as she disappears around a corner to the parking lot.

Nesta watches her go with envy, and when she turns back she finds Eris already looking at her. Meanwhile, Lucien still has his eyes glued to the spot where Elain disappeared.

“You feel sick?” Eris asks her.

“No thank you, I have a boyfriend,” Nesta replies on instinct.

Eris scoffs once in indignation, then twice. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says with disbelief. “I can care about my friends, you know.”

“You want her,” Lucien mutters.

Nesta’s eyes snap to Lucien, who seems to be acknowledging her presence for the first time today. “And what do you want?” She tilts her head at him, intrigued at having a new playmate. He’s less predictable than Eris, at the very least.

Lucien looks at her and offers a sheepish smile. “Nothing you can give me.”

Eris rolls his eyes at the both of them, clearly regretting bringing his brother along with him. “I’m already bored of this conversation,” he laments. “I’m out; the D.A. is here and I want to say hi. Find me when you’re done, punk.” Eris bonks Lucien on the head with his rolled up diploma and starts walking away, only pausing to extend a mocking bow to Nesta. “We’re not over yet, Archeron,” he calls as he leaves.

Now it’s Nesta’s and Lucien’s turn to roll their eyes.

With only the two of them left, Nesta feels obliged to ask awkwardly, “So… how’ve you been?”

Lucien’s gaze slides to her. “I didn’t know you were Elain’s sister,” he says.

She huffs a laugh. “I didn’t know you were her ex at first, either. Does it matter?”

Lucien’s mouth turns down in thought, but he doesn’t answer her question. “I’m doing good,” he says in response to her former question instead. “I’ve been living the nomad life, traveling around with friends, roadtripping in a van.”

But would you come home for Elain? Nesta can’t help but wonder.

She didn’t know Lucien had dated Elain until after her first meeting with him, but even then it had been something of a throwaway detail. Elain dates lots of guys, and falls in love with even more of them. She seemed to barely remember Lucien’s name when Nesta first brought it up in front of her.

But for some inexplicable reason, Nesta genuinely likes Lucien. A part of her recognizes something similar in a part of him, and it makes her sad to imagine him being stuck on a girl who won’t think about him twice.

“Take my advice,” Nesta tells him bluntly, “and move on if you haven’t yet. Staring after Elain when she already broke up with you will get you nowhere.” Elain isn’t the type to ever look back, and she never falls for the same man twice.

Lucien just looks at Nesta with a blank face. “I broke up with her,” he says.

Nesta’s mouth falls open.

“And,” he adds, “I was staring at her ass.” He starts walking backwards to his brother, giving Nesta an innocent grin as he leaves. “It was nice meeting again. See you in another six months.”

Nesta is dumbfounded watching him go, not knowing what to do with this new knowledge. As far as she knows, no one has ever broken up with Elain except for Azriel—and that ended in Az losing all of his pants.

It only occurs to Nesta that she shouldn’t have let Lucien get away with that ass comment when Emerie and Gwyn suddenly appear at her side, each of them interlocking an arm with hers. “You feeling better?” Emerie inquires cheerfully. “Ready to go?”

Nesta nods slowly, forcefully putting Lucien Vanserra and his too-sly demeanor out of her mind. He isn’t her problem right now. Summer is already here with a vengeance, and she’ll only have so much free time with the people she loves most. So she chooses to focus only on them.

Tugging her friends closer and squeezing their arms, Nesta asks, “Where are we eating?”

***

a/n: this needs sooo much more editing lol i could have done a lot more with this chapter if i wasn’t constantly tired and pressed for free time. sorry y’all :/

tagging: @hellasblessed @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @wannawriteyouabook @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes@readiajin @nessiantrashh @live-the-fangirl-life @ifinallygavein @xoblivisci @sjmships @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @lysandra-tiara @lanyjoy-13 @post-it-notes33 @loosingdreams @fromthelibraryofemilyj @18moneytoad @dontgetsalmonella @champanheandluxxury @togreblog @arinbelle @ladygabrielli1997 @meridainthedisneyland @moodymelanist @pixieelea @teagoddess99 @mystic-bibliophile

#nessian #ncssianwrites #nesta archeron #cassian #a favor #nessian au #nessian fic

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choiceofwhump · 3 years

Text

Installment Four.

Previous Installment | Results from Last Round | First Installment.

Tw for this installment: Needles mentioned, blood, injury, concussions, kidnapping, restraints, throwing up.

Darius blinked for a brief second, stunned that the boy opened the door so easily. The only thing he’d done is block the peep hole with his finger and knock. If Darius had looked out his door to see nothing, he certainly wouldn’t be jumping to open it. For a moment, Darius wondered if he’d already miscalculated but… stupid didn’t mean easily breakable. Stupid didn’t mean he couldn’t still be defiant and besides, it was a little too late to turn back now.

Darius didn’t have a time limit but if he was going to take someone, he should do it now, in the dark before he was stuck at home for the rest of winter. If he changed his mind and decided to take someone else because this one apparently had no common sense, he’d have to grab someone blindly and that could be an even worse shot in the dark.

This one had at least snapped at him and besides, he was already here. Maybe, the boy being stupid would play in Darius’ favor. It had already really. Darius reached forward in a second, pushing the boy backwards with a hard shove to his shoulder.

He stumbled instantly, his eyes wide as he tumbled back a few feet and hit the floor.

Darius wasted no time before he walked inside the boy’s apartment, watching with amusement as the boy scrambled backwards to get away as Darius took a moment to close the door behind him and promptly lock it.

It was just after Darius did so that the boy finally seemed to find words. He scrambled backwards even more, struggling to pull himself onto his feet and barely managing it as he spoke. “What are you doing here? Did you follow me? You can’t just come into my apartment!” he snapped, sounding bewildered and astonished.

Darius took a moment to look around the boy’s apartment, taking in the simple decor, the video games by the TV, the books on the table which looked as if it had been converted into a makeshift desks. Darius wondered for a moment what he was studying and then, he realized that he didn’t care.

He wouldn’t be studying it for much longer anyway. Darius looked back to the boy as he finally made it back onto his feet and backed up, putting distance between him and Darius as if it would make any difference. Darius was standing in front of the door. It wasn’t as if he could go anywhere.

For a second, Darius considered ending it now. It was dark. He should be heading back soon and perhaps, he should just take the boy and have his fun later at home, in a far more secure location but… then, he looked into the boy’s frantic eyes and he knew he had to play with him a little. He just looked so scared and confused. How could Darius pass up this opportunity without toying with him a little?

This was the exciting part about taking someone. This is the part that had made Darius’ heart beat so fast in his chest. Just remembering that exhilarating feeling, stalking towards Ethan in the alleyway, taking in the sight of his angry, panicked eyes, savoring it before he managed to shove the needle into his skin and then watch as he slowly passed out, sinking down the wall, still struggling to stay awake, to get away as Darius moved forward to take him.

Even now, with Ethan the way he was, that moment before Darius had taken him was still something he dreamed about. He’d never felt a high like that before in his entire life and this moment right now was the first taste of that feeling that Darius was getting again. How could he cut it short, even if it would be the smart thing to do?

He couldn't was the answer. This part was just too exciting. This was the part that made him feel alive again.

“It’s not very smart to go home when you think someone is following you,” Darius murmured casually, taking a few steps forward to pluck a piece of paper off the table and peer down at it. It was notes about something, scattered with small absent doodles. He’d draw a small chicken and a couple little shapes that were probably from a stupid video game that Darius had never heard of.

Across from him, the boy stammered. “I can give you money,” he spit out finally. “Or whatever you want. I won’t tell anyone if you just take what you want and leave.”

Darius let the paper drop before he turned to look at the boy again, raising a subtle eyebrow. He was bargaining already. Darius had to force down a sigh. That wasn’t very exciting or original at all.

“Who said I want money or your things?” Darius posed finally before he was looking down to the papers again, his eyes actually finding something useful this time. ‘Finnley Devante’ the paper was labeled.

Now, Darius didn’t particularly care about the boy’s name. He’d call him whatever he wanted or nothing at all but it was useful information to have, so Darius filed that little detail away for later.

When Finnley spoke again, he sounded quieter, more confused and slightly more frightened, “What do you want then? I don’t have anything else.”

Darius looked up, taking a moment to gaze over Finnley’s appearance. His blond hair was tangled on his head, as if he’d been sleeping before Darius had knocked on his door. “I’ve been a little bored recently,” Darius said, figuring there was no reason not to tell the truth. It didn’t matter what he told Finnley anyway. He was going to take him no matter what and Finnley would never have the chance to tell anyone what he said, so who cared?

Darius watched Finnley, who’s eyes were darting around the room as if he was looking for something, a weapon probably or anything to protect himself, maybe even a way to escape - something Darius would not let him have. Still, it was interesting. Maybe, Darius would even get a real fight.

Finnley finally looked up and met his eyes again, taking in a panicked breath. “Okay?” He snapped, his eyes darting around again. After a moment, he seemed to settle on something.

Darius looked over at what it was with mild interest.

Finnley’s eyes flickered away instantly, as if he was trying not to draw attention to what he’d found but it was too late. Darius eyed the bat indifferently. It was small and decorative. It looked like a toy but it was metal and Finnley could certainly try to swing it at him, if he really tried.

Darius looked back to the boy. “So, you’re my new entertainment,” Darius explained simply.

There was a still moment in which Finnley’s eyes widened and then he sputtered one final time before he was diving for the bat. “You’re crazy,” he snapped, as he grabbed the bat up off the table. He held it tight in his hands, holding it out in front of him like it would keep Darius back. “You’re crazy,” he said again, his hands trembling slightly.

Darius stared for a beat, unable to help the slow smile that stretched onto his face. He should put a stop to it. It was a metal bat. The boy could actually manage to hurt him but… where was the fun in that? Where was the struggle and the excitement?

“What do you think you’re going to do with that?” Darius asked simply.

At that, Finnley stammered, “I’ll hit you with it! I’ll knock you out and I’ll call the police and you’ll go to prison for stalking and breaking and entering and being a massive creep!”

Darius’ grin stretched even wider. He couldn’t help himself.

“I mean it!” Finnley snapped, upon realizing that Darius wasn’t too disturbed by his threats. “I’ll call the police! They put psychopaths like you in jail!”

Darius took a few steps forward, “You don’t have a phone on you?” He asked, confused as to why he hadn’t at least tried to call the police before this. That Darius would have to put a stop to but it was still curious. Clearly, Finnley understood what was happening here enough to be afraid of him.

At the question, Finnley’s eyes darted across the room and when Darius looked over, he saw a phone resting on the counter, much much closer to Darius than to Finnley. Darius took a couple of steps over and plucked the phone into his hand. When Darius clicked the home button, the background photo was of Finnley and another woman, maybe a girlfriend, maybe a family member- Darius wasn’t sure and he didn’t care.

Darius dropped the phone to the ground, ignoring the angry shout that came from the boy still cautiously standing across the room. Without any further prompting, Darius dropped his foot down, crushing the phone under his heel and shattering the screen all at once.

That at last seemed to spur Finnley into action. When Darius looked up, Finnley was heading towards him, looking outraged at what Darius had done to his phone, the phone that was still under his heel, crunching as he pushed it down further.

“And destruction of property!” Finnnley exclaimed, adding to the imaginary list that Darius would not get charged with. “They’ll make you replace that!” Finnley stopped in his tracks when Darius looked up and met his eyes, suddenly stopping a few feet away with the bat still held tight in his hands, looking torn between coming closer and backing up again.

Darius cocked his head. He wondered if Finnley would actually attack him. He wondered what it would take for Finnley to do so. “You’re not going to call the police.” Darius said simply, “You don’t have a phone anymore.”

Finnley hesitated, his eyes flickering to the doorway that he still could not get to without going by Darius. “I could have another phone,” Finnley said quietly, seeming to realize for perhaps the first time just how bad this situation he was in was.

Darius raised an eyebrow, “Do you?”

The silence that met Darius’ question was answer enough. Darius let them sit in it for a moment before he took a step towards Finnley, instantly making the boy take a step back. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to come with me, whether you like it or not. The only thing that’s up to you is if you’d like to come without a fight or with one.”

Instantly, Finnley looked terrified but no closer to putting the bat down and coming with Darius peacefully. Darius liked that. He really really hoped Finnely would give him a fight.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Finnley snapped.

Darius couldn’t help but grin again. He knew he’d picked right. The moment he’d seen Finnley, he’d had a feeling about him. Darius just hoped he wasn’t getting his hopes up to be let down.

Darius finally walked forward.

Finnley swung the bat wildly. He’d never swung a bat at someone before. He’d played tee ball as a kid but truthfully, he’d been horrible at it. He didn’t think he’d ever hit the ball. He’d managed to fall once and bust his face up but that’s the only thing he’d done. He’d certainly never swung a bat at someone’s face, a psychopath who had broken into his house, destroyed his phone and apparently planned on taking him somewhere against his will.

Finnley didn’t know much but he knew that you never let an attacker take you to a second location. If you went to a secondary location, your chances of being found were small. Finnley thought he’d heard that in a comedy routine or something but he was still pretty sure it was true.

Finnley felt the bat hit something solid, cracking in a way that made Finnley flinch before he even realized what he’d hit.

His face. Finnley blinked, realizing he’d hit the man across the face with the bat. For a moment, he felt the inexplicable urge to apologize but that was ridiculous. For all Finnley knew, he was fighting for his life. He wasn’t going to apologize.

The man straightened up after a stunned moment. He spit on the floor and Finnley was pretty sure he saw blood but he didn’t take a moment to look down and make sure. He just tightened his grip on the bat, his blood pounding loud enough in his ears that it was all he could hear. He’d made him bleed. Finnley didn’t think he’d ever made someone bleed before, not on purpose at least.

The man looked to him, a bruise already forming on his cheek. Where Finnley expected to see anger on the man’s face, all he saw was a wide eyed calm that Finnley couldn’t make sense of. The man looked stunned and he had just been hit with a bat but it was more than that. The man almost looked pleased but before Finnley could really think about what the hell that possibly meant, the man was diving towards him and Finnley, with his exceptionally quick reflexes, managed only to drop the bat as the man grabbed him.

The man’s fingers dug into his arm, hard enough that Finnley was sure he’d have bruises later. Finnley flailed randomly, not even sure what he was doing, only sure that he was trying to get away, apparently none too successfully.

Finnley kicked out as the man tugged him forward, managing to land a kick between the man’s legs before he even realized that’s what he’d been trying to do in the first place. The man’s hand loosened and then, Finnley was shoving him and sprinting away before he could even watch the man stumble.

He ran to the door without a second of hesitation. Finnley didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know why this man followed him home. He didn’t know what he wanted from him. He didn’t know who he thought he was coming into Finnley’s apartment like this but Finnley knew that he was not going along with his sick plans and going whenever this man wanted to take him.

Finnley reached the door, grappling with the handle before he remembered the man had locked it. His hand snapped to the lock but before he could flip it open, Finnley felt his face being slammed into the door, pain blossoming all across it, leaving him stunned.

For a moment, Finnley couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t move. He didn’t know where he was and then, he was being flipped around, shoved against the door, staring blearily as he realized the man was in front of him, touching him, doing something but even with his mind screaming for him to move, to do something to get away but he just couldn’t. His entire body felt numb.

The man shoved him and Finnley fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes, only realizing his hands were tied together now when he tried to catch himself on the ground and only half managed it. Something red splashed across Finnley’s hands.

Blood, he realized after a second. His nose had to be bleeding from the door. Bleeding a lot, apparently. Finnley had never liked blood that much. It always made him feel a little sick and light headed, kind of like he felt now, from the door but-

Finnley felt his head drop into his bloodied hands. That was the last thing he remembered, until his eyes blinked open again, pain blossoming across his face, his side, everywhere. It was dark. Finnley fumbled weakly, realizing his hands were still tied.

He was moving but it took a few long seconds for Finnley to realize why. He was in a car. A truck maybe. He was in the back, sprawled across the seat. Finnley didn’t even remember the man or what happened. His head was pounding and everything still felt so fuzzy but Finnley still knew from the moment he woke up that something was horribly horribly wrong.

Finnley leaned forward as much as he could and threw up onto the floor, groaning softly.

There was the feeling of breaks slamming, someone cursing distantly and before Finnley knew it, the car door next to his head was opening and someone was coming into his sight. A cold winter breeze drifted in, making Finnley shiver slightly and waking him up just a little all at once.

He remembered what had happened suddenly. He remembered the man in front of him. Kidnapped. He’d been kidnapped.

Your choice this week is a simple one.

Finnley should:

Try to run.

Try to bargain.

Keep quiet.

Try to get his hands loose before anything else.

Click here to vote via google form.

If you’re confused on what this is and how to play, please click here for a full explanation. These choices will be active until Friday morning (1/22). The next installment will be posted next Monday (2/1).

#whump writing #interactive whump #kidnapping #choiceofwhump #installment four- story one #blood tw #throwing up tw

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ggukcangetit · 4 years

Text

Dreamcatchers Chap 1

Pairing: jungkook x oc

Summary: DI Jeon didn’t need a new partner. Unfortunately, his superiors felt otherwise; especially considering the extremely high-profile murder that had just taken place in the port city. Recent transfer, DI Choi Yuri finds herself confronted with a new cityscape, unfamiliar people, a hostile partner, and a homicide that is certain to bring back unpleasant memories.

Genre/AU: fluff/action/mystery | detective! au | police!jungkook, police!oc

Word Count: 3.1k

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: mentions of violence, alcohol, blood, drugs, death. basically stuff you’d associate with a murder mystery/crime drama.

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Acknowledgement: shoutout to @stutterfly for designing this beautiful banner which i am completely in love with and stare at for no particular reason throughout the day

A/N: here’s the first chapter! i had originally planned on posting the entire story as one post but it’s way too long so i’m breaking it up into multiple chapters. the story features a named oc because i’m still very unfamiliar with writing second person reader inserts. i’m not aiming for strict accuracy in this story, and all criminal investigation/forensics knowledge i have has been gathered by watching crime drama/procedural dramas! my knowledge of geography is also not totally accurate so apologies for that. once again, one thing right by @hobios prompted me to write a police inspector! jungkook story. would highly recommend reading that because it’s probably one of my most favorite pieces of writing!

16th December

Mornings began early in the Yeongdo district of Busan. Yuri realised this on her first morning in town, as her fitful sleep was broken around 5 in the morning. Perhaps the quiet bustle at the crack of dawn shouldn’t have surprised her too much, given how this was primarily a seaside town with a small port. Her work did not require her to arrive before 8 am so she decided to talk a stroll around the town, acquaint herself with some of the shops and people, and perhaps even grab a bite to eat.

Yuri’s best friend from high school - Kim Ahreum, lived in this town, and this was one of the few reasons why Yuri hadn’t protested violently against her transfer. That, and she hadn’t been given much of a choice from her superiors. Ahreum had texted her excitedly about how beautiful the sea port of Yeongdo was - full of beautiful parks, quirky shops, exquisite food, and fascinating people. Coming from Seoul, Yuri wondered how difficult it would be for her to adjust to a world that sounded so different from the one she was coming from. Ahreum herself was a doctor in training, while her older brother - Namjoon, was in his final year of graduate school, just a few months away from his second law degree. Yuri didn’t remember much of Namjoon as he had left for college by the time she and Ahreum had become friends in their second year of high school. Her limited memory told her that he was very well read, quiet, and taller than the most other boys in school.

“Hey! I haven’t seen you around before.”

Yuri looked around for the owner of the voice - a little girl with two tight pigtails, a bright red dress, and a look of suspicion and curiosity lining her face. The woman beside her - presumably her mother - looked appalled at the little girl’s statement and shushed her before apologising to Yuri.

“I’m so sorry, miss,” she said, bowing deeply. “Nayeong here doesn’t really know how to talk to elders!”

“That’s alright,” replied Yuri, returning the bow. She squatted down in front of Nayeong and looked straight into her eyes. “Hello, my name is Choi Yuri. I moved here yesterday. It’s nice to meet you, and I hope we can be friends.”

The little girl seemed to hesitate in her desire to outcast this stranger who had seemingly no qualms about being truthful and friendly. Yuri could see the indecisiveness flitting through her features and decided to try a different tactic.

“I’m quite hungry but since I don’t know any of the shops over here, I was wondering if you could tell me where I could get some fresh bread and pastries.”

At these words, Nayeong’s eyes lit up and any indecision she previously held disappeared. She grabbed hold of Yuri’s hand and her mother’s, pulling them along in the direction of the town’s center. A few minutes later, they came to a halt outside a cozy looking shop.

“‘The Moon’s Post Office’?” Yuri read the sign out loud, intrigued by the name.

“Seokjin oppa makes the best pastries in the world! Eomma, tell her!” Nayeong exclaimed, looking at her mother excitedly.

“Alright, alright,” her mother laughed. “Yes, Nayeong is right. Seokjin does make incredible pastries, breads, and desserts. It’s almost impossible to stop this one from visiting the shop every day.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll just have to go in and find out. Would you like to join me, Nayeong?” asked Yuri. She glanced at the older woman once, to make sure this request wasn’t out of line.

“Can I, Eomma?” asked Nayeong, excitedly.

“Of course! It’s always a good thing to help others out.” Nayeong squealed happily at her mother’s response and rushed inside.

“I’m Lim Seora, it’s nice to meet you,” said the older woman, once her daughter was inside.

“Choi Yuri,” Yuri responded, bowing deeply. “Thank you for accompanying me here.”

Once inside, Yuri felt her senses getting assaulted by a plethora of soft, sweet, refreshing smells. Nayeong was already at the counter, talking to someone about the different things she wanted. Yuri felt her throat go dry as she glanced at the person behind the counter. She had rarely seen anyone as handsome as the young man currently talking to Nayeong. His thick black hair kept falling over his forehead which he tried to remove with a gentle shake of his head, his plump pink lips pressed together in amusement as an oversized black and red cardigan hung off his rather broad shoulders.

“So that’s three blueberry scones, one orange muffin, and a bag of peanut butter cookies?” asked the young man, to which Nayeong nodded enthusiastically.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“I’ve brought a friend with me today. She’s hungry so can you make something tasty for her, Oppa?” responded Nayeong, pulling Yuri forward.

“Is that right? Hello, I don’t think we’ve met,” he said with a soft smile. “Kim Seokjin, I run this bakery.”

“Nice to meet you,” replied Yuri, bowing in greeting. “I’m Choi Yuri, I moved here yesterday.”

“Nice to meet you too! May I recommend the Snow Croissant?” said Seokjin, sweeping his hand dramatically over the display case.

“The ‘Snow Croissant’? What’s that?” asked Yuri, chuckling at his enthusiasm.

“It’s my take on the New Orleans Beignet and the French Croissant,” he replied, bringing out a golden flaky croissant dusted with powdered sugar.

Yuri took a bite of the pastry and gasped in surprise. The light crunch of the savoury croissant blended beautifully with the soft sweetness of the sugar dust, along with-

“A hint of lemon?” wondered Yuri, biting into the pastry absentmindedly.

“That’s fantastic! Not many people have been able to detect the subtle lemon flavour infused into the pastry dough,” replied Seokjin, looking extremely pleased. “Would you like anything else?”

“A coffee, please,” said Yuri, throwing the paper plate into the nearby dustbin. “To-go. And how much do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house,” replied Seokjin, with a wink. “Consider it a welcome present. Hope to see you around!”

“Oh…” Yuri flushed slightly at his generosity, but accepted it nonetheless. The clock inside the bakery chimed seven times, indicating that she had spent close to an hour with her new acquaintances.

“I should get going,” she said, taking the coffee cup from the counter. “Don’t want to be late on my first day of work. It was nice meeting you all. I hope we meet again, Nayeong!”

xxx

“You can’t be serious! Why the hell are you doing this?!”

Chief Inspector Goh pinched the bridge of his nose as he watched one of his best officers fly off the handle. 3 years into the force Detective Inspector Jeon had proven himself to be smart, capable, and extremely reliable. The only problem was a recent case which had slowly come to take over his life. Which was why, when Chief Inspector Goh had called him into the office to tell him that they were closing the case, DI Jeon had taken it a little too hard.

“Jeon, you are, first and foremost, a homicide detective. Granted that this disappearance was linked to a homicide you were investigating, but you need to let it go. There are other, more pressing, cases that require your attention. We need you back on the force full time. Let Lee handle the disappearance - it's his department. For now, I’m assigning you a new partner to work with. Especially-”

A knock on the door interrupted Chief Inspector Goh, followed by the entrance of an unfamiliar face.

“Right on time! That’s the kind of dedication we’re looking for over here,” said Goh with an appreciative nod. “Jeon, meet your new partner - Detective Inspector Choi Yuri. She’s just transferred here from Seoul. DI Choi, this is Detective Inspector Jeon Jeongguk - he’s one of our best men.”

DI Jeon scowled as he surveyed his new partner. She was tall, dressed in a plain shirt and slacks, her short hair tucked behind her ears. She gave him a small smile and bowed in greeting. In response, DI Jeon stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“I apologise on behalf of him,” said Chief Inspector Goh. “He isn’t usually this impolite. Really glad to have you join our team, DI Choi. You’ve had quite a number of impressive cases in Seoul, and we hope that you can continue working hard with all of us here.”

“Thank you, Chief Inspector. I will do my best,” said Yuri, with a small smile.

“Glad to hear that. Now,” he said, pulling out a thin case file from under a large stack of paperwork. “I need the two of you to head over to Manor House right now. Some officers are already at the scene, along with the forensics team. The body was found early this morning.”

“Have they identified the victim?” asked Yuri, checking how far Manor House was on her phone.

“Hmm. Kang Eunwoo, son of Kang Kiwoo, who owns the largest chain of hotels in Busan. So you can understand the situation.”

Yuri gulped softly, tucking her phone away and nodding her head slowly.

xxx

The entire ride to the crime scene was silent. Not the pleasant or comfortable kind of silence Yuri had always preferred over meaningless small talk. No, this was the stiff, suffocating silence that made her want to pitch herself out the car window. She was currently regretting not having driven to work - although she was still a bit exhausted from the nearly 5 hour drive from Seoul the previous night.

She didn’t know what to make of her new partner. When she was working in Seoul, her partner had been a 43 year old woman named Hwayoung. She was separated from her husband with whom she shared joint custody of their three kids, only drank low sugar milk tea, and talked a mile a minute while on the job. Some might have found Hwayoung a tad irritating, but Yuri had found a caring older sister in the ruthless and chaotic world of criminal investigation in the country’s capital. DI Jeon, in comparison, had yet to speak a word to her. The couple of routine questions she had asked him about the exact location and identity of the victim were met with heated silence.

The Kangs were incredibly wealthy - the type that could buy your family business in an instant and then gift it back to you without incurring any loss. The lavish mansion reeked of money, luxury, and carelessness that only accompanied an abundance of liquid cash. The victim had been found in the private meeting room on the ground floor. Being an extremely high profile case, there were already reporters trying to get a good picture from outside the mansion itself.

“Cause of death?” asked DI Jeon, kneeling down to get a better look at the body.

“Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Death would’ve been instantaneous,” said the forensic doctor, removing her gloves and stuffing them into her coat pocket. She turned towards Yuri and gave her a small smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Dr. Ahn Seulgi. I head the forensics team at the precinct.”

“Choi Yuri,” replied Yuri, bowing slightly. “I’m DI Jeon’s new partner.”

“Is today your first day at work?” asked Seulgi, with a surprised expression.

“Yeah, I just got transferred from Se-”

“DI Choi, need I remind you that there’s a body lying here?” snapped DI Jeon. “It would be better if you socialize on your own time.”

Yuri was taken aback by the anger in his tone. Even though she had worked in homicide for nearly 5 years now, her colleagues had always been polite and friendly with her. She didn’t really know how to respond to her new partner’s accusations.

“Calm down, DI Jeon,” said Seulgi, a frown settling on her forehead. “This isn’t socializing - we’re coworkers and it's impolite to not introduce yourself to each other.”

DI Jeon didn’t say anything more after that, but Yuri could feel the anger radiating off him. She was grateful to Seulgi for sticking up for her, but it didn’t look like she was going to have an easy time working with Jeon.

“Detective Inspector,” said another officer, approaching DI Jeon with a notepad. “I’ve just spoken to the staff. It seems there was a big party here last night. The victim had invited around 10-12 of his friends and they stayed till just before midnight.”

“Thanks, Jisoo. Ask Suho to get statements from all those who were present at the party last night. As well as where they went afterwards.”

“I will,” replied Jisoo, with a nod. “Mr. Kang is waiting for you in his office.”

Kang Kiwoo didn’t look like a seasoned businessman who had a 26 year old son. His face was young and his smile was extremely attractive, but, Yuri noticed, it didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, there was something inscrutable in his dark brown irises that disturbed her more than she liked to admit. Yuri had come to realise that a person’s eyes were the first to betray their true nature; and Mr. Kang’s eyes were almost vacant.

“My condolences, Mr. Kang,” began DI Jeon. “Please rest assured that we will do everything in our power to catch whoever is responsible for this.”

“Thank you, DI Jeon,” replied Mr. Kang with a smile. “I’m feeling reassured knowing that you are handling my son’s case. And you are?”

Yuri bowed once again and introduced herself. “DI Choi Yuri. I will also be working on your son’s case with DI Jeon.”

“Well then, how can I be of assistance? DI Jeon? DI Choi?”

“Could you please tell us more about the party that took place last night?” asked DI Jeon, not giving Yuri a chance to say anything. He had already sat down on one of the chairs, and Yuri decided that she would rather remain standing.

Mr. Kang frowned for the first time since the beginning of the meeting. “My son likes to- I’m sorry. Eunwoo liked to party quite a lot. I wasn’t fond of his lifestyle and I had told him of my views many times before. This isn’t the first time that he’s taken over an entire floor of our mansion to ‘entertain’ his friends.”

“You argued with your son last night,” continued DI Jeon, consulting the notes Jisoo had given him. “What was that about?”

“If you know that we argued, I’m sure you know what we argued about.”

“In your own words, if you will,” said DI Jeon, a forced smile gracing his features.

“I lost the use of my legs almost 3 years ago,” said Mr. Kang, leaning forward on his desk. “I expected my son to take over the company by the time he was 28. However, he didn’t seem in the least bit inclined to take any responsibility whatsoever. So last night, I told him I would disinherit him.”

“And how did he take that news?”

“I’m quite certain you’re not asking me to elaborate on the type of language my son used last night,” said Mr. Kang, with a slight smirk. “Because I’d prefer not to.”

DI Jeon stared at the man across from him who was proving to be much more difficult than expected. “Can you tell us what your movements were for the rest of the night?”

“I was in here, finishing some paperwork, until the party got over. I said goodnight to my son and retired for the night at around half past 12.”

“How did your son seem when you last saw him?”

“He was quite inebriated. I barely got a coherent reply from him. In hindsight, I should have stayed with him until he had fallen asleep. Maybe I could have prevented his death.”

“Why do you say that?” Yuri asked, speaking for the first time since introducing herself. DI Jeon shot her a glare before returning his gaze to Mr. Kang.

“If I had been with him until he fell asleep, he wouldn’t have gotten into a fight with the Park boy.”

“The ‘Park boy’?” asked Yuri, frowning slightly.

“Park Jimin. He came here last night. I heard his voice just before I closed the door to my room.”

“Are you saying Park Jimin killed your son?” asked DI Jeon. “Do you have any proof, Mr. Kang?”

“It is your job to find proof, DI Jeon. I’m merely stating what I know. The Parks are our long time rivals; I’m sure you’re aware of that. My son never got along particularly well with Park Jimin since they were in school. As far as I can tell, he was probably the last one to see my son alive.”

xxx

Yuri was currently at Ahreum’s apartment, having dinner in honor of her moving to Busan.

“I had such grand plans of taking you to the street food market on your first day here,” whined Ahreum. “But given how completely exhausted you look, this is the best alternative.”

“This is great, Ahreum. I haven’t soba noodles in such a long time. You’re actually a pretty decent cook.” Yuri grinned at her best friend, before slurping some noodles.

“I still can’t believe that a high profile murder took place the day you moved here. You really can’t catch a break, can you?” Ahreum sipped on her wine, while scrolling through her phone. “Social media is blowing up with this.”

“I’m just glad I could leave in time for dinner. The way Jeon was treating me, I thought he would make me file paperwork at the station the entire night.”

“I don’t really get that. Jeongguk’s a pretty decent guy. Why’s he being such a dick to you?” Ahreum asked, tying her long brown curls into a bun. “Namjoon’s known him since before I moved here. He only has good things to say about him.”

“Beats me,” shrugged Yuri. “But more importantly, where is Namjoon? I thought he’d be joining us for dinner today.”

“He’s still at the library.”

“It’s almost 11 pm.”

“Yeah, the library closes at midnight. He’ll probably come home after that.” Ahreum stretched her hands above her head before stifling a yawn. “He runs on very little sleep anyway.”

“Nice to see that hasn’t changed since I last saw him,” grinned Yuri, slipping on her shoes and getting ready to leave. “Thanks for dinner, Ahreum. I really needed this today.”

“Oh shut up! You know I’m always ready to feed you!” she replied with a wink. “Now go home and get some sleep.”

Sleep. That was the problem.

xxx

hope you enjoyed the first chapter! feel free to send me an ask if you have any questions so far. and don’t forget to like/reblog if you enjoyed the chapter!

#jungkook #jungkook fic #jungkook x oc #jimin #taehyung #seokjin #namjoon #yoongi #hoseok #bts fic #c me write bangtan #btsbookclub

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minkco · 3 years

Note

i often think about ... mark being busy at his desk ... but ethan wants to cuddle ... so he pouts for a little bit until mark lets him sit in his lap while he works ...

,,, b r o ,,

so Mark. Mark works a lot, right? Anyone who meets him will tell you that he’s a little bit of a workaholic. Just a teensy bit. And Ethan - well, Ethan gets it, certainly, he’s no stranger to late-night editing binges and staying up a few extra hours just to finish That One Thing. Hell, he’s had his fair share of forgetting to eat and hydrate and stretch in the middle of a particularly gruesome crunch. But most times, he knows when to stop. When productivity bleeds into madness and the final product will come out worse than if he just had a little sleep. Mark does, too - he’s a grown man who’s lived with himself for 30-odd years - but sometimes he just. Ignores it. Ignores the limit he knows he has and pushes through. Ethan, obviously, doesn’t take kindly to that. So he’ll whine and beg from the doorway of Mark’s editing room, a little hesitant to actually step inside and break the careful, concentrated atmosphere mark has, and sometimes that gets mark to leave his cave. Sometimes that gets mark to crawl into the bed with him and fall asleep curled up in each other’s warmth. But that’s not all the time - it’s actually one of the hardest ways to get his boyfriend out of the room - so he has to switch to more drastic measures. Carrying the dogs in his arms as he passes by, making cooing noises and happy gasps that get them riled up, complaining about them needing to go potty. If he’s feeling especially clingy, he’ll send one of the dogs in before him, like a little messenger sent out to test the waters, to see how mark’s actually feeling outside of the stony, concentrated face set on his computer.

Sometimes that works. Sometimes Mark will scoop up one of the dogs into his arms and bury his face into their fur, and then he’ll stand up with a groan, “old man bones” popping loudly from the sudden change of position and trudge on to bed. But again. A vast majority of the time it takes a little more elbow grease. Mark’s a stubborn, stubborn man after all, and at this point he knows the routine well and has picked up on all of Ethan’s tricks.

At that point, Ethan will actually come inside the room. He’ll bustle about, picking up random objects he’s seen a thousand times - some he’s even bought himself - and ask mark what they’re for, who they came from, why they were here. Even when he’s busy, and knows Exactly what Ethan’s doing, Mark just can’t find it in himself to ignore his boy. So he responds to every question, every time Ethan asks it, answers shifting from vague and distracted to something more present as time goes on.

Finally, Ethan will ask him a question. The Question. Even though it’s not really a question. And Mark can’t do anything but blink sleepily, save his files, and turn off his monitor with a heavy “yes, I’ll come to bed now.” But tonight. Tonight is different. The whining from the door didn’t work - it never does, of course, but Ethan could swear it was actually making mark a little upset this time, and that sent him spiraling, just a little. The dogs definitely didn’t work, Mark’s jaw jumped every time he walked by with one of them, and his eye twitched in the blue light from his computer when the soft pitter-patter of puppy paws entered his room, so Ethan hesitantly called them back out and sent them outside.

So, there were only two things left to do: leave mark to his own devices and watch as his partner wrings himself dry, or actually walk in there and brave the beast. Ethan’s always been ever the caregiver. The older man doesn’t say anything when he enters the room. Ethan would have thought he hadn’t noticed - just too absorbed in his work to hear the shuffle of his socks against the carpet - but Mark’s head twitches minutely towards him, and he realizes he’s supposed to speak first.

So he does. He complains about the cold bed, joking tone falling flat when the mouse creaks under Mark’s hand, and then talks about his day, talks about Mark’s day, talks about the side effects of staying up and staring at a monitor for too long. Mark doesn’t budge, but his shoulders get a little tenser, a little higher, and Ethan places careful hands on them, moving his thumbs in slow circles to alleviate some of the tension. Finally, Mark speaks. “I have to finish this,” he mutters, in a voice that makes Ethan think there’s just a little bit more to this story. “Deadlines coming up.” Ethan peers over his shoulder at the screen - taking in what, exactly, Mark’s actually working on for the first time, and blinks. He recognizes this particular project - recognizes it’s not due for at least another two weeks.

But Mark wouldn’t be doing this - sitting hunched over his desk while Ethan is Right There - if there wasn’t something bothering him, so Ethan stays silent and presses a chaste kiss to his temple.

“It’s - it’s not ready yet,” he continues after a beat. “I need this to be perfect, and it’s… not.” he jiggles the mouse a little bit, hovering over one particular transition, and lets out a heavy sigh. “I can’t leave it here…” And Ethan knows that. He knows Mark like the back of his hand - knows he’s latched onto this idea of perfection and won’t let it go or take care of himself until it’s reached - and decides that one semi-productive night at the cost of sleep is better than a week of Mark keeping both of them up with his tossing and turning. “I wanna cuddle, though,” Ethan responds, pouting like a petulant child (or like he did not thirty minutes ago standing in the doorway). “I miss you.” He’s not trying to change Mark’s mind. That would be like trying to move a mountain with a tactical shovel. But, dammit, he wants to cuddle his stupid, hard-working boyfriend, and he needs to get that small, bitter frustration out somehow, even if he understands how Mark works and knows there will be other times for them to cherish. Mark doesn’t respond to that - probably because he doesn’t know how - and turns back to face his work. The gentle dismissal fills Ethan with a kind of playful spite, and he quickly jerks his leg up and over onto Mark’s lap, jostling the other man’s arms out of the way in the process. “Ow - what the fuck, eth?” Mark hisses as he wiggles around. “What are you…?” Once he’s settled - legs slung over Mark’s, straddling his boyfriend’s computer chair and resting chest-to-chest - he rests his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “Cuddling you.” It only takes a second for Mark to sigh and replace his hands on the desk. He knows Ethan just as well as Ethan knows him, knows they both can be just as stubborn as one another, and knows he’s not getting out of this. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.” So they sit there, Ethan curled up into Mark’s chest, whispering gentle encouragements every time the man under him tenses up in frustration, Mark fiddling away with his project until he can finally live with himself if he takes a break, occasionally running a hand through Ethan’s hair, and just exist near each other.

It’s nice.

#DKLJSGHFKFGJ WAIT THIS IS SO LONG OH MY FUCK #OH MY GODS IM SO SORRY KFG #i just. took ur idea and ran with it op im sorry #why do i make every fluffy thing angsty oh my god #i. i hope you enjoy this word vomit anyway holy shit #it wasnt supposed to be this Long #crankiplier #asks #drabbles #technically jesus fuck

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estherwritess · 4 years

Text

Lifetime Kisses

Genre: Akaashi Keiji x f! Reader

Words: 2.1K

Genre: fluffly fluff!

Note: written for the @/haikyuucreations monthly prompt event!

Age 3:

Your mothers had befriended each other long before the two of you, Akaashi Keiji and Y/N L/N, were born. Precessing the two of you as childhood friends; it was only natural they kept contact after they graduated, married and had children.

And so, this is where your story really began. Your mother often scheduled play dates, partly to allow you to socialize with another toddler, and partly as an excuse to be able to enjoy a meetup with her friend guilt-free. The only memories you’d have of this would later on in your life be pieced together by pictures, anecdotes and some explanations from your mother.

Both you and Akaashi had spread out over the play mat, hands curiously grabbing at the toys scattered around. It wasn’t like the two of you were able to talk to each other, but the occasional newly learnt word slipped out earning a few endearing ‘aws’ from your mother's seated on the couch facing the mat. Days like these were very common, you had basically grown up with Akaashi by your side.

Age 10:

The playground surrounded by tall school buildings was bustling during the warm summer afternoon, the teachers had decided to let the students play outside for their last hour of the day, deciding that the classrooms were too hot to possible be able to

properly teach already distracted students. You, Akaashi and a few other friends were huddled under the shade of an old oak tree, it's branches providing the much needed coolness.

The brunette in front of you, Kaoru, blew a strand of hair out of her face, a bored look displayed as she glanced around your group. Observing that mischievous sparkle in her eye, you braced yourself for what was about to spill from her mouth, your arms outstretched behind you, holding your torso upright.

“Oh I know!” she visibly pulls her posture up straight, eyes moving over the other kids with excitement, “my brother plays it sometimes! Let’s play some truth or dare!”

You audibly sigh as the other kids excitedly agree, some others still joining in and squeezing themselves under the limited shade, the chatter kept rising as girls were giggling amongst themselves as they shuffled a bit closer to each other. You curiously glance over at Akaashi, his expression is blank as you’re used to, but he doesn’t object and neither is he tugging at your sleeve to sit somewhere else. You could only assume he didn’t mind and so you stayed put, a sheepish smile on your lips as Kaoru clasped your hand.

“So who should we pick first?” She’s lifted her hands up to cup your ear, a giggly whisper as she proposed her question to you. Glancing around, you thought about it for a second, picking someone you hardly knew so they’d be less inclined to pick you when their turn was over.

“Go for Eiko,” the black-haired boy was in Akaashi’s class, but not yours, so you happily picked the somewhat unknown boy. His eyes widened when Kaoru exclaimed his name loudly, she leaned forward with a cheek-splitting grin as she asked him:

“Truth or dare?”

He visibly stumbled over his words, not expecting to be picked. You stiffled a giggle as akaashi subtly elbowed you; he gives you a look, eyebrows raised.

“Alright then,” you stopped giggling, your eyes looking back at your friend, “mom.”

As expected, most of the kids picked dare, chickening out of a possible scary dare. You had also picked truth to play it safe, happy you were able to just let it wash over you. The questions were those everyone had already heard before, again not that surprising. As Kaoru finished her dare; which in short meant she had made a fool of herself in front of the boy she’d developed a small crush on, her attention turned to Akaashi, the last one to be picked for a truth or a dare.

Akaashi pauses,

“Truth,” as soon as the words leave his mouth, the kids in the group get louder, whining to Kaoru, “That’s not fair! It’s been truth for so long, someone should pick dare!”

Kaoru held her hand up for a second, seemingly internally debating this visible dilemma. She then nods, turning her head into Akaashi’s direction: “he’s right, you should pick dare Akaashi!”

Akaashi nods, never being one to clash with the group, and agrees to pick dare. You fold your knees up to your chest, head resting atop as you watch the scene unfold in front of your eyes.

“Alright!” Aiko smiles, her eyes glancing at you for a second too long, assuming she’s up to no good, you brace yourself, closing your eyes in anticipation. “I dare you to..” she sticks her finger out, spinning it across the sitting students and stopping right at you, “kiss y/n!”

Your head jolts up in surprise, it’s as if a brick had just been dropped on your stomach, you can barely breathe as your looking over at akaashi in distress. It happens faster than you anticipated, his face is close to yours in less than a second. The kiss lasts less than five seconds and as soon as he pulls away, blush coating his cheeks, a loud synonymous ‘ew’ resounds. The noise is overwhelmingly loud as the voices blend together. That’s how Akaashi Keiji stole your first kiss from you.

Age 15:

Your last year of middle school, you weren’t sure how to feel about passing yet another milestone so quickly, everything felt like it was moving at an incomprehensible speed. Folding your papers and stuffing them into the binder you’d had since elementary school, scribbles coating the inside with all sorts of quotes and weird drawings your friends had filled them with. With students filing out of the classroom at a speed you hadn’t seen, you figured there must’ve been something going on were it not for the fact that there was a three day weekend calling their names.

You take your time with putting everything away and closing your bag. The halls are nearly empty when you leave the classroom, except for the rare cluster of teens grouped together excitedly discussing their weekend plans. At the end of the hallway a familiar boy is waving you down, hands securely placed on the straps of his bag.

“Let’s go,” he nods, almost unnoticeably and starts walking down the stairs.

“So, have you got any plans for this weekend?” You turn your head to him whilst shaking it from side to side.

“Not really,” you paused, “well they’re not my plans anyway; but mom wants me to go with them to visit my grandma.”

“Oh, well I hope you have fun then,” you can’t help but notice the slight hint of disappointment in his voice, deciding to ignore it, you change the topic to his plans.

The walk home is filled with light chatter, jokes and banter. You loved being able to feel the stress glide off your shoulders as you talked about your day with him. However you couldn’t help but feel bad about having to leave him behind this weekend, if it were any other weekend you two would have at least spent a day together. As you two reach your house, you slow down, quickly turning around and pressing a chaste, light kiss to his cheeks. He doesn’t have time to react before you’re already skittering off towards the front door, your voice calling out one more time.

“Thank you for walking me home today! See you on Tuesday!”

Age 21:

Making it to college along with one of your best friends for the longest while felt like a dream to you, Akaashi Keiji, the one constant in your life. You were eternally grateful for your mother on being so insistent on keeping the friendship alive with his mother, thus practically setting you up with a best friend. You couldn’t help but bring a smile to your face as you see the familiar boy waiting outside of your dormitory, a fluffy scarf wrapped around his neck as his eyes glance up at you from behind his black spectacles. He’s victoriously holding up your favourite coffee,

“Made it through the morning rush,” he hands the steaming cup over to you, happily taking it from him you clasp your hands around the warmth, “special for the princess”. You snort, lips on the lid as you taste the warm liquid.

“You’re the best!” Instantly feeling more away, you hold the cup closer to you with a big smile. With your drinks in hand you two take the usual, scenic route to class.

You part ways when you both pass by your respective buildings, your schedules lined up at the end of the day so it was convenient to go to school together as well as leave. The day passes by in an uneventful fashion, just as always the time slowly creeps along the clock as if it’s nearly taunting you.

When the classes end, it’s already dark out and you’re grateful to have someone to walk you back. Walking in the dark on campus, in the winter nonetheless, was daunting seeing that the walk was relatively long. Seeing him waiting for you was a relief, he looked just as worn out as you did, four classes a day definitely did not agree with the two of you.

You greet each other, happy to see a familiar face after a long day. And as soon as you two are next to each other, the ranting begins and you’re instantly a lot more at ease. Instinctively you two walk a bit closer, trying to preserve some more warmth as the temperature continues to drop. It doesn’t feel weird, you rather feel very happy for lack of a better word, almost as if you’re walking on a cloud as he holds out his arm for you to loop your own into. It’s quiet as your footsteps continue to crunch into the recently fallen snow, the path barely walked on. Akaashi stops you to point out the beautiful scenery behind the bridge: the lake frozen over, plants look white and delicate as they’re coated in a thin layer. The world seemed so quiet, peaceful and untouched at that moment, so you stop, your arms leaning on the railing as you look at your surroundings.

You turn your head, about to reminisce to him about your shared childhood and the many nice winter memories the two of you shared. That is, until you noticed his face being awfully close to yours; his hot breath on your face.

“Hey, what are you..” your out loud train of thought is interrupted as Akaashi presses his lips to yours, his hand reaching up to cup your cheeks to pull you in a bit closer. Deep down, this is something you’d always thought of, a thought ghosting around your mind during boring classes or during a long commute. You often wondered what it would feel like, nothing could have ever prepared you for the way it would actually feel.

His lips are softer than you could’ve ever imagined, in his enthusiasm he’s still as gentle as he’s always been. Your arms wrap themselves around this neck, desperately trying to hold on as you feel yourself get slightly lightheaded, as if it was all a dream. Except it wasn’t.

Age 31:

After having dried off your hands, you put away the last stack of dishes: satisfied that you’d gotten along so far with all of your chores. The quietness had vanished quite quickly as there was someone or something causing quite the ruckus outside. Walking over towards the backyard porch, you leaned over the railing. Your four year old had noticed your husband had pulled into the driveway, excitedly skipping over while calling out to his dad. The new pup you had adopted was also in on it, excited barking while hopping around your son’s legs. The scenario made you smile; your husband bent through his knees as your son threw himself into his arms while peanut was happily skipping around them.

Akaashi walks over to you, Hayato proudly waved at you from his dads arm. You gave the both of them a soft wave back, feeling yourself nearly melt at the image before you. Five years into the marriage and ten into the relationship and he was still able to make you feel all sorts of intense emotions.

-tag

@dorkyama (thankies for sprinting with mee)

He sets Hayato down what runs off the play with the pup some more, you smile as he walks closer to you, arms spread.

“Welcome home,” you lean in, letting yourself be engulfed in his embrace. As he presses a kiss to your lips, you feel complete. You’d accomplished so much in your life; great friends, a good job, a nice husband. This kiss only further cemented that you’d made the right decisions throughout your life, it was a nice reminder of everything

#haikyuucreations #hqbookclub #akaashi keiji x reader #haikyuu x reader

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kurokoros · 4 years

Text

some like it hot (2/4) | todoroki x reader x bakugou

Rated: T (bakugou’s dirty mouth, sexual humor)

Words: 9.2K

Pairing: shouto todoroki x fem!reader x katsuki bakugou

Summary: A Charity Fundraiser leads to you going home with not one, but two of the most popular Pro Heroes of your generation. They say some like it hot, and you certainly aren’t complaining.

AKA: a totally not self-indulgent threesome fic

Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | AO3

AN: It’s been a terrible week, but I still managed to pump out a chapter, so I feel accomplished! Also available on AO3. Ask to be added to the tag-list. Chapters will be weekly until completion! Thanks in advance for reading! A note: the reader does have a name used only in dialogue because I hate using “Y/N” in fics. Both names are puns. “Yuna” = Y/N, and the kanji in “Hikai” means “fire time”.

Dubiously, you stare at the file Izuku is holding out to you. The look you send him is all but reproachful as you place your hands on your hips, your lips pressed into a tight line. Izuku fidgets under your gaze, sweat beading on his hairline, but his smile never falters for a second.

“Let me get this straight,” you start slowly. Maybe you didn’t hear him right. With all the muttering and nervous babbling he tends to do, it wouldn’t be a surprise for you to mishear a few things. Though, you have practically mastered the art of deciphering him at his most incoherent. Regardless, you press on, not even trying to mask the utter bewilderment in your voice. “You want me to run all the way to Shouto’s Agency to drop off a single file?”

It sounds even more bizarre when you say it out loud.

Izuku fiddles with the pen on his desk. “Yes?”

The questioning inflection of his reply only makes your frown deepen. Resisting the urge to rub your temples, you send him another hard look. “Aren’t you supposed to be seeing him and Bakugou tonight?” you ask, sure you heard him mention something about the three of them going out for dinner. “It can’t wait until then?”

“It’s important,” he tells you, only slightly more confident in his reply than he was before.

You know you shouldn’t roll your eyes at your boss, but you do so anyway. “I see. And you do realize I’ll be gone for at least two hours, right?”

“It’s very important?”

Your frown turns into a pout.

Any other day you might have agreed to go right away, always happy to see one of your favorite Heroes. But ever since that night at Momo’s, you’ve been doing your best to avoid both Shouto and Katsuki. It wasn’t on purpose at first. You planned on going out for drinks with Katsuki and Kirishima over the weekend like you always do, only to be slapped in the face with the reminder of what you told the girls. Mina’s jokes about a threesome came crashing back over you, and with the dirty fantasies floating through your head, you knew that being drunk around Katsuki would end in nothing but loose lips and an extremely awkward confrontation.

You didn’t even want to think about the possibility of rejection, so you called Kiri to cancel with excuses of planning the fundraiser—which wasn’t technically a lie.

Katsuki wasn’t happy about it, obviously, but you know how to handle him. You just need to make it through this fundraiser before making any life altering decisions including, but not limited to, trying to fuck two Pro Heroes that also happen to be two of your closest friends.

Avoidance was clearly the best answer to this.

Of course, your luck seems to have run out today thanks to Izuku. You have no idea where he’s going with this or why one of his sidekicks can’t bring Shouto this supposedly very important file, but seeing as the alternative is more phone calls and paperwork, you might as well go along with it. And you won’t lie and say you aren’t a little excited at the prospect of seeing Shouto today.

That being said, you aren’t above giving Izuku a little hell for it first.

“I don’t feel like I can leave you alone for that long without something terrible happening,” you say bluntly, careful to keep your mouth from twitching into a smile. Though you’re only teasing, a part of you does mean it. As great of a Hero as Izuku is, he’s also practically a walking safety hazard.

He really hasn’t changed all that much since UA.

The pout that forms on his face makes you feel like you’ve just kicked a puppy. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says, sulking. Those big, green eyes of his stare down at you from the other side of his desk, only adding to the effect.

You aren’t so easily swayed. “The last time I left you alone here, you managed to dislocate your entire arm,” you remind him, casting a pointed glance at said arm. Even now, you aren’t entirely sure how he managed that in the time it took you to grab lunch at a cafe not even fifteen minutes from the agency. You’re never going to let him live it down.

“That was an accident!” Izuku defends himself, flushing all the way to the tips of his ears. The color clashes spectacularly with the green of his hero costume.

Your tone is beyond dry when you say, “I’m aware.”

Izuku’s expression melts into one of distress, and again you wonder why this file is such a big deal. Whatever it is, it’s making your boss more skittish and awkward than usual, something you didn’t even think was possible. “Please, Hikai? This is really, really important! I don’t trust anyone else to do this but you!”

“This is manipulation,” you tell him, crossing your arms. Even as you say that, your heart swells with the sheer level of trust he has in you. Izuku must realize it too. There’s something cunning behind those puppy dog eyes.

He blinks at you far too innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Well played, Deku.

Heaving an over-dramatic sigh, you hold out your hand and wiggle your fingers impatiently. “Give me the damn file.” A megawatt smile stretches across his face before the file is practically shoved into your hand. “Really, Midoriya, you have to stop leaving things until the last minute. One day it’s going to get you in trouble.”

He rubs the back of his head in embarrassment, ruffling the curly strands of his hair. “That’s what I have you for,” he tells you. The sincerity in his voice makes you soften. “Oh!” His eyes suddenly light up. “How’s everything been with planning the fundraiser?”

“About as well as you’d expect considering the short notice,” you muse, idly thumbing the edge of the file you’ve been handed. Surprisingly, you haven’t had too many issues beyond your less than friendly conversation with Mr. Fujikaze. Most other agencies have been understanding about the situation, and your contacts have been pulling through despite the time crunch. “I’ve contacted most of the agencies in the country like you asked and almost all have replied affirmatively, though some will only be making short appearances.” You glance at him. “Not everyone can leave the field for an entire night.”

Izuku nods, his brows furrowed in thought. “That makes sense,” he murmurs aloud, staring down at the surface of his desk. “Even with the crime rate dropping again, we can’t be too careful.”

Humming, you turn your gaze to the windows overlooking the city behind him. While not nearly as grandiose as some other agencies you’ve been in, you’ve always loved the view from Izuku’s office.

“Exactly.”

With the highly publicized nature of the fundraiser, you’re sure that some people will take the opportunity to commit crimes, violent or otherwise, but it’s nothing most Pros haven’t had to work around before. The event itself will have heightened security even with the amount of Pros attending. Frankly, you’re more worried about the general public, though you know they’ll be in good hands even without Heroes like Deku, Shouto, and Ground Zero. Izuku himself would probably insist on patrolling that night if he wasn’t the one hosting, but you know his sidekicks will be able to handle things for one night.

“How’s everything else going?” he asks. “I know you had to pull a lot of strings to make this work. Thank you, by the way.”

You wave him off and shrug, but offer him a small smile. “It’s my job.” And, hey, if this whole personal assistant gig falls through, at least you have a potential future as a wedding planner. “We have a venue and caterer lined up,” you explain to Izuku. “I’m hoping to hear back from my other contacts by the end of the day, but so far, everything seems to be going well.”

A look of relief appears on his face. “That’s good,” he says, breathing a sigh. At your raised eyebrow, he panics, thinking he’s said something wrong. “Not that I thought you couldn’t do it!” he’s quick to explain, quickly turning an even darker shade of red. “You’ve always been great at organizing things! Though this was super short notice, so I wouldn’t have been disappointed if you couldn’t put it together that fast. But I would never doubt you like that. You always go beyond! Plus—”

Mercifully, you hold up a hand to stop his rambling. You have work to do, and you know from experience that he would go on and on until someone stopped him or he ran out of air, and Izuku has quite the impressive set of lungs.

“Deep breaths, Midoriya,” you chide playfully, reaching out to pat him on the back. “I know what you meant. Thank you for having so much faith in me.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, going right back to beaming at you. “Thanks again for doing this—the event and the file, I mean.”

You gather your discarded purse and jacket, carefully tucking the file into your bag. “Well, it’s not like I had much of a choice,” you joke as he leads you to the door. “What would you do without me?”

“Apparently, I’d die.”

Your laughter cuts off as soon as you reach the door, your expression sobering as you remember the phone call you received shortly before Izuku called you into his office. You didn’t have the chance to tell him before he was practically shoving a folder in your hands and babbling something about you needing to see Shouto immediately.

Izuku stops beside you. His expression turns to one of concern as he notices the look on your face.

“There’s one more thing,” you tell him, lowering your voice though it’s only the two of you in the room. “I received an answer from Endeavor’s assistant this morning.”

The statement is heavy and laced with more meaning than so few words could typically hold. You can’t keep the bitterness from creeping in as you say the former Hero’s name, but Izuku either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore it.

Somehow, he manages to keep his voice light when he asks, “Oh? And what did he say?” Izuku’s gaze slides to the door and refuses to move. You can only imagine what might be running through his head.

“He’ll be making an appearance at the gala.” Absently, your fingers clench around the strap of your purse, knuckles turning white from the pressure. As soon as you realize what you’re doing, you sigh through your nose, forcing yourself to release your grip. “He may be retired now, but it matters a lot to the public that the former number one Pro Hero makes an appearance at things like this. Not everyone may like Endeavor, but most people do respect him. It’s exactly the show of support we need right now.” You turn to Izuku, and his gaze finally rises to meet yours again. “Similarly, All Might will be there as well, even though he retired almost a decade ago.” Your lips quirk upwards. “Though, I’m sure you’re already aware of that,” you tease, hoping to lighten the mood.

It works. Izuku is always an easy target to fluster. He sputters and makes a vague excuse while awkwardly waving his arms around like he isn’t sure what to do with them. You wait patiently until he’s done, used to this kind of outburst after so many years. When he’s finally calmed down, his eyes widen a little as he looks at you.

“Does Todoroki know?”

The question makes your stomach churn. “Not yet.” Your admission is soft as you rock back on your heels. “I just found out. Besides,” you look past Izuku to stare out the window again, “I thought it would be better to tell him in person.”

When Izuku doesn’t respond, you clear your throat. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

He snaps out of his thoughts quickly. “Right!” Izuku reaches around you to open the door, holding it for you politely as you step into the lobby. Your eyes immediately drift to your desk, and you’re more than a little surprised to see a familiar, nervous face sitting behind it. When you stop, Izuku follows your gaze and smiles. “Oh! I’m sending Nakamura with you!” he explains as the hero in training waves at you awkwardly. “He’ll be heading back to UA after and I want to make sure you get to Todoroki’s agency okay!”

It’s a poor excuse if you’ve ever heard one, but you don’t have time to question it. Your eyes follow Izuku as he darts back into his office. He’s not fast enough to hide his ever widening smile though.

He’s up to something, you decide as you make your way to the flustered intern behind your desk. You don’t know what he’s up to, but you’re going to find out.

The train ride across the city was nothing short of awkward between you and Seiji. The poor intern didn’t seem to know what to say to you outside of a professional setting. He kept squirming in his seat and wringing his hands, glancing at you occasionally in a way that wasn’t nearly as subtle as he thought he was being. Clearly there was something on his mind, but you weren’t about to ask. You figured if it was important enough, he’d come out and say it when he was ready.

Meanwhile, you took the opportunity to get some additional work done. Izuku may have kicked you out of the office, but you did still have a job to complete. The fundraiser wasn’t going to plan itself, and the date was rapidly approaching. You’d made good progress so far, but that didn’t mean you could start slacking.

It isn’t until the two of you are within a block from Shouto’s agency that Seiji finally perks up. There’s an additional bounce to his step that reminds you of an overexcited puppy, and it makes your lips twitch in amusement.

It’s only then that you realize he’s so much taller than you, gangly with long limbs that carry him faster than you can walk. He keeps getting ahead of you, only to freeze up when he realizes you aren’t there, quickly glancing around almost frantically until he spots you again. It’s absolutely adorable the way his eyes light up and he visibly relaxes.

“Hey, Hikai?” he asks once you catch up to him for what must be the fifth time. “What’s Shouto like? You seem like you know each other pretty well.” Those blue eyes of his are too wide with innocence, and you school your expression before you can flush once you remember what Seiji saw last week.

“You met him last week,” you remind the teenager, adjusting your grip on your purse and double checking that the file is still tucked into place. “What do you think he’s like?” There’s something disconcerting about discussing one of your friends that you’ve thought about fucking on multiple occassions with your boss’s new student intern.

Seiji’s eyebrows furrow as he thinks over your question. “He was nice,” he decides, glancing down at you. “Just… really quiet.”

A low hum of agreement escapes you. “Don’t take it personally. Sho isn’t much of a talker.” Especially in comparison to Izuku’s excited ramblings and Katsuki’s loud presence. “If you stay with Deku for a while, I’m sure he’ll warm up to you though.” You smile up at Seiji and pat him on the arm.

He flushes at the attention. And there’s no hiding the pride shining in his eyes at the insinuation that the Deku would take him on as a sidekick after graduation. To cover his embarrassment, he sputters out, “So, you’ve known them for a long time then? Shouto and Ground Zero?”

“Almost as long as Izuku. I met them through him. Deku has a way of adopting people.” You sigh. “Neither of them have changed much since UA.”

“I see,” Seiji murmurs as you reach the front doors to the agency. He politely holds the door for you as you step inside, a look of deep contemplation on his face. His head cocks to one side as he stares at you, eyes narrowed just a tick before they widen. “That must mean you’re pretty close.” There’s an unexpectedly sly tinge to the statement, like he’s hinting at something more.

Your breath catches at the statement. Seiji notices. “I suppose so,” you say before turning your attention to the receptionist in front of you.

After a short greeting, she lets you pass, recognizing you from previous visits. You’re told that Shouto just returned from a patrol and is already waiting for you in his office, and with a parting smile you and Seiji head for the elevator.

It’s only after the doors close behind you that you look at Seiji again, confusion clear on your face as you remember what Izuku told you earlier. “Shouldn’t you be heading back to the dorms by now? I don’t know how long this will take, and I don’t want you to have to wait for me. You should go enjoy your afternoon.”

“No!” Seiji protests a little too quickly, voice cracking. He shakes his head almost violently. You stare up at him in bewilderment as those big blue eyes meet yours seriously. “Deku told me to walk you to Shouto’s office,” he babbles, struggling for an excuse. “We aren’t in the office yet!”

“I—” You shake your head, decide it’s not worth questioning as the elevator comes to a stop and the doors open. “Yeah, okay, sure.” If that’s what he wants to do, who are you to stop him?

An achingly familiar voice calls out your name as you and Seiji step into the top floor lobby. The smile that overtakes you in response is automatic once you see Shouto already waiting for you.

“Shouto.” You practically breathe his name, and it would be pathetic if there was anyone else around aside from Shouto, who’s, frankly, as dense as a brick at times, and Seiji, your boss’s dorky intern. Before you can do something stupid like staring at his toned forearms, you forcibly peel your eyes away from the sliver of skin at his throat left uncovered by his hero suit and look up at Seiji. “Can you make it to UA from here, Nakamura?” Your voice is higher than usual. “I don’t want you getting on the wrong train.”

Seiji smiles a little too wide. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Turning to Shouto again, you nod towards his office. “Should we…?” You could just as easily hand him the file and leave with Seiji, go back to work, return the dozen phone calls you still have to make, and check to see if everything is still going smoothly in your short absence, but you’re rooted in place under Shouto’s fond gaze. You’ve missed him more than you care to admit—Katsuki too—and now that he’s in front of you, you can’t just walk away.

More than that, there’s something you need to discuss. The thought makes your stomach flip anxiously.

Shouto seems to relax at your suggestion and gestures for you to follow him as he turns toward his office. You wave to Seiji over your shoulder and are vaguely aware of him taking a seat in one of the leather chairs situated in the lobby area.

You shut the door behind you.

“I believe this is yours,” you say as you pull the folder from your bag and hold it out for him.

Shouto gives you a small smile. “Thank you.”

“How’s the case going?” you ask, gesturing to the file you’ve handed over. The two of you easily slip into a familiar routine as Shouto settles himself behind his desk and you lean against the side of it before hoisting yourself up to sit on the glass surface. “I was a little surprised when you called in Izuku and Katsuki for help. The last time the three of you worked together like this was…”

“Operation Vermillion,” he finishes for you, thumbing through the stack of papers. “That was right after we opened our agencies. I remember you leading the briefing.” His blue-grey eyes flicker to yours, and his smile widens a fraction. “My old man tried to give you trouble, and you shut him down. I’d never seen him so shocked before.”

Humming, you start to smile as well. “He never did like me much.” It’s a perfect segway into what you need to discuss with him, though you wish it wasn’t.

You lean back on your hands, watching silently as he idly flips through the files from Izuku. That knot in your stomach tightens. Your gaze shifts to the aged burn scar covering his left eye. Just another reminder of Endeavor. It makes you sick to think about, and this is the last thing you want to talk about right now, but you know he deserves to hear it before Friday night. Even so, your tongue feels thick and heavy in your mouth.

Clearing your throat, you wait until he looks at you to speak. “I figured I should let you know that Endeavor will be at the charity gala.” Your gaze holds steady as you say it, gauging his reaction.

Predictably, Shouto stiffens. It’s slight. Anyone else probably wouldn’t notice it. Shouto’s always been good at burying his emotions and acting like he doesn’t care. But you can read him. And you’re close enough to hear him inhale sharper than normal. The tense line of his broad shoulders and the nearly imperceptible twitch of his fingers are your only warning before the temperature in the office drops drastically.

Goosebumps prickle across your bare arms, and you shiver reflexively. The ghost of your breath clouds the air as you exhale, but you don’t move from your spot on his desk even as frost begins to creep across the glass. It branches outward from his palm, slow and sluggish, and you wonder if he realizes he’s even using his quirk.

The ice stops just shy of your fingertips. A heavy sigh falls from his lips. Your eyes flicker back to his only to find him already staring at you apologetically.

“I expected as much,” he tells you, a bitter tinge to his voice. When Shouto smiles, it’s rueful and nothing short of sarcastic. “It would look bad in the eyes of the public for the former number one Hero not to be there.”

You hum your agreement, having said as much to Izuku earlier. The temperature begins to rise again, and the thin layer of frost on the desk melts and evaporates before it can make a mess. You watch him carefully as you pick at a spot of lint on your dress. “How have things been lately?” you ask casually. “Between you and him.”

Shouto is silent for a moment that seems to stretch on for hours, seemingly frozen behind his desk as he stares at his reflection in the glass. What he’s seeing there, you don’t know, but the torrent of emotions that flicker in his eyes makes your chest feel tight. It’s melancholy. Resignation. Bitterness. A dozen other things that come and disappear so quickly that you couldn’t put a name to them even if you tried.

An incessant need to pull him close buries itself inside you and takes root. You can feel it in your throat, choking you, urging you to move, but for now you ignore it.

“He’s… trying,” Shouto settles with. “But…” Those mismatched eyes hesitate before they meet yours, and you’re struck by just how exhausted he looks. Sighing, he stands and glances away from you, looking out the large window overlooking the city. “I don’t know,” he finishes bluntly, eyes finding you again. “It’s difficult. I understand that he’s trying, but I still…” he trails off again and shakes his head.

Shouto walks around the edge of his desk to stand in front of you, close enough that his leg brushes against your knee. His palms settle on either side of you, boxing you in, and heat creeps along your spine as you tilt your head to maintain eye contact with him.

Like last time, the scent of his cologne tickles at your senses. Automatically, you lean in closer, lulled by the heat rolling off of him in gentle waves. Shouto doesn’t pull away, and like always you’re pinned in place as those mesmerizing eyes stare down at you.

He wets his lips, and you unintentionally follow the movement with your eyes. “Izuku thinks I should forgive him,” Shouto tells you, voice lower than before. Deeper. His thumb brushes against your bare leg, just above your knee. It’s freezing to the touch and you swallow your gasp. “He says it would bring me peace.” The heat of his breath tickles your skin.

“Oh?” It takes more willpower than you thought to keep your voice even.

A low sound rumbles in the back of his throat. His thumb taps against your leg again, flirting with the hem of your skirt. Shouto’s eyes stay locked on yours. “Bakugou says I should tell him to shove it up his ass.” The faintest hint of a smile tugs at the edge of his mouth.

That doesn’t surprise you. Katsuki can be too blunt for his own good at times. He and Shouto are both like that. Clearly, you have a type, and it’s fogging your brain a little how close he is. A little voice in the back of your head that sounds suspiciously like Mina whispers how easy it would be to close that distance and pull him down to you, how good it would feel to have those hands of his sliding across your skin.

Now isn’t the time for that though.

“And what do you think?” you ask him in a voice barely above a whisper. His hand stills beside you, and the burning chill makes you shiver again. Surprise flickers in his eyes as he peers down at you through his bangs. “This isn’t about Izuku or Katsuki,” you remind him. “What do you want to do, Sho?”

Shouto inhales sharply as you move. Your fingers find his left hand, still pressed to the glass, and slowly your palm slides up his arm until you’re gripping his bicep just like the other day. An anchor. Like he did before, you allow your thumb to rub slow, soothing circles against the tense muscle beneath your fingertips. In response, his right hand shifts so that he’s gripping your thigh in his palm, long fingers wrapping around you and squeezing.

“I don’t think I’m ready to accept him,” he admits, voice just as soft as yours.

“And that’s okay,” you tell him, brushing his hair away from his eyes with your free hand. Gentle fingers ghost against his cheek and the curve of his jaw, and you allow your hand to linger there, tilting his chin to better meet his eyes. Shouto leans into you. “You don’t have to do anything. It’s not your job to forgive him.” When he looks like he wants to argue you squeeze his arm, pinning him with a harsh stare. “It doesn’t make you less of a Hero.”

That strikes a chord with him. Shouto’s eyes stay locked on yours, refusing to budge as he searches your gaze. For what, you don’t know, but you hope he finds it. His grip on your leg grows tighter, a little bit colder, and you think about the ice that covered his desk without him realizing it. But he’d never hurt you. You know that more than anything.

And then, quietly, “Okay.”

The tension slowly drains from his shoulders as the two of you stay like that. The soft pad of your thumb rubs against his cheek, and you absently stroke the high point of the bone just under his eye. Shouto leans into your hand, lips pressing against your palm in what isn’t quite a kiss, but something close. In response, you squeeze his upper arm before letting go. There’s a noise of protest bubbling in the back of his throat, but your hand reaching up to cradle the left side of his jaw silences him before it can slip out entirely.

With your finger you trace the edge of his scar, smooth with age and familiar under your gentle touch. You try not to think too hard about the way he’s looking at you or the heat of his breath on your forearm. Raw instinct begs you to do something—anything. To lean in. To draw him down to you. To sink your fingers into his hair and pull.

Instead you smile and hope he can’t hear how fast your heart is beating. “If you ever need to hide a body, you can call me,” you joke, because you aren’t sure what else to say. You just want to make him feel better.

Shouto’s chuckle is low and throaty and it sends a shock down your spine. “Oh? Is that so?” He shifts his weight to his other leg but is careful not to dislodge your hands from his face. And you can’t bring yourself to release him either.

Your thumb brushes against his scar again, and you say, “I know a guy.”

His head tilts to the side, and he raises an eyebrow at you, clearly amused. “You do remember what my occupation is, correct?”

You should stop holding him like this—intimately—but the way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you have the whole damn world in your hands, and how could you possibly let that go?

“Are you going to arrest me, Hero?”

Shouto shakes his head, a small but genuine smile tugging at his lips. “You are so…” He sighs as he trails off, and you’re surprised when he releases your leg to wind his arm around you instead, pulling you into his chest. You go willingly. Tucking your head under his chin, your hands leave his face to wrap around him, returning the embrace. His heart beats loud beneath your ear, as strong and steady as his hands.

His lips find the crown of your head and his hand slides up your back so that he’s cupping the nape of your neck. “Thank you, love,” he murmurs against your hair, too quiet for you to hear.

You aren’t sure how long the two of you sit like that, but the next time you speak your lips brush against the cold buckle holding together the collar of his hero suit. “You don’t have to talk to him at the gala,” you remind him, returning to your initial conversation. The mention of Endeavor is sobering, and you hear him sigh above you. “And if he tries to talk to you, I can be your human shield.”

The offer makes him hum. “My human shield, huh? Will you have time for that on top of everything Izuku has you doing?” His thumb rubs against the back of your neck absentmindedly.

You shrug. “I can make time for one of my favorite Heroes,” you tease him, tightening your grip around his waist.

He stiffens. “I see,” Shouto murmurs. His fingers are still against the back of your neck, and you could swear you feel the heat of his hand begin to grow. “And what about Bakugou?” There’s an edge to his voice that you almost don’t notice, but when it registers, you pull your head from his chest with a small frown.

Jealousy. That’s what it is, you realize as your eyes seek out his.

Your traitor heart practically skips at the mere mention of the other hero. Right, Katsuki. That’s another thing you have to figure out. Not for the first time you think about Momo’s suggestion. This time, though, you don’t force it away just as quickly as it comes. A part of you is desperate to know if it would work between the three of you, if it’s worth the risk. Because you can’t keep holding Shouto like this if you won’t do something about it. It’s not fair to Shouto or Katsuki to keep dancing around things.

But then your thoughts go back to the gala, and your stomach drops when you remember how much you still have to do, how much pressure you’re under, and how important it is that this event goes as planned. No slip-ups. No disasters. And absolutely no messy relationship drama.

It just has to wait until after Friday night.

“What about him?” you ask, hoping your voice isn’t higher than usual.

His expression shifts, his brows furrowing as he looks down at you. “I thought—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. Your stomach drops as he starts to unwrap himself from your frame. “Nevermind. It’s nothing.”

You’re left overwhelmingly cold as he slips away, and you follow him without meaning to, sliding off the desk and landing back on your feet. “Shouto?”

He avoids your eyes as he reaches for the file sitting on his desk. “Thank you. For dropping this off.” Shouto hesitates before he looks at you again, swallowing thickly, but then his expression goes carefully blank. “You didn’t have to go out of your way.”

Your heels click against the tile as you take a step towards him. “What do you mean?” A frown forms on your lips, confusion sweeping through you at the turn in conversation.

Whatever was going through his head a moment ago seems to have disappeared. Shouto peers down at you with a puzzled look. “Midoriya was going to give this back to me tonight,” he explains. You nod, having already known that. “He called and told me you offered to drop it off on your way home. He said you have a half day.” Shouto’s expression softens. “That’s good. You’ve been working too hard.”

“Oh. Did he?” A half day. Amazing how Izuku neglected to mention that little detail to you earlier. It seems like you’re due to have a little chat with your boss. You glance at the door to see a familiar head of dark hair duck out of sight and your eyes narrow when you realize Seiji has been waiting here the entire time. So much for going back to the dorms. “Well, I should get going,” you say, gathering your things. “I don’t want to bother you.”

Besides, apparently it’s your day off.

He’s shaking his head before you’ve even finished, expression nothing but sincere. “You never do,” he says as he walks you to his office door. And then, softer, “I like when you stop by.”

Your chest tightens at the admission. “I’ll see you Friday,” you tell him as he opens the door for you. There’s so much more you want to tell him, but now just isn’t the right time.

Shouto’s palm presses against your lower back and you readily relax into his touch, glancing up at him. Heat sinks into your skin and radiates through you until you can feel it everywhere at once, all consuming. “Save me a dance?” he asks, his breath tickling your ear.

Smiling, you nod. “Of course.”

“I’m telling you, Ochako, Izuku is scheming something.” You glance at her from across the table, idly stirring your drink, and your eyes narrow when you notice she’s biting her lip to keep from laughing at your assertion. “This isn’t funny, I’m being serious!”

This time she does laugh. “This is Deku we’re talking about,” she reminds you, waving off your concerns as she picks at her food. “You really think he would do something like that?”

“If he thought it was the right thing to do, yes. He’s kind of nosy.”

You ended up calling Izuku directly after leaving Shouto’s office, only waiting until you saw Seiji racing around the corner to get to the train station and frantically texting on his phone to dial your boss. He picked up on the second ring, like he’d been waiting for your call. It wouldn’t surprise you if he was. You could barely get a word in before he was babbling something about you deserving the rest of the day off and to do something fun before you were abruptly hung up on, only furthering your suspicions.

Hence, you called Ochako. Though, you’re beginning to regret that decision.

“I don’t know,” she drawls, quirking a skeptical eyebrow. “You seem to think people are much more invested in your love life than they really are.”

You scowl. “Oh, don’t give me that bullshit when you and Mina interrogated me the other night.” Not invested in your love life, your ass. You were perfectly fine ignoring your feelings until they brought up a threesome. Now, it’s the only thing you can think about. “Besides, why else would Izuku have his intern spy on me while I was talking to Shouto today?”

“I seriously doubt he was spying on you.”

“Izuku told us two different stories about why I was dropping off that file. That’s not exactly subtle.” For a Pro Hero it was a pretty lame move, if you’re being honest. “And Nakamura sat outside Sho’s office for like fifteen minutes while we talked. And he insisted on walking me up to his office. That doesn’t seem odd to you?”

Ochako shrugs. “Maybe he has a crush on you?” The suggestion makes you blanche and she backtracks. “I just don’t think Izuku would actively try to spy on you and Todoroki. That’s a little weird, even for him.”

“Maybe you’re right,” you reply, propping your elbow up on the table and resting your chin in your palm.

“See?” Ochako reaches across the table to pat the back of your hand, offering you a sunny smile. “Besides, even if Deku was trying to spy on you guys, you know he’s only doing it because he cares about you guys. He’d never try to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

“I know, I know. I just… I don’t get why, you know? According to you I’m incredibly obvious and Izuku already knows they like me, so I don’t understand why he’d go out of his way to make me see Shouto today unless—” Eyes wide, your gaze snaps to Ochako and you gasp, betrayed. “Did you tell him something about the other night?”

She almost chokes on her drink. “No!” she says just a little too loudly, drawing a few curious eyes their way. Ochako flushes and plays with her chopsticks as you continue to stare her down. “Maybe,” she relents, “but not on purpose! Like I told you the other night, Todoroki and Bakugou have been fighting because they’re jealous idiots, and Deku didn’t know what to do, and it just kind of slipped out, I’m sorry!” The apology in her eyes melts into a more curious look. “Anyway, have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

You sigh and shake your head, picking at your food. “Not yet.” Ochako makes a disgruntled sound, and you pout, glaring at her half-heartedly. “In case you don’t remember, I’ve been extremely busy planning a major event with little warning. I barely have time to eat, let alone seduce two men.”

Seducing just one of them seems like a daunting task. Katsuki is the more open flirt between the two of them, but he tends to clam up whenever you even hint at returning that affection, so actively trying anything could send him running. And Shouto can be difficult to pin down, if his open affection earlier today is anything to go by. He’s usually more reserved; the last thing you want is to scare him away.

“Oh, I don’t think you’d have much trouble trying to seduce them.” Across the table, Ochako’s smile becomes sly. “I mean, they’re both pretty blunt, right? So if you just went up and asked if they wanted to have sex they’d probably say yes. You’re just being a chicken!”

“I am not!” you argue, offended. “I just need this gala to be over before I worry about my love life. That’s all.” It’s been your mantra since girl’s night. Just a few more days. Everything will work out.

She snorts. “You keep saying that, but then you go and cuddle up with Todoroki in his office.”

“It wasn’t cuddling,” you correct her not for the first time today. “It was just a hug because we were talking about his dad.” A very long and intense hug that kind of made you want to let him have his way with you right then and there, but still a hug.

Ochako doesn’t look impressed. “Prolonged physical contact counts as cuddling.”

You throw down your chopsticks and cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. “Ugh, why did I call you?” You’re pouting, you know, but it’s hard not to when you can see her blatant amusement over your suffering. Why are all of your friends so mean to you?

She blows you a kiss. “You love me!”

Damn right you do.

Before she can keep heckling you over the complicated situation that is your love life, a familiar, gruff voice shouts, “Oi! Sweetcheeks!” from across the cafe. You stiffen in your seat as heat rushes through you, leaving you feeling uncomfortably hot. You blame it on the eyes that have shifted to look at you and not the disgustingly attractive Pro Hero stomping towards you.

You don’t dare to look at him as he approaches, sure you’ll turn into a stuttering fool if you do. “Katsuki, what have I told you about calling me that in public?” The correct answer is “not to.”

He scoffs, and you finally force yourself to look at him. He’s already glaring down at you. Why? You have no idea, but you match his look, holding his intense ruby gaze with a stare of your own. It’s a challenge. One he usually takes. But you’re surprised when he drops his gaze first and glares at the floor instead. “Whatever,” he grumbles, cheeks a little pink.

You’re a bit put out by the distinct lack of any flirty comments or obvious—according to Mina—bedroom eyes, but before you can ask what’s wrong, someone else cuts in.

“Oh, hey, guys!”

It’s only then that you realize Kirishima is there too, and you’re only a little embarrassed about that.

But Kiri, bless him, is either entirely oblivious to you not noticing his presence, or just decides to roll with it anyway. He really is too good for the rest of you. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, too!” His smile is wide and toothy as he rubs the back of his head, careful not to dislodge the bandana holding his hair back. “Midoriya suggested we stop by for lunch, what a coincidence, huh? I gotta say, it looks like a nice place. Hopefully we don’t get kicked out because of this guy.” He jerks a thumb in Katsuki’s direction, electing a sour look from the cranky man.

Your eyes widen as Kiri mentions Izuku, and you shoot Ochako a look that she ignores. Kirishima and Ochako begin to chat about the cafe, but you stop listening.

Okay, now you’re almost positive you’re being set up. The cafe isn’t anywhere near their agency, and it’s more than a little suspicious that they just happened to show up while you and Ochako are here. Coincidences, your ass. You should have known better than to trust Ochako. Of course, she and Izuku would be in cahoots. Assholes.

You glare at Ochako one more time before allowing yourself to stare unabashedly at Katsuki instead. He isn’t looking at any of you, instead choosing to glare at something across the cafe and pretend the rest of you don’t exist. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead using the rare moment to just look at him.

Katsuki is nothing short of eye-candy, though you never really get the chance to appreciate just how damn hot he is without the chance of being teased mercilessly in front of other people. Even now, you can see Ochako biting her lip to keep from laughing at you, but really who can blame you for just wanting to ogle him a little? Katsuki is by far one of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen. Years of training and fighting have covered him in lean muscle, and his features have become sharper since you were teenagers.

He’s nothing short of someone’s wet dream, and he damn well knows it, too.

Your eyes drag down his bare biceps slowly, silently thanking whatever gods are out there for his aversion to anything with sleeves. You stare a little longer before your eyes trail back up, lingering a moment on those broad shoulders before moving higher.

Red eyes stare back at you, and you almost choke on your spit.

Katsuki’s eyes narrow.

Like the hero he is, Kiri chooses that exact moment to turn to you in excitement. “Hey, how has the event planning been going?” His interest is nothing but sincere, and you can’t help but smile. “It sucks that we missed you this weekend, but hopefully afterwards you’ll have more free time, yeah? It’s super manly of you to take on all of this by yourself!”

“It’s going well, Kiri. Thanks for—”

“I need to talk to you,” Katsuki cuts you off, scowling. He shoves his hands into his pockets, when you don’t move.

You blink back at him, baffled. “What?” He rolls his eyes at your confusion. “Katsuki, I’m kind of in the middle of—Katsuki!” You call after him, gaping as he just turns around and walks away from you, heading towards the back of the cafe.

“Hurry up, angel face!” he calls over his shoulder without stopping.

The pet name makes you flush. You glance at your friends, noticing their similarly dumbfounded yet amused expressions. “Ochako?” You aren’t sure if you should apologize or not as you cast another look at Katsuki just in time to see him round a corner.

She waves you off. “Take your time! Have fun!”

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you slip out of your chair and hurry after Katsuki. If you take any longer, he’ll probably bitch about it. Though, you are curious about what he wants, especially if he decided it’s something he can’t say in front of Ochako and Kirishima.

A less than PG thought flashes in your mind, but you force it away just as quickly, fighting down a blush.

You turn the same corner that he did, finding yourself in a dim hallway that has you searching for your favorite head of spiky hair. A hand lashes out, grabbing you by the arm. You gasp as you’re suddenly spun around so that your back is pressed flush up against the nearest wall. Just as quickly, a large pair of hands slap against the wallpaper on either side of you, boxing you in.

A pair of red eyes glare down at you, closer than before. Your breath catches, and your hands press against a well-muscled chest automatically. There’s hardly any space left between the two of you, but Katsuki manages to close that short distance even more until your bodies are just barely brushing against each other. It sets your nerves on fire, all of your senses suddenly attune to him.

He speaks before you can ask him what the hell he’s doing. “Damn Deku said you went to see Icy Hot today,” he practically growls against your ear. His breath fans against your cheek and you shudder.

It takes you a second to collect yourself, overwhelmed by the feel of his chest rising and falling beneath your fingertips. “I dropped off a file with Shouto, yes,” your voice trembles a little, but not because of anything like fear. No, you’re just stupid and horny and he’s close enough for you to smell the heavy caramel scent that clings to him because of his quirk.

You were already more riled up than you’d ever dare to admit out loud, and the heat rolling off of his body paired with the way he’s pinning you between his broad chest and the wall is doing things to you.

Whatever you were expecting from him, it certainly wasn’t this.

He huffs. “Figures,” he sneers, lip curling back. His eyes shift from yours to glare at the wall, and without his gaze on you you find you can breathe again. It only makes you more aware of the knee that’s pressed against the outside of your thigh. “Bastard would do it first,” he grumbles under his breath. You wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t pressed up against you like this.

“Excuse me?” Your mouth is dry. Your tongue is thick and heavy. And the heat radiating from him is making you dizzy. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize that, just like Shouto earlier, he’s jealous. Though where it made Shouto pull away from you, it only made Katsuki bolder than usual.

“Ask you to be his date to this stupid fucking thing.” His eyes snap back to yours for just a second before they’re raking down your body just like the other day at the agency. He leans in a little closer. “Ask you to dance.”

How does he know about that? “Katsuki?”

When you don’t deny it, he makes a low sound in the back of his throat that has heat pooling low in your stomach. Your fingers fist in his tank top. Katsuki’s lips brush against the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Guess, I’ll just have to remind you that I’m better than Icy Hot.”

As turned on as you are right now, the mention of their stupid rivalry makes you want to roll your eyes.

“Katsuki,” you say again. He’s so close that this time you notice the faintest hitch in his breathing at the way you say his name, sweet as honey. Despite the way your heart is pounding in your chest, you can’t resist the urge to tease him. “If you want me to save you a dance, all you have to do is ask.”

“Tch.” His lips brush against your jaw, barely grazing your skin. “Who’d wanna to dance with you anyway?” Katsuki is slow to lean back again, but only enough to meet your eyes.

You breathe a laugh. “You’re such a grouch.” Tilting your head to the side, you lean in close enough to press a sweet, fleeting kiss against his cheek. Katsuki freezes, sucking in a harsh breath. “I’ll see you Friday?” you ask, sliding your palms down his chest.

He lurches away just as your fingers reach his stomach, edging closer to his belt. “Whatever, sweetcheeks,” he huffs, not meeting your eyes.

Katsuki shoves away from the wall and stomps away without looking back at you once, but you still manage to catch a glimpse of his pink cheeks and the tiny smile he’s trying to hide as he disappears back into the main dining area. He’s flustered, and satisfaction floods through you at the mere thought of leaving him all hot and bothered.

Maybe Ochako was right. This seduction thing might be easier than you thought.

That night, Katsuki leans back in his chair, nursing a drink and only half-listening to Kirishima telling a story to Kaminari, Jirou, and Mina. He stopped paying attention after his first drink, annoyed at being the fifth wheel among his friends, but he only has himself to blame for it.

He was supposed to meet up with Midoriya and Todoroki tonight to go over a case—the same fucking one they went to talk about last week only for it to turn into an argument. That was his fault too, not that he’ll ever admit it. He shouldn’t have cancelled tonight either, but Icy Hot backed out first, and the last way he wanted to spend his night off was listening to fucking Deku give him relationship advice.

The memory of your lips on his cheek makes his skin itch, and he scowls over the rim of his drink as he thinks about that Icy Hot bastard asking you to save him a dance at the stupid party coming up.

The sound of his name draws him out of his stupor.

“Ugh, finally,” an intoxicated Mina slurs, cuddling up closer against Kirishima’s side. “It’s about time one of them made a move. I thought for sure she’d be the one to do it after what she said on girl’s night, but I’m proud of them for finally doing something about it. Usually Bakugou and Todoroki are more emotionally constipated than that.” Apparently, she doesn’t remember that one of said emotionally constipated men is sitting right across from her. Or maybe she doesn’t care. Mina tends to say whatever the hell she wants when she drinks. No filter at all. Mina heaves an over-dramatic sigh. “If those three would just fuck already.”

Katsuki chokes on his drink. Wild, red eyes lock on Mina across the table. “What the hell are you talkin’ about raccoon eyes?” he finally manages to sputter out.

Kirishima and Kaminari look equally as shocked, and Jirou’s face has gone pale, frozen in horror.

And Mina, with no filter or hesitation, looks Katsuki dead in the eyes and says, “Just how Yuna wants to fuck you and Todoroki.”

“Mina!” Jirou snaps, glaring at her furiously and shaking her head. A silent conversation passes between the girls and then Mina gasps, covering her mouth with her hands when her brain finally catches up with her mouth.

A very tipsy Kaminari glances down at his frazzled girlfriend before he blinks and turns to Mina instead. “Like… at the same time or…?” he trails off.

“Don’t answer that!” Jirou lurches forward and slaps a hand over Mina’s mouth as she starts to answer. Despite being unable to speak, the other girl nods behind Jirou’s hand, happily spilling her friend’s sexual fantasies.

Kaminari’s question is like a punch in the gut to Katsuki, but the wave of interest and arousal that crashes over him is unexpected.

Jirou groans and peels her hand away from Mina’s mouth. “Fuck, she’s gonna kill us later.” She shoots a withering glare at Katsuki. “Look, Bakugou, you can’t tease her about this, okay? She’s stressed enough about liking both of you dumb assholes, and if you make her feel bad for it, I’ll make sure Denki lights your ass up like a Christmas tree.”

“I will?” Kaminari asks. Jirou glares at him too. “I mean, yeah I will!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Katsuki grumbles, staring down at his drink. He’s never been shy about wanting to fuck you, and he’s known for years that Icy Hot wants to fuck you too, but he could never figure out which one of them you wanted to fuck. Apparently, it’s both of them.

He can work with that.

Katsuki waits until the conversation shifts to something else he’s not interested in to pull his phone out of his pocket and find a specific name in his recent texts. He keeps the message short and vague, glancing over it once before hitting send.

‘Yo, Icy Hot. We need to talk.'

#todoroki shouto x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #todoroki x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou x reader x todoroki #todoroki x reader x bakugou #todoroki shouto #bakugou katsuki #bnha x reader #mha x reader #nbha #mha #fic: some like it hot

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slasherholic · 4 years

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(psst... did someone say Mikey whump? guys I think someone said Mikey whump…)

Frisky February Prompt: Electricity~ (yes it’s 15 days too early shush) @slashthedice

synopsis: Michael gets served up some nasty, nasty revenge by someone who really, really has it out for him.

warnings: torture in a medical setting, sexual assault, mikey has a bad time ok

foreword: the opinions expressed here by the POV character about certain sensitive topics in no way reflect my own beliefs <3

No Faith in Medicine | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW

The hospital corridor is long and grey and stretches onward toward a single bolted door, labeled by the rectangular sign hanging above it as Therapy Theater No. 5.

This deep within the bowels of the sanitarium, below the patient wards and the enrichment centers and the checkered courtyard, there is hardly any of the familiar clamour; so as you stride closer to the door the clack of your bootheels over the beige linoleum carries like thunder.

Smith’s Grove was never the sort of place you had pictured yourself ending up during all those sleepless nights studying for your Ph.D, and truthfully, you can’t stand it here. The deliberate blandness of the hospital, with its color palettes limited to inoffensive whites and blues and greys—meticulously designed so as not to provoke its residents—wears on you more than anything else.

You feel like you’re suffocating here; but it doesn’t matter.

This job was never about you to begin with. It was never about some commendable interest in the healing of troubled minds, either; oh-no. There are two-hundred-and-forty-nine permanent patients living inside these sound-proof walls, and while it may not be a very doctorly thing to admit, you don’t give a rat’s ass about two-hundred-and-forty-eight of them.

...and as for that last “troubled mind,” well…

The breezy summer afternoon that Michael Myers was sentenced to life imprisonment exists in your head as vividly as a snapshot picture.

Almost as vivid is your memory of the Halloween that a policeman had come knocking at your front door to inform you in a strictly-business-voice that your sister was found dead in her kitchen, her throat slit open from ear to ear.

You remember watching from your couch as the gavel came down and the judge ruled the man who had taken your sister’s life away as criminally insane—and not responsible for his actions on that fateful October night—and therefor not legally a candidate for the death penalty.

You remember the burning, frustrated tears streaming down your face, the shatter of glass as you hurled the remote at the television screen, and then sinking down in a heap on the floor and screaming until your lungs were raw and your voice was in tatters, because it wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair.

So when the news came out that Myers was to be transferred back to Smith’s Grove—hardly a forty minute commute from your own house—you had been out the door that very same day, speeding in your car down the highway, ready to accept any available position the Sanitarium would offer you for your credentials.

It had been your one shot at revenge on the sick, evil fucker who had ruined your happiness; and you were prepared to move heaven and earth just to bring Myers hell.

It had taken eight months before you even laid eyes on the man for the first time.

You’d landed yourself a patient therapy position, but only had the clearance to treat patients who fell under the “medium” and “high-risk” categories. In the entire hospital there were only two patients who fell under the third and final category: a spitting lunatic of a man, who couldn’t be safely approached without first being drugged half-asleep with antipsychotics...

...and Myers.

You had possessed the patience of a saint, climbing through promotion after promotion.

And the very minute that you were handed back a fresh copy of your I.D, now with a little red stamp at the bottom, the stamp that meant you were cleared to work with Myers, you had raced down to the front desk to file your recommendation for treatment.

Three days later, after hours of debriefing by Dr. Ashton, Myers’ new court-assigned psychiatrist, you came face to face with the worst criminal the sanitarium had ever known.

You had seen Myers’ face pictured in black and white on newspaper articles and in fuzzy low-definition on T.V.

And absolutely none of that could have prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh.

The thing that had startled you most when you were led by Dr. Ashton into Michael’s barren, cramped room—the thing that practically had you reeling when your eyes fell on the motionless figure sitting on the cot in the corner, chained at the wrists and ankles by a metal link fastened to the floor—the thing you still despise yourself for thinking—

—is that Myers was jaw-droppingly, stunningly handsome.

His were the kind of ethereal good looks that you might expect to find in some renaissance painting, or a Grecian statue, or a fantasy book.

You had stood staring across the room at the motionless young man, drinking in all the features of his vacant, pretty face; overcome by complete and total disbelief that this was actually the person responsible for all your grief.

And the very next second, that disbelief was shattered like a dropped vase; when you looked into Myers’ stare.

It brought down the temperature in the room like a cold-snap. It was not directed at you, only at the floor, yet it had you shuddering anyway, had all the hairs on your arms standing straight up. It was not a lights-on-but-nobody-home sort of gaze, the kind you were expecting from how Myers had been described by his former psychiatrist. His face was blank, yes; that was accurate enough.

But his eyes, they were the furthest thing from it.

Michael Myers had the eyes of a ruthless, calculating, viciously deliberate predator.

The longer you had stood there, gawking at Myers as if he were a tiger in a cage, hardly listening to Dr. Ashton’s rambling about his admiration of your interest in his patient’s treatment, the more you became aware of the charge crackling in the air; like the moment in a thunderstorm just before lightning rips through the sky. It was as if every fiber in your body could sense the danger radiating from this man; you could all but see and smell the invisible blood staining his hands.

It had turned your vision into a seething cloud of red.

Here was a murderer—the worst kind of murderer, who was perfectly, undoubtedly aware of his crimes, a fact you could tell from just his eyes—who carried in his heart not a single shred of remorse for the lives he’d ripped away. Who, when he was unable to kill, had resigned himself to sitting and anticipating the day when he might once again have his hands around a warm throat, the day when he would pick right back up where he left off and take another life as carelessly and thoughtlessly as one snuffing out a candle.

And this man had been allowed to keep breathing.

You think of all these things as you reach the end of the corridor and swipe your I.D card on the door to Therapy Theater No.5. Hidden locking mechanisms whirr and click open.

You place your hand around the cool metal handle. For a moment, you just stand there. Feeling your pounding heart in your chest.

It pounds not because you are fearful; you don’t care if you get caught because of what you are about to do. You don’t care if you get fired, or if you get your license taken away, or even if you go to jail. Those are the most trivial, unimportant things in the world. No. Your heart does not pound for those reasons.

It pounds because, finally, there will be justice.

Finally, the evil son-of-a-bitch who slaughtered your sister is getting what he deserved all along.

And you get to be the one to flip the switch.

You turn the door handle and step into the room.

Therapy Theater No.5 is bathed in bright fluorescent light and smells strongly of antiseptic and sterilization. Three people are already in the room: two armed guards, who nod in acknowledgment at you when you enter.

And laid out at the center across a white padded table, dressed in a pale blue hospital gown, strapped tightly down at the wrists and ankles by hospital-grade cuffs, looking up at the ceiling as if utterly uncaring, motionless save for the rise and fall of his ribs—Myers.

A nurse had come in before you to prepare the room for treatment. The therapy you’re meant to be administering is simple and painless: electrodes are fixed to the patient’s body and a weak electrical current is passed through, stimulating choice muscle groups—and in more recent cases, even parts of the brain.

You had emphasized that part specifically in your pitch of the therapy to Dr. Ashton, referencing a study which showed how violent tendencies could be soothed in patients who underwent the treatment.

And no, you’d reassured him, it was nothing like electroconvulsive therapy.

The electrical current used in E.S.T is never strong enough to induce seizures. The only thing the subject feels is a mild, if not pleasant, buzz...

·…or at least that’s how it’s meant to be administered.

Tampering with the wattage of the machine had turned out to be laughably easy. A few snipped wires here, a few crunched numbers there, and now the bulky device sitting atop the roll-around table beside your “patient” can deliver a shock nastier than a taser with every throw of the switch.

It’s not strong enough to stop a human heart (god, you wish.) But it is enough to make Myers hurt.

Enough to make him writhe on that table.

Maybe even enough to make the heartless bastard feel something for a change.

You thank the guards before dismissing them. They leave the room but you know they won’t go far; no further than right outside in the hall, waiting through the entire session with their hands on their batons in case Myers gets out of hand.

Their security would be a welcome thing, if you were actually about to /treat/ Myers instead of torturing the living daylights out of him. But now, the guards are just another problem in need of a solution.

Though you are almost confident that Myers will retain his silence throughout the ordeal—that he’ll uphold his veil of distance and aloofness and total lack of care with the stubbornness of an ass—you’re not about to bet your shot at justice on it.

That’s what the ball gag in your coat pocket is for.

Reaching down to check that it is still there, excitement swells in your belly as your fingers graze the black silicone.

On the table, Myers is still motionless. He doesn’t tilt his head to regard you. He pays you no attention at all, in fact, as if you aren’t even there to begin with. Never do his steely eyes move from their fixed place on the ceiling light hanging above him.

As you walk up to the roll-around table, plucking a pair of latex gloves from a box stashed on the shelf beneath before snapping them curtly on, for a reason that you can’t put into words, you find yourself hesitating to look Myers in the face.

It doesn’t matter that he’s restrained; it doesn’t matter that there are two armed and capable guards standing watch right outside. Despite both these things, that vitriolic, charged aura you had felt in his cell still surrounds him now, polluting the room, hanging like a storm cloud over your head.

It’s as if some submissive animal instinct has gripped your brain and now screams warnings at you: Predator. Danger. Don’t look it in the eye. Don’t provoke it.

You do your damndest to dismiss the feeling as nerves.

In a little white tray next to the E.S.T machine sits a filled syringe; a sedative. Dr. Ashton has insisted on it to better ensure your safety, as well as Myers’ cooperation. In the psychiatrist’s exact words:

“These days Michael is, ah, fussier about this kind of treatment—you know, the kind they gotta bring in the guards for, the needles, the cuffs, the whole nine-yards.

It’s a theory of mine that, after living with the sort of power Michael did, the loss of his own control doesn’t sit as nicely anymore. He doesn’t like it. And he’s not afraid to let us know just how much he doesn’t like it.”

Fussy. That was the word Ashton had used to describe Myers.

It had taken every shred of self-control you possessed not to scoff in the Doctor’s face at that; as if the man laid out before you now were some sort of stubborn, overgrown toddler, and not a remorseless, murderous psychopath.

You don’t spare the sedative a second glance as you unravel the bundle of wires and nodes connected to the E.S.T machine; Myers is going to be awake to feel every goddamned second of what you do to him.

Only after you’re finished with him will you finally send him under.

You can picture the conversation with Ashton now: Yes sir, the sedative worked like a charm, he was out like a light the entire time; no sir, no complications at all.

You take your time setting up the machine because you’re still hesitant to even look at Myers, let alone touch him. But when the wires are all connected, the red power button flashing idly in standby, there is nothing left to do except attach the electrodes.

You force yourself to look him in the face as you approach. You should not be afraid of this man; you should resent him, should despise him, but should not fear him. He doesn’t deserve to hold that sort of power over you, or anyone else, ever again.

So you look.

Michael is still watching the ceiling. According to his eyes, he does not acknowledge you.

But just from how the hair on your nape stands on end you know you’re being watched.

Myers is regarding you coolly in his periphery with the curiosity of a feline, feigning detachment and disinterest; but the weight and pressure of that penetrating gaze could not be more obvious if it were a ton of bricks coming right down on your head.

With a deep breath to rein in your resolve, you reach down, your fingers working to undo the first knot on Myers’ hospital gown.

Quickly, you discover that it is one thing to look at Myers; to feel for yourself his ruthless awareness, the raw intensity of his presence.

But to touch him is another thing altogether.

He draws a breath of his own as you fidget with his gown, his strong rib cage expanding beneath your fingers. You shudder at the sudden pressure of his body; whether out of disgust, or anger, or some fucked up fascination, you aren’t sure.

After undoing the ties on both sides, you lift the front of his gown up and off—

—and find that Myers is totally naked underneath.

Standard hospital procedure for a therapy like this one. Nothing new.

But it’s different when the patient looks like this.

You hate yourself for ogling him. You detest the way your eyes rove across Myers’ body, lingering on all the features that your lizard-brain decides it likes; from the stark tendons in his neck to his sharp and angular collarbones, from his broad, rounded shoulders to the beautiful definition in his abdomen, and down even further than that before you can stop yourself.

To the V of his obliques—to the trail of curly brown pubic hair on his pelvis—and all the way down to his flaccid penis.

You snatch a towel from the roll-around and drape it hurriedly over his hips. Not for the sake of his modesty; just so you don’t have to worry about your eyes straying down to the cock of the man who murdered your sister.

As far as the placement of the electrodes on his body, you honestly haven’t given it much thought. It seemed like the sort of thing that would come to you like an epiphany, as if suddenly, in the moment, you would know exactly where to hit Myers to really make him suffer.

But no such epiphany comes. Oh well; you have an hour to experiment.

Grabbing the two nodes off their holders, you run the wires across his chest and press the little round circles down flat against his pectorals.

When your gloved fingers graze Myers’ skin you nearly jerk back your hand, startled. The man is hot like a stove.

Your medical fascination is instantly piqued—Myers must have the hottest resting body temperature you’ve ever encountered. You have to force away intrusive thoughts of sticking a thermometer in his mouth to see that number for yourself.

Focus.

Tugging up on the wires, you test the integrity of the node’s suction. They don’t budge from his chest, lifting his skin with them as you pull. Perfect; It’s nearly time.

Now for the gag.

You just have to cross your fingers and pray that you can actually get it in his mouth.

Looking Myers in the face a third time proves to be no less jarring than it had been the second or the first. You’re just relieved that even after all your poking and prodding he is still pretending not to be interested in you, or in the things you’re doing to his body.

You clear your throat before speaking to him because you don’t trust it enough not to crack.

“Open up,” you command him, mustering every authoritative bone in your body and sounding very official even to your own ears.

Removing the gag from your pocket, you hold it up as if to show him, taking care to conceal the black silicone ball with your hand.

“Mouthguard.”

You doubt that Myers has seen this sort of gag before. Or that he even knows what a gag is. Still, you’re not taking that risk. If this doesn’t work then you’re going to have to drug him just to get the damn thing in place, then wait for him to sober up again—a colossal waste of time.

For a tense second, Myers does not respond to your command. He just lays there on the table, inhaling and exhaling, looking incredibly bored with you, with his nakedness, with the electrodes strapped to his chest.

Your jaw goes tense. You nearly repeat yourself.

But then, he opens up his mouth.

Beneath the harsh overhead lighting his teeth gleam wetly. You suspect immediately that he’s going to try and bite your fingers off the second you get too close.

Game on, fucker.

From the shelf below the roll-around you snatch up a small blotting rag. Walking around to stand at the head of the table, you gaze down at Myers again.

“The strap goes underneath.” You inform him. “I need you to lift your head up.”

He does.

And you strike. Faster than you had thought yourself capable.

You drape the rag over his eyes so that he can’t see what’s coming. Thrusting the gag hard into his open mouth, you wedge it firmly between his teeth. In the corner of the room, Myers’ heart monitor spikes suddenly, the electronic beeping speeding up momentarily—a sound that has you beaming with pride.

You’ve actually managed to startle him.

As you clip the strap into place around the back of his head, a strange sense of accomplishment floods your body—you’ve done it. You’ve actually done it. Everything is ready.

Every sacrifice you’ve made in these past eight months, every hour spent in this godforsaken hellhole, it was all worth it just to bring about this single moment.

The moment is made only sweeter when you rip the rag away from Myers’ face.

Oh. Now you have his attention.

Those pale eyes are looking straight up at you. Considering you with the cutting gaze of a hawk. Working out the situation.

You glare right back down at him. You stare deep into his eyes, the triumphant fire now raging in your chest burning hotter than the ice in his stare, more furiously than all the danger—and you find that you are not afraid of him anymore. Like this, Myers is nothing. He’s not a boogeyman. Not a phantom. He’s just a man—stripped of all his mysticism. Strapped to a table. Naked. Gagged.

Powerless.

Just as powerless to stop what you’re about to do to him as each and every one of the people whose lives he took away.

“Hello, Michael.” You hold his fierce eye-contact as you speak. “Ten months ago you broke into my sister’s house and murdered her.”

Myers doesn’t blink. But neither do you.

“When they tried you, you were supposed to leave that courtroom a dead man walking; you were supposed to die. That's how our justice system works—when you do the things you did, you don’t get to keep on living.”

Nothing changes on Myers’ face as you speak. Nothing changes in his eyes. Not one molecule in his body has an atom of care to give about the words you’re saying. He breathes around the gag, his heart monitor beeping slow and steady.

“I don’t give a single fuck about what that judge said,” You continue. “And I don’t care how sick in the head you really are. You knew exactly what you were doing that night. I can see it in your eyes, Myers—you loved every fucking second of it. And that’s the only thing that matters.”

You draw a long breath. One that you hold in your lungs before letting slowly out again.

“You’re the evilest son-of-a-bitch on this entire fucking planet; and you deserve to die.”

Walking over to the E.S.T machine, fighting back with tooth and claw against furious tears now threatening your eyes, you place your finger over the power switch.

Myers watches you; and you notice something flicker to life in his glacial eyes. Not an emotion. Just a realization.

Good. He understands now. He understands what you’re about to do to him.

“Someone has to make you pay. Someone has to.”

Michael just stares. Watching you. Watching your finger on the switch. His pulse on the monitor ticks as leisurely as if he were about to fall asleep.

“And guess what, you sick fuck?”

Still staring—not blinking—breaths coming slowly.

“I’m so fucking happy that it’s me.”

You throw the switch—

—the wires crackle with live electricity—

—and all of Myers’ deliberate, calculated control is shattered like a dropped glass.

His body seizes. His eyes snap shut. His fingers curl into fists that turn his knuckles whiter than the table beneath him. The tendons in his neck and forearms jump out, straining beneath his skin. His heart monitor beats erratically, the little green line on the screen spiking sharply, racing out of control.

Your eyes are glued to the grisly scene. You devour each and every involuntary reaction, relishing in the complete and utter breakdown of his control.

Fifteen gorgeous seconds pass before you remember that you were supposed to be counting to ten. Whoops. You might be frying his brain into an unfeeling stupor at this point. You flip the switch off in an instant because you need him awake, aware.

Myers’ back falls flat against the table, the current cutting off as abruptly as it began. The muscles in his chest continue to contract and seize beneath his skin long after the electricity is gone; you count the spasms as they tear through his pectorals like sets of waves.

When the spasming stops, his chest heaves up and down, winded. His breaths around the gag come heavily. His eyes are still shut; but no longer are they /squeezed/ shut.

For a moment, you really think that he’s passed out.

Then his eyes twitch beneath their lids and flutter open again. Blinking. Focusing—

—flitting right back on your face. Right back to the spot where he had left them before the current forced them shut.

Myers’ eyes are devoid of care. He is entirely unperturbed by what has just happened to him; entirely unthreatened. But now, that murderous intent—the charge which until now you’d only felt in the air around him—is written in his stare as plain as day.

I am going to kill you, says Michael’s gaze, as nonchalant as if he were stating some trivial fact about the universe, like water is wet, or the sky is blue.

It makes your blood boil.

Adding insult to injury, the speed at which Myers regains control of his body is nothing short of infuriating. You fume as you watch the way his breaths level out again, the beeping from his heart monitor falling back into the former slow, rhythmic pace.

You feel as though you should say something to him; like you should retaliate to this defiance in some way that isn’t staring, because you’ve already lost that battle; you cannot possibly hope to match the severity of Myers’ gaze.

But you don’t.

In your heart of hearts you know that your words will go right through his skull, unheard. There is only one language that Myers understands; only one language that he can comprehend down to his marrow. So you’ll speak it to him.

Without wasting another breath, your fingers find the power switch again. And those defiant eyes of his snap shut a second time.

When you shut the current off the results are the same as before; Myers is heaving on the table. But he takes back his control just as quickly, his stoicism prevailing.

By the third time however, his breaths have begun to linger in their heaviness—

—by the fourth he draws them as shallow as a winded sprinter running a race—

—by the fifth, the intervals between the violent seizing-up of his body are too brief for him to catch his breath—

—and the way he now gasps around the obstructing gag, fighting and failing to suck in air past its silicone, his nostrils flaring rapidly to compensate, is the most beautiful display of desperation that you have ever witnessed.

The sixth time you throw the switch, Myers actually does pass out.

When the current stops his body loses its tension with the abruptness of a cut wire. You wait impatiently for him to open his eyes again with your finger lingering over the switch, preparing to meet that steely gaze with another brutal jolt of electricity.

You wait; and Myers’ heart monitor chugs away like a freight train going up a hill.

Still waiting… waiting...

...and nothing happens. Myers is out cold.

The contentment now pulsing through your veins is what you imagine a shot of heroin feels like. Snapping on a fresh pair of gloves, you walk up to the side of the table to admire your work.

The first thing you notice is the sweat. Myers’ body is drenched in it. It beads up on his chest and clavicle, on his biceps and shoulders, on his brow and cheeks, the skin there flushing a shade of stark, exhausted pink. Gorgeous.

Your eyes travel down his body to continue the examination; you stop at his hands.

Myers’ hands are bloody.

Crescent-shaped cuts litter the skin of his palms, marking the place where his own blunt fingernails had dug in uncontrollably, over and over and over again. The fresh blood streaks in little rivulets down his hands and pools on the white padding of the table beneath.

You chew the inside of your lip as you stare at the mess; these cuts might be tricky to explain away. You’ll have to gauze them and tell Dr. Ashton that his patient did it to himself; maybe recommend that he be switched to a higher Thorazine dosage to really sell the lie.

Luckily, that’s a problem for the future. As for right now, you’re rather enjoying the irony of Myers’ own blood staining his hands for a change.

The inspection continues. Further down his body, you finally notice it; the bulge beneath the towel strewn across his pelvis.

Oh my god, he isn’t. You think, lifting the side of the towel for a peek.

And oh my god, he is.

Rather frustratingly, just like the rest of him, Myers is pretty down here, too. Pretty and big. Which is not a compliment, you reassure yourself. Just a medical observation. You let yourself stare this time, because you’re not ashamed anymore. You’re not threatened by the notion of admiring Myers’ physiology anymore.

Not when he’s so completely at your mercy.

Somehow, Myers doesn’t seem to be the masochistic type, so you highly doubt that actual arousal is responsible for this. Sheer adrenaline coupled with his frantically pumping heart are probably to blame, his brain mixing and misinterpreting the signals, resulting in this little accident.

The longer you stare down at the “accident,” the more you find yourself wondering what Myers would look like fully-erect.

You cannot rip the electrodes off his chest fast enough. Plucking the towel from waist and discarding it on the floor, you stick the two nodes down flat against his obliques, then hurry to rig up a third. That one you plant just above his penis; as close to its base as the curly dark hair will allow.

You stand with your finger ready on the go-button again, opting to let Myers’ still-racing pulse dip out of the red before you pull the trigger and plunge him back into hell. Bloodied hands you can explain away, but cardiac arrest? Not so much.

The beeping slows. The green lines on the monitor settle. You throw the switch.

Myers’ pelvis bucks uncontrollably up from the table—

—and he grunts.

The sound makes your heart sing. It is muffled by the gag, low and reverberating, not very loud to begin with. Most definitely not on purpose; just a reaction that’s managed to slip through while his barriers are down.

Myers’ groin is still quivering when you cut the current off. His cock stands upright, stiff and swollen, totally erect. A line of saliva now dribbles down the side of his mouth, trickling between the gag, collecting in a shimmering mess on his shoulder. He blinks sluggishly up at the ceiling light as if transfixed; still dazed, you would guess.

Something twisted occurs to you as you drink in the scene. Something that you can’t deny.

Seeing Myers like this—fighting for his very consciousness, struggling to retain some sliver of control—is the single most arousing thing you have ever witnessed. You want nothing more in the entire world than to climb onto this dangerous, wounded man’s hips and claim him.

You want nothing more than to give him a taste of what true powerlessness feels like.

It’s a lovely fantasy, a beautiful temptation, and a real shame that it can’t happen. You don’t feel like getting knocked up with the child of your sister’s murderer today; or ever, for that matter. Instead, you think you’ll make a game out of guessing how many more shocks will have Myers coming on his own thighs.

Striding up to the head of the table again, you plant your arms on either side of his shoulders, leaning over him, hardly ten inches from his face.

“Looks painful Myers.” You jest. “How about I make you a deal?”

Michael looks up at you. Unfocused. Blinking slowly.

“I flip the switch,” you continue,

“—and I keep it flipped until you’re covered in your own semen, and after that I jam a needle in your arm, pump you full of drugs, and you get to live out your next eight hours as an unfeeling fucking vegetable. Fair?”

You wait for Myers to do something. For your words to register in his brain. For some flicker of a response to let you know that he’s even still in there.

To your immense disappointment, Myers does nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just...

...well, you can’t even call it staring anymore.

He doesn’t seem able to manage that sort of focus, you realize, inspecting his face closer. His eyes are alarmingly barren; there really isn’t much of anything there, now. None of the ruthlessness, none of that predatory awareness, none of the murder.

You’ve actually shocked the bastard totally, one-hundred-percent out of it.

Whoops.

Back at the roll-around, you snatch up a hand light. Returning to the table, you shine it in his eyes, assessing the damage. His functioning pupil is slow to dilate. Worryingly slow. You click the light off with a contemplative frown.

Half of your mind begs whatever force might be listening that this isn’t a passing affliction, that whatever damage that’s done is done. If the courts insist on keeping Myers alive, then maybe reducing his brains to soup is what it takes to keep him docile. To keep him from hurting another living thing ever again. You can only hope.

As much as you’d love to do so, electrocuting the living daylights out of him some more isn’t likely to bring Myers back to awareness; and the session is supposed to be over soon.

You glance at the clock on the wall—

—Shit. Very soon.

You need to find out right the fuck now if you’ve just rendered Dr. Ashton’s patient catatonic.

Walking around the side of the table, you take Myers’ swollen cock in your gloved hand—trying not to think about the fact that you’re jacking off a condemned murderer—and pump hard, stroking him all the way from the shaft to the swollen tip, squeezing the head, massaging your thumb over it, rubbing all the way back down again.

“Come on, asshole,” you spit. “That can’t be all the fight you’ve got.”

Myers’ hips jerk slightly up from the table as you touch him. Probably just an involuntary reaction. You’ll need him to do better than that. Stroking him faster, squeezing even harder, you pray that the friction of your latex glove against his cock feels just about as pleasant as a rug burn.

As you watch his vacant face like a hawk you see him begin to blink harder, his eyes squeezing shut, twitching beneath their lids, staying closed for a beat before opening up again, like he’s struggling to wake from a deep sleep. A much more deliberate motion; he’s coming back to it.

“Can you feel that? Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?”

He breathes hard around the gag. His knees lurch up from the table, the cuffs around his ankles straining, holding him in place.

You give his cock another hard squeeze.

“Forget where you are Myers?”

His jaw goes absolutely rigid with tension.

Ah. He heard you that time. He’s back.

How unfortunate that his brain isn’t fried after all.

You can see it all coming back now as his eyes flit down, locking on your face, rebooting within him like a program on a script; the chilling intensity, the sharpness, all the things that had made your skin crawl in the days past. Despite the torture, nothing at all about Myers’ demeanor has changed.

“Welcome back.” You state dryly. “We aren’t done yet.”

As if to make your blood boil on purpose—as if the battered state of his body means less to him than dirt, as if he hasn’t spent the better part of the hour being brutally, mercilessly tortured by you—

—Myers just watches you. Damning you with his eyes alone to the same grisly demise as before.

An odd sense of something, not quite admiration, sparks in your gut. Looking into Myers’ eyes, there is one single thing that you are willing to give this monster credit for:

What sits before you is a creature that cannot be broken. One that will never be dissuaded from its primal, violent nature. To try it is an impossible task. You suspect that you could stand in this room for days, flipping the same switch, delivering the same current, knocking him to and from consciousness, and into all the states in-between.

And the result would never change. Not ever.

He’d still be looking at you with that same deadly stare. A stare as cold and sharp as the blade of a carving knife.

And it would only get more piercing.

And what a relief it is that your goal in the first place was never to break Myers,

just to bring the gates of hell down on his pretty, curly head.

And you have. You can hear it in every breath he takes; he’s struggling. Although he draws his inhales slowly, with mechanical control, the ragged wheezing in his chest is no longer possible for him to hide. Myers is hurting—he’s hurting bad.

As much as you would love to stay and twist the knife in even deeper, it's time to wrap things up. You’re all out of time.

Pulling the electrodes from his groin and thighs with one hand, you let two of the nodes dangle freely off the side of the table.

The third you stick against his cock.

“Count your lucky fucking stars that not everyone in the world is as heartless as you are.” You tell him, walking back around to the E.S.T machine.

Myers follows you with eyes the entire way, stone-faced, impassive. Like the fact that you’ve just fastened a live wire to his dick is about as boring to him as watching paint dry.

Flick goes the switch.

His back arches off the table like a bent bow. He scrunches his eyes shut, breathing hard around the gag, tugging furiously at the cuffs, the muscles in his calves and biceps straining dangerously, pulling upwards with a brutish force that has table whining beneath him.

You’re transfixed as Michael comes. His mess shoots out in thick ropes, reaching further than you thought possible, coating the table, getting on his legs. The sheer power of his body is a stunning thing to witness. You keep the current running to milk him down to the very last drop.

When he stops coming, you power off the machine.

The node comes away from Michael’s skin in a “pop” that is all-too satisfying. Bundling all the wires and electrodes back into place on the machine you listen to the only measurable signs of the man’s distress; the tortured intake of his breaths, the elevated beeping of his heart monitor.

Then, picking up the needle from the little white tray, you cross back to Myers’ side.

The vein in his forearm is thick and pronounced and the needle slips in beautifully. You press slowly down on the plunger, grateful when he doesn’t try to yank his arm away, relieved when he accepts the drug without a struggle. He must be exhausted.

The sedative works its magic quickly. You pull up a stool and sit down beside him to watch.

The vitriol in his eyes begins to melt and soften. One by one his strained muscles are allowed to relax again, the tension ebbing away; from his jaw, his shoulders, his abdomen, his legs. The electronic beeping on the monitor slows and slows until its powerful rhythm beats steadily again.

Evidently, Michael has decided he isn’t ready to go under just yet. Though sleep pools in his eyelids he blinks it away, clinging in a death grip to his consciousness.

Just to leer at you. Just to picture in his mind the day he will have his hands around your throat; as if it is already set in stone. As if it is just a matter of when.

Then, Michael’s eyelids flutter—

—fighting to stay open, still staring—

—closing, for just a beat too long—

—lingering shut—

—staying shut.

You move to clean him up quickly. The gag comes out first. Lifting his head to unbuckle the strap, you tug out the black ball, letting his strained jaw fall shut again for the first time in an hour; then carelessly drop his head. It thunks satisfyingly as it comes down hard against the table. Glancing at the gag’s silicone, you notice the deep markings worn into it, perfect impressions of Myers’ top and bottom teeth. You almost shudder; a bite from him would have been nasty.

You blot away the drool dribbling down his chin and shoulder with a rag, and then move on.

The last thing you expect as you begin to clean Michael’s bloodied hands is the tears that spring to your eyes. Even with your fear of the man gone and buried, you wish that you didn’t have to touch these awful hands; let alone treat them, bandage them, heal them.

You wipe away the tears on your sleeve as you gather your supplies together on the roll-around.

Grabbing each of his wrists just above the restraint cuffs and turning them so that his palm is facing upward on the table, you hastily swab him down with alcohol pads, wiping up the clotting blood from his skin, squeezing out a blob of antiseptic from a tube to smear across his cuts. As you wrap Michael’s palms tightly in gauze you try your hardest to snuff out that invasive thought when it comes searing like a bullet through your skull—

—these are the hands that killed my sister.

You simply can’t afford to linger on those thoughts right now. Maybe when you’re at home tonight, alone in your bed, you will let yourself cry; but not now. Not while you still need to clean up after Myers’ unfortunate mishap.

Toweling him down from his forehead to his calves, you soak away the sweat. And the semen. Then, you fasten back up the front of his hospital gown, knotting each and every tie.

And just like that, the job is done.

You knock on the door. The guards come in and wheel Myers’ unconscious body out of the room.

The next day, you have a debriefing session with Dr. Ashton. You feed him your meticulously rehearsed lie: that the therapy went without a hiccup, that you firmly believe this treatment could be the key to alleviating Michael’s tendencies for violence.

The moron laps up your every word.

Ashton ends the session with a delightful little surprise; he’s pulled some strings to allow for Michael’s therapy to be carried out bi-weekly. He is so impressed by your drive to treat his patient that he’s offering you a position as Michael’s secondary caretaker. He only hopes that you’ll accept.

The smile you give him is bright and sincere, one that beams from ear to ear.

“Doctor, believe me when I say that nothing in the world would make me happier.”

#Michael Myers #Halloween #Slashers #michael myers x reader #writing

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powerosewaterpuff · 3 years

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yo ,i remember a post about sort of reverse batfam , between jason and dick , can you do the headcanons about under the red hood please

yes yes yes yes yes and another yes to top it all off. i really really love the idea, and i love under the red hood in general so thank u so much for suggesting this :) like i spent all day brainstorming (probs shoulda been studying but shhhhh) diff headcanons so i’m pretty excited to write it out. also so the timeline with this is a little tight ig?? i really wanted to include tim as bruce’s new sidekick with dick in the middle of his fallout with bruce but again a lil too tight so we’re just gonna have rebellious dick for now and i also haven’t watched death in the family so i’m basing this purely off of under the red hood :) (oh and fuck dick’s hair in the movie oh my god i’m ignoring that it even exists i’m so sorry)

dick is 17 on the cusp of hitting 18 and he’s so fucking sick of batman. every conversation of theirs was leading to a screaming match where each one tries to push their opinion as fact. it was getting messy and soul crushing at this point, and dick hated it. the rising action of it all was dick getting fired from robin, a role he hadn’t even been formally granted by batman yet he felt it in his power to strip him of it. he felt like a pawn in a chess game that gambled his identity and being off of the mind numbing mantra of be better. do better. faster. punch harder. follow orders. be better be better better. and dick was sick of it, so he shed the robin uniform. swallowing it like a bitter pill because he was forced to do so. but nightwing was giving him clarity as of late. the sheer rush, brilliance and exuberance of it all reminded him of when flying was a much simpler task.

however, dick had an annoyingly unwavering loyalty to protecting bruce’s (less batman then bruce. bruce was his father. batman was not. yet nowadays the man himself was forgetting who exactly was the secret identity and who the real person was.) safety and well-being, even if it meant risking another shouting round. so, once dick catches wind of batman’s whereabouts for the night, he decides to help him with Amazo etc., and dick cant help but realize how well they still mesh together when it comes to fighting. the talking part however, did not come naturally anymore. (it used to. it used to be so much easier)

now bruce, is attempting his best to keep dick out of the loop. he knows dick will furious. and dick’s temper is something not many can tame, but bruce would take the risk. he’d rather dick spit on his memory then be dead in his arms (just like jason was, blown to bits when he should’ve been in his room. safe. sleeping after studying for some test not fighting crime with him in the underbelly of Gotham city, or getting dragged along bruce’s self induced fight with the world.)

dick, of course, does not appreciate this and can very easily tell the bruce is trying to get him off the case. dick doesn’t appreciate that in the slightest, and it only makes him want to push more. to fight bruce on every detail and demand he be apart of this because that’s the only way he can get anywhere with him. it was fair to say, that the interrogation with the joker he had to force bruce into taking him too, wasn’t exactly pleasant. he watches, leaning back against the wall as batman has joker by the neck. some part of him hates himself for not being upset about this, like he’s failing his moral code in some way. but he ignores that half, and tries not to feel angry as bruce doesn’t choke joker out like the rat he is. dick wished, in the darkest parts of his mind, that he could burn joker alive, just to watch in vengeful satisfaction that the man who stole his brothers breath wither in pain. ( and watch that fucking laugh die out)

now, the confrontation goes quite similar. except dick is noticing these little things that resemble jason too much it be a coincidence. too much. he knows how jason fights, he’s sparred with him for years and used to spend countless nights in his room trying to emulate his older brothers swift and hard hitting movements in front of his mirror. he always wished he could hit as hard as jason, as dicks strength at the time was his inhuman flexiblity and professional acrobatic skills. now, when he and batman are against the red hood, fuck it doesn’t feel right to dick. it’s all too similar. it wasn’t even the bigger moves that caught his attention but the little moves in stance that screamed at him that it was his brother. he kept shutting the idea down, because if it was possible dick would have made it happen. he would’ve.

dick gets hurt in the aftermath, but bruce must be a fucking comedian if he thinks it’s going to stop him. they get into another argument, bruce talking him down to nothing and dick frustrated that bruce couldn’t see that he’s been doing this for too long to be lectured on it, and that bruce wasn’t atlas. he wasn’t responsible for the world being held up between his two hands. it simmers down to loud silence, like it always does and dick hobbles out. leaning slightly on alfred.

bruce’s hunch is eating him alive. devouring his soul and heart with a satisfying crunch, not sparing crumb. with the revelation that his son could be alive, and the Red Hood of all people, one of the first thoughts that run through his mind is that he could not tell dick. dick could never know, and will never know. it was a hushed promise, one kept inside his chest, locked like all of his unspoken words. it would crush dick, just like it was crushing bruce now. (or maybe it was because if bruce was on the fence about breaking his moral agenda, he knows that dick would hurdle over that fence. he hates that he knows this but he does. dick wears a bleeding heart on his sleeve for his family, especially for jason. this is the same boy that was set on killing zucco all those years ago before jason and him had stopped it.)

(jason’s tasting bitter green as he mulls over why the fuck dick was there. that little idiot was supposed to be at home. safe. not carrying out bruce’s destructive agenda of self proclaimed justice. he didn’t know whether to be mad at bruce or dick. because of course bruce encouraged this shit, eager to force another child soldier into the suit and send him out to die. but God, did it hurt that dick had taken bruce’s side over his even if he didn’t know it was jason. and that stung like a motherfucker. his little brother, whose fond memories were becoming hazed in a cloud of viridecent smoke, had picked bruce’s side. a little part of himself though, shy and hesitant, whispered that he had hurt dick. he had hurt his little brother and he couldn’t justify it no matter how vengeful he was. but he shoved that part aside, trying to ignore its desperate murmurs as they told him that every time he looked at nightwing or whatever the fuck his new name was, he saw his eight year old little brother smiling up at him).

dick knows that bruce thinks he’s covering his tracks well. he is but dick knows bruce, better then bruce thinks he does. so dick is slowly beginning to formulate a hunch of his own, as he spends countless nights rubbing his formerly injured leg and wondering if he really did everything he could’ve to save jason. if there was something he missed. it’s starting to gnaw away at him, until realization settles into his chest after snooping through bruce’s files. then, he’s dashing to get into uniform, giving a breathless and hasty apology to alfred. itsjasonitsjasonitsjasongogogorunrunrun

batman. red hood. bruce. jason. father. son. bruce cannot stomach the vigor in jason’s words and jason’s heart is giving out at the fact that his father won’t do this for him. to end that pathetic excuse of a fucking life, one that’s stolen from so many people, but it still wasn’t up to his moral standards limit. was jason not enough to warrant a sacrifice for the greater good. (was jason’s desperate need to feel safe of that walking nightmare not worthy to overtake any mission)

it happens in a rush. dick is swinging up to the building, the blood pumping through his ears drowning out the screams of his chest. the joker tackles batman as the timer tick tick tick’s away numbingly. suddenly, dick has kicked the joker off and has one hand over his neck while the other smothers itself over his mouth and nose. why didn’t he do this before? why didn’t he kill the thing before? it didn’t even deserve to be called human, so why would any moral standards apply to a human based code. if batman wanted to be the whole representer of pure justice, fine. he could do that. dick wasn’t though. he was going this kill piece of shit then never let go of jason as long as he lived.

suddenly, there’s a pull at the back of dick’s uniform and at the corner of his eye he catches sight of jason being pulled by bruce as well and he’s just about to call out for him when the next thing he knows a blast rockets through his ears and the world goes black.

jason was no where to be found. and bruce ends up having to shove dick into the batmobile before he lunged after the joker, after realizing jason was missing and that the joker was still alive and kicking. the argument that insues? isn’t pretty. in fact it’s their worst. dick had spun around and asked bruce, ‘who are you? batman or bruce? because im not talking to batman, i want to hear why bruce couldn’t do the one thing his son needed! i want to know why bruce thought it was going to be beneficial not to fucking tell me that my brother-Bruce, he’s my brother! that he was alive, because you thought I was gonna pull shit like this? look at that! the exact thing you tried to avoid happened, you know why? because you cannot trust me, and it blew up in your face!’

it goes on. and on. and on. there’s no resolution, or admittance to what happened. bruce simply shuts himself down, stating this wasn’t changing anything. there was a then and a now, one in which bruce harbours enough guilt to crush his shoulders.

there’s a stony resolution in dick’s voice after bruce tells him to get out with more finality to it then he’s ever said it before, when he says, “fine. batman.”

(jason replays it over and over again in his head. the batarang. bruce turning his back to him. the jokers screechy laugh eating at his mind. eruptions of pain from the crowbar. again. again. again. and dick. smothering the joker. a steely resolve in his brothers eyes he never wanted to see but was secretly glad for. it replays like a broken film in his head, cutting and chopping but creaking out the same tune.)

AHHH OK SO i def wanted to do so much more with this ugh but i really wanted it done td so excuse just how unpolished it is, i might go back with some new ideas in it, but i like where i ended it off. this is more or less the ‘detachment’ phase in dick’s relationship with bruce, as hes nearing the end of high school and cannot do this with bruce anymore (oh college is a whooole other ordeal hehe) but i think dick would be better to tim then what he canonically was to jason. (also because dick is totally not on a mission to get his brother back at all costs and fix this family, nope. not at all.), and i think dick just has a lot more anger in this too? and bitterness here ig? just because he had lost his parents, then his brother essentially, and had to deal with being the emotional support to bruce who was falling apart. it’s a heavy load, and dick is absolutely still himself, just when it comes to jason and the joker as well as his family in general, i think he has a lot more anger as well as less control yk? (oh also i have him less in blüdhaven in this lil thing just bc like he’s still in highschool and is in this weird phase with bruce that hes fired etc., but is now yk fully going into the, ‘i’m not speaking to you anymore’ part. SOO THATS IT FOR THAT THANK YALL SO SOOOO MUCH FOR READING UR KINDA ALL THE BEST TBH AND TYSM FOR THE SUGGESTION AGAIN THIS WAS HELLA FUN :)!!

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storiesbymads · 4 years

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SHE’S A WORKING GIRL NOW ¹ ( the internship . )

Y/N just got an internship at her childhood best friend’s brother’s company. The same brother who has no idea they’ve even met before.

general warnings: smut, age gap (about 8 years), angst

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You had known JJ Maybank since the first day of first grade. Funny how a teacher’s random seating chart had affected pretty much your whole life. If it hadn't been for said seating chart, you were absolutely, 100% sure that your life would’ve been on a completely different course than the one it was on now.

JJ had been your absolute best friend for as long as you could remember. Hell, for most of your life the two of you had shared everything--including a birthday party since your birthdays were three days apart. He had been there for every scraped knee, every failed test, every breakup. The two of you graduated high school attached at the hip and started college the same way that fall.

By the time junior year rolled around, you had both moved into a small apartment on the far side of town which, thankfully, meant no more student housing for either of you. Dorm life had been hell for you. Your roommate never seemed to fail at bringing someone new home every Friday night and would often kick you out leaving you to fend for yourself in the hallway. In all actuality, you stomped over to JJ’s dorm downstairs with your duvet wrapped around your shoulders and a scowl on your face when 2am rolled around and she still wasn’t done.

“Good morning to you to sunshine,” he would say after you vigorously knocked on the tacky, brick colored door. You would simply push past him into the room and throw yourself onto his twin bed while his own roommate remained fast asleep. Aaron--you ended up learning his name about six months after you started regularly crashing in their dorm-- was one of the loudest snorers you think you’d ever met but at least you had a bed.

“We’re so moving into our own place next year,” you would say as he shuffled into the bed, his feet situated where your head was and vice versa. Of course, it took you both another whole year to actually accomplish this dream but, somehow, you managed it.

Now, it was the summer before what was supposed to be your senior year--JJ was sure he wasn’t going to be graduating this year due to the fact that he’d failed more than a couple classes and you already knew you were going stay here as long as he was--and you were days away from starting an internship at Maybank Industries.

When you had originally applied for the internship, you had no idea it was JJ’s older brother who ran the company. You both thought it was just some funny coincidence. The fact that it was called Maybank Industries was what made JJ so adamant on you applying in the first place. Now, less than a week before your first day, you were forced to come to terms with the fact that you’d be working under the same Jesse Maybank you’d known since grade school.

Jesse had been in high school by the time you and JJ had really gotten close. He’d already seemingly maxed out his height at 6’4 and his blond hair was shaggy and often stuck to his forehead when he got home lacrosse practice. He was the first boy you’d ever had a crush on. The 8 year age gap didn’t really phase second grade you.

“I’m going to shoot myself on Monday. My sleep schedule is so fucked,” you groaned as you shuffled out of your bedroom to see JJ sprawled out on the love seat in your living room with a half eaten bowl of Frosted Flakes on the coffee table in front of him. You squinted as you read the digital clock on the microwave. 1:17 blinked back at you in bright red numerals.

“Morning, sunshine,” JJ said. You didn’t know how or when it had happened but he had managed to develop healthier sleeping habits than you. Waking up before noon sounded like hell to you and he’d done it three times this week.

“Fuck off,” you said, moving his feet so that you could sit down before setting them back on your lap. He grabbed the bowl of soggy cereal and took a bite. A shudder ran through your body as you faked a gag.

“Oh don’t be like that. It’s not my fault I don’t shovel my Frosted Flakes down my throat at hyper speed,” he said before setting it back down. This wasn’t the first time you’d had this argument and you were sure it wasn’t going to be the last.

“It’s how they’re supposed to be consumed. It should be considered a war crime to let them get all…” another fake gag. “Soggy.”

“Whatever. You’re just jealous because I’m able to retain the quality crunch the entire time,” you said. You focused your gaze on the small flat screen mounted to the wall to see that JJ had put on some crime drama. Probably Law & Order.

“So, who’s the killer?” you asked after a few moments of silence passed. The rest of the day passed like this; you and JJ managed to get through 6 episodes of SVU before you decided it was probably time to get up and do something productive. And by something productive you meant get dressed enough and go out to grab take out.

By the time your Monday morning alarm rolled around, you realized you should have attempted to regulate your sleep schedule a hell of a lot sooner than two nights before you were forced to get up at 5am. You flicked on your overhead light with a groan before starting your morning routine--well, some semblance of a morning routine since you really hadn’t done one since school ended.

The drive to Downtown Chapel Hill wasn’t long. Well, it shouldn’t have been long but for some reason it felt like everyone and their mother was out on the interstate this morning. You were just desperately hoping you weren’t late on your first day as you tried to push your car past 25 mph.

You couldn’t help but let your mind wander back to Jesse as you found yourself in a standstill on the roadway once again. You knew he wasn’t going to look like the boy you remembered but deep down you wish he was. Nothing could ever replace the 19 year old boy in your mind with his crystalline blue eyes and a smile that could make any girl weak in the knees.

A horn sounded behind you, pulling you from your day dream, “Fuck, sorry!”

At least you were going the posted speed limit now.

By the time you saw the Maybank Industries building coming into view, you were ten minutes away from being on time, eleven from being late. You could feel your anxiety rising in the back of your throat as you glanced back and forth from the road to the digital clock in your car.

“Mr. Maybank?” you asked tentatively through the frosted glass of his office door fifteen minutes later. You couldn’t help but picture that 19 year old opening the door and pulling you into a hug. That was if he even remembered you enough to pull you into a hug. And if he wasn’t pissed about his new intern being late.

“Come in,” he said. Wow, his voice was a lot deeper than you remember it being. And raspier.

You took in his whole office as you pushed open the door. The first thing you noticed was the gold plated nameplate with ‘Jesse Maybank’ engraved in bold letters with ‘CEO Maybank Industries’ in a finer print beneath it. Next you took in the view of downtown Chapel Hill out of the floor to ceiling windows behind his desk.

“Good Morning,” you said in a shaky voice. Sure, he’d been good looking when he left for college all those years ago but nothing could compare to how he looked right now. His shoulders had broadened significantly since he was nineteen and he filled out the white dress shirt he had rolled up to his elbows nicely. You were sure that if you hadn’t been leaning up against the door frame your knees would’ve caved in by now.

He hummed as he looked up from his laptop, finally making eye contact with you, “You must be my new intern.”

“Yes,” you nodded as you shifted your weight onto your other foot. He raised his eyebrows slightly, standing up to walk around the wooden desk and lean against the front of it. You couldn’t help but watch the sleeves of his shirt bulge slightly as he crossed his arms. “Oh, right. I’m Y/N.”

“You seem nervous, Y/N…” he trailed off, obviously expecting a continuation of your name. Surely, he hadn’t forgotten about you completely. You knew you looked different than when you were eleven but the name alone should’ve sparked something.

“Y/L,” you said. At least now you could tell JJ you hadn’t been accepted in his brother’s internship program just because you were his best friend.

“Well, Miss Y/L/C,” he said. “There’s a stack of files on my desk that need to be sorted by lunch today.”

“O-Okay,” you stuttered, slowly pulling yourself off the door frame to pick up the files. You mentally cursed yourself for choosing to wear the tallest heels in your closet this morning. At least they made your legs look good.

“I expect them on my desk before you leave,” he said. You were praising God and anyone else that was up there that you made it back to the door without tripping.

“Yes sir,” you said as you struggled to close the door with the stack of files in your arms. You watched his frame through the frosted glass shuffle around his desk to sit down again. How the fuck were you going to make it through the summer if your heart almost fell out of your ass after one conversation?

The rest of the day passed by interminably slowly. The rest of the interns who had seemingly been at the company for a few years at this point--you didn’t understand why they chose to intern at the same company every summer if they never seemed to get a job out of it--and you felt incredibly out of the loop already. One of the interns, though, was kind enough to bring you a cup of coffee an hour or so after you had gotten there. Scout--you were sure you would forget her name in twenty minutes but she’d been nice enough to introduce herself--had apparently been with the company for the past three years with hope to become a paid intern come next month.

“Thank you. I really needed this,” you had said with a smile. She waved it off with a smile of her own before getting situated at her desk across the small room.

Other than that, though, the day had been boring to say the least. You didn’t know what you were expecting with this internship but sitting at a desk in an office with three other interns doing seemingly nothing for most of the day was not it. After you finished everything you’d needed to do with the files--with a lot a bit of help from the boy sitting next to you--you were forced to just sit at your desk and look like you were doing something productive.

You only had about an hour left in the work day but the coffee Scout had brought you that morning had worn off way past the point of you just being a little sleepy. Another small cup wouldn’t hurt anything. Especially since you’d caught yourself nodding off at your desk three times already. You pushed yourself up from the semi-comfortable desk chair to go look for the break room.

Thankfully, it was only a few doors down from the office you’d been working in all day and the door had been propped open with a door jamb. It only took you a second to realize Jesse was also in the small room. He was leaned up against one of the counter tops, stirring what you guessed was coffee in a stark white mug.

“Looks like you had the same idea as me,” you said softly, picking up a matching mug off the tray as well as one of the many Keurig pods next to it.

“Great minds think alike.” He lifted his mug in greeting before dropping the spoon into the sink. The low ceiling of the kitchen made him look even taller than usual.

It was silent for a few moments while your cup brewed in the machine. You fiddled with your thumbs to pass the time. It didn’t help that you could feel Jesse’s eyes on you the whole time. You didn’t know why he was still in the room, to be honest.

“You know,” he cleared his throat. “I can see your… uh…”

“My what?” you asked, dropping your hands and looking down your body. You were sure you’d worn the right bra this morning. You’d even gotten JJ to check before you walked out the door.

“Your garter belt,” he said. Sure enough, you glanced down at your pencil skirt which was hiked up to your mid thigh, a good two inches of the garter belt on your right leg on display. A rush of embarrassment flooded over you as you turned around, tugging the skirt down your legs.

“I’m so sorry, sir. Won’t happen again,” you sputtered out as you attempted to busy yourself with the tray of mugs. It would only be a few more seconds before your coffee finished and you’d be able to run back to your office.

“It’s fine,” he chuckled. You felt your chest tighten at the sound. He exhaled slightly before you heard the rustling of him moving around behind you. You suddenly became hyper aware of just how narrow the kitchen was. His hand was pressed against your waist as he shuffled past you. The size of his hand made sense, he was an incredibly large man, but you’d be lying if you didn’t admit that the width of his hand spanning half of your torso sent shivers down your spine.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, sir?” you asked once he was fully out the door. He made a half-turn in the door frame, giving you a two finger salute in response.

“See you in the morning, Miss Y/L/N,” he said. You muttered something incoherent as you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Shaking your head, you grabbed the coffee that had been finished brewing for a solid minute before making your way back to your office.

tagging: @ptersparkers @digniteas @kiarascarreras @letsgofullkook @kirikaelak @haute-shawn @obx-baby @httpstarkey @x-lulu @obbx-tings @poguestyleskye @erraaxh @sunwardsss @katrynec

#the internship #outer banks #outer banks imagine #outer banks series #jj maybank #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x reader #best friend! jj maybank #jesse maybank #jj maybank series #series

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adulttrio-imagines · 4 years

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Yandere!Illumi x Reader Pt 1

A/N: This is going to be a 2-part series since I git a little carried away and didn’t want it to be too long. I’ll post part 2 soon. It’s also fairly dark, so please proceed with caution.

EDIT: I originally posted this answering an ask I was sent sometime back, but tumblr kept messing things up so I’m just going to re-post this

EDIT 2: Part 2 HERE

Prompt: “I would give up everything for the chance to see your laugh again.”

The man in the suit is beautiful.

He’s beautiful in a raw, delicate way that mirrors the unbridled strength his long lashes frame. It’s an uncommon beauty, unique to strange lands far beyond the clutches of York New. Some might even call him odd, with his arrogant face and brittle nose, hunched over the small booth his weak chin and long neck gave him the appearance of an overgrown crane. But as you continued to push your legs to the limit, stretching them wider and wider as you contort your back around the smooth exterior of your pole, you couldn’t help but to tear your eyes away from your adoring fans and observe his demeanor.

This isn’t the first time he’s been to your shows, and based on the regularity he’s appeared at the past few months, you doubt it’ll be his last. He stares at you with impossibly large eyes that never blink (their starvation is pronounced, you feel their hunger even from here), lazily swirling a glass of whisky in one hand as he rests his chin in the other. You can’t see his legs from underneath the table at this distance, but from his posture you can tell they’re long and just as impossibly slender as the rest of his body. As you saunter around the stage, entertaining the roaring crowd that shower you with dollar bills, you note the silky texture of his suit (it’s expensive), the glint of his heavy-looking watch (possibly adorned with gold), and from the way he so effortlessly balances his glass in a well-manicured hand, you can tell he’s well-bred, wealthy, and sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the other noisy hooligans at the bar.

The room spins in gaudy shades of pink and neon green as you twirl around some more, the rush of wind cooling your face. You make your way up the pole, taking extra effort to stretch your legs out and angling them just right to display the soft curves of your thigh, the heat from the room coloring your cheeks as you sneak another glance at the man. More than the money, you like the way his cheekbones arch and the pronounced slopes they produce, the way they shape his fine features when he curls his lips in pleasure and expose a set of perfectly straight teeth that makes your heart pound just a little too fast for it to be normal.

You wink at the crowd before you, making sure to tilt of your waist just right to sneak a peak of your ass, teasingly arching your leg forward as you slowly hitched your already short skirt up just a little more, relishing in their excitement. You reward their charity with a flourish of your own, flashing your brightest smile when their thunderous cheers applaud your performance.

Your eyes snap back at the man in the suit, who’s gaze has remained transfixed on you this whole time. He claps politely, but the amusement that your dance draws from your crowd isn’t reflected in his face as he returns your stare with an empty look of his own.

He’s beautiful yes, in a way that makes you want to twirl your fingers in his silky locks and tug then hard while you kiss into the early hours of the morning. A delicious shiver crawls its way up your spine and you blow a kiss to him. Groping hands reach out from underneath you, desperately reaching for your attention, but you keep your eyes on the strange man, who accepts your kiss with a curled fist.

You lick your lips, unsure if the tremors you felt were from the rush of excitement, the heat of the room, the swirling pools of intent in his eyes, or a combination of all three.

But you do know this.

You’re making him yours.

.....

Your darling’s name is Illumi, and he doesn’t speak much.

It's not as if you aren’t trying. But he’s still as a statue and unmoving as stone, his face kept carefully blank as you dance around him like butterflies, slowly trying to coax him our his shell, whispering sweet words that drip with honey as you brush a hand against cheek (his skin is ice, and the tips of your skin freeze upon contact). He holds your eyes with his pair of dark abysses, directing your attention towards his mouth as you continue to wrap yourself around him, all but crawling into his lap, the hard wood of the booth creaking under your weight when you plant feather-soft kisses all around his face, paying special care to tease the corner of his lips as you press your hips hard against his throbbing groin.

He doesn’t return your steaming confessions, preferring to grunt one syllable answers in response to your questions, but he receives your affection with barely restraint lust, grabbing your thighs with spider-like hands as he nudges them open, letting out a low groan when you stop rubbing yourself against him and made movement to unbuckle his belt.

“Let me-“ He tells you between breathless kisses, “Let me take you home.”

You can barely contain your own pleasure as he slides a hand against the dip of your hips, struggling to nod.

“Sure.” You feel him smile, and a faint prick nicks the back of your neck.

The room goes dark.

And everything you know changes.

......

The cellar Illumi keeps you in is better than most. There’s proper heating, a small equipped bathroom in the corner, and a warm nest of blankets for you to curl into whenever the coolness of the stone floor after a fit of misguided rage becomes too much and form sores on your delicate ankles.

There’re no windows here, so you make a game of counting the scratches on the wall, bathed in the comfort of the dark, to make time go faster, adding a collection of your own on the wall beside your bedding when the days slowly stretch into weeks, even when your nails are filed down to blunt tips and your fingers are raw and inflamed.

Sometimes the boredom of it all drives the final nail into your head and snaps your existence in half, and you would brokenly hum songs of distance past, following the buried memories of times long forgotten, dancing around the small room on delicate toes and graceful arches, so different from the bold movements you made from your stage at the bar, before the old pain from your left knee would force you crumpling to the ground and bury your screams into the blankets.

“Why won’t you eat the food I give you? Would you rather starve?” Illumi asks you calmly. You eye him warily and drop your gaze to the neatly arranged fruits that lined the plate. He visits twice a week, dressed in strange clothes dotted with circular yellow nubs of what you can only guess to be buttons, often bringing with him baskets filled with peace offerings of sweets and little trinkets, as if they will make you happy.

You nibble at a slice of apple, careful to keep your gaze on the ground as you fight down the urge to empty what little contents you had in your stomach, one part out of hunger, ninety-nine parts from the ache in your head when he slapped you into the stone wall and bashed your face into it with extra vigor for refusing to take a bite of the bread he brought down the week before.

“Good job!” And he’s empty, empty, empty. The hollowness in his joy almost scares you as much as when he leans down to pay the top of your head patronizingly, as if you were nothing more than a badly misbehaving puppy who finally learned to obey. His fingers dig into your scalp when he feels you flinch under them, and he rams you headfirst into the ground as you helplessly choke for air when he carefully applies pressure to your trachea, all but strangling you while staring down with sinking eyes that drown out everything else.

And you realize three things.

He’s neither human nor beast.

He’s a beautiful doll who carved his name into your flesh for no reason other than because he could do it.

And there’s nothing you can do to escape.

.....

“Dance for me.” Illumi demands one day during one of his many visits. You look up your cup of tea, and stare at the man sitting cross legged across from you on top of a checkered blanket, like some sort of demented underground picnic. Under the flickering light from his kerosene lamp, his skin looks especially pale, and the gaping holes that represent his eyes are especially haunting. His visits range in frequency, and you can’t tell if you like it more since his absence is peaceful, or hate it for how unpredictable he gets when he does see you.

Hesitantly, you get to your feet and walk into the center of the room where a lone pillar stands. You place a hand of it, inwardly grimacing from its roughness, and forcing your body to contort around it. But just as you start, he raises a hand and shakes his head.

“No, no, no, not that.” He says, hair shimmering like black waves out in the sea, as formless as his tone, “I want to see your other dance, the one you perform when I’m not here.” You blink, not surprised to learn that he keeps track of your movements frequently enough to see you dance on those rare occasions. Instead, you kneel down to his level and take a sip from your cup, smacking your lips loudly as you smile widely and say, “No.” He strikes you across the face, and breaks an arm for good measure. You can tell from how easily it crunches in his grasp that your nerves are destroyed, especially when it flop helpless next to you in the ground. It is the first time he inflicts permanent damage on you.. But it’s not the last.

.....

You learn that your Illumi’s last name is Zoldyck. It’s hard to miss since it’s painted and hung high in every room he brings you in.

His change in mood is astounding and you’re cautious not too upset him. You’re unsure what flipped the switch, but suddenly your above ground for the first time in months and the sun that shines through the large French windows that span from ceiling to floor hurts your eyes, but it feels painfully good to feel the warmth of natural light grace your face.

You look wistfully out into the garden, where acres of woods stretched endlessly before your eyes, and a range of mountain lines dot the far edges of your vision. And wonder if you would even be so lucky to feel grass press against the soles of your feet again.

The Zoldyck mansion is huge, lined with riches and elegance that screams of old money, and it’s easy to lose yourself in the passage of time as you wonder aimlessly through the elaborate halls, admiring each ancient artefact that tastefully decorates each room. But even its size and grandeur pales in comparison to the aura Illumi exudes that makes you feel so insignificant and small, as if the universe itself would split and swallow you whole. You dance around the mansion, often in the dead of night on weeks where Illumi disappears into the shadows that cut unnaturally into the walls, your feet guiding you through both the lavishly decorated rooms to the empty halls. It’s easy to pretend that you were in a haunted mansion as you sang from door to door; you never see anyone else, but the continuous presence of following eyes that track each leap you take reminds you of old ghosts lurking behind corners. “Where’s your favorite part of your house?” You ask Illumi one sunny afternoon, when you’re both lounging in his sunroom and lapping up what limited time you had left with the sun before autumn arrived and brought the chill with it.

He is surprised by your question, as if no one has ever asked for his opinion in his life, and blinks impossibly slow in response. Placing a finger to his lip, he quirks his head and hums. “Hmmm. I don’t know. I don’t really care much for this house.”

And just like almost everything else he does, it’s horribly empty, and succeeds in shutting out your efforts and extension of friendship.

You return to starring listlessly at the lush gardens below, and make a mental note to ask Illumi if you could one day explore those grounds as well. There were only so many halls you could pass before turning into one of the many ghosts that haunt the mansion.

.....

Zeno Zoldyck is the first and only family member you ever meet. How you ran into him was mere coincidence. You’ve never left Illumi’s wing of the house. But by sheer coincidence do you run into the old patriarch on one of his rare ventures into the family library.

“It’s not easy playing chess alone. You don’t grow at all as a player if you’re only exposed to techniques you are familiar with.” He slams a pawn over your queen, ignoring the shriek of shock you return over his sudden appearance, and takes a sit across you. Despite yourself, you calm what nerves you had left and nervously prod your own pawn forward. He spares you fleeting glance and switches your rook out for his bishop.

And just like that, in the gaping hole that was Illumi Zoldyck’s home, you made a friend.

Zeno is a peculiar old man. He drinks only jasmine tea and likes it so hot it scalds the skin of his lips (you eye the scars that travel down his neck, self-inflicted and not from battle); like Illumi is gaze is piercingly empty, but unlike Illumi he can talk for hours on end and never fails to brighten your mood on days you felt as if your head was full of cotton and your eyes only saw the deaths of stars. You decide you like his straightforward ways and cheeky words, and you can only guess he likes how you’re the only person willing to entertain him in this lonely home on the most boring of days. He’s sprightly for an old geezer, and his wit tempt the corners of your lips ever so slightly.

And so you both meet once a week for a game of chess.

You’ll drink poison and burn your tongue if it meant filling up the empty spaces of time that suffocated you whole.

“What was he like as a child?” You decide to ask one day. Zeno doesn’t take his eyes away from the board (you tried switching the pieces once, and now he knows better than to trust you).

“Stupid. And ugly, if you ask me. Who knows what his mother ate.” He moves his king away from your bishop.

“Like an ugly duckling.” You hum in agreement and move your knight over to his king instead. Grumbling incoherently, he retreats his king further.

“Nothing like that. He’s was never really there,” tapping his forehead, he gives you a pitying grin, “I’m sure you understand.” You shrug in response.

“He couldn’t have helped it.” His king narrowly misses your pawn, and you click your tongue in irritation. A comfortable silence draws on as you both analyzed the board.

“Why do you defend him?” Zeno finally speaks after he slides his knight over to your king, and you bring your knees up to your seat, hiding the lower half of your face behind them before finally shrugging.

“He was a child, there wasn’t much he could have done.” It’s difficult to ignore the bitter taste those words form, and you push them all away as you bring your surrounding pawn to his knight. Zeno frowns.

“But he is now a man, and you are his prisoner.”

You can’t help but sigh when his bishop finally corners your king,

“I know.”

.....

On the nights where Illumi was home, he would occasionally demand you perform for him. Creeping hands dragging you from corner you curled into on the bed you unwillingly shared with him, not caring that the force of his careless throws injures your back further and colors your body with more bruises than you could possibly care to count.

“Why won’t you dance for me?” He demands you once again. It’s different this time though, you realize from watering eyes, choking on the cloud of poison that radiates from him, weighing you down to the floor as you feel your feet slowly turn to stone and merge with the tiles. You do not understand this sudden burst of anger (you think it’s anger; grief, rage and bitterness all swirl around you in endless clouds that it becomes very hard to differentiate one from the next) and you cannot stop yourself from begging for relief as the temperature in the room plummets to dangerously low levels.

“I can’t.” Dark circles creep dangerous close to the edges of your vision. He drives his foot further into your stomach.

“You can.” He nudges you hard, and the blood you cough out stains his foot.

“I can’t.” You want to scream in his face, and somehow he hears the resistance in your voice and digs his foot deeper.

“Why can’t you do this, for me?” He lifts you by your hair, forcing you to look right at him. “Is it because you can’t? Or is it because you won’t?” The last syllable rolls off his tongue with such harshness you never thought him possible of.

“Please,” You plead instead, grabbing at his legs, “let me go.”

It’s only for a fraction of a second, but you see his eyes widen and the pure, unadulterated rage he spews strangles you, and it is so, so bitter that your heart stops and the world fades. He backhands you, and the stinging slap he gives hurts less than the searing pain that sets your chest aflame as holds your down and carves his name into your skin, right at where your collarbones dip and met, slowly and carefully etching something with needles he pulls seemingly out of his shirt. You put up a struggle, desperately screaming for someone, anyone to save you, but he just as easily pins you down and continues his task as if your screams were nothing (they probably weren’t).

“You are mine.” He says, after a long eternity, and your throat his hoarse and raw from all the begging. You can only stare at the name he forcefully carved into your skin with abject horror, shaking furiously, half from fear and half from grief, at how you would now be forever reminded of him.

He licks the blood off his needle, and whispers, “never forget that.”

#hunter x hunter #hxh #illumi #illumi x reader #yandere #angst #zeno zoldyck #zoldyck family #illumi is not a good bean in this #my writings #tumblr has been a real b lately

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