#despite almost missing my deadline this was so fun !! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jeewrites · 2 months ago

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🌈 Sunshine & Rainbows 🌈

Pairing: Dave York x f!reader Equalizer 2 AU: What if Dave survives the fall from the watchtower?

WC: 10.1k (whoopsies) Rated: Explicit, minors do not interact

Content/Warnings: Dave is divorced from Carol (no kids), reference to previous smut, Dave gets a few nicknames, reader is also an assassin but sassy, reader has a nickname and hair that can be pulled, mention of traumatic injuries to Dave, medical jargon, discussion of physical therapy, stalking/murder/torture not described, please remember I had to google “How to preserve an eyeball” for this fic, is murder a love language?, arson, treadmill hate, use of daddy just once, no y/n

A/N: My first Dave fic and my first fic challenge! I got ‘amnesia’ to pair with Dave for @burntheedges's Roll-A-Trope Challenge! I had so much fun trying to wrap my head around Dave as someone who leans towards fluff and feels, so I hope you enjoy my take on our favorite murder daddy. Thank you to @bloviating-vy for being the best beta-reader and encouraging me to write fics in the first place. Dividers by @saradika-graphics. Roll a Trope Masterlist

It’s the pain that wakes him. Every part of his body screams. The tight stretch of skin, itchy and hot. Bruises to the bone. Bones shattered. The sun shines too bright despite the curtains. The increasing beep of the monitor is too loud. How is it possible to hurt like this?

He hears the shuffle of footsteps and the murmur of voices just above the screaming of his body before a shadowy figure appears. He can sense them to his left, but not see them. Is this how he dies? Drowsiness steamrolls him and he slips back to a blissful drug-induced unconsciousness.

It’s been 48 and a half hours and no check-in from Dave. You stare at the burner phone, willing it to beep or ring. Anything. But there is no text. No call. Just the flick and snap as you flip the phone open and close.

Dave has never, ever missed a check-in. Has he come close to the 48-hour deadline after an op? Sure. But never late. And never this late.

You’re not exactly in panic mode yet because it’s Dave, one of the most ruthless and effective killers you know. But you can’t help the anxiety starting to build in your belly and another feeling you can’t quite pin down. It’s not like you love him. But god isn’t he a good fuck, perfect for blowing off steam between covert ops.

And he understands what you do. He understands you and you understand him. Plus, he was the only one who ever almost got a jump on you when a client hired both of you without telling one about the other. That was almost a clusterfuck that ended up being the best fuck of your life.

The burner phone stares back at you, silent. Fuck it. Now it’s time for you to do what you do best. Find people. Find Dave.

The doctor keeps calling him John — as in John Doe. While he can’t for the life of him recall his name, he knows definitively, John is not his fucking name. He’s also tired of talking. He doesn’t have any answers, just more questions piling on top of the questions the doc, a psychiatrist, keeps lobbing at him. Everything still hurts, a dull, perpetual throb throughout his brain and body punctuated by acute pain if he happens to breathe wrong.

He’s in a different building since the last time he awoke in crippling pain. This place seems like a public-run long-term health care facility out in the boonies instead of the large hospital downtown he was in before. The doctors and other health care professionals seem harried and perpetually understaffed. While his room is relatively clean, the decor is dated, all the walls a sickly yellow or green. And everything smells strongly of disinfectant. It could be worse, he supposes, at least it’s clean here.

The psychiatrist leans forward towards him, “Let’s call it a day and let you rest. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

He grunts in response.

Something in his gut tells him to be wary of this doctor, of sharing too much if he ever remembers a goddamn thing. He knows he can trust his gut when it comes to reading people. Watching a steady flow of doctors, nurses, aides, social workers, and janitorial staff in his room, he doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows when someone is trustworthy or a threat. He can read body language at the most minute level with startling clarity.

The head nurse Kathleen is no nonsense and won’t tolerate any bullshit. Nurse Sally does the bare minimum and has sticky fingers. Gotta keep an eye on that one. He likes the neurologist who doesn’t sugar coat things. He’s pretty sure his physical therapist, Ryan, is secretly a sadist.

The night nurse, Brian, is a steadying comfort, always checking on him, “Doing all right, boss?” in the quiet loneliness of the evening. Brian alleviates the pressing annoyance of not knowing his own name by constantly switching up nicknames for him. Calling him buddy, champ, or hot stuff much to his amusement.

He also knows someone tried their damndest to kill him and make it hurt in the process. Gouged out left eye, stabbed between the ribs, sliced tendons, broken bones, internal bleeding, wrapped in a myriad of bruises and tossed from a significant height. He’s been told repeatedly what a miracle it is that he survived at all, washed up on the beach on the brink of death before being found.

For now he bides his time, giving his body the opportunity to heal and recover. He knows he won’t get far in the current condition he’s in after the multiple surgeries and months and months in the ICU. In physical therapy he can barely manage to walk a few steps without assistance, and he’s still adjusting to the eye patch and the use of his remaining eye. He’s relatively safe for now, he thinks, identity a mystery and off the beaten path. Although a small part of him wonders why no one has come to find him. Did he not have family, friends, or anyone who missed him?

Dave doesn’t make it easy on you to find him. Of course he doesn’t. Before he went private, or over to the dark side he liked to say, he made sure to replace all of his biometrics in various government databases with false ones. You have to go old school and retrace his steps from the sparest details he did share with you. Brant Rock the text message had read.

You find Resnik, Ari, and Kovac in the local morgue shortly after the hurricane blew through. Kovac and Ari are identifiable easily enough, but Resnik takes a moment, having most of his face blown off. It’s a shame about Kovac and Ari, they were good enough guys and you didn’t mind working with them on occasion.

But that bastard Resnik had once joked, thinking you were out of earshot, what a good fuck you’d be and you were so vulnerable with only the four of them around for miles and miles. You had slid the safety off your weapon at the same time you heard Dave threaten to rip his balls off through his throat if Resnick dared to try anything with you. You were planning to do worse, but hey, it was the thought that counts, right? That was when you knew you could really trust Dave. Resnik, not so much.

As you approach the next cold locker, for a moment you can’t breathe, suffocating in the thought that the next body you pull is going to be Dave. But to your immense relief, it’s not Dave. Dave isn’t in any of them. It’s not until you slip out of the morgue into your car a few blocks away that you realize you’ve been holding your breath. You allow yourself to sob, forehead against your steering wheel. Crying, such an unfamiliar sensation. Where was he?

It takes you nearly two weeks to find Dave. Listed as a John Doe at the big trauma center downtown, you disguise yourself as a nurse and sneak into his ICU hospital room late one night. Nothing prepared you for his condition.

“Did Mac do this to you, Yorkie?” you whisper as you trace your fingertips along the ashen skin of his forearm. It seems like the only part of him that is uninjured. The only sound in the room is the hiss of the ventilator and soft beeping of the heart rate monitor reminding you he’s actually alive. Barely. He’s unnaturally still for a man always on the move. You gasp softly when you take in his face, his beautiful face marred with wounds and a patch covering his left eye. Your chest tightens as you turn away to collect yourself.

Refocusing, you pull up his chart. The more you scroll, the more your rage builds at Mac or whoever did this to Dave. Your Dave. Severed tendons and ligaments, shattered ribs, crushed vertebra, multiple stab wounds, ruptured spleen, so much internal bleeding it’s a miracle he’s even alive. What the fuck happened?

He is in no condition to be moved. No matter, you think. While he heals, you are going to hunt down who did this to him and exact revenge. Excruciating revenge. Before logging out of the system you program it to send you any alerts to changes in his condition or if he’s moved to another facility.

Before you leave, you take one last look at Dave, gently run your fingers through his soft brown hair, marveling at how peaceful he looks despite the myriad of tubes plugged into him. You almost make it out of the room without shedding a tear until you really see his nose. Broken, shattered, scarred. Even if you don’t love Dave, you love his beautiful, strong aquiline nose. The way he’d nuzzle it into your neck in rare, soft moments. Press it against your mound when he pulled pleasure from you over and over. The quiet moments after you were both sated and sleepy, and he’d let you trace his brow, the strong curve of his nose, his plush lips, as he anchored you against him.

You are going to fucking destroy whoever did this to him.

The doorbell footage at Dave’s apartment confirms that Mac is the culprit behind Dave’s injuries.

The Robert McCall visit. The tense conversation outside with Dave and his guys and Robert. The false cheerfulness, the underlying tension bubbling underneath in the clench of Dave’s jaw, the threat from McCall to Dave and the guys, “The only disappointment in it for me is that I only get to kill you each once.” You bristle with barely contained rage at his words.

Good thing you know enough about the human body to resuscitate it. Looks like you’ll just have to give Mac a lesson on how to kill someone over and over. How unfortunate for him.

The most popular bets to his previous profession are linguistics professor or foreign service.

He discovered his fluency in Farsi when he overheard family members of another patient speaking it in the hallway outside of his room. It took him a moment to realize he understood what they were saying. Shortly after, he overheard several nurses conversing in Spanish and realized to his amazement he understood them too.

“Wonder what else you can speak, professor,” Brian the night nurse muses as he pulls out an assortment of chocolates in a gift tin. That’s a new nickname. “Here, have some French chocolate. Someone gifted them to me when they were discharged.”

He reaches for one gingerly, focusing on the pincer grip to pick a chocolate up. It has been a struggle learn how to use his entire body again once it healed enough to be subjected to OT, PT, talk therapy, and other forms of torture.

He frowns at the sweetness of the truffle as he takes a bite.

“No good?” Bri asks.

“Too sweet,” he mumbles. “But thanks.”

Belgian is better, he thinks to himself before pausing. How does he know that?

Brian grins at him before setting down the tin and checking his chart, “That just means more for me, champ.”

Glancing at the tin, Dave stifles a sharp inhale when he realizes he can read the French printed across the lid.

Discovering or rediscovering who he is has been… interesting. Some of the discoveries raised his spirits, like discovering his impressive ability to guess who was walking into his room based on the sound of their gait or how much a person weighed within a few pounds. Some discoveries though left him questioning what kind of person he really was. An emotional rollercoaster he’s ready to get off of immediately. If only he could just fucking remember!

Aside from being able to read people insanely well, he’s put together that he’s a bit of a control freak and likes things neat and orderly. The bullseye tattoo on his left hand had one nurse guessing that he was an olympic sharpshooter, but no olympian in recent memory remotely looked like him. He knew he had been found in a camo pullover and cargo pants, or what remained of it. Another nurse guessed that perhaps he liked hunting for sport. After all the speculation around the bullseye tattoo, Brian started only referring to him as killer. Curiously, he didn’t seem to mind that nickname. The wedding band tanline made him wonder if he is recently divorced or actually married, but took his ring off for more nefarious reasons. Was he a cheater? Did he have kids? What kind of man was he?

The strangest discovery came the first time orange slices appeared on his lunch tray. He found himself comforted by the smell of citrus as he ate them. Relaxed even, for the first time since he woke up. And also inexplicably aroused. His body had been so broken it had been months since he felt any tingle or whisp of desire, the feeling so unfamiliar it shocks him. What kind of kinky shit was he into?

That night he dreams of rain forests and citrus, relaxing in a familiar embrace he can not name. He wakes up the most refreshed he’s felt since he woke up in the ICU, body screaming in pain. And yet still he can’t explain why.

Sweat pours off of him as he grips the side rails of the treadmill. The PT room is absurdly bright and cheerful for the types of torture it routinely sees.

“You did great, man,” Ryan, his favorite physical therapist, praises. “Going to be running marathons in no time.”

He just grunts in response. He hates running. This he knows in his bones. Hates it. But he has come a long way from barely managing a step with assistance to walking on the treadmill for the first time. A stupid long painful way.

A sudden frustrated yell across the room jerks his attention to one of the newer patients across the room just as an exercise ball is flung in his direction. He reacts before can think, ducking and moving, assessing in a split second the source of the danger and prioritizing three different options in subduing the threat. He misjudges the distance of a table corner, bruising his hip as he dashes by. Damn his depth perception issues, he thinks. Just another thing to work on.

He surprises himself when he finds himself expertly pulling the patient off balance into a chokehold until security arrives. His body knows exactly how much pressure to put to neutralize the threat without killing him. Why does his body know this? Christ.

“Holy shit, man!” Ryan exclaims, helping to pull him up from the ground. “Where’d you learn to do that!”

“Can’t remember,” he groans as he feels his body protest the sudden intense movement. “Think I set myself back with that stunt.” He slumps over in a chair as sharp pain shoots up both his arms. He allows Ryan to fuss over him before one of the aides brings him back up to his room in a wheelchair. One step forward, three steps back it feels like.

It’s not until he’s settled into the privacy of his own room with a healthy dose of painkillers does he start to tally all of his mysterious abilities. He rubs the itchy scruff growing on his face with irritation. He hasn’t had a proper shave since he got here. And he probably won’t, at least not until his fine motor skills get better to do it himself. The staff are just too overworked here. He huffs to himself. He’s probably more of a danger to himself than anyone else right now.

With all his language skills, keen sense of observation, and now apparently mad jiu jitsu skills, what did it add up to? Who the fuck was he?

In the weeks following your visit to see your Dave in the ICU, knowing he has a long road to recovery gives you the time and space to track and hunt Mac. In true Dave fashion, he didn’t give you much to work with, just one single conversation about Robert McCall, but that is all you need.

Shortly before Dave missed his check in, he let you wrap yourself around him as the big spoon after having his way with you. He was uncharacteristically spooked, he told you, after running into his former team leader while out on a run. Robert McCall, Mac, was presumed dead. Dave swore he saw him die that day over seven years ago, setting off a chain of events leading to Dave going private with his guys. The impact of Mac’s death, the grief and the disillusionment that followed after leaving the service.

You knew about the job in Brussels—Susan—and the difficulty Dave was having tying up loose ends. Especially now with Mac resurrected from the dead and digging into Susan’s murder. He briefly mentioned Mac showing up at his apartment and confronting him and the guys a few days after the unexpected reunion. The doorbell footage you found confirmed this conversation.

You asked him if Mac was now a loose end.

Turning to face you, his eyes darkened with affirmation, “But I have a bad feeling about it, Sunshine.”

Mentally you beat yourself up for not pressing Dave more about this bad feeling at the time because you were too busy preening at the pet name. It marked the first time Dave ever met you at your place, raising an eyebrow at your maximalist design choices. It’s like a rainbow and unicorn threw up in here, he had grumbled. Too bright, so sunshine-y. You’re just jealous your place looks like it was decorated by someone allergic to color, you had quipped before he hauled you over his shoulders into the bedroom with a growled I’ll show you jealous, Sunshine.

You tried to smooth the furrows between his eyes. “Can I help?” you whispered before pressing a kiss to the curve of his nose.

He tensed before pulling back to look at you, “No. Don’t want you anywhere near him, baby. Mac’s a killer. He — he taught me everything I know.”

You protested but the look he leveled you with ended the discussion even if you wanted to push back and insist.

“You’re helping right now,” Dave consoled you, laying you back and slotting himself between your legs. “Reminding me I have this to come home to.”

The brief realization he had referred to you as home, quickly disintegrated at the pace he set, burying himself in you, sliding deep into the place only he could reach— the place you think of as his. He left early the next morning, pulling a black beanie over his head before kissing you goodbye. “See you in 48, Sunshine.”

You believe Dave when he said Mac was a killer, the best he knew. So you are meticulous in your tracking. In rare form, you make sure your contingency plans have contingency plans, even if you prefer flying by the seat of your pants. You only allow yourself to feel the quiet thrill of the hunt in order to keep the raging fury that threatens to make you slip up at bay. You summon patience you didn’t know you possessed as you slowly lay your trap and draw Mac in.

Robert McCall has a weakness for damsels in distress. And for extracting his own sense of justice in situations he came across, serving as sole judge, jury, and executioner. It rankles you to see him decide the fate of others, to right a wrong according to him and him alone.

But who are you to judge him when you decided to be his judge, jury, and executioner? So you lure him in and give him exactly what he always looked for. In the end, he is just like any other man really. A talented man, a ruthless killer sure, but he could never match your cunning combined with your wrath, your fury at what he did to Dave.

You keep the feelings at bay as you set the trap in motion until he is soundly in your snare. And even then, you don’t let the rage get out of control because you know your weakness in close combat. You won’t give him an opening to escape or kill you because you can’t stay cool and collected.

By the time you’d laid your trap for Mac, you got a ping from the hospital notifying you of Dave’s transfer to a long-term rehab facility. You pat yourself on the back for the perfect timing. Execute the target and then go check on Dave.

In the end, Mac isn’t that much different from any other kill you executed on the job. Just more satisfying in the end. You did it for Dave, afterall. Your Dave.

He decides that even if he doesn’t like the colorful scrubs the new nurse aide wears, she seems trustworthy enough, even if he struggles to get a more accurate read on her. It’s the first time he’s had trouble reading anyone since he woke up. So he sets aside the puzzlement as Brian introduces him to her. Maybe it’s because of how pretty she is, beautiful really, and how attracted he is to her, a pull that takes him off guard.

“Hey Killer, want to introduce you to our new nurse aide,” Brian says, gesturing to her as she stands a bit shyly next to him. “She’s gonna be helping me out so I don’t feel like a vampire all the time with these night shifts.”

“Killer?” she blurts out making an incomprehensible face before hiding behind a small smile.

“Gives me a reputation. I don’t mind.” He shrugs, smirking at the nickname. “At least until I figure out my real name, no one’s going mess with me. Nice to meet you…?”

The aide makes a funny noise in her throat as he extends his hand to shake hers. She recovers quickly as she takes his hand in hers. Something flickers behind her eyes, something warm, familiar before it fades away as she murmurs her name, Sunny, and tells him to let her know if he needs anything. The pull towards her strengthens as soon as his hands envelope hers, so soft and warm, that he doesn’t want to let go. Something feels so right at her touch. He murmurs her name before she pulls away to make the rounds with Brian.

You aren’t prepared to see Dave. You thought you were. You mentally talked yourself through it before you made your way up to his room with your new supervisor, Nurse Brian. You memorized everything from his chart, and know that he still has severe amnesia, still struggling with remembering anything at all, but nothing prepares you to be in the same room as him and not have a flicker of recognition across his face. His remaining deep brown eye levels a coolness at you that you haven’t seen since the first time you met and tried to kill each other.

This is bad. After everything, the missed check-in, the frantic searching, the revenge-ing to avenge him, the utter lack of recognition across his beautiful face cracks something in you. You barely recover enough to shake his hand and leave his room upright, telling Brian you have to go to the restroom before meeting any other patients.

Tears prick your eyes and you try to calm your breathing, not wanting to face the tsunami of feelings crashing down on you. When did these feelings for Dave get so out of hand?

You haven’t needed anyone since you cut off your abusive family and left home to find your way in the world. You learned to be alone, thrived at working alone in a corner you carved out for yourself. You filled your home with art and color and brightness after you realized you had the power to make your own sunshine. Who else would? Definitely not your shitty family.

And plants. So many plants, your bedroom painted a shade of deep, lush green. Filled with plants. It was like your own personal rainforest. So what if you worked in the dark, creeping in the shadows, a killer for hire? It didn’t mean you had to make it your whole damn personality.

Oh, but Dave. He was the unexpected cherry on top, a force of nature who brought more exciting ops to your life, along with mind-numbing pleasure. Intermittently at first, then regularly. You liked the control you’d cede to him after months of dancing around each other, building trust, moving from fucking in seedy motels after ops to his place or yours. The way he could fuck your worries and stress straight out of your pretty head. Apparently something had shifted without you realizing. Pesky feelings.

Fuck. You care. More than you were willing to admit before Dave almost died. You were too full of rage to feel anything else. You convinced yourself that the revenge you sought when you hunted down Mac was exactly that. Revenge. But now that the rage and fury had ebbed, you face down the why behind your need for revenge, realizing you did what you did because you cared. About Dave. Maybe you lo — lov — Fuck. What if he never remembers what you had together? What exactly did you have with him before, anyway?

He looks good though, even with the patchy scruff and fading scars across his face. The slightly lost expression on his face. Even if you can sense his discomfort in his body, in the way he sits by the window pretending to read a book. He looks so different, skin warm and golden, so alive, from the last time you saw him in the ICU. And his nose, the nose you love healed after all, healing back into its original strong curve.

As much as you want to run back into his room, yelling his name and shaking him until he recognizes you, telling him everything, you know you have to steel yourself for this next part, to allow him to heal and remember at his own pace. Wasn’t that what the doctor had written in his chart? Pushing him too hard will have less-than-ideal outcomes.

You sigh as you wash your face and take a deep breath. This part of the journey is going to be infinitely harder than finding Dave and killing Mac. But at least now he has you to help him jog his memory and watch his back. You lift your head up to walk out of the restroom, refusing to acknowledge the question prickling down your spine. What if he never remembers you’re his Sunshine?

It storms the first night of your shift, winds howling as you make your rounds and tend to the patients assigned to you. You do most of your menial work with one eye watching Dave, learning his routine and keeping tabs on him. It comforts you to know that he has a genuine rapport with nurse Brian, and has been making significant progress in his physical therapy. You get a sense he doesn’t trust the psych doc very much and has been frustrated at recovering his fine motor skills from the nerve damage in his arms. Must be why he doesn’t shave much, you think to yourself. The facility he’s in is fine for a publicly funded place, but you can tell the staff is overworked and underpaid. Your hourly wage is laughable. And everything is painted in this drab yellow that is an insult to the color. You’d read in his chart that the local precinct had put out feelers trying to identify the resident John Doe without much luck. You hope the luck holds out long enough for Dave to heal sufficiently so you can break him out of here before someone who shouldn’t find him does.

The bright flashes of lightning and roaring thunder keep you awake in the wee hours of your shift, strong winds whipping tree branches against the building, even as the patter of rain threatens to lull you to sleep. As you walk the sterile corridors, passing by Dave’s room you hear him yell out in panic, in fear.

It’s all you can do to stop yourself from sprinting into his room, ready to take out whoever is attacking him. You realize in the darkness of his room, illuminated only by a small night light, Dave is alone in his room, still asleep.

You realize he’s having a nightmare as you watch his eye work beneath his eyelid as he mutters, “Show yourself. Show — Show yourself Mac…” before trailing off. His face winces in pain as he jerks under the covers, panting to catch his breath before flinging his arms around like he’s trying to throw a punch.

For a moment you’re frozen, unsure of what to do as you realize he’s likely reliving his last encounter with Mac in real time. Careful not to use his real name, you put a firm hand on his arm to calm him, hey hey hey, to wake him up before he strangles himself in his sheets. As you make shushing noises he jerks the arm out from your grip, grabbing a hold of your throat before gasping awake, right eye wide in terror.

He apologizes profusely once he really wakes up and gets his bearings. It’s the same dream that haunts him every time it storms outside. Bubbling up from his subconscious every time it storms. He’s up high on a tower or lighthouse by some body of water. Rain whips across his face as the waves crash against the shore. He’s impatient, livid, but also… scared? Somehow he knows the before version of him would never admit the last thing.

He’s waiting for someone who is a danger, a threat. What’s taking so long? He remembers yelling, calling a name, Mac, — who is Mac?— before the dream shifts and he’s in indescribable pain. The most pain his body has ever felt slashes through him, punches into his ribs before he’s falling, falling, falling. It’s the icy cold that wakes him every time, shocking him back to consciousness. But this time he wakes up looking into the eyes of the pretty new aide with one of his hands clutched around her throat.

Well, this isn't the first time he’s had his hands around your throat. The dirty thought skitters across your mind, although that situation is preferable to this one. The thought amuses you, even as you start to feel the oxygen deprivation. It is a nice memory though, you think, being bent over your sink while Dave took you from behind. Arching you up with the tug of your hair to watch him in the mirror. It was after the one time you were almost late for a check-in and he was punishing you for it. For making him worry. If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late, Sunshine. Simpler times, you think.

You inwardly sigh and try to figure out how to get out of his chokehold without hurting either one of you. You settle for anchoring one hand to the one on your throat and twisting out of his grip while leveraging his elbow as gently as you can manage to avoid setting him back in his recovery.

He’s still gasping for breath as you try to soothe him with your voice, now scratchy from his grip. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” you comfort as you pat his back.

He starts apologizing immediately, a litany of shit, I’m so sorrys, until you level him with your best stare and quip, “I see where you get your nickname from, Killer.”

He stops long enough to bark out a laugh, before asking again if you really are okay.

“I should be asking you that,” you respond. “Seems like a hell of a dream.” You see him retreat back into himself, at whatever horrors had surfaced in his mind.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you venture, sliding a hand over his. It’s clammy and cold. You feel him start to pull away before stopping.

“I think it’s what happened… before,” he finally answers with a thick swallow, looking away. “No one needs to hear that shit.”

You squeeze his hand for encouragement. “Try me.”

To your surprise he does. After Dave recaps his nightmare as best he can, his hand still in yours, you begin to think that you let Mac off way too easily. Shoulda tortured him more before pulling the plug, you frown internally. Because holy shit, that man really put Dave through the ringer.

“Thanks for — for listening, I think it helped,” Dave squeezes your hand and looks at you with a surprisingly soft expression. Soft Dave, you never thought you’d see the day.

“Of course, Killer,” you squeeze his hand back before offering to get him some water. He accepts and hesitates as if he wanted to ask you something else. You stand but linger by his bedside giving him a moment.

“Will you — will you stay? Just for a bit, until I fall asleep?”

After you get him some water, you stay — your hand in his — until he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

He decides he likes Sunny, not just because she’s pretty, but because she keeps him on his toes with her quick wit and dark sense of humor — to match his own he learns — that makes the days go by faster. Just another thing he learns about himself that just brings more questions than answers.

He can’t help smiling as she checks in with him for the day, wanting to know if he needs anything. “Brought you a present,” she smiles at him so brightly it leaves his brain stuttering to respond. “Your room is so boring, figured you could use a plant.”

She places it by the window before turning with a look to see if he approves. He does. He doesn’t know why but the little green thing feels familiar, a comfort like home. He scratches at the irritating scruff on his cheek before finding his words to thank her.

“I have some extra time today, do you need a shave?” she asks, like she can read his mind. “Looks itchy.”

“Yes. Please.” The look of relief on his face must be palpable because she immediately leaves to grab a razor and shaving cream.

The thought that she could read him so well, as if his mind is an open book screams to the front of his mind. His stomach twists at the thought. A creeping suspicion fills him as she approaches with the razor. What if she actually knows who he is, but he just doesn’t remember her? It would explain the inexplicable familiarity that came whenever she visited his room. What if the sunny personality is all an act and she’s actually a cold blooded killer sent to finish him off? Perhaps he should be more suspicious of her. He’d only known her for a week and she is the only person he couldn’t get an accurate read on.

His chest constricts at the recurring fear that someone had wanted him to hurt badly before trying to kill him. It really was only a miracle he survived. And now he was willingly allowing this stranger into his personal space with a sharp object. Could you kill someone with a disposable razor? Not ideal, he thinks, but possible.

“Everything okay?” she asks him as she sets up the side table with shaving accessories.

He hesitates, conflicted with his most recent revelations as she moves closer to him.

“Look, if I was going to sever your jugular a disposable razor wouldn’t be my first choice,” she dramatically rolls her eyes at him before looking at him for consent to start.

He lets out a nervous giggle, a sound he’s pretty sure he’s never made in his entire life.

“Not my second, third, or fourth choice either, okay?” she continues. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m not the one with the nickname ‘Killer.’”

She has a point. And she did just bring him a plant. And comfort him after one of his ridiculous nightmares the very first night she was here. If there was a moment when he was most vulnerable, that was her chance. He pushes away the feelings of suspicion and nods, allowing her to get started.

He couldn’t help leaning into her touch as she gently washes his face and smoothes on the shaving cream. The way the fading light from the window caught the flecks of colors in her eyes as she focused on the task at hand. He couldn’t help but think how cute she looks with her furrowed brows, all her attention on him. He decides the odds are low she was there to kill him considering how careful and gentle she is. He closes his good eye and allows himself to enjoy himself. Who knew getting a shave was such an intimate experience? He could feel himself relaxing under the warmth of her touch and the delicate scent of her citrus-y shampoo wafting across his nose at this close proximity. Something tugs on his mind at the scent, but she interrupts the thought.

“So what do you think, Killer?” she asks.

As he cracks open his eye, he realizes she’s holding up a small mirror. Time slows down at the same time his heart rate speeds up as he takes in his clean-shaven reflection. It’s like he suddenly remembered why he walked into a room after forgetting all this time.

His name is Dave. Dave motherfucking York.

When he says his name out loud, you let out an audible gasp you tried to cover as true surprise.

“This is huge! Dave, do you — do you remember anything else? Last Name?” You blurt out.

His lips briefly purse before his face flickers just for a moment, his tell, before he shakes his head no.

Liar. You immediately know he’s lying to you. He fucking remembers. You can see the cogs whirring in his brain, assembling all of the new information he unlocked when he looked at his reflection.You busy yourself tidying up the shaving accessories, watching him from the corner of your eye, hoping that he recognizes you.

It’s coming back to him, you can just tell from the way he’s holding himself up now, even just sitting in the chair, his posture is different. The lost expression is gone. The calculated, commanding presence of the Dave York you know is emerging right before your eyes.

Dave York is remembering.

He startles you when he speaks to you again, low and almost menacing, “Don’t tell anyone else. I’m not… ready to share yet.” His expression flashes dark at you.

Ah yes, the patented Dave I’m-telling-you-not-asking-you York.

“Of— of course. Take all the time you need,” you respond.

The next time you glance at him, he has that expression on his face where he’s assessing someone, assessing you, deciding if they are a threat or not. Great, the last thing you need is Dave trying to off you before he remembers who the fuck you are.

“I promise. I’m not going to say a word,” you try and reassure him.

He offers a nod, a dismissal really, before turning to look out the window, back to whatever memories may be emerging from the abyss of his mind.

You’d think that Dave remembering would be a good thing, but unfortunately the feds figure out who he is at the same time. You’re on shift, loitering by the nurses’ station when you see two nearly identical government looking guys turn the corner into the wing of the facility just after dinner. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, you think. And they reek of federal agents. FBI, specifically. Shit.

Dave has been more withdrawn since remembering his name. Brooding by the window. Typical Dave. You keep up your act, checking on him and chatting with him, hoping really for any glimpse of recognition, but still none so far. You can tell he’s still assessing you, trying to decide if you really are just a peppy aide or dangerous foe waiting to strike.

You busy yourself nearby as the feds chat with Brian, eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Wait, that guy’s wanted for murder AND treason??” Brian exclaims. “But he’s so… docile.” You quietly snort to yourself at that word being used to describe Dave York.

“And a whole list of other things, but those are the big ‘uns,” one of the feds responds.

They continue to chat with Brian, trying to determine how much Dave remembers and what condition he’s in in order to transport him.

“Psych notes still say he doesn’t remember very much. But physically he’s actually almost ready for out-patient rehab,” Brian scans the electronic chart.

“Gotta put in the transfer ’n get him to our medical facility,” Tweedle Dee nods to Tweedle Dum. “We’re going to post someone on the floor to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“Well, as long as they’re discreet,” Brian warns. “Don’t want to disturb the other patients on the floor.”

“Roger that,” Tweedle Dum responds before pulling out his phone to make a call.

The agents nod at Brian before walking back down the hallway. You see them briefly stop outside of Dave’s room before continuing on their way.

Well, it looks like you’re breaking Dave out of here whether he remembers you or not. This should be fun. Hopefully he doesn’t try to kill you in the process.

Dave senses something is off before he even sees the two feds walk by his room on the way to the nurses station. He knows they’re there for him. By their gait and posture, they don’t seem like they’re in a particular rush to storm his room, so he bides his time, even as he slips a scalpel up his sleeve. He can’t run. All he can manage is a quick walk with a limp. There’s no way he can run fast enough or long enough to evade two federal agents, even if they look like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Fuck, he thinks. He should have pushed harder in PT.

He resumes sitting by the window, angling himself into a better position to attack if they decide to take him in today and waits. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.

He holds his breath when the agents walk by his door again, pausing for just a moment. He makes sure to observe them so he’ll be able to identify them again if, when, they return. Fuck, he needs to come up with an escape plan.

He lets out a sigh of relief as they walk away. What the fuck is he going to do? Where is he even going to go? He’s sure he doesn’t have much time, a day at most. Of everything that has returned to him, he still cannot remember any of the safe houses or stashes of money/fake IDs he’s sure he has… somewhere.

Remembering has been… more bitter than sweet. His rough childhood and divorced parents both deceased, his own divorce from Carol, the stint in the military, black ops, the DIA, before going private. Then it all gets hazy. Were the dreams about Mac real? But how could they be if Mac was dead? Was Mac actually still alive? Remembering all of the heavy stuff was like grieving it all over again, all at once. It was fucking depressing.

As he shuffles to the bathroom to splash water on his face to help him think more clearly, he hears someone walk into his room. By the sound of the light stride, it’s the pretty aide that still talks to him even if he almost strangled her in his sleep. What if she’s making the move to kill him now, after all this time, because she saw the feds coming to take him away? As she rounds the corner, he moves out of instinct, pinning her against the wall with a forearm to her neck, scalpel out and ready.

She lets out a squeak as he expects, before he cuts off her airway. What he doesn’t expect is her to roll her eyes at him as he presses a scalpel to her jugular.

You aren’t sure when Dave got a hold of a freaking scalpel, but it doesn’t surprise you in the least. Of course he found something sharp to play with.

“Why the fuck aren’t you scared?” he demands. “You got a death wish or something??”

He eases his forearm off of your throat, but still holds you pinned against the wall. You inwardly sigh. In another time and place, this would just be foreplay, but right now the scalpel is still just a little too close to comfort. Probably shouldn’t push it with him, not too much anyway.

“That’s what you want to ask me, Yorkie?” you croak. You decide on no sudden movements though, in case it spooks his hand to twitch in the wrong direction.

He frowns at the pet name. Right, he never told you he remembered his last name. Oopsies.

“You’d never hurt me,” you whisper. “At least, the Dave I remember wouldn’t. Not — not unless I liked it.”

Your eyes search his brown one, for anything, any recognition, but still none comes. Why are you tearing up? It’s not like he’s crushing your windpipe anymore.

“How do I know you’re not the one trying to kill me?” he growls. Well, at least he sounds like the Dave you love. Love? Wait, what??

“Don’t you think if I wanted to kill you, I woulda done it the first night?” You roll your eyes again. You’re getting impatient now, if anything just to have the pointy blade removed from the vicinity of your neck. Maybe you could have done without the eye roll though.

His brows are still furrowed and you are so tempted to raise your hand and smooth the double crease away with your thumbs. You miss the way he’d melt under your touch, even if he’d never admit to liking it. He stares you down for a handful of breaths before you see the moment he makes a decision that reflects across his face.

The moment he shifts the blade an inch away, you pounce, leveraging the blade away from him and reversing your positions. Shoving him up against the wall, you flinch when you hear his head smack the wall a little harder than you prefer, even if you know you’re not strong enough to hold him there very long. You press the dull side of the blade against his inner thigh, right at his femoral artery.

“This bring back any memories, Yorkie?”

He blinks hard a few times, as if he is surprised to find himself pinned against the wall by you. He glances down at where you have the scalpel pressed against his inner thigh before looking back up again and you brace yourself because you think he’s about to fight you off. Then you realize he’s looking at the plant you left on his window sill and then back at you, really looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

His eye widens as he softly inhaless, “Sunshine?”

The citrus bodywash, the plants, all the fucking plants, the too colorful scrubs. His Sunshine. Unlike all his other memories that came back gradually in waves, with you it was like a switch was flipped and he went from not knowing you to now remembering everything. He feels a surge of emotion — relief, excitement, desire — but the most prominent is trust. He has someone he can truly trust, who knows him, again.

All it took was a scalpel to his femoral artery. Figures. How he met you is a core memory after all.

He feels you lessen your hold on him, tucking the scalpel away, eyes wide as you pull away from him in disbelief. But he doesn’t want you to be further away from him, he wants to keep you close. And so he tugs you flush against him.

“Say my name again,” you ask, eyes still wide.

He brushes a thumb across your soft cheek and takes in your bright, discerning eyes. “My Sunshine.”

“You really remember,” you whisper, pressing your face into his chest for a deep inhale, before looking back up at him. “I missed you so much, Yorkie.”

He just looks at you, takes you in, tracing the outline of your lips before pressing his mouth to yours.

You and Dave don’t get much of a reunion, a single kiss, before you hear footsteps approaching. By the sound of the gait heavily favoring the right side, it’s your supervisor Nurse Brian. You immediately move, pretending to prop Dave up over one of your shoulders like you’re helping him to walk before Brian turns the corner.

“Everything okay here, Sunny?” Brian calls out as he approaches.

“Yep, all good. Just helping Killer here back from the bathroom. Looks like he… tweaked his knee pretty bad in PT,” you respond, trying to hide how breathless you are from one kiss. Dave gives you the most dubious expression before you elbow him in the side and give him a look that says just go with it okay?

Dave has never been a fan of improvisation like you, preferring his contingency plans having contingency plans, all neatly laid out in his cute little spreadsheets. Which… you can appreciate. You love a good spreadsheet, but sometimes flying by the seat of your pants is just so much more… fun and exciting. Maybe this is why the two of you make such a good team, a bit of intense control and structure and, well, a lot of whatever it is you feel like doing in the moment.

You can tell the moment Dave decides to play along when he drops a chunk of his weight on you and you nearly stumble trying to keep the both of you upright. You keep up a rambling monologue at Brian as you settle Dave back into his bed while Brian shuffles awkwardly around the room, obviously trying to herd you out of the room. Your spidey senses tingle — something is about to happen. Before you leave the room, you surreptitiously slip the scalpel back to Dave and give him the most reassuring look you can manage.

Just outside Dave’s room Brian finally spills the news that the feds got approval to transfer him later tonight. Perfect, you think. Just enough time for a bit more improvisation to break Dave out of this place. And get you out of here too. If you have to give another sponge bath or assist with another bowel evacuation you might start killing people.

“Turns out Killer is actually a killer,” Brian whispers, shaking his head. “I’ll be damned. Just make sure you don’t go into his room by yourself anymore.”

Boy, do you have news for your supervisor.

During your next break, you comb the facility looking for something to create a distraction. A big one. As you pass by the PT room, the small row of treadmills call to you and a burst of inspiration hits you. Yorkie will be so pleased. He hates running.

The fire is a lot bigger than you expected. Apparently all the foam roller things in the PT room are also highly, highly flammable. Piled together by the treadmills you rigged to spark, you didn’t expect it to make quite the towering inferno it did. But you know what? Mission accomplished.

In the chaos of the fire alarm and subsequent evacuation, you sneak Dave off in a wheelchair (and the plant you brought him, gotta save the little guy too!) and into a car you had borrowed before you started your very brief career in healthcare. Parked in an alleyway cleared of cameras, you almost giggle at the getaway going so well. The only person you had to kill was the fed left to watch Dave’s floor. Yorkie, on the other hand, is still tense with apprehension apparently.

“We’re not clear yet,” he growls as you flip on the radio and peel out of the alleyway.

“Don’t make me tranq you,” you threaten with a smile. “Raining on my brilliant plan.”

He grumbles something unintelligible while pinching the bridge of his nose, but keeps quiet as he looks out the window as Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car comes on over the radio. As the miles roll by, it occurs to you that it’s the first time he’s been outside of a hospital or facility in almost a year and the uncertainty of the future, now on the run, sobers you up a bit for the rest of the drive.

It takes a subway, a bus, and a boat, and another borrowed car, before you make it back to your place. You didn’t want to give the feds a chance at tracking either of you, so you took the extra long, long way home. You’re both quiet most of the journey, only communicating when necessary when switching modes of transportation.

The only time he asks you anything is when it starts to rain, water streaming along the wide windows of the bus. He whole body jerks when he remembers something he wanted to ask you, “Mac. Was he the one who… Is he — is he alive? Or dead?” You can hear the absolute terror in his whispered confusion.

You slide a hand over his to calm him, “He was alive. He didn’t die all those years ago.” You can feel his entire body tense even more. “He’s gone now though, Yorkie. Can’t come after you anymore.”

He stares at you, stiff as a corpse.

“I took care of him for you, baby.” You pat his hand, willing him to take a breath and relax.

He continues to look at you, wanting an explanation, but you’re not about to confess to murder and torture on a bus, even if it is mostly empty.

“Later, Yorkie,” you murmur as you snuggle up next to him, hoping he will finally relax. There’s still a way to go before you both get home.

He crashes immediately after getting to your place. You can tell he’s overexerted himself and is likely in more pain than he’s letting on. Still too wired from being on high alert and making sure Dave was okay on the long trek home, you curl up in an armchair by the bed and just watch him sleep. Perhaps you’re afraid if you take your eyes off of him for a moment, he’ll vanish again.

There’s a warm shaft of light emanating from the bathroom, casting soft shadows around the room, highlighting the outline of his form, those broad fucking shoulders and soft brown hair. He’s so still you’d rush to check for a pulse save for the slow steady rise and fall of his chest.

Even with all the progress he’d made in physical therapy, he still has a ways to go. You push aside the concern and anxieties of tomorrow to appreciate that he’s warm and safe in your bed right now. Your eyes trace his face, those plush lips you’ve only gotten to kiss once since he remembered you. Following the arch of that nose you love to the two deep furrows between his brows. How does someone look so grumpy even in their sleep? It delights you.

When you can’t take the distance, however short, from Dave, you slide into bed as slowly as you can. He’s usually such a light sleeper, but he doesn’t move an inch. You gently smooth a thumb between his brows until you feel him melt. You close your eyes and allow his steady breathing to lull you to sleep.

“You’re going to cook? Breakfast?” you almost fall out of bed as you try and untangle yourself from the sheets, still half asleep. Who is this man and what has he done with Dave York?

He grumbles something before raising his voice, “I miss real eggs. That place only ever made the powdered shit.”

You shrug and gesture at him to knock himself out, while you busy yourself with making coffee. Coffee always first. Then food. This is the correct order of things. As you hear the fridge door swing open, you feel Dave freeze, standing stock still while letting all the cold air out. Ugh, Dave.

“Sunshine…” he seems to be at a loss for words. “Why the fuck do you have an eyeball in your fridge?”

“Oh, I forgot!” you exclaim. “It’s your welcome home present, Yorkie.”

His head pokes out from behind the door and he frowns, “You know it can’t replace the eye I lost right?”

“Oh, I know. It’s what’s left of Mac,” you explain as you slide by him to grab the oatmilk for your coffee. The eyeball stares down at you, suspended in formalin, from its clear jar on the top fridge shelf. “Eye for an eye right?”

He just looks at you and then at the jarred eyeball in the fridge, and then back at you, speechless.

“Well, except he’s dead and you’re not.” You smile and shrug as you finish stirring the milk into your coffee and take the first blessed sip, extra pleased with yourself. “You’re welcome, Yorkie.”

“Fuck baby, sometimes you scare me you know that?”

You just smile at him, looking so at home in your colorful kitchen with his tousled hair and grumpy expression before you go to sit on one of the kitchen island stools. “I think that’s exactly why you love me.”

He rounds the island counter and cages you in with his arms. You take in his handsome face, so handsome it’s sometimes hard to breathe, as he just takes you in. He finally rumbles, “Yeah, I guess that’s why I do.”

“Yeah?” you look at the floor at the admission, swiveling back and forth on the stool, not quite ready to look at him again.

He tilts your chin up with one hand, “You really take care of Mac for me? All by yourself?”

You consider reminding him that you offered to help in the first place, but somehow an I told you so felt like it would ruin the moment. You just bite your lower lip instead.

“Mmh hmm.”

“Why, baby? I — I almost died,” he presses. “He coulda killed you! You didn’t know then if I was even going to make it or not.”

You frown at this. Did he not understand?

“And I’m still so — so broken. Never going to fully recover and be who I was. Not worth anything to anyone anymore.”

He definitely does not understand. And you haven’t had enough coffee for this conversation. You quell the urge to roll your eyes as you grasp the front of his shirt and pull his face down level with yours.

“Yorkie, that’s exactly why I killed him.” Your words are firm even if you feel yourself shaking at what you’re about to admit. “He doesn’t get to try to kill the person I love and get away with it.”

His eyebrows shoot up at your disclosure, that pesky L-word. Should it really be a surprise at this point though? After everything? Even if it terrifies you to admit out loud. You did all of this because you love him. Your Dave.

“After I — I saw you in the hospital, everything Mac did, there wasn’t another option,” you murmur. “You mean everything to me, Yorkie.”

Dave forgets about the stupid eggs as he drags you back to bed and reminds you exactly why you love his nose so much. Fuck, you missed this.

You suppose from one assassin to another, there’s no declaration of love like getting all murder-y and revenge-y for them. It might as well have been a proposal of marriage. Even with so much uncertainty about your futures and how much rehab Dave still has to go, you figure as long as he doesn’t start trying to back seat assassinate, you’ll both be fine. You’ll take care of your Yorkie until he can be Murdah Daddy again.

#dave york fanfiction #dave york x you #dave york x reader #murder dave #roll a trope challenge #the equalizer 2 fanfic #the equalizer #robert mccall #pedro pascal characters

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fraugwinska · 30 days ago

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HAPPY HALLOWEEN! 🎃 Jesus, today is a day of Uploads! xD I have to upload a buttload of more stuff, so bear with me! I didn#t think I'd finish on time - butt here it is! My take on Hazbin meets DBD! The Wheel of Misfortune gave me Angel to work with, and despite all odds, I wrote a story without SMUT! Can you believe it? :D The Masterlist can be found here - check out the works of all the other, talented writers and artists! It will be updated frequently, as Kinktober and other shenanigans came inbetween some of us and the deadline. But that only means we'll have fantastic fics and delicious drawings to look forward to! Thank you to everyone participating - for making this Event such a special one! You all are AMAZING! @redvexillum @ritualofcirice @chefskjssart @dewdropdinosaur @lumikello24

@macabr3-barbi3 @xalygatorx @melodyonthewireless @kewpikayo @jurijyuu

Warnings&Tags: Major Character Death, Pain & Torture, Physical & Psychological Abuse, Kidnapping/Abduction

Night. It was always fucking night.

Danny hadn't minded when the entity, whatever it was, had called on him. When the fog arrived, shortly after he left Roseville, he had embraced it, yeah, even felt giddy - he hated boredom, loved the thrill of the chase. And the realm the soundless voice promised him seemed to be a remedy for both. His old routine renewed by almost wickedly enhanced powers, his slaughters improved with every new, fresh meat hooked that he didn't care enough about to learn their names.

The first weeks the entity sent him alone into the woods in between trials. An unspoken pledge that once Danny has proven his worth, he'd join the others. Killers, like him, an arsenal of evil, depravity and death. He was intrigued by the prospect - acclimating in this environment was fun, but the real thing would be asserting himself next to legends like Myers or Krueger. So he did what he did best - Stalk and chase and kill, each new trial bumping up his adrenaline and fuck it was fun. Barely a trial went by where he didn't get the full set of kills, his reward plenty by the looming black thing above, sending him new powers and an overpowering sense of accomplishment. And if he missed one or two, the entity would soothe his flaring anger, the fog cold and calm on his skin when the world around him would collapse in fire and smoke - Don't worry about the pests that got away - There's next time, Danny Boy. And he always got them next time.

Finally he felt it - as the ground split in glowing reds and the heat took over the Autohaven, he felt the hot, dripping claws of the entity christen him. He had succeeded the trial by literal fire, and as he was pulled away, not north towards the lone patch of woods he had come to know, but south, the presence of evil growing bigger by the second, Danny left his old, useless name behind. The entity had given him a new one, one that he embraced with a laugh of euphoria: Ghostface.

***

While the survivors, as they called them so ironically, gathered around a campfire between trials, the hunters - killers, for a better term - were granted a real home. A shack in the same woods somewhere, filled with an Arsenal of weapons and tools for them to use as they pleased, and blood-stained, torn seats around a burning fireplace. Most of them lived in their own heads, some of them too animalistic to socialize. The ones that wanted to spend their times waiting together for ‘The Call’ on those seats, sometimes indulging in the strong, burning drinks the entity manifested along new blades or rods when she was pleased with them. And as all groups, the hunters, too, had a leader, as far as leaders can exist in a group of hungry wolves. Evan MacMillan was that one, although he, as most of the others, shed himself of that name when he became the Trapper. He was respected amongst both the vocal and silent, strong, calm and cold-blooded enough to keep brawls in between them to a minimum, one of the oldest and longest standing killers of the entity. But even he, after so many trials he had withstood, so many survivors he had killed through either the entity's hooks or his own hands, has never experienced anything like this before.

"Shit, come on, Bubba, get yourself together man." One of the Legions, Frank, clumsily patted the wailing monstrums back. The Hillbilly had never been able to speak more than just grunts and howls, making communicating with him often hard and frustrating, but the sounds he made now weren't hard to interpret - he, too, had just ended a trial with the new survivor. And as with a lot of them before, it wasn't the prey that had been scared and traumatized, but the predator.

The Nightmare took a swig of the last bottle of whiskey they had, hissing at the burn. "Can't blame the poor fuck - I've seen the dreams of that freak.... swear to god even I got nightmares after that."

"Frederick, pace yourself and leave some for the poor man." The Doctor chimed in, taking the bottle out of the sharp clawed hands and handing it to the Hillbilly with a mournful expression. "Only one chug, lad. Going at this rate, we might as well start to get accustomed to bread and water... She is not happy with us."

"Кто может винить ее? Мы все подвели ее с этим существом." (Who can blame her? We all have failed her with that creature.)

The Huntress threw another hatchet into a nearby wall, hitting the middle of the target she had painted with blood next to her previous four. Although her eyes were hidden behind the rabbit mask, Evan and the others could hear the sourness in her voice.

"Uhuh, sure, babe, whatever you say." Legion mumbled and rolled his eyes, handing the still sniffing Bubba a dirty rag to wipe his deformed nose with.

"Huntress is saying what we all think, Legion. We are failing. All of us." Evan sighed and brought one of his massive, rough hands up to wipe sweat from his temples. He knew the ropes of the entity's game, knew that some survivors had advantages, were more courageous or daring, even defiant. Evan was good, but not perfect, and he wasn't so far gone like some of the others to expect their victims to stay quivering, fearful messes like when they are freshly called upon. But the new one...

He... or it? Was so much more different than any survivor before him. Tall and lean, which would've normally make it so much harder to hide from them, flashy instead of discreet, loud and boastful instead of silent and secretive... human-like and yet so not-human at all.

"Ahhhh, another four for four, bitches!" The newcomer, Ghostface, as he had introduced himself, kicked open the door to the shack, his flowy robes drenched in blood and slimy mud that told Evan he'd been at Backwater Swamp. "Oh god, don't tell me Billy-Boy was too pussy to get over that new Survivor, too?"

The whole room growled at that remark, and Evan sighed in annoyance. The Ghostface had made more foes than allies in those few days he'd been sent to them as an addition to the entity's team of murderers. It wasn't that he was cocky, crude or obnoxious - they all were like that when they first came to the realm. What irked them all was the sense of superiority he wore so obviously on his sleeve, convinced that he was the entity's favorite, blessed by her dark energy and favored by her will.

"Fuck you, Ghostface, leave Bubba alone!" Legion spat, his facemask cracking with anger, while the Nightmare threw him a look of disgust and Michael, usually stoic and silent, turned his emotionless mask to its screaming counterpart, the blackened, hollow eyes almost flowing out with angered darkness. Evan wanted to shake the boy under the costume when he just laughed, the mockery blatant and offensive. "Are you guys telling me you, the creme de la creme of carnage, can't get a newbie under control?!"

The Trickster, who had been playing with his throwing blades with more than just an exasperated expression (which Evan could understand, given that his humiliating loss against the new survivor left too fresh of a wound in his ego), stood up with a hiss in the language none of them had been able to learn yet, but the Legion was faster, leaving Bubba in the care of the Wraith, stomping towards the cackling figure. "Listen, Fuckface - he asked the Spirit if she could give him tips about SHIBARI and yelled 'Harder Daddy' when the goddamn Executor tried to slam him into the ground... THAT'S NOT NORMAL!"

The Shape huffed in agreement, and the Nightmare added his own opinion in a raspy voice, scratching his distinctive scars around the face and neck: "I agree, he's fucking weird - insane, not scared of any of us. He doesn't even look like a normal survivor, and that's comin' from someone with that kinda face."

"That's a whole lot of words to say that you suck at your jobs, fellas." Ghostface retorted with a sneer in his voice, running his gloved fingers along his shining knife, the hilt still covered in blood spots but the blade pristine and almost glowing.

"Enough." Evan said, his voice booming across the room, effectively shutting the others up.

"You talk big, Ghostface. But you haven't had a trial with the one they call 'Angel' yet." Evan and the others felt the familiar cool wisps of air, harbingers of the arrival of the black fog for another trial. The Entity whispered the names of the prey into the winds - Evan had learned to listen for them long ago, and under his never-changing mask, he felt his lips pull into a rare smile. It was a gamble, risking to topple the weak chain of authority they had established among each other. But Evan felt that he wouldn't deserve the title nor the respect that came with being the leader if he would let this petty behavior and destructive jealousy continue. The favored one needed a well-deserved damper on his ego, and maybe the newest survivor - who- or whatever he was - could teach him that lesson. He stopped the Skull Merchant that had stood up to offer herself to take the trial with a wave of his bear-like hands and turned to the young killer, pointing his makeshift ax in his direction. "Maybe you are right. Maybe me and the others just don't have what it takes anymore to honor the Entity."

The silence that fell over the shack was heavy as the Entity's presence grew stronger, and Evan was sure the others could feel it, too, her excitement building up and electrifying the atmosphere surrounding the killer's shack. He ignored the burning fury in Legion's eyes, the angry scratch of Freddy's claws over moldy wood. The young man tilted his head in curious interest, letting his finger press into the edge of his blade until the leather broke and blood started to drip out of it in crimson pearls.

"Here's your opportunity. Show us, Ghostface, how you will fare against this new kind of prey."

***

"Oh my god, toots, move over, I can't watch this a second longer."

Angel rolled his eyes at the meek girl, brushing her dirty blonde hair out of her face as she let him take over. The other two were useless too - that Ace guy couldn't do shit even if his life depended on it - huh, which it literally did, now that Angel thought about it. And Renato was a sweet dude, a little too nerdy for Angel's taste, but he was still too rattled after his last trial with that hunk of a killer with the butt-stupid metal triangle head to be of any help except for maybe cleansing totems in between hiding in lockers. Angel couldn't blame him - he had seen how Sexy Back had Mori'd the poor dude, and it had not been the kind of gutted that Angel would've liked either. But Kate was a cool gal, a pretty face and too nice for her own good but normally very capable. She reminded him a little of Charlie, and the thought always stung faintly in his chest. Normally she would've rocked the generators, but for some reason, she was nervous and erratic this trial, her eyes always wandering around, looking over her shoulder every few seconds and fucking up the gen more than she repaired it. He let his second pair of arms grow out of his sides, cutting the time it took to finish the rest in half, and with a click the machine roared to life, steadily pumping electricity into the mainline for the exit gates. One down - four more to go.

"Jesus with a strap-on, Kate, I thought with what you look like you'd know how to get an engine going." He teased, but the girl didn't seem to even hear him, her eyes still scanning the dark woods behind them. "Sorry, Angel, sorry... it's just... don't you feel it?" "If you mean Big Mama's presence, then yeah. Pretty much hard to ignore with all the black claws and shit, but I've gotten used to it. Kinda feels like a well-worn, cheap training bra now." "No, not that... I think someone is watching us. Like... stalking."

Angel grabbed her arm and pulled her into some nearby bushes, the neon signs of the worn-down cinema blinking in the near distance. "Babes, 'ya know I can handle Mute Mikey. What I can't handle is you loosin' 'ya head now. Fuckin' Ace is hard enough to carry." They both crept along the sides of the forest nearer to the building. "It's not Michael... I can't explain... it feels different, like when Claudette told me..."

Whatever Claudette had told Kate - Angel wasn't about to hear it as Ace's screams of terror echoed through the forest from the other side of the entity's caged playground.

"Motherf... okay, 'ya go get that dumbass and heal up, imma find a gen and fuck it up so whoever it is will get distracted. Stay low, kay, sugartits?" Kate nodded with wide eyes, and ran into the darkness. Angel cursed that dumb fucker, finding a gen around a corner and let it misfire before he made a quick turn and went through the broken wall into the cinema show room of the Greenville Theatre. Fuck, a movie would be nice - watching one of making one, anything would be better than this. He silently went up the stairs into the storage room and began to work on the generator there.

Eyes on the goal.

Surviving wasn't what Angel saw as the goal. Even if he'd die in mommy's sick game, he knew from seeing the others revive at the campfire, only to be sent to another trial again a few moments later. Living or dying, Angel couldn't find himself to care, although he always chose to live, even if the others kicked the bucket and he was the last one standing. No, the goal was to get the fuck out of that shitty nightmare Val had sent him into.

Whatever he had fucked up with 'The Entity', it must've been huge because the last time he saw him he was barely alive even by hell's standart. His wings were ripped from his back, his insides hanging out of a fat gash on his side and the studio a chaotic mass of fire, smoke and debris. And in all of it stood she.

Roo.

That's what Val had called her anyway, that bitch in edgy clothes and with those manic eyes, smiling in such a terrifying, blinding way with teeth sharp as an excorcist's blade that Angel thought just that smile could smite an army of sinners if she wanted to.

"Roo... I can expl...ain." Val had stuttered, blood running freely out of his mouth drenching his words.

"No need, Valentino. You and the other Vee's went all in with chips out of my own pocket, and you lost. And I don't like losing my stake."

She had summoned black, claw-like spikes, writhing like insects towards a panicking Val. He stumbled two steps back, noticing Angel creeping away, towards the crumbled wall, the running masses and the open streets of the Pentagram. Angel had seen Charlie and Vaggie forcing their way towards the burning ruins. And Husk. His Husk, wings outstreched and he was fucking flying over them all towards Angel. He had never seen him fly before.

"You can... Take! T...TTake him!!!" Val had screamed, falling to his knees as he pointed to Angel, coughing red and black onto the formerly pink, tacky tiles. His words sent a wave of hate and fear through Angel, and his eyes went from Charlie's tear-stained face to Husk screaming his name as he flapped his wings to pick up speed and fell onto her. Smiling at him, one slender, white finger with a black, pointy nail pressed into her cheek. She watched the cat demon dodge a falling beam and looked... amused as her eyes found his. She winked.

"Fine, you'll do."

Before Angel could even breathe to say something, or run, black fog encapsulated him, and only her glowing white smile and Husk's distressed scream of his name followed him as he fell through the darkness.

No. Surviving was just a crutch, a means to an end. His goal was to get that bitch Roo. To find his way out of this fucking mess. Back home, back to the hotel, back to Charlie and Vaggie and Niffty and even Alastor. And most importantly: Back to fucking Husk.

Almost done with the gen his head turned as he heard two sounds at the exact same time: The sound of another generator coming alive and Renato's pained cry. That stupid man... Instead of running, Renato most likely had stayed on the gen to finish it, sacrificing himself to be thrown onto a hook. Angel shook his head, trying hard to focus on connecting cables and switch out gears. The others could get him off. They had learned that he was best at two things: Getting gen’s to work and screw with the killers.

But apparently, no one came close to Renato in time - when Angel stood up from the now running machine, he felt the dreading boom of a successful sacrifice - Renato had been swallowed by the entity, and from the muffled screams and misfiring generators him he knew that Ace had been already hung up too, and Kate was at least injured, if not on her way to be hooked by this rounds killer. Another boom told him Ace had given up - that asshole had most likely struggled too much to get himself off instead of waiting for him or Kate, and lost the fight against Roo's hungry claws. Which left him and Kate, and two generators to open the exit gates - not the best odds, with how fast this Killer acted and how idiotically nervous the usually so assured girl fumbled with the generators. He could wait for Kate to die and go for the hatch, but Angel knew he wouldn't. Not for Kate. Not after seeing so much of Charlie in her.

He made a dash down the stairs and through the arcade room, peeking his head out and spotting Kate's limp body on a nearby meat hook, swaying gently in the breeze. next to her stood an unfamiliar, cloaked silhouette, twirling a knife skillfully in gloved hands. This fucker was new, someone Angel had never encountered before. But he had heard things about him. The guys around the campfire had been wary of him, but as usual, Angel quickly had most of the girls at least interested in and friendly to him, and from the latest conversations, he remembered Feng-Min and Claudette talking about a new killer, a stalker like Magic Mike but more real, more humanlike which made them even more terrified of him. Someone that, unlike the others Angel encountered, seemed to be almost casual and gleeful to have been wisped away and thrown into trials by Roo, treating the trials like a personal, fun game... and from what he heard, he always won them.

He looked around and found an old can. Quickly and noiseless, he snuck along the Arcade walls to the opposite doorway, and hurled it with as much force as he could into the woods, trying to hit a hook to make as much noise as possible. He heard the guy's quiet steps outside, quickly but silently rushing towards his distraction, and Angel grinned as he exited the arcade room and ran towards a groaning Kate.

"Shh, babe, we ain't got much time, that fucker's fast." Angel whispered, quickly working on patching Kate up so she wouldn't leave a bloody trail behind her. "Angel, he's too good, I can't..." "'Ya can. I'll handle tall, dark and gruesome, make sure he won't get near 'ya. But 'ya gotta do two gens, okay? Open the exit the furthest away from us and go. Don't wait up for me - I can handle myself." His sentence ended as he finished closing her wound, and he shoved her into some bushes after she hesitantly looked around. "Don't argue, just move your ass, toots, and hide till the creep's found me."

Kate nodded, giving him a weak smile and a hushed 'Thanks, Angel.' before she turned and vanished between the trees. Angel looked up, the dark clouds swirling above him as the entity's - Roo's - displeasure vibrated through the air. She always hated when he did things like these - helping the others (maybe it was the general idea of doing good deeds) and her getting pissed off make Angel smug and satisfied.

"Yeah, yeah, bitch, rage all 'ya want - Bite me."

Angel didn't even try to be decent, no, he not much less than swaggered in the direction of where he threw the can. It was quiet, except for the humming of the generator Renato must've finished, but no sign of the cloaked figure.

“Gee, look at little old me! All alone in the woods, totally helpless. Such a shame.”

Angel discreetly traced for blood or maybe footprints as he rounded a nearby hook, trailing the cold metal with one finger. He had a feeling of being watched, and yet couldn't see anything but trees and grass and dirt. The fog was thicker here, and a shiver ran through him as he could feel a pair of eyes on him, watching, waiting.

“Where are ‘ya, daddy-o? Baby lost his pacifier and needs something else to suck on…”

A quiet whir behind him made him turn and grab a lean and muscular arm, stopping the blade just mere inches away from his side. He stared not into a face, but a mask - a white, cheap looking rubber one, a white face with two black holes that looked like they were melting and a long, equally black mouth open as if in a blood-curdling scream. Angel cackled and tugged the arm, the killer surprised by his unexpected strength, stumbling forward until his head hit the hard, rusty metal of the meat hook.

"Uuuuh, what a nice long blade 'ya have, hot stuff." he cooed, putting his hands on his hips with a smirk as the cloaked figure whipped around with a grunt. "But if 'ya want to rearrange my guts, I know other things than a knife that are way more fun."

"You're a mouthy one, huh?" His voice was rough and saturated with aggravation. Young, not as young as the Legion fuckers, but younger than most of the killers Angel had met.

"Oh, daddy, 'ya don't know half of what my mouth can do. Care to find out?"

Angel dodged and tripped him as the killer pounced forward, quick but not inhumanly quick - interesting. His height was human, his voice too, his mannerisms, his motions, his speed and his abilities... not supernatural. Not like the other killers at all. He used the second of his weak momentum to lock the already twisting figure between his legs, pinning him on the waist into the dirty ground. Angel laughed as his upper pair of hands had the gloved wrists in a tight grasp, while he let his second pair of arms grow out of his sides to ram the fallen knife blade-first into the ground. In the distance, he hears a generator pop into life - Kate was doing her part, one more to go. Good girl.

"Fuck, you... survivors are not supposed to fight back." the stranger growled, squirming under him.

"Dang it, I forgot - we oughta run from 'ya! And 'yer supposed to kill me, right? And yet, here we are, handsome."

Through the layers of ragged, black clothes and cloak, Angel could feel a tight, muscular but lean body - hot, but definetly normal. Not bulky like the trapper dude, not slimy like the running Melty-face or cold and eerie feeling like the Ding-Dong-Douche. As the figure under him bucked again, he could also feel something else that was entirely human and he had to surpress a laugh.

"Ohooooo, daddy, is that a dagger in 'ya pants or are 'yay just happy to finally meet me?"

With a hot fury the killer ripped his hands free, planting a fist directly into his fluffy chest with surprising force. With a breathy sound that was half cough and half wheeze, Angel's grip around the young man's waist weakened, enough for the cloaked man to throw him off. Angel could hear a rib break at the sudden punch to his side - motherfucker, that would be a bitch to heal after the trial. As he propped himself back on his arms, the cool, dirty steel of his own knife's blade touched his throat and forced his gaze upwards to meet the mask's holes.

"Enough with the goddamn nicknames. I'm fucking Ghostface, and you better remember that name as you'll scream it when I'm done with you."

Jesus, that new guy made it too easy for him.

"Mmmmh... Kinky."

Decades of whipping around poles and fucking every porn actor pride had to offer - twice - had one or two good things going for Angel. Bendy as he was, and with strong, long legs he had no problem to just pull one of them forward and ram the pointy heel of one of his overknee boots straight into Ghostface's balls, leaving his captor sputtering and writhing while Angel pushed backwards to stand upright. He sauntered towards the disoriented man, kicking the knife further out of reach and looked at him with both pity and amusement as the last generator went off, and the blaring sirens of an exit gate about to be opened echoed through the forest. Kate was near - too near for Angel's taste, but it had to do.

"A'ight, Ghost Daddy, that's my cue. Me and Katie are gonna fuck off, was fun though, 'ya might get the hang of the whole killer thing if 'ya keep practicing."

"We'll see about that, Angel-Cakes."

Angel-Cakes.

The name echoed in his head like a bad spell, a curse. Fucking Roo must've fed him that fucking pet name, these dreaded words that Valentino had always used, along with his intoxicating pheromone smoke that had left him dizzy and weak-willed too many times to count. Using the moment of his stunned stupor, Ghostface flipped around, getting up with a speed Angel didn't deem possible or had accounted for, and rammed his elbow into his face before he started running - not to go for his blade that laid aside about four feet away or the trembling Angel, but straight for the woods. Straight for the opening exit gate. Straight for Kate.

Angel's eyes widened as a dark, content thunder roared from above - that bitch. That stupid bitch and her fucking new toy.

With a dizzy head he ran after him, wheezing from the pain in his face and stomach. There was Kate, screaming as she saw Ghostface coming, charging at her, her knuckles white from the tight grip on the lever to the saving exit. He could see her legs tense and start to bend to take off and make a dash to flee, to maybe hide, and before he could think any further, Angel lunged forward, using a tree as leverage to throw himself forward and tackle the approaching killer to the ground. There were gloved hands and black fabric everywhere, furiously trying to get him off, entangling in his limbs and his fluff and his hair, but Angel didn't care. He knew now what Roo wanted - had wanted all along. He had played her game exactly how she had wanted him to play it without realizing - Surviving the trials and saving his own ass. Good deeds upset her.

"Don'tcha let go of that fucking lever, Kate!" Angel shouted, feeling his head pulled by his hair back into his neck. Ghostface punched, pulled and clawed at anything he could find of him, but Angel held onto the fighting frame - today would be the first day he'd die in a trial. And that was exactly what Angel wanted. The signature bell sound of the dooms clock went off as Angel heard the heavy gates slide open. In the mess of his wrestling with the cursing killer he caught a glimpse of Kate, her eyes fixated on him as she started to run towards him. Her expression, her eyes... they had almost the same look in them like Husk's when Roo had pulled him away. Determined to get to him. Desperate to help him.

"NO KATE, GO!" he screamed, and was awarded another painful punch into his face and his hair pulled even further, but he didn't let go, even when tears started to wet his face, and Ghostface's laugh mingled with Kate's distressed shouts and cries as he felt cold, hard steel piercing his side. "FUCKING GO! NOW, DAMN IT!"

The earth shook with Roo's anger as the girl, sobbing his name, ran back and bolted through the gates into the nothingness. Finally, Angel let go of the heavy breathing killer. A twist of the knife and his arms gave out, his head falling next to Ghostface's masked face, only a small pool of blood escaping his lips.

"God fucking damn it - Fucking idiot, you ruined it. FUCK! What a pathetic excuse for someone called 'Angel'." The killer ranted with panicked rage, pulling on the slipped and oddly twisted mask that only clung to half of his face to pull it off and throw it on the ground with a frustrated growl as he got off him. Deep brown hair clung on his forehead from sweat, framing dead eyes with dark circles under them. His face was handsome, maybe even pretty, with sharp angles and a strong, set jaw that was locked in anger.

"Anthony."

The clock rang again, and the ground was breaking apart into deep red’s and black's.

"What the fuck did you say?"

The man stared at him, knife still in his hand as Angel smiled a bloodstained grin.

"My name, asshole. S'Anthony... Angel's the name my fucking pimp got me. Just like your stupid-ass one." He managed to throw the offended looking man before him a grin. "Can't tell me 'ya gave yourself such a lame-as-fuck name."

"You're pathetic. She honored me with that name - it's nothing like with you and your... pimp."

Angel laughed as he reached down to him with his black gloves to throw him over his shoulder. He didn't resist, no use in that anyway with the wound in his side, even if he wantted to. But Roo's anger was electrifying the air around him, she was upset in more than just one way. Not only had Angel found a way to get under her skin and sour her game - but it seemed that she was especially angry about the way her newest toy had handled this trial, and him.

"'Ya just wait, Ghost Boy. With folks like her and Val, they always show their real face, sooner or later. And I have a feeling 'ya gonna see for 'yaself real soon." ***

Ghostface's face was stoic and emotionless as he threw the skinny man on the hook. The world she had created was already crumbling - he was just in time. Three out of four wasn't bad, he knew that. But it wasn't just that he missed the perfect four. If she hadn’t helped him, he would've failed even more than he had. He felt her anger, her fury bubbling beneath the realm she created. Gone was the soothing aura and the gentle caress of her invisible fingers on his cheeks. All he felt was hot gushes of wind and unseen sharp nails scratching on his arms and neck. And for the first time, he feared the punishment.

"Danny." He said quietly, watching as the survivor's grin widened before the lights behind his unusual, unsettling eyes slowly disappeared. "I was Danny once."

The last words of Angel - no, Anthony - echoed in his head as the entity's claws ripped into the white and pink flesh of his victtim, pulling him up and ttowards the swirling clouds and the black fog, hot and scorching instead of cool and calming, wrapped around him and Ghostface fell - Not into the familiar darkness, but into a sea of fire, smoke and unbearable pain.

#hookedonhazbin2024 #hazbinhalloween #angel dust hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x dead by daylight #no smut today #fraugwinskawrites #ServerEvent #ArtistsCollab #dead by Hazbin #Angel Dust vs. Ghostface #DBD Lore #Hazbin Lore #I got creative here :D

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ant1quarian · 6 months ago

Text

Don't Keep Me Out.

That's Not My Neighbour Utmv: Dust Sans Edition.

CW's: You're going to be confined in a room.

UNLESS THERE IS A MASSIVE CONTENT WARNING, THE REST IS "DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT"

TNMN IS A HORROR GAME; EXPECT THIS TO ENTERTAIN EVERYTHING THAT IT DOES

Life was never perfect.

No, scratch that, life fucking sucked. It was the year 1955 and everything was hell on earth- For you, at least. You were pretty sure the rich bastards in society were loving their lives.

You drummed your fingers absentmindedly on the bedside table before hauling yourself out of your roof-fixated gaze, barely casting glances at the mould long since begun to crawl across your room.

Living in the timeline open to multiversal travel was not a fun time– constantly loud as people clammered around and rushed to their ports several hours across the city to warp to whatever universe they’d been planning their vacations in.

It gave you a headache, honestly.

You shifted over to your dusty, unclean window and peered out at Mt. Ebott, still standing tall despite the weight of hundreds of millions of people scampering about on– and under– it.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

You sighed, rubbing at your face as your hand briefly dragged along the white, painted walls that covered your little apartment- if you could call it that.

Your gaze slowly travelled across the sparsely furnished room before landing on a letter with an indigo seal (which looked almost akin to a biblically accurate angel and the Deltarune combined). You felt your face screw up a bit, dread as heavy as led weighing you down as you wandered over to it.

The paper was rough and carried that indigo shimmer (and vague electrical buzz) all important, government-official things did.

You already knew what was inside– very vaguely, at least. While the public may have glossed over it, you certainly noticed people receiving such a letter and then going missing days later, nothing of them left behind.

But desperation was a crazy thing, and with the date deadlines of your electricity, water and food supply being cut off steadily approaching? You were desperate.

Everyone in the Silverstone apartments were.

With a soft exhale of air, you snapped open the seal, not even blinking at the ambient buzz the letter gave off.

Your gaze flicked over the contents, taking in the beautifully scripted felon’s claw font used, making a quiet, disgruntled hum in the back of your throat.

It went, very vaguely (to your interpretation), like this:

‘We do hope this finds you well.

This is a job being so graciously gifted to you by the assholes ruling this shithole. We need help patrolling the border and you’re going to do this job. There is no choice. We are aware of how much you’re struggling. So prepare your shit and travel over here, we’ll get you suited up.’

With a snort, you folded it up and shoved it into your pocket, scratching at your scalp before looking around. The only thing you dared to grab (aside from your papers, of course) was an old, ornate knife belonging to whatever ancestor had left it to you.

You glanced around your apartment for one final time before turning on your heel and walking out.

Getting to Mt Ebott wasn’t too much of a problem- considering it’s the only way that traffic seemed to be directed towards.

Not that you were driving.

You dodged out of the way of rambunctious children- rabbit monsters, you think?- laughing as they scramble through the crowds with nothing more than a grumble.

Ew, children.

It didn’t take you very long to come upon the highly-secured transportation HQ, either.

You barely had time to hate all of the pristine richness being flamboyantly displayed everywhere before a commanding voice caught your attention- the intent clearly informing you that they were talking to you, specifically.

“Oi,” You looked over with a faux-cordial smile, practised from years of having to deal with assholes– only to pause when you laid eyes on glimmering pink-to-ocean-cyan scales and vibrant yellow irises staring back at you.

Oh shit they’re pretty-

“Name’s Aunkle. I’m the Warden around here. You’re the newbie, yeah?” At your nod, she displayed dagger-sharp teeth as a grin split her face, “Oh we’re going to have so much fun.”

And that is the story of how you ended up in the box Aunkle sorta just… shoved you into.

First day on the job, no prior information as to what the hell you had to do, nor anyone telling you where you’d be going afterwards. You flinched when the heavy metal door slammed behind you, swiftly followed by the sound of electronic locks sliding into place.

[ You have encountered your first choice. ]

[ Look around? ]

[ Mess with the electronics? ]

I would also like to clarify that the option with the most amount of comments in favor of will be chosen.

It is possible to die.

I may create a separate blog for this specifically.

You can also feel free to vote/comment through anon in my asks, if commenting is something you're not comfortable with.

Providing you don't ask for spoilers, any questions as to why something is the way it is, feel free to ask that as well ( You can also ask about characters, too )

#Arian's Rambles #Arian's Writing #Quill Writing #dust sans #dust sans x reader #tnmn #tnmn utmv #undertale fandom

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dont-f-with-moogles · 8 months ago

Note

Hi Terra Darling ❤️

Festive fic request with prompt number 6 "family invited an old crush/first love to a dinner party" for Levihan

My headcanons for this prompt:

Hange or Hange's family invites Zeke to a dinner party & Levi is far from happy OR fed up by Levi being single for a long time, Kuchel invites Hange to a dinner party OR Levi or Hange or their family invites an old crush (Zeke/Erwin/Petra, pick one) & it turns out they both used to date him/her lol OR you come up with your own because it will be amazing whatever you decide!!

Happy holidays 🎄❄️

Now or Never (Part 2) Characters: Levi x Petra; Levi x Hange; Mike x Nanaba Word Count: 2188 words

The dining room lay almost bare. No photographs adorned the walls; their ornaments were still wrapped in paper, stored in boxes upstairs. Even the low, wooden dining table didn’t quite suit this new room. As he sipped his wine Levi considered how it had once sat in Mike and Nanaba’s old flat, centrally occupying the square-shaped space. The table still proudly displayed the tiny tree which Hange had bought for the couple as a flat-warming present over a year ago. Of course, they had never planned to live there forever. This new dining room was longer and in want of furniture to fit it. Its walls were a pale, non offensive shade of magnolia - the exact choice of homeowners intending to cover over the marks - the mistakes - they had once made before moving on. Mike was pouring refills into their glasses. Levi placed a hand over his whilst, beside him, Petra quietly accepted.

“Come on…” Mike urged, “you’re getting the train back right?”

“I’ll take a tea instead.”

“We’ll put the kettle on after dinner.”

Reluctantly, he removed his hand.

“This it then?” Levi’s eyes shifted to the empty seat beside Mike. Of course, if they had been expecting more than two guests, then there would be a fifth floor cushion set out. Despite his uncertainty, Levi’s shoulders relaxed a little. He had experienced the same gnawing sensation when he and Petra had arrived at their house. Removing their shoes at the door, Levi had glanced down to see several discarded pairs beside theirs. He had assumed that someone had arrived before them, only to discover that they were the first.

“Yeah,” Mike replied, “Hange got caught up with an assignment as usual. Something about a deadline.”

Levi exhaled through his nose. He doubted that very much.

His hand brushed Petra’s shoulder with renewed reassurance as Nanaba appeared in the doorway. The fragrant scent of spices seemed to waft after her.

“The rice will be done in five minutes,” she announced. “Hope you guys are hungry!” “Can’t wait,” Levi commented, “... and nice place you’ve got here. What’s it like living somewhere with two floors?”

“Ah you know, it’s better than being cooped up in the flat.” Nanaba shared a sentimental glance with Mike. “We’ll miss it… but this is better. Even if we’ve got some decorating to do!”

She smiled over at Petra, who was nodding along politely despite not having been part of this previous era… an era of small apartments, of Mike and Nanaba as university graduates… of Levi and… Hange.

“So, how was your holiday? Where did you say you-” Nanaba frowned, reaching over to grab her phone from the side table. “Sorry - hold that thought. Hello?”

“It was so beautiful…. and just nice to spend time with family you know?” Petra continued to address Mike in Nanaba’s absence. “I’m sorry that I missed out on your New Year’s party though! I heard it was a fun night…”

Levi took a long sip of his wine.

“I don’t know if you’d call it much of a party,” Mike chuckled, “Nana and I were asleep just after midnight so we missed the excitement… guess you’ll have to ask Levi.”

“Hange’s outside!” Nanaba reappeared just as Levi knocked his glass sharply against the table. “Apparently they made their deadline after all.”

There came the sound of a door closing, followed by footsteps in the hall. Petra gave Levi’s arm a little squeeze. He smiled at her in response, though with a warmth which did not quite reach his eyes.

Voices echoed outside; Hange fawning over the staircase and laughing with Nanaba about the previous owner’s choice of carpet. Levi’s jaw set. Then, both of them emerged in the doorway.

“Evening!” Hange beamed around at them. Briefly, their eyes met Levi’s before they glanced away. “Sorry for almost flaking!”

“Why quit the habit of a lifetime?” Mike teased. Levi reached for his wine again. His mouth felt parched; his tongue lay heavy and useless. He craved water - something hydrating - rather than more alcohol.

“Nice to see you again Petra.” Hange gave a little bow of their head as Nanaba dragged another floor seat over to the table. “Heard you’ve just come back from your travels! Was it a good trip?”

“Oh yes, it was so beautiful and relaxing. The new year is the best time to go…”

Levi listened intently to Petra’s story for a second time, refusing to allow his eyes to stray from her face.

“...but it’s a shame I couldn’t spend New Year’s with you guys.”

Casually, Hange picked up the glass of wine which Mike had just poured.

“Oh you know, it was a quiet one in the end. Nothing much happened.”

Levi stared at them, utterly astounded by their nonchalance on the subject.

“Mike said you were all asleep just after midnight!”

“Well, Levi and Hange were up, weren’t you? Mike said he heard you both-” Nanaba walked in with a pot of steaming rice, just as Levi’s floor seat lurched out.

“Whoa!” Petra turned to her left. “Levi, what’s the hurry?”

“Seat got caught on the rug,” he lied. His eyes flew to Hange’s face who appeared quite composed by comparison. They blew out a little sigh as they lifted their glass again.

Nanaba set down the pot of rice. “No jogging the table. I’ve slaved away at this!”

Mike raised his eyebrows as Nanaba began serving heaped spoons onto plates. Petra received hers gratefully. Levi was just thankful to have something to occupy his hands.

“This smells amazing…” Hange praised her. “I love curry rice!”

“So… you had a late night, huh Levi?” Not to be deterred, Petra had rerouted from Hange’s interjection to their earlier conversation. She grinned at Levi expectantly over her plate of food. As he opened his mouth to explain, Mike cut in with a rumble of low laughter.

“Oh yeah… took him years but he finally got Hange where he’d always wanted them.”

Levi dropped his plate on the table, spilling rice onto its wooden surface

“Yeah…” Mike continued as Petra’s head whipped round, “...never thought we’d see the day, but there the two of them were, getting busy-”

Horrified, Levi willed Petra to look away from him as he frantically tried to scrape up rice grains from the wooden tabletop. He could feel her eyes on him; the more she stared, the more the tips of his ears burned.

“- at the sink.” Mike took a large spoonful of rice and curry, savouring its flavour alongside his own unendurable comedy. “Who would have thought you’d finally get Hange to wash a plate?”

Hange’s forced laugh was lost in the more genuine giggles from Nanaba and Petra. Although the threat which had been silently hanging over Levi had not fallen yet, he could still feel it swaying over his head. He set his spoon down on the side of his plate and let his trembling hand fall into his lap.

“...yeah, I heard you doing the dishes,” Mike explained as the laughter around the table died away, “...at like, four in the morning.”

“Well, a little cleaning up is the least you guys could do, seeing as you all insisted on staying at my place,” Levi muttered bitterly.

“You know we appreciated you sharing your floor with us!” Nanaba sighed, widening her eyes.

“...and some of us even got to share your bed,” Mike teased Levi again with a hearty wink.

“Gunther,” Levi told Petra automatically. He reached for his wine again. By this point, he was going to need several refills to endure the rest of the evening.

“...I’m guessing he wasn’t who you really wanted sleeping next to you that night… huh, Levi?” Nanaba joined in, much to Petra’s delighted ‘shh-ing!’

Levi waved away their jokes again, his mouth twisted as though he was being forced to chew on tiny white grubs rather than rice. As he lifted his head he caught Hange’s eye again… and held their look.

This was dangerous.

That same rising dread intensified; remained suspended over Levi as he continued doggedly through one of the most excruciating dinners of his life. And yet, there was something which threatened to consume him whole; a feeling caught halfway between fear and fascination. Like oil and water, his conflicted emotions lay beside one another; equal parts danger and desire. They could never be reconciled, but only hold firmer in the presence of one another. Ever since New Year’s, something had started to take form… something that any and all other distractions hadn’t managed to douse…

Levi felt the brush of gentle fingers on his wrist. Petra was smiling at him. He closed his hand over hers, watching as their fingers lay entwined upon his knee. He couldn’t look at Hange again.

“What was it you said that night, Levi?” Nanaba continued, “just this once, then then never again?”

Levi’s thumb stroked over Petra’s knuckles as his mind drifted back to that night. He didn’t want to remember the warmth of the blanket enclosed around his body and Hange’s. He didn’t want to breathe in their scent; to feel the heat lifting from their cheeks; to have his throat run dry as they drew towards him…

“Levi, we can sleep here and never talk about this again. Or…”

Back in the present, Levi squeezed Petra’s hand.

“And I meant it…” he managed huskily, “...you guys can stay at a hotel next time.”

In part it was due to his own habit, but also out of a desire to extract himself from the table, as Levi took up their empty plates. He carried the dishes out to the kitchen and set them beside the sink. For a moment he gazed through their kitchen window at the view of Mike and Nanaba’s new neighbourhood. Rows of detached, two-storey houses stood adorned with gleaming windows and wooden balconies. The pair of them had taken the next step of their journey… their wedding was to follow in a few months…

Behind him there came the tinkling of glass and the sound of a door closing. Levi glanced over his shoulder.

“Um… just getting more wine.” Hange lifted the bottle they had taken from the fridge. Levi uttered a throaty sound halfway between a cough and a derisive snort.

“Sure as fuck you weren’t coming to wash these up…” Levi glowered at them until Hange took a step closer. They set their glass down beside Levi’s stack of plates. Through the open door and across the hall they could both hear the chatter of the other guests.

Levi turned away and began to run the water. Behind, Hange poured a little more wine into their glass. He couldn’t help but turn his head again. Hange was checking the label as they set the bottle down. With a sigh Levi lifted a plate and sank it into the dishwater, missing Hange’s eyes as they moved over him.

“Levi… do you want…”

He shifted around again to look at them. His mouth dried up before he could speak. He took in Hange’s broad shoulders beneath their white shirt; the deep, rich brown of their imploring eyes… There was always something so earnest, so fearless in their expression.

Levi’s eyes remained upon their face.

“...I’ll leave the bottle here.” They turned to leave the room, but stopped after taking a step. When they spoke again, their tone was low, conspiratorial.

“You know I won’t say anything, right…?”

Levi felt a ripple of tension travel down his arms. His hand seized up; the brush he was holding clattered onto the kitchen floor.

“Anyway, nothing happened that night…” Hange gave a little laugh without a trace of humour in it, “...after all, you made it pretty clear what you wanted.”

Slowly, they began to approach him.

“Just like I have to… right now.” Hange was smiling at him, a gentle blush dusting their cheeks. “You know when it’s your shot right? Now or never…”

The air itself lay thick and heavy. Levi was rooted to the spot, his mind clouded with them as they took another step. Oil and water. They couldn’t- Petra was seated in the next room, laughing with their friends.

Again, he remembered the blanket that had embraced them as they lay together on his couch. Levi could feel their warm breath on his mouth. It was just the two of them under night’s black canopy, threaded with the lights of a million stars. Whilst the rest of the world had slept, they had lain so closely together… they had almost…

“So Levi…”

Hange’s lip trembled before their jaw set. Behind their glasses, their eyes were glazed with a love so profound that it took Levi’s breath away.

“If I told you now that… despite it all… bad timing, lack of communication, people and work and life getting in the way… despite my initial hypothesis and all the test runs in my head… my findings are still the same.”

Hange took a shuddering breath.

“You are all I ever wanted. That’s… what I’ve decided.”

He felt their fingers trace his shirt sleeve.

“...what about you, Levi?”

Part 1: Now or Never (NSFW)

#sorry I kind of ran with my own thing!#hope you like it Val <3 #levi ackerman #hange zoe #levihan #levi x hange #petra ral #rivetra #levi x petra #mike zacharias #aot nanaba #mikenana #mike x nanaba #aot vets #tw cheating #attack on titan #snk #my writing

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mysticsparklewings · 1 year ago

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Three Cheers for Harmonic Revenge (+ Time Lapse!)

________ This is what happens when you're a fan of both Winx Club and My Chemical Romance, apparently! 😂 Truly a labor of love—I started on this for an MCR album anniversary on June 8th. I so missed the date, but I had to see it through!

⭐️ AND I've got a Time Lapse of the art coming together, featuring my very rough attempt at a matchup of MCR's Helena and the Winx Club Harmonix song as backing music! It's a wild ride! ⭐️ (...There's also an unlisted version with "normal" music just in case my less-than-amateur audio editing skills are too much for anyone. 😅)

youtube

Anyway, to make a very long story a little bit shorter, a few weeks ago I ended up down a bit of a rabbit hole trying to identify likely sources of inspiration for the thing to come out of Winx Club Season 5 that the fandom at large actually kind of loves: Harmonix. I went in thinking Ballet, and despite my best efforts came out with that opinion pretty much unchanged.

Not long after, but for the entirely unrelated reason of Being An MCR Fan on The Internet, I ended up looking at some screenshots from their Helena music video. [I think this was prompted by a Reddit post asking about the dress for cosplay purposes, I'm not sure.]

It was then I had the thought, so simple and off-handed: "I don't see how you can look at a ballet outfit like this and not think Harmonix was ballet-inspired."

If you've ever seen a TV show or cartoon where a character says something, and then only after the words leave their mouth do they realize the implications/meaning of what they just said, that was me in that moment. 😱

On the one hand, I want to say "I can't believe I didn't see the similarities before," but on the other...Well, I can believe it, actually. Comparing Winx and MCR in almost any capacity is not a natural thing to do, even with a Ballet connection in each. The fact that I finally did notice came largely down to the serendipity of being a fan of both and just happening upon the Helena pictures not long after spending an abnormal amount of time looking for clothes that look like Harmonix. I think there are many points leading up to that moment where if just a couple of things had gone differently, I still wouldn't have noticed.

Either way, once the connection was made in my brain it took all of about 10 seconds for "Helena as a Harmonix Fairy" to follow. 🤩

At the time, I didn't have immediate plans to act on it. It was just an idea to be filed away on the little shelf in my brain where I keep "Things that would be fun to draw eventually." [That shelf is super full and in danger of collapse, for what it's worth. 😉]

Earlier this month, that changed when I remembered June 8th is the Anniversary for Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, the album that Helena comes from, and I had yet to come up with any other plans or ideas to commemorate it this year.

Now, clearly I ended up missing that deadline, and two others I set for myself afterward. Things have just been very chaotic around my house for last 3-ish months or so, and June has been no different. Other IRL things just had to take priority. 😔

In my defense, the art itself was finished on June 12th. This description here and the Time Lapse Video (mostly the video) were what really set me back, even aside from household chaos. But it was really important to me to get a video done for this piece, so getting that done vs. getting the art out faster was the trade I made.

But part of the reason I bring this up to underline that originally, I thought I was on a fairly tight deadline. As a result, during the planning stage I didn't really have time to tinker with refining the base design or debating details like I normally would. So I drew from the Winx's own Harmonix designs as much as possible—picking out pieces that naturally resembled the structure of Helena's dress.

If I'd had more time to noodle around...the structure probably would've been largely the same, but the details most likely would have changed to help it feel more original, and I may have gotten crazy enough to try and find a happy [lighter] grey medium between Harmonix's pastel palettes and Helena's stark black and red.

As it stands though, I'm not unhappy with how that all turned out, I just think it's worth noting how the visual concept may have changed if I'd had more time to toy with it. [Especially for when Future Me ends up referring back to this description; Hi there Future Mystic 👋]

Since my process for making the art can both be seen in the Time Lapse and is something you've all seen/heard me describe before by now [I think I have finally nailed down a fairly standard "Winx Art Process" over the last few months in large part thanks to Winxsona Winter—which yes, I do still intend to eventually finish], instead of taking you through the general stuff again, I'm going to do a bullet-point list similar to one I did for Sirenix.

The main difference is this time, it's more focused my observations for what similarities exist between Harmonix and Helena's costume, as opposed to just a list of Harmonix traits and how I handled them. [Though there will still some of that too, naturally.]

Most notably, both feature "fluffy" layered skirts. Harmonix skirts don't really look like the same fabric texture, but that could be either a stylistic/animation choice or could be chalked up to there also probably being some Wedding Dress inspiration in the designs alongside the Ballet elements. Also, at first I didn't think the train on the Harmonix skirts was a similarity, but upon a closer look at the Helena music video...Helena's skirt is definitely longer and train-like in the back, so...Cool, I was wrong! 😄 And: As it turns out, Bloom's Harmonix skirt actually does have a small section that's ruffled a bit differently from the rest—It's just really hard to tell because on her, it's all the same pastel blue color. But as you can see, referencing that part of her skirt here to incorporate the Red underlayer that peaks through on Helena's skirt worked a treat! 😊 P.S. Wow I really hated drawing a lot of really tightly-confined ruffles like this. 😤 And trying to shade them was even worse! 🙃

Both feature form-fitting tops with minimal or no straps. I more specifically saw Helena similarities in Stella's Harmonix top [with the frills over the bust and structure lines below], and later I realized the top-most portion of Musa's has an even more similar kind of frill. To that end, Helena's is once again definitely supposed to be something transparent like tulle, but since there really aren't any transparent fabric portions of Harmonix, I chose instead to use a slightly lighter near-black to give it a similar effect without breaking that Harmonix "rule." Also, the bodice portion is a true jet black with no shading. I tried the more typical near-black grey that could be shaded at first, but it just wasn't doing it for me. I tried this on a whim and decided it looked good enough to keep.

Most of the Harmonix designs have a kind of "belt" that connects the bodice to the skirt; Perfect match for Helena's red one! Similarly, most of those same Harmonix designs have a "belt"/ribbon just under the bust as well. Helena does not, as far as I can tell. But I chose to add a read one here for a little extra variety and helping break up all that black.

The Harmonix shoes are almost entirely ribbons winding up the legs; Helena wears black ballet slippers with, you guessed it, black strings/ribbons that wind around her feet and ankles. Now, maybe I could have gotten away with all-black ribbons and black for the heel portion of the shoes, but 1. The Harmonix designs all use 2 colors for the ribbons and the heel is usually in the "contrasting" color. 2. I knew from the beginning that the skirt train [a mandatory aspect of Harmonix] was going to either be black or a very dark grey, and even during the Concept phase before I had a specific pose in mind, I had a feeling the ribbon tails were going to overlap with said train. So I used a dark red. Originally, it was about as bright as her sash and belt, but then I realized Bloom and Musa's pink ribbons were darker than the pink used in the bodices, a darker red would be closer to the original black anyway, and that would yet again add just a tiny bit more visual variety. One last note about the shoes: I did my best to match the original winding of Helena's shoe ribbon, except for the very first ribbon across where the toes connect to the rest of the foot. That strap was specifically added as a nod to how Helena's proper ballet slippers outright cover the toe.

About the train: Similar to the bodice, I started out with the train in one color, the color you currently see for the skirt itself and the very top of the train. It was fine but I was itching for some more variety, so after reassuring myself "Layla/Aisha's train has a few different shades of green instead of being solid so it's fine," I used the different tiers [taken from Flora's train] to create a little bit of a gradient from the black to a charcoal grey. It kinda works as a hint toward Harmonix's more pastel palette. Sort of.

Aside from Tecna, all the girls' hair is at least partially pulled back in Harmonix. This sorta works out because it appears the front "bang" sections of Helena's hair are pulled back. [In my brain I call this "Doll Hair" because I personally have seen that kind of look way more often on dolls than on real people.] It's similar to the front of Bloom's Enchantix hair. The rest of Helena's hair appears pretty thick and a little wild, so I tried to incorporate a bit of that here, but I couldn't push it too far without "breaking" the Winx Style. And while I'm here: I did choose to make Helena's hair a very dark brown. In the video, most of the time it does just look plain black, but there are moments where my eyes pick up on a "warmth" to the color, which makes me think maybe it really is that super-dark brown hair that just looks black. Even if it isn't, I stand by my choice as slightly more fitting for the Winx style, since Winx almost never does truly black hair anyway.

All of the Harmonix designs feature some sort of small head accessory, usually a tiara. Helena's costume very prominently features netting over the face...And there appears to be something going on towards the back of her head, presumably whatever is holding the netting in place. I've seen fan interpretations of whatever that is being flowers [usually black roses], and since Tecna has a few flower-ish pieces as part of her Harmonix tiara, that seemed like a fair choice here. As for the netting...You'll see very briefly in the Time Lapse that during the concept phase, I really did want to include that, but it was too hard to ignore how out of place it felt. Winx rarely does anything with netting in the first place [though a couple of rare examples do exist], and considering certain parts of Harmonix feel like it was designed to be fairly simple [but look complex at first glance, which it does]...I just couldn't do it. So instead, I...Well, it ended up being almost a copy of Layla's Harmonix tiara, but I really truly did not realize how similar what I was doing was to hers until after the full-color version was pretty much done. 😅 I thought I was doing more of an upside-down version of Musa's, and my entire goal was to just do something that came down over the forehead like the netting did.

Speaking of Musa, if those wings look familiar, they kinda should. Remember before that I mentioned I was originally working on a pretty tight timeline for this piece?

One of the things that has proven to take me the longest with original Winx designs since I picked up making them semi-regularly again is undoubtedly the wings. I got to really learn that the hard way with Believix at the beginning of this year.

Because of the very limited time I thought I had and my sluggish pace with wings, when while collecting Harmonix screenshots for reference I noticed "Hey, Musa's wings would still work pretty well if they were flipped upside down..." A little bit of a lightbulb went off.

I don't even know why exactly that thought occurred to me before I'd even really considered the wings. The best I can figure is a little hangover in my subconscious—At one point I remember reading one of the Winx's Sirenix wings are apparently upside down at the end of her transformation sequence. That stuck out to me at the time because I don't really understand how you could tell if Sirenix wings are upside down or not because of how they're shaped. ��

Anyway. So I found a screenshot with a fairly clear shot of one of Musa's wings, flipped it around, and really just traced right over it.

I did make a few small tweaks, and most notably I added some..."Lines of Tears?" like Layla and Flora's have, but at the end of the day they are still really Musa's wings.

Normally, I wouldn't have done that and instead would've just taken heavy inspiration from Musa's wings, but again, I thought I had a lot less time than I really did. And to be fair, plenty of other Winx fans re-color or otherwise re-purpose the Canon Girls' wings for their OCs and/or Fan Transformations on a regular basis anyway, so it's not like this is a totally unheard-of idea or anything. 🤷‍♀️

Much later, I also figured in a way it fits; Musa is a fairy of Music, this artwork is largely based around a specific piece of music/the band that made it; I even opted to add music note shapes like Musa's wings produce [all the Harmonix wings produce specific shapes in that way] when they move to deepen that connection after I thought of it.

Other things worth noting [and this is again a • bullet point list because, frankly, at the moment I'm just too lazy to make this all flow together in more story-like paragraphs]:

I did my best to match Helena's skin and eyes, but her lips and eye makeup were a little trickier. Her lips ended up a bit pinker and not as close to her skin tone in the spirit of Winx, and I had to compromise and use greyish reds shaped like the Trix's eyeshadow to get a similar effect. The eyeshadow still really isn't perfect for Helena or Winx, but I was short on other ideas so, "close enough is good enough."

The shape of the mouth isn't quite what I wanted, either. You'll see in the time-lapse that I already changed it pretty drastically from the first sketch I had. I definitely wanted something open, because while Helena's mouth is not open for the entire music video or anything, it is more open at certain points and this shot in particular is pretty iconic. But I also didn't want anything too crazy because, y'know, Winx Club. The bared teeth and lack of upturn for a smile was my compromise. Either the mouth itself needed some more tweaking, or the eyebrows did. The whole expression is okay, I just don't think I pushed it far enough. 🤷‍♀️

There isn't really one specific pose that represents Helena more than the others [...at least not standing up/dancing], so I picked mostly from a general feeling from the music video. I did reference some official stock arts of the Winx in Ballet attire [mostly this one of Flora], but the feet had to be changed pretty notably to fit the shoes, and overall I had to make some tweaks in the anatomy where the stock art and show style differ. [These differences seem to increase from Season 5 onward, too.]

The background was mostly inspired by Layla's Harmonix, and it might be my favorite part of the whole piece, actually! Upon closer studying for this project, I was surprised by how much "junk" is in some of the Harmonix backgrounds. There's tons of texture in all of them and a fair bit of color variation in most...It's pretty interesting compared to past transformations and even Harmonix itself. The backgrounds end up being a lot more intense than the solid and gentle pastel dresses. [Wouldn't surprise me if that was intentional!] I had a little more work cut out for me since I couldn't just slap bright colors all over the place. I did consider just sticking with blacks/greys/white and maybe some red, but I thought it might help my version of Helena here pop a little better if I was able to change up the palette just a bit. And, of course, the warmth of the background helps add more variety and liven the whole image up. Much more to my delight though, I was able to create the background without having to download any new Procreate brushes! 🥳 Between a couple of default ones, the ocean-themed brushes I already had from previous projects, and a couple I just happened to pick up along the way [mostly as monthly freebies from brush makers who normally charge for their work], I had all the brushes I needed already right there, it just took a little experimenting.

I will reiterate that while it still took time, making the art itself really wasn't so bad or difficult. And it helps that this ridiculous crossover idea was something I really wanted to make—Because if I didn't, who else would, right? 🤪

It's not perfect, sure. But it's here and it still came out pretty good overall, I think. So I'm happy. 😊

Now I would also like to take a moment to explain part of why putting the Time Lapse together for this piece ended up taking longer than it probably should have, because I really didn't have room to talk about it in the video itself...though it does sorta get a mention right at the beginning: The audio.

To once again make a very long story short(er):

I, in my infinite wisdom, decided instead of the usual royalty-free music stock, to try and create a mash-up of Helena and the Harmonix song for this video. That was more or less the visual premise for the art, so why not go all-out with the theming?

For once, I cannot take you through the full nitty-gritty because, at least to my inexperienced brain, audio editing is a pretty nebulous process. But I can tell you that aside from inexperience, the other thing that probably held me back was my choice of program to handle the task.

I did not have the patience nor motivation to try and teach myself how to use an audio program for this one silly project, and I semi-accidentally learned at the beginning of last year that DaVinci Resolve has an entire section dedicated to just editing the audio for videos. Since I was able to fumble my way around in there for the light audio editing I wanted to do at that time, I figured that was a slightly safer bet here. It may not have saved me a ton of time, but it was at least vaguely familiar, and for me, familiarity goes a long way in making me comfortable with a program even if I still don't really know what the heck I'm doing.

This isn't really what DaVinci is supposed to be for—as far as I can tell it doesn't even have an "audio only" export option, which did complicate things a bit—and even if it was, I'm sure any true audiophile will still probably cringe a lot at what I managed to create.😅 I did my best to make it "tolerable" for a listen or two, but I know my ears are inherently biased since I know and enjoy both songs quite a bit already. But I did manage to get feedback from two persons that know notably more about audio than I do, and they weren't horrifically appalled, so I don't feel like I'm committing a crime against music by putting it out there, at least.

Aside from that, the video did also have to wait on me to finish this description [to a certain extent, anyway]. For smaller projects, I can usually write the on-screen notes for the video first and worry about the description later, but most of the time for a big project like this, I need the bulk of this written description done first so I have a baseline of all the things I want to mention and can pare down from there.

I can do a fair bit of the video editing up until the point I need those notes, but once I hit that wall there's really no way around it. And in this case, I did actually use all that other video editing as a form of procrastinating on the description. 😅

Most likely because I knew there was going to be a lot to cover, I really put off like 70% of this description as long as possible. 🫣 The other 30% I actually did relatively soon after the art was ready. The plan was to go ahead and get most of it out of the way, but clearly I lost my writing mojo partway through and had to come back to it later...and I was still a little lazy with certain aspects.

But hey, the description isn't the art, it's just meant to describe the art, so whatever works, yeah?

In any case, I think that's everything I wanted to mention about this particular process. It's been quite a ride, and I'm glad it's over. Mostly so I can go back to working on some other projects I already had cooking before this one came up, but also...I am just glad this is one of those ideas that, as I said much earlier, originally got put on an "eventually" shelf in my brain and actually got to come to fruition fairly quickly after the fact.

Kinda gives me more hope than I previously had for some of those other "eventually" projects, which is nice. 🙂

Similarly: I don't know if I'll find a way to revisit Winx Club x MCR ever again, but I'm thrilled I I found a way to do it at least once! Doubly so that I'm happy with how it turned out! 😊 With that in mind, you never know. It's possible I'll figure out another way to do it again someday.

In the meantime, I leave you Sparklers to enjoy this one and the time lapse [whether you're brave enough for the mash-up version or opt for the "easy listening" one instead]. 😉 s usual, I'm off to those other projects I mentioned shortly ago...

_______

Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings Winx Club © Rainbow S.p.A.

Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge and associated concepts © My Chemical Romance

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sadghoststudios · 11 months ago

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STATE OF PLAY 12/23: a little news and updates roundup!

Howdy all! Squeaking in just before the new year, I thought now's as good a time as ever for a little roundup of anything you might have missed, and what we're currently working on! Aiming to do these quarterly from now on 🫡✨

If you wanna keep up with posts like this from us without relying on social media, you can also sub to our newsletter! Promise not to annoy you. Good emails only.

Recap and news under the cut!

2023 Roundup

DemiDato

We had two releases this year, but DemiDato was the big one! For those that don't know, this game spent a long 5+ years in and out of development hell, so it was a big relief to finally put everyone's hard work out into the world back in March.

We were also lucky enough to feature DD in the Queer Games & Queer Halloween bundles this year, so even if you haven't had a chance to grab the game outright, check your itch library - you might already own it!

As for the future of our monsters, a 1.1 update is still on the cards! The bulk of it is already complete - there's some script tidying and quality of life improvements already in the WIP build, as well as a fancy schmancy CG Gallery (which you can see a little preview of in the devlog I wrote).

1.1 development has admittedly stalled a little, as I really want to implement some animated video transitions plus an animated intro and trailer into its final build, but it's been hard to find the time to teach myself a whole new skillset while also being in preproduction for our new title (more on that in a bit!). In my head for all the years of development, the game has always had a really cheesy reality show intro with horribl(y good) graphics, just like the real life shows that inspired it. So even if the feature didn't make it to 1.0, I still really want it to happen eventually. (Plus, when we do eventually rerelease on Steam, a trailer is very important for the store page! That means it counts as futureproofing, right...?)

If you want to hear some more about what the release was like, my dear friend Kaiju of Digital Diversity interviewed me right after the game came out! You can read the interview on Digital Diversity over here.

GrandNya

Our second game of the year was a short little nugget written for 2023's Josei Jam, and devved almost solo by timepatches (hi! that's me!)

It'd been a long time since I managed to get anything off the ground in a jam setting, and I still find it a little intimidating (it's really difficult for me to get new ideas & iterate on them fast enough to meet the start deadline and recruit others), so solo dev it was! My art is hardly intricate but it gets the story across, and I'm proud of the VN as a whole - whatever you think of 'wholesome games' as a movement, it's hard to deny that we all need a cosy space now and then, and that’s the kind of story I like to tell most. And it's not like GrandNya is all sunshine, either, which you'll know if you got to the end!

I also managed to apply to Hand-Eye Society's Super FESTival with GrandNya, and was somehow accepted, which I'm still pinching myself about! What a stellar lineup of games to share a page with.

Fest aside, it was a pretty quiet release all things considered, so don't worry if you missed it! Your grandmas are still there on our itch page anytime, to give you a lil’ pocket of safe queer story to live in whenever you need it.

Intoxicated

Now for something completely different!! Despite some prior medical commitments around the jam date (which then got moved, typical), I was VERY stoked to be able to hop on the team for Kristi HusbandoGoddess' Yuri Jam game, Intoxicated!

It was an absolute blast. Turtles were drawn in the group chat for reasons I can no longer remember. It singlehandedly made me decide that I want to do more jam work on others' teams, because I forgot how fun it can be working toward a common goal in a more relaxed environment!

And the game turned out incredible. Check it out if you support women's wrongs! ♡

Plans for 2024

[Codename BAT 🦇] (the big otome/amare game)

Oh yeah. It's big.

I won't spill too much just yet, but just know that I've had this idea as a vague plot bunny in the back of my mind for years. Then, as my dear friend Charlie and I were on VC beta testing a late DemiDato build, it came up and they were so excited about the idea that I couldn't help but start seriously thinking about how to make it.

Well. That was in March. After I took a break and worked on GrandNya, I've been working ever since on building out the world (it's set in the same universe as the rest of our library, but deals a bit more with the actual ramifications of it all, so I had to set some things in stone I haven't before). More recently I've been building out the most coherent, easy-to-follow outline I can (not my strong point, and bless my beta readers for their support while I complain about it).

Very soon I should be able to start writing! Terrifying! I can't wait. Once I'm a fair way into the script writing you'll get to hear about exactly what I'm cooking, and I think... you'll like where we're going.

[Other Redacted Thing]

Not my project so I won't spoil exactly what it is, but I get to do some UI work for an upcoming jam project and I am SO excited! I get to work with some very familiar faces again! You'll know what it is as soon as I'm allowed to tell you 👀

What I will say is that it shares a coincidental similarity with my long project...

That's it!! ✨

Thank you for reading all my waffle (being long winded is my special talent), and for sticking with us through the inevitable periods of radio silence! We're still just little fish in a very big pond, but every time someone plays something I made and feels some type of way, I remember what the point of all this is.

It makes me very happy to be able to share stories with y'all. Here's to more in 2024!

♡ Madi Wander (@timepatches)

#indie game #visual novel #interactive fiction #sgsroundup #sgsnews #thanks to those who stuck with us thru this + past years! onward and upward for 2024 :)

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here-there-everyfuckenwhere · 2 years ago

Note

Fic prompts!

I’m not sure how specific you want them, so here goes:

All of these are for Ted/Trent, can be established relationship or not, rating’s up to you, whatever you want!

-snow

-they spend the night at a hotel room

-they are apart for whatever reason, and they miss each other

-celebrating each other’s birthdays

Okay okay, so I got this request almost a year ago and I never ever responded to it even though I had something just sitting in my WIP folder this entire time. I didn't think this one was good enough to post considering I took quite a diversion from the original prompts, but in honour of Ted Lasso Season 3 Teaser Trailer Day, I have decided to break my year-long silence.

Enjoy

+++

Title: ???

Pairing: Ted Lasso/Trent Crimm

Prompt: Hotel, snow, apart, birthday, missing each other,

Word count: 1.7k

Other tags: fluffy, oneshot

+++

Read on AO3

+++

To anyone else looking out at the dark streets of Richmond from their window, it appeared to be like any other Winter afternoon. The air was the sort of cold that would bite at your skin if you stood outside for long enough. Thick, white snow delicately framed every window in town, including the window that Trent Crimm, formerly of The Independent, sat beneath, longingly staring at the reflection that seemed to be staring back at him.

The day itself shouldn’t have felt significant to him anymore; he managed to make it through 41 other birthdays just fine after all, and his 42nd was shaping up to be no different from the rest. Trent was never really in favour of celebrating his birthday. As a child he never really enjoyed celebrating his own birthday or having parties with his friends from school (not that he ever seemed to make many…), and the habit of ignoring his birthday until it finally washed over him and became just any other day had well and truly followed him all the way throughout his adult life.

On this birthday in particular, Seraphina happened to be staying with her grandparents. The situation seemed unfamiliar to Trent; having a completely empty, quiet house all to himself without having to write a detailed report on Richmond’s win the night before in Liverpool as a deadline drew closer and closer. In a way it was oddly freeing, but simultaneously terrifying, and Trent found himself unsure of what to do. Which explains why he sat, staring out of the window at nothing for at least half an hour that night.

Fortunately, a sound snapped him out of his trance, startling him at first until he realised it was the specific ringtone he had set for whenever Ted called him. Which, he had noticed, had become his nightly ritual.

Trent picked up his phone, taking a deep breath before answering.

“Trent Crimm, The Inde-“ he stopped himself. Old habits. He cleared his throat gently.

“How may I help you?”

“Aw, I know who I’m calling,” he heard the familiar voice of Ted Lasso assure him. He couldn’t help but smile.

“How is Liverpool?” He asked, genuinely curious despite having been there himself what felt like a million times to attend various football matches during his career.

“I’ll tell ya, Trent, it’s a lot more fun being in a city right after you’ve actually won a game,” he answers, followed by a low giggle that makes Trent’s heart race a mile a minute.

“And the hotel…?” He asks. Decades of working as a journalist leads to some terrible habits, like not being able to hold a normal conversation without just firing questions at the other person. Ted doesn’t seem to mind it, handling each one with the same sincerity and charisma he brought to the press room where they first met.

“Nice. Almost a little too nice, if I’m being honest. Which reminds me, I’ve got something I need to give to you,” Ted tells him, which is.. strange, to say the least.

“That’s very kind of you, but.. why?” Trent asks, fidgeting with his glasses in his hands absentmindedly.

“Well, I know you said you don’t like gifts, but I figured it was the least I could do,”

Trent stops fidgeting.

“…for what?” He asks. A strange feeling, something between dread and excitement, took a hold of him as the question comes out far more stern than he intended.

“Aww, come on now, Trent, you didn’t think I’d forget your birthday did you..?”

Trent sighs. Of course he would never forget. He tries his hardest not to read too much into it- Ted probably remembers all of his friends’ birthdays… right?

“I’m not totally sure how you even remembered in the first place,” he said, returning to fidgeting with his glasses again, this time more anxiously.

“Remember that time Keeley was trying to guess what your star sign was…?” Ted prompts him.

Trent cringes at the realisation that yes, he actually did volunteer that information and yes, that was the context.

“Thank you very much for calling, but you should know I am staunchly opposed to celebrating birthdays. Mine in particular,” he attempts to explain, though he’s almost certain he’s not going to get very far.

“Now, why is that…?” Ted asks, his signature, almost child-like curiosity laced through every word of his question. It was hard not to want to tell him everything.

He wasn’t like Trent; he didn’t ask questions to manipulate or make people feel a certain way. He asked questions simply because he wanted to know what the answers were.

Trent takes a moment to consider this before answering.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just the thought of being.. older,” he shrugs even though Ted can’t see him.

“Aw, there’s nothing wrong with getting older, Trent. It just means you’re finally growing into your reading glasses,“

Trent gasps, taking mock offence, but can’t help laughing slightly. His day definitely seems to be improving.

“So you’re sure there’s absolutely nothing you want for your birthday..?” Ted asks, but in a way that makes Trent think he’s definitely planning something. Some grand, Lasso-style gesture that would probably just embarrass the hell out of him.

“Yes, I am quite certain, Coach Lasso,” he says carefully, making sure that there is no way any word in the sentence could be misconstrued.

“Nothing at all…?” He repeats. Something inside of Trent lights up, either fear or excitement. Or possibly both.

“Yes, I am sure. Nothing at-“ before he can finish his thought, the familiar sound of the doorbell permeates the silence in the apartment.

“-all,” he finishes, before carefully inching towards the door, completely unsure of what to expect.

Of all the things he might have suspected before opening the door, Ted standing by himself, beaming at him on his doorstep was not one of them. He was holding a cupcake, topped with a lit birthday candle.

Trent hangs up on the phone call, standing in utter disbelief at the scene before him, trying to remember this moment as best as he could. A million questions flooded into his mind,

Like “Aren’t you supposed to be coming back from Liverpool tomorrow?”

But instead of asking any of them, he stared in silence just for a moment, trying to savour it for as long as possible.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Ted asks him, gesturing down at the candle.

“I- what?”

“Come on! You have to make a wish!” He smiles expectantly. As Ted holds the cake out towards him he can see something on his face that he has never seen before- something fond, and soft, and truly happy. Trent could feel the slight sting of tears in his eyes that he choked back as he eventually blew out the candle.

“Woo! There ya go! Now, for obvious reasons you can’t tell me what you wished for, but-“

“Ted...” He said gently, cutting him off from whatever digression he was bound to launch into.

He took a step closer and shut the door behind him.

He suddenly felt a wave of new-found confidence come over him in that moment as he slowly dragged his gaze eyes up from the unlit candle, all the way to Ted’s eyes, which were widened in curiosity and anticipation.

Ted could feel his heart thumping against his chest, and suddenly he felt as though he was witnessing Ms Scanlon’s tan lines again for the very first time, but this was new. Different, somehow. Because this was real, and it was with Trent Crimm, formerly of The Independent, the man who he had been thinking about since the moment he saw him in the press room on his first day at work.

“Thank you. For everything,” Trent smiled at him slightly as he gently plucked the cupcake from his hand and placed it down on the small table just inside his front door. As he reached for it, his fingertips grazed Ted’s just for a moment, but it felt like maybe just a moment too long, and now Ted’s insides were twisting and knotting. It was a feeling he was familiar with, whenever the panic would settle in and it felt like he couldn’t breathe, but this was different. This was comfortable and warm and good and he never wanted it to end.

He tried to keep his imagination from going wild; Trent was a good friend of his, and he just wanted him to have a good birthday. Nothing else. But he couldn’t help but wonder if Trent was thinking the same thing.

“Oh, no, that’s okay, I just swung by to-“ Ted’s words are cut off by Trent’s warm hands cupping the side of his face, curing the chill with his gentle touch before pressing his lips against Ted’s in one swift motion.

Ted stands there for a moment, stunned, before reaching for Trent’s waist to gently pull him closer. After all, he has only really kissed Michelle, and felt completely unprepared for this scenario. Even though he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it once or twice..

Something inside of Trent felt as though it was bursting at the seams, as if months of wondering if all of Ted’s grand gestures and late-night phone calls and little nods to each other in the press room meant what he thought they meant this whole time. What he wanted them to mean all along.

Ted feels his breath catch in his throat as Trent takes his bottom lip between his teeth gently as they pull away from each other.

They stand for a moment like that, in Trent’s doorway as Ted stares at the ground nervously and shoves his hand in his pockets, trying desperately to ignore that every single cell in his body felt like it had caught fire.

Trent studied him for a second, unsure if maybe he had made a huge mistake and ruined any shred of trust the two of them had only moments ago.

Then he remembered the candle in Ted’s hands, how he had been told to make a wish and blow it out. How he wished for just a moment, a brief moment in time, that he had the courage to say how he really felt.

He took a deep breath in before filling the silence that had settled in between them.

“Would you like to come in…?”

Ted nodded before slipping politely past Trent and in through his living room.

Maybe Trent could come around on this whole birthday thing after all..

+++

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lavendertowerarchives · 1 year ago

Text

I feel absolutely swamped by my responsibilities. I have a Senior Capstone project to do, which will take over my next 9 months, so for the next 9 months I will not be able to relax. I do not exaggerate when I say I will be fully stressed out, because I don't do well when I have things to do.

This is just a static property of me. If I know I have a deadline looming, however far away, I will stress about it. Even if the project is completed, or even if I have done all I can, I will still think about it. I will dislike the fact that I have a responsibility, and it will take up a stupidly large portion of my mind.

I always get into a slump when school starts (be it the start of the year, quarter, or week), and it always seems to be the worst I've encountered yet (usually because I have terrible memory). This time, it's bad.

I want to Leave. I really don't want to go through with this. Most of all, I want to escape. But I don't want to miss out on my friends. If I postponed my Capstone project another year, I would be giving up on having classes with most of my friends, since we're all graduating (aside from a couple buddies, S and JH included). If I Left, I wouldn't have any friends, not like I'd really mind.

Besides, if I really pushed my capstone year back once, I would be almost as badly situated as I am now. I'm only taking one other class besides this, and it's one that seems fun (distributed systems) despite it currently taxing my time and energy.

This stress is monstrous. I cannot deal with it. I don't say this lightly. I am currently folding under the pressure I perceive to be lain on my own damn shoulders. I need something to come rescue me because the mental torment is unbearable. I don't like sounding like this, I don't like talking about this, I don't like feeling like it's all in my head. The unfortunate truth is that it is really all in my head.

If it's all in my head, and I take my head, then it'll be gone, right?

Hopefully.

Thanks for finding me.

Thanks for staying.

#lavender town #mental health #lavender tower #therapy #college #social anxiety #stress #distributed systems #capstone #senior year #technically 5th year of college #got fucked out of some credits when I transferred from community college #help #send help #let me out #I hate it here

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zipzin · 1 year ago

Text

The Law of Entropy Chapter 4: Does Life Hand You Lemons or Do You Grow Them Yourself? (Also on Ao3)

Ao3 is back up, so that means the next update!

Rosita’s eyes blinked open and she let out a hum, today she got to sleep in. One of the nicer things about being a grad student was that she didn’t have classes in the morning. There had been that one her first semester, but she swore never again. And her department had so far allowed her to keep that promise.

She stared up at the ceiling and counted to ten to try and will herself out of the cozy embrace of her comforter. On her fourth try, she managed to pull herself from bed and wander to her coffee maker.

In between last minute formatting changes and almost missing deadlines, she had managed to set it to automatically brew. She let out another hum after her first sip and felt some life flicker back from beneath her eyelids.

Rosita grabbed her phone and flicked the screen on. Wynonna hadn’t texted her. Not, that it mattered. No, in the two days that had passed since their very memorable time in a bathroom (and really why was it in a bathroom), she hadn’t heard anything from Wynonna.

She’d also mostly been studying.

But still.

Not that she had reached out to her, Rosita reminded herself. Last night, during her shift, she’d managed not to break anything (thank god), but did overpour a couple drinks when they barely made eye contact across the bar.

Wynonna hadn’t come up to her once, sending Doc or Dolls or, on one occasion, going to Waverly when Rosita was getting stuff from the basement.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

She was not freaking out. She hadn’t thought about it at all. It was not distracting her from getting her paper finished in a reasonable hour. It was just a kiss. Between friends. Who were fake dating other people and couldn’t tell anyone else and needed to let off a little steam. Sure, they both thought the other was attractive, but that’s just the cards they were dealt.

“Oh my god,” Rosita muttered aloud, “Did I really do this to myself?”

Because only she would end up fake dating someone’s sister who she’d sloppily made out with. What was she going to do?

Should she text? Rosita clasped her warm mug of coffee, no, she decided. It was nice, it was fun, she wouldn’t be opposed if it happened again, but she was not going to make this situation any more complicated than it needed to be. Not on purpose.

“You need to help me.” Rosita slammed her books onto the table and Jeremy jumped, clutching his chest.

“What?” He asked as he pulled off his headphones.

“You need to help me.” Rosita repeated, “I don’t know who else to ask.”

“Um thanks?”

Rosita took a seat. She had fifteen minutes before Waverly’s last class ended which gave her a max of thirty minutes to explain, “I have a problem. About Wynonna.”

“Waverly’s sister?”

“Yes, and she’s an idiot who almost blew our cover,” Rosita gestured at herself and where Waverly usually sat, “So she’s fake dating Nicole-”

“I already knew that.” Jeremy said.

“Yeah, that’s not the problem, the problem is that we sorta made out a bit in the bathroom after my shift one day, and now we’re both ignoring it, but I don’t know if I know how to ignore it. Because one, she’s super hot, and two, despite her horrible ideas I do enjoy plotting with her, and three, it’s not like I can kiss anyone else.”

“So, wait,” Jeremey said, “You’re asking me for relationship advice?”

“No! Well, fine, yes! Now, my problem.”

“I just, I’ve never even been in a relationship.”

“Jeremy.”

“Okay, okay, I can focus. Um,” He stared at her, “What exactly are you asking?”

Rosita laid her face on the table. It was the one they always used, so she hoped it was relatively clean. Of course, there was no way of knowing what went on when they weren’t here. She lifted her head up quickly. “Do I like her?”

“Wynonna?”

“Yes.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you.”

Jeremy opened his mouth and closed it several times. “Why would I know?”

“Jeremy!”

“Okay, okay,” Jeremy said, “So you’ve already mentioned that you think she’s hot and that you like spending time with her,” He put up two fingers, “I’m ignoring the part where you mentioned she’s the only one you can date,” He gestured around the library, “We literally go to a school that no one else in Purgatory does. You could date someone here.”

“Ugh.” Rosita grumbled.

“What else, oh, do you think about her a lot?” Jeremy asked.

“Wh-”

“Not when you’re annoyed about her and Nicole and keeping that from Waverly.” He cut in and Rosita’s mouth snapped closed.

“I mean yeah? I keep wanting her to text me or show up at my apartment.”

“Did this happen before?” He waggled his eyebrows in such a way that Rosita momentarily contemplated giving up men forever.

“Not really? I mean it’s happened since the whole situation, but I didn’t know her that well, so this is all new, but I do like seeing her.”

“I’ll give that a half.” Jeremy said and curled a finger so it looked like he had arthritis. “Let’s see, let’s see,” They settled into silence as he drummed on the table trying to think of something else. “Have you thought about a future with her?”

“A future?”

“Yeah, like are you imagining what it would look like if you were dating?”

Rosita leaned back, “No? I’ve never considered it,” Her mind now whirled with images of what it would be like and realized she’d never seen Wynonna in a serious relationship before, “But Wynonna doesn’t really date and stuff.”

“Oh, so this would just be a hookup,” He smirked.

“Jeremy!” Rosita kicked him under the table.

“What’s wrong?” Waverly’s voice came from nowhere and they both whipped around and stared at her in horror. “Do I have something on my face?” She asked.

“No! Everything’s fine!” Jeremy screeched. Rosita kicked him under the table again and he gave a smile that looked like a grimace.

“Nothing you can help us with.” Rosita said. “Just biochem.”

“Yep those pesky molecules.” Jeremy kept the dumb smile on his face.

“Okay?”

Rosita sighed, that didn’t help. She should have known there was no point in asking Jeremy.

Rosita sees them before they see her, and she can only thank god for small miracles. Wynonna and Nicole are leaving the police station, likely ending their shifts, and Rosita isn’t proud that she tries to hide behind a car.

It’s a good thing that no one in Purgatory knows her mother.

Of course, Purgatory also means that there’s no alleys between here and her apartment, no shops she could justifiably duck into. So, unless they are completely wrapped up with each other they will see her.

And since Nicole and Wynonna aren’t in love, she will just need to grin and bear it.

It was just a kiss.

There’s nothing to be weird about.

Not even if she’d thought a lot about getting Wynonna into her apartment for something more than a kiss.

Rosita smiled at them once Nicole spotted her and immediately grabs Wynonna’s hand.

“Hi Rosita.” Nicole said. “Wynonna and I were just on a date.”

“A date?” Rosita and Wynonna both say.

Rosita bit her lip to keep from laughing as Nicole slammed her boot onto Wynonna’s foot. It wouldn’t have worked even if Wynonna didn’t let out a grunt and stumble, only to be caught by Nicole still gripping her hand.

“At the police station?” Rosita can’t help herself.

“Yes,” Nicole agreed, “Wynonna and I just have so much fun together. Anywhere.”

Wynonna stared at Nicole like she’d announced they were both going sober.

“What did you do on your date?” Rosita never claimed to be a good person.

Nicole’s eyes widen and she elbowed Wynonna, “Just got released.” Wynonna said, “I picked up Nicole, she got a bit drunk last night. You know how it gets. ” Nicole’s jaw dropped in an expression of pure outrage. Wynonna winked at Rosita, “Nicole’s a wild thing.”

“I’ve heard that about redheads.” Rosita questioned like they were talking about the weather.

Wynonna and her ignore Nicole choking beside them.

“The rumors are true,” Wynonna nodded and cocked her hip, “They’ll suggest things you’ve never dreamed of.”

“In her uniform?” Rosita questioned.

Wynonna leaned forward and for a split second Rosita swore Wynonna’s eyes darted down to her lips. “You would not believe what we’ve gotten up to with those handcuffs.”

“Wynonna!” Nicole pulled Wynonna down the street by her collar, practically dragging her through the street. “Sorry, need to go. Dinner!” And marched her off.

Rosita watched them, trying and failing to keep from laughing. As they disappear from sight she made her way into her apartment. She shivered, despite the fact it, for once, isn’t actually that cold. She could have sworn Wynonna’s last words were a promise.

Waverly: is it true????

Wavelry: you have to tell me!!!

Rosita: tell you what?

Waverly: did Nicole spend the night at the station?

Rosita: why would i know that?

Wavelry: Nicole said she saw you with Wynonna

Rosita: i just saw them leaving the station

Waverly: i can’t believe this

Rosita: did nicole really not come home last night?

Waverly: I have no idea

Waverly: I went to bed early and got up early

Waverly: I didn’t hear her last night

Waverly: I can’t be around her right now

Rosita: you can come over if you want

Rosita lifted the squealing kettle off her stove, hoping that the tea is as calming and soothing as the packaging suggests. She took a glance at her couch, where Waverly is still laying down pretending that she’s not crying.

She felt horrible. She’s questioned herself multiple times since this charade started, but this time, well, they don’t have any excuse.

Why Nicole had felt the need to tell Waverly the obvious lie that Wynonna said was beyond her. She hadn’t even had a chance to text Wynonna because Waverly had shown up almost instantaneously after she offered.

“I just, I can’t believe it!” Waverly had hiccuped. “Wynonna’s getting her in trouble and she’s getting thrown in the drunk tank.”

It really had to be the only time that Waverly hadn’t clocked all of her roommate’s movements.

Though, what would Waverly do if she knew that Nicole was lying?

Maybe the two would finally talk about their feelings?

No, Rosita admitted to herself, if that was the case they would have been together a long time ago.

“She didn’t look that bad,” Rosita said.

“And that makes it better?”

Rosita handed the tea cup to Waverly, who took it with a sniffle. “It’s going to be alright.”

“I thought Nicole would help balance Wynonna!”

Rosita sighed, “I don’t think anyone can balance Wynonna.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this!”

It really wasn’t.

“It will be alright.”

“How?” Waverly cried.

Rosita rubbed small circles on Waverly’s back and tried to come up with an answer. It was fake? Nicole definitely did not get mini arrested? She’d probably be fired if she got thrown into the drunk tank in uniform, so obviously it wasn’t real? “It was one date,” Rosita settled on, “Did you think they wouldn’t go on dates?”

“I don’t know!” Waverly took a sip of the tea and frowned at it. Great, Rosita thought, it probably tasted horrible and full of anxiety. “I just, I forget, you know, when Nicole’s home and we do dinner together, that she’s dating my sister. And this, it just hit me. They’re together doing things without me and will for the rest of their lives.” Waverly sighed. “It’s stupid.”

“No. It’s nowhere near as stupid as deciding to fake date your coworker to make your roommate jealous.” Waverly gave a weak smile. “You’re allowed to be heartbroken, you can’t just bottle this up and will it out of existence. I mean, are you getting a little ahead of yourself about the rest of their lives? Yeah, let them get through a month first.”

Which they wouldn’t, Rosita was certain. She was privately betting that Nicole would break it off after getting fed up with Wynonna’s antics. It really was a shame that Jeremy refused to put any money up because he “hadn’t actually met them.”

“Well I want to,” Waverly said with a determined pout that made her look absolutely adorable, “I don’t want to feel this. It’s pathetic.”

Rosita rubbed circles on her back. “I’m sorry, that’s just a part of being human.”

“It sucks.”

“Yeah.” Rosita said, “Sometimes it does.”

She hoped this would still be a fun story to tell at their wedding.

Rosita: why did you NOT TELL NICOLE I KNEW YOU WERE LYING

Wynonna: about wut?

Rosita: nicole being arrested

Rosita: duh

Wynonna: obviously she knew you knew

Wynonna: duh

Rosita: well she’s an idiot

Rosita: and so are you

Rosita: because she told waverly about it and i just spent the last TWO HOURS calming her down!!!!!

Wynonna: oh shit

Rosita: oh shit is right earp

The only nice thing about grad school (okay that was a little dramatic) was that it was able to completely distract her from the mess of her personal life. Wynonna and her were, well, not avoiding each other, but not not avoiding each other. Wavelry and Nicole were both still reeling from the supposed date, and Rosita was able to focus on the fact that her professors hated her.

She couldn’t prove it, but the fact they’d all assigned papers due in the same week had to mean something. They were in the same department! They probably had some academic calendar where they had to put all the major assignments and tests, and yet, Rosita did not have her laptop open underneath the counter during her shift.

Not for lack of trying.

Her behemoth of a laptop didn’t fit neatly into a spot that didn’t contain seventeen water hazards, and she really couldn’t afford to break her laptop. Not just for figuring out where she would get the money to replace it. If her school work disappeared into the ether she would probably just drop the program.

She was not going through these headaches again.

At least Wednesdays were chill enough that she couldn’t keep a notebook and pencil out where she could write anything that swam to her head as she tried to figure out these stupid proofs. If Professor Di Vito wasn’t so fucking respected she would have quit his class the first week of the semester.

But no, she needed that sweet, sweet recommendation letter.

“Can I get the usual?” Sheriff Nedley’s rasp woke her up from her last scribblings (ones she knew were pointless, but if she didn’t get them out of her head soon she would drown herself and probably break something).

“Yes, of course.” Rosita nodded and then went to fiddle with the ancient coffee maker that only knew how to burn coffee. Not that Nedley seemed to mind. “Is that all?”

He let out a hum, one of the annoying ones that residents here did to mean, you’re not a fucking local, if you were you would know what I was saying with this monosyllabic grunt, and stared at her as he took a sip of the coffee. Rosita barely prevented herself from wincing. That stuff was not good.

She’d tried it once when she’d had to come straight from a lecture and two labs and work to closing. She still wasn’t sure the caffeine was worth it.

“You know that Waverly’s a very special girl.” He said.

Rosita bit back a cough and straightened up. Oh, so it would be one of these. “Yes.” If she was Nicole or some other suckup she would add a sir, but they were in her place of work. Granted, this was the only place Nedley and her ever saw each other, but that was beside the point.

His eyes narrowed at her. “I’m sure you know how much Waverly means to Purgatory, and I hope you understand that if you hurt her,” He trailed off, his eyes dark, and Rosita understood why Nedley had survived as the Sheriff for so long.

“I have no intention of that.” Rosita said. “I promise.”

He gave a tiny nod, the look on his face clearly saying he didn’t believe her, but he went back to his usual booth. Rosita stared after him until Jimmy waved for another beer.

Well, one good thing happened during that horribly uncomfortable conversation, she wasn’t thinking about that stupid proof anymore.

Damnit.

#wayhaught #rosita/wynonna #wynonna earp #my writing: wayhaught #my writing: rosita/wynonna #my writing: wynonna earp #my writing #mine

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missingmark · 2 years ago

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― who you gonna call? pt.3

the boys know they'll always have someone to call when they need them. that someone in question being you, luckily that feeling is more than mutual.

‧₊˚ chris x gn!reader

‧₊˚ warnings: light swearing (?), the tiniest itzy bitzy bit of angst in the beginning, mutual pining (?)

‧₊˚ word count: 700

‧₊˚ pt.1 ( matt ) | pt.2 ( nick ) | masterlist

( 𝖈. ) ; you don't have to call him. you always find eachother.

your finger rested over your chat.

snickerdoodle [5:32 pm] : have fun on your date!!!!

you [6:34 pm] : i will, thank uuu

snickerdoodle [5:34 pm] : & tell me if he's a creep

snickerdoodle [5:35 pm] : ill find him.

Despite the tragic circumstances, being you sitting alone in the library, you had to hold back a smile at his words.

You've contemplated calling him multiple times over the last hour, your date had cancelled about half an hour after he should have picked you up. But instead of changing back into some more comfortable clothes and asking Chris to come over for a spontaneous movie night that he would most definitely say yes to in an instant, you decided to search for some comfort in your third favourite place in the world (the first being the triplets' couch and the second being your bathtub).

You actually missed the deadline on returning some of the books you borrowed just to give your full attention to this date that you were really looking forward to.

You sighed.

Those were 30 cents you would never get back.

The same thought taunted you as you walked through the shelves of said library, hoping to distract yourself and not wanting to waste a perfectly good outfit, you found yourself here.

The eerie silence you usually loved felt tauntingly grim tonight and the thoughts that were racing in your head sounded even louder.

Though it did help with recognizing a familiar voice at the librarians desk.

"I'd like to return these please."

You peaked your head out of the bookshelf, the familiar brown locks covering up the familiar and only face you wanted to see tonight.

You had totally forgotten about your date as you tapped him on your shoulder.

"Chris?"

He turned towards you, his face brightening at the sight of you, automatically pulling you into a side hug, his other hand still occupied with an oddly familiar set of books.

"What are you doing here? I didn't know you could read," you mumbled, watching him roll his eyes.

"Ha ha, very funny. You forgot these books at ours and I noticed the return date."

Your eyes widen a bit, A Brief History of Mixed Media Film Making, Directing Explained with Chloé Zhao and Color Theory in Stop Motion

Those were definitely your books.

"And I almost had hope you cared for Chloé Zhao's breakdown of directing," you murmured with a smile.

He shoved you a bit to the side, "Not even my undying love for you would make me pick up a book."

"Undying?"

"Don't get smug. I did it only because I knew you were busy because of your date."

He watched the smile in your face fade a bit.

"Speaking of the date, that you so rudely cancelled our movie night for, how is...did it go?" Chris mumbled, pulling a face at the change of mood he witnessed.

"Didn't show up." You shrugged, your voice didn't waver, but Chris could still make out some hurt.

"I'm sorry."

"It's whatever."

"It's not, this is all my fault," Chris mumbled, his face towards the row of books, though something told you he wasn't actually very focused on Biographies of Philosophers A-G.

"How is this your fault?"

"Should have never let you go on a date with that idiot..."

"Chris," you frowned, concerned.

"Should have taken him out when I had the chance."

"Chris." You warned, amused.

"And I should have taken you out instead of him as well."

He was now toying with Aristotle's biography, but even in the dim library light you could make out his blush and the occasional glance he'd send your way.

"As in on a date or do you want to beat my ass."

"Maybe both if you make fun of the fact that I don't read on our date tomorrow."

You giggled, fully turning your body towards him now.

"Tomorrow? Do I get a say in this?"

"No. Because you have terrible taste in men," he teased, leaning down towards your face.

A beat of silence, the two of you just stared at eachother.

"I'm starting to doubt that," you spoke, lowly. It was more a mental note to yourself than anything, though it flustered Chris nonetheless.

"We'll see," he leaned away again, putting the book he had paid no mind to back and dragging you out of the library.

The rest of the way towards your home was spend in silence, but his hand never left yours, and you had a giddy feeling every time you'd catch him staring at you.

"Thank you, really," you whispered once you eventually made it to your front door.

"You saved this night...and spared me a fee of 30 cents."

"Don't mention it. I'm just happy we spent some time together today."

"So humble," you mumbled as you unlocked the door, for the first time in what felt like the whole night you were turned away from him.

"Take all blame, duck all credit," he quoted, shrugging casually but his smug smile told you otherwise as you turned around with your mouth agape.

"You did read the Chloé Zhao Direction book!"

i hate the word agape. u say it ag-ape, scientifically proven. (real)

i hope you enjoyed, luv u <3

#chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo x yn #chris sturniolo #fanfic #fanfiction #real person fiction #sturniolo triplets x you #sturniolo triplets x reader #sturniolo triplets x y/n #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo fanfiction #missingmark

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natashxromanovf · 2 years ago

Text

natashxromanovf's 1k followers writing challenge

hi my angels! i wanted to thank you for 1000 followers. that's huge. there's so many of you here that i could fill a small town! i am infinitely grateful for every single one of you. i have met great friends on here, the nicest people, so thank you. i love you all, you deserve all the kisses in the world xx

⍟ rules:

- please choose max. 4 prompts

- fandoms: HP; MCU; Outer Banks; Stranger Things; The Vampire Diaries; The Originals; Teen Wolf; Descendants; criminal minds; 911; 911: lone star; shadow and bone; shameless; shadowhunters

- there's no deadline, however the final date for entry is october 28th :)

- you can mix prompts (ex. choose one from angst, one from fluff etc.)

- no nsfw fics please!

- you have to tell me the prompts + character for which you want to do this via asks

- you must tag me @/natashxromanovf and use the tag #tajas1kfollowerswritingchallenge so we can make sure i see it!

- tag the warnings approprietly, and most importantly, have fun while doing it. don't force it if you don't feel like writing, i don't care if you post the fic in two years or if you don't post at all. my intention is for people to have fun <33

۞ fluff

1. “I didn’t get soaked wet through walking to your apartment for you to say no to pizza. I have beer too. I know you’re sad, so let me in.”

2. “I refuse to stop irritating you until you give me attention.”

3. “You’re like... everything good that has ever happened rolled into one adorable package.”

4. “You’re so cute when you’re half asleep like this.”

5. “Well, I am pretty irresistible.”

6. “Oh, you’ve started started stealing my socks now?”

7. “Do you think the moon is jealous of how pretty you are?”

8. “Everything alright?” “I just missed you.”

9. “You getting so flustered is one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen.”

10. “I would like my good morning kiss now.”

11. “I love to hear your voice, even if you’re so far away.”

12. “There is no better way to start the day than seeing your face.”

13. “How come you always end up under my blanket?”

14. “Believe me, I will never be tired of you.”

15. "So, who..." "Not going to talk about that."

۞ angst

1. "I told you not to fall in love with me.”

2. “I will leave now, or I’m going to say things I will regret later.”

3. “This is not how family is supposed to feel like.”

4. "I didn't want it to come out like that. That's why I wanted to leave." "Without ever telling me?"

5. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” “It’s ok. We’ll figure it out - together.”

6. "I love you, okay?! And I can't stay in your life when I'm just ruining it." "You can't just say that and don't wait for me to answer."

7. “You’re going to be okay. Just keep breathing. Please.”

8. “You’re supossed to be mad at me! Why aren’t you yelling at me?”

9. “If you don’t hug me right now I think I might fall apart.”

10. “I don’t hold people close. It makes it easier for them to hurt you.”

11. “I had a nightmare. Can I stay with you?”

12. “Nobody has seen you in days.”

13. “Are you hurt?” “No.” “Then why are there bruises all over your face?”

14. “We found you crying. What happened?”

15. "How could you do this to me?" "You're so naive, it's almost adorable."

۞ misc + situation prompts

1. Person A gets a phone call from Person B around midnight, in which Person B is clearly panicked.

2. “What do you mean they’re my new partner? They tried to kill me last week!” “Sounds like your problem.”

3. “Did you just slap my ass?” “Actually, I firmly grasped it.” “Did you just quote Spongebob?”

4. Person A hasn’t been sleeping due to work, and they of course get sick. Despite person B’s wishes, person A continues to sneak out of bed and stay up late to get more work done, and person B is not happy.

5. “Didn’t you two used to hate each other?” “Yeah, but now we hold hands and shit!”

6. “Walk it off!” “I literally can’t walk.”

7. “Hold on... you’re bilingual?” “Yes?”

8. “I’m too sober for this.” “You don’t even drink.” “Maybe I should start.”

9. “Can I pet your dog?” “Do I know you?”

10. "You owe me." "I owe you $20 not a day of pretending to be your boy/girl-friend to get your parents off you're back."

11. Seeing videos of yourself and not recognizing the person you see, is a horrible feeling.

12. “How much money would you give me to flip this table, right here, right now, in the middle of class?”

13. “You said to be honest stop hitting me!!”

14. “Ew, that is so sappy, I might vomit.”

15. Seeing their lover getting hurt ignited a fire full of rage inside of them that nothing could’ve held them back.

uff, that was a long post. anyway, thank you again for all the support, i couldn't have made it without you. all prompts belong to @creativepromptsforwriting so make sure to check her blog out!

and now, for the end, i'm tagging some people who might be interested in this and/or would be so kind to boost :) i love you all, remember that <33

@pregnant-piggy @mirclealignr @velvetcloxds @cxoffeeaddict @arkofblake @jackys-stuff-blog @leossmoonn @sarahisslytherin @milkiane @cupids-crystals @sheraayasher @f4irydaydreams @fairydxll @griffxnnage @henqtic @kimoralov3 @serpentargo @melin-oe @of-apollo @annab-nana @sabstfu @rorybutnotgilmore @shadesofvelma @awritingtree @imabee-oralizard @mendesxruel @messers-moony @dunbarsjersey @spring-picnics @robinbuckleyluvr @just-a-smol-spoon @peggycartervariantbetty

#tajas1kfollowerswritingchallenge #taja talks #thank you!!!#harry potter #marvel #outer banks #stranger things #the vampire diaries #the originals #teen wolf #descendants #criminal minds #911 #911: lone star #shadow and bone #shameless #shadowhunters #mcu

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palbabor-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Practicum

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT/18+ only, unbalanced/unhealthy relationships, student/teacher sex, tw.dubcon, tw.sub/dom dynamics, brat taming, fingering, masturbation, a table is pretty roughed up in this, so pls hold a brief moment of silence for it

Words: 12,857

“So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And...answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Notes: the title was selected because it’s got the word cum in it. ahhh, the things that crack me up. anyhow.

this is part of the BNHA Degeneracy server’s 9 to 5 collaboration! i had a ton of fun participating in this and thank you guys for making this so freaking awesome! special shoutout & thanks to @albinoburrito & @kugutsuu for their beta edits! this was a departure from what i usually write about and i appreciate all of your notes and help!

Practicum prac·ti·cum /ˈpraktəkəm/ noun a practical section of a course of study

It’s your senior year, they said. Live a little, they advised. Stop and take a breather, you’re practically home free! Take some easier classes. Focus on what’s in front of you, it’ll be over before you know it! On and on and on.

Spring semester is almost here. You’ve applied for graduation, the cap and gown ordered, and you have a shiny class ring sitting on your pinky. It’s in the bag. Just breeze through four more classes and you’re out. Well, it would be an easy shot, if you hadn’t put off this one class.

It always popped up, so it’s not like you could plead ignorance. Your advisor warned you, each quarterly meeting, that you needed to get it out of the way. Take it seriously, he cautioned, clacking out his notes, typing down that you’d failed to heed his sage advice, again. If you wait too long, you’re not going to get the professor that you want.

That was the other problem. You’re a procrastination superstar. If there was some kinda award for putting off assignments, you’d have won it ten times over. You liked the heart pounding race to the deadline, the sleepy boasts that you’d tackled the project within hours of its due date.

It’s a stupid habit. Every semester you promise yourself that you’ll do better. You won’t wait, you’ll tackle things one assignment at a time and turn them before the hard cut off at 11:59 pm. Who the fuck did you think you were kidding? Certainly not your friends, or your advisor. He could read you like a book. Hell, he’d even sent warnings.

‘Don’t forget about the deadline for senior registration!’

‘You don’t want to be on a waitlist. You especially don’t want to take one of the harder professors. These are freshman level classes, they’re designed to flunk undergrads. Don’t forget (Y/N), chew them up and spit them out tactics are employed.’

But you had. You’d set an alarm on your phone, then neglected to give it a title, so you’d only chuckled and smacked the chirping into silence that morning, snoozing the all important deadline away.

Fuck.

Most of the classes for biology are wait-listed. No, scratch that, all the classes for Intro to Genetic Biology are wait-listed. You opt into the waitlist for all of them, just in case, and a week later your phone alerts you that one has an open seat. Actually, it has several open seats, too many open seats to be natural. However, you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so for now, you’re enrolled in BIO 1208: Principles of Cell and Organismal Physiology - For Non-Science majors.

Perfect.

Yeah, no. You’d looked up the professor, since the whole open seat thing was still giving you the heebie-jeebies, and your heart dropped. You’ve heard of him, most of the student body has. His classes are notoriously small. Not because the university limited them, or planned for smaller class sizes. No, his classes are tiny because he is infamous for failing students.

Most, when they realize they’re scheduled for his bio classes, frantically drop, taking the withdrawal and praying for better luck next semester. Others, brave souls who think they can come out unscathed, attempt to grit their teeth and push through. But, by midterms, they’re war torn and haggard, shaking their heads and praying for a ‘C’, at best. Fewer still, pass.

This pedagogy isn’t a sign of good teaching; quite the opposite, in fact. You don’t want your student body failing. Yet, year after year, Professor Tomura Shigaraki keeps teaching the same Intro to Bio class. It boggles the mind, but you’ve never had to worry about it. Well, until now.

When you’d received the notification that you’re enrolled in the B section and spied the name Shigaraki under the professor listing, you’d scarfed down your suddenly flavorless lunch and dashed up the steps to the student advising hall, praying there was some way you could wiggle your way out of this growing disaster.

“I’m pretty sure I told you to take it earlier and to take it in the fall when there are more freshman level classes available. I swear I said that to you. And, AND, I even sent you emails, several times if my sent inbox is to be believed, to NOT forget when senior registration ends.”

Your advisor is peeved. You don’t blame him. He’s right, this is your fault, but there’s gotta be some kinda loophole. Something, fuck, anything, that can pull you from this mess.

“I know, I know! I’m so sorry. You’re right. But, I mean, can’t I just hold off for another week? See if the waitlist clears?”

The man that you’ve known for four years, that’s seen you progress from freshman to senior, steeples his long fingers and purses his lips, likely debating on a tactful scolding, or a firm rebuttal. He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but sink into the soft cushioning of the chair, your nose wrinkled and brow furrowed, mentally preparing yourself for the worst.

“Do you know how many students we require to take BIO 1208?”

“No,” you gulp, nibbling on your lower lip nervously.

“Over 7,000. Do you want to hear the statistics that would need to shake out in your favor for you to miraculously avoid taking this specific class? Nothing is going to open for you, it is this class, or no class.”

You sigh, and your advisor nods, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Well then, I suggest you brush up on your study skills. Find a classmate that you can compare notes with, join a study group, go to the student union and ask for a tutor. I would hate to see you back here for the summer semester. You’re scheduled to walk the stage this spring and you’ve worked hard for this, so don’t fuck it up, okay?”

You’ve attended this university for four years, but the first day of term always gives you the jitters. It doesn’t matter that you know your way around, or that you know ten professors by name, and bump into several friends on the way to your next building, you’re always buried in your phone, checking and double checking the next class’ room number.

Despite all that caution, you’re lost.

In your defense, it’s your first time stepping foot in the Graduate & Research building and the whole concrete block is a fucking maze. There must be a basement because the numbers don’t match up with the floors and they seem to jumble further every time you round a corner. Like what the hell? How can this next room be GR 3.03.05 when this is clearly only the second floor and GR 2.03.11 was right down that other hallway?

Exasperated, you lean against the nearest wall and tug your phone out again. Shit. Class started ten minutes ago.

Part of you wants to call it a day, end the search here and try again on Wednesday. Maybe take a few extra minutes to scout out the building next time and have some idea of where you’re going before the start of class.

Ugh, why is this so stressful?

It’s the first day of classes. Surely Professor Shigaraki won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late; besides, if you’re lost, others must be too.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket and resume the hunt. Two hallway turns later, you find your mark.

Your hand pauses beside the heavy wood, and you take a steadying breath. Again, why are you so nervous? Just go in and take a seat, it’s easy, stop freaking out over nothing.

The door groans open, hinges protesting the sharp push, and you stumble into a darkened room. The low glow of the projector doesn’t help your blurry vision. Ah, shit, it’s one of those older rooms, so it’s built like a bad movie theater. Oh well, better get to a seat before he spots you.

Swiftly, you make your way toward the raised steps of the aisle and the second row of chairs, plopping into the first one you reach that’s empty. You’re too busy fiddling with the zipper of your backpack to notice that the speaker has stopped his rasping preamble, but as you pull your laptop out the ominous weight of that heavy silence hits you and you toss a hooded stare toward the front of the lecture hall.

Immediately, your eyes land on the professor’s and you feel a low shiver shake up your spine.

He’s watching you.

The gleam of the overhead projector makes his red eyes flash, and he openly scowls at your gaping expression, his lips curling into a dark sneer.

“Well, thank you for joining us, Miss…?”

He’s waiting for your response and you squeak out your last name, mindlessly rubbing your moistening palms against your thin skirt.

“Ah, Ms. (L/N). Now that you’ve graced the class with your belated presence, may I continue?”

“Uh,” you gasp out, your mouth dry, tongue sticking to your teeth, “I’m sorry. I got–”

“I didn’t ask for an explanation, or in your case, an excuse. Or are you now attempting to disrupt this class purposefully?”

“Wha– I-I’m–” your words stumble to a halt, voice failing under the intense glare that he’s giving you. “No,” you finish lamely, ducking your head, nails digging into your sweaty palms.

“Thank you. Do me a favor, stay after class.” His voice is gravel, threatening and low. You don’t like the edge in his tone. It makes your skin prickle and your knees knock. He sounds like the kind of guy that you don’t want to run into in a dark alleyway, or a classroom, for that matter. Even so, it’s not your fault, and despite your feelings of unease, you can’t tamp down your need to protest his unreasonableness.

“But, professor, I didn’t mean to–”

“If I need to repeat my insistence for silence, I’ll make things easier on both of us and fail you now.”

Stunned and fuming, you bite your tongue and lean back into your chair, crossing your arms and blinking back mounting tears of frustration. Great, just great. It’s the first fucking day of class and it looks like you’re already on his shit list. And for what? For being late on fucking syllabus day! What an ass.

You look over at him as you defiantly finish setting up your computer, hoping each pull of a zipper or screen reboot will grate under his stuck up skin. He’s not inordinately tall, or old. In fact, he looks like he might only be in early 30s. He has long white hair that’s pulled back into a low ponytail and, from what you can make out in the dim lighting, some kinda skin condition on his forehead. That, or he’s prematurely wrinkled, and let’s be honest, if he’s gone through life with that big of a stick up his ass, he deserves each and every pull on that mottled skin of his.

You linger in your seat when class is over, lips pulled into a thin line and legs crossed. Finally, when the last student has left the room, professor Shigaraki flips a switch beside his elevated podium, filling the lecture hall with a sharp, fluorescent light. He pauses by his raised computer system and clicks off the overhead projector, blanketing the massive room in an uncomfortable silence.

“Since you missed the part of class where I go over the syllabus, I’ll give you a brief rundown. Under no circumstances will I tolerate tardiness. If you do it once more I’ll mark you absent and three absences knock you down a full letter grade.”

Glumly, you cross your arms and peer up at him, finally able to get a good look at his face. Your first observation was correct. His skin is sharper around his forehead, but his wavy white hair does a pretty decent job of covering up the imperfections. He has two scars: one nicks across his right eye and the other splits down his rough lips, parting the skin and granting him an even more foreboding appearance than his already gruff demeanor does. He’s dressed in a dark pair of jeans and he’s wearing a low slung v neck shirt. It’s a brilliant red and it brings out that otherworldly glint of his red eyes. Shit, you think bitterly, while he’s not conventionally handsome, he’s not exactly hard on the eyes either.

You shake your head against these unproductive musings and curtly snap out a clipped, ok.

“What was that?” Shigaraki scoffs, tilting his head at your sullen figure. “Speak up.”

“I said,” you bristle, eyes narrowing and chin lifting, “Okay, I apologize for interrupting your lecture, it won’t happen again. But, in my defense, if I’m allowed to do that in this class, I’ve never been in this building before, and it’s not like–”

“You’re a senior, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then you’ve had four years to figure out the layout of this university. The excuse of ‘being lost,’ isn’t an option for you. You know the buildings and you’re fully capable of turning up early to sort out the rooms.”

You let out a long sigh and look away, mumbling vague protests. This guy is ridiculous. You’re not a science major and it’s not your job to know the ins and outs of each building. How fucking stupid. Who does he think he–

“Speak up. I won’t ask you again.”

You bite your lip and look back at him but he’s moved in that distracted moment, silently stepping down from his raised platform and is now leaning over the first row of chairs, looming over you. You can’t help your sudden flinch as you sink further into your chair, away from him.

“If you’re gonna complain, Ms. (L/N), I’d much rather hear it. Don’t you think It’s rude for you to mutter under your breath about me? You don’t see me doing that to you.”

“Fine,” you blurt out, turning away from his insistent, and all too close, gaze. “I was saying that I’m not a science major. I get that I’m a senior, but you can’t seriously expect me to know every nook and cranny of this campus.”

“No, but I can ask for you to be a little more thoughtful. I put time and effort into my lessons and I won’t have you undermining them by bouncing in here with those legs and that flouncy little skirt.”

You’re about to counter his little haughty speech on politeness when you finally process that final comment he’d breathed out. Flabbergasted, you raise your head back to his, but he’s already moving away, snatching up his shoulder bag and waving you a curt goodbye as he presses open the squeaky door. “Next class is at 10 am sharp, so be on time Ms. (L/N).”

You’re still slumped in your seat when the door glides shut again, your eyes wide and jaw no doubt comically unhinged.

Wait. Did…did he really just say that?

Obviously, for the next class, you’re early. You’re so early that you’re the first one in the lecture hall. You select a seat toward the back and fiddle with your computer, checking your messages, adjusting your brightness, replying to old emails, anything to keep your head down and attention occupied.

The door opens and, despite your best efforts, your head flies up, expectant and tense, ready to meet those red eyes of his head on, to show him you’re here and he better… oh. It’s not him. It’s two chattering freshmen. One of them gives you a quick smile, but they both quickly take their seats, a few rows over, and continue their soft conversation, leaving you to fall back onto your earlier distraction tactics. You twiddle with your phone and shoot off a few texts, change your wallpaper, accidentally close an app you meant to leave open, and then the lecture hall door reopens.

He steps in slowly, completely ignoring you and the other scattered students, opting to sort out a few papers and set up his login on the school computer. The minutes tick by and you can’t seem to jerk your eyes away from him, suddenly fascinated by his languid movements. He looks more relaxed than he did on Monday, looser and fluid, completely in his element. True to his word, at ten am on the dot he begins class.

Professor Shigaraki has an interesting voice. It’s low, calculated, bordering on a rasp. It’s one of those tones that makes you want to lean forward and listen up, even though he’s only discussing cellular biology. Which isn’t exactly the sexiest topic for that shockingly dulcet timbre of his.

Wait. Sexy?

Your pen falters against your notebook, and your eyes drift up to his frame. He’s switched the lights off again and the shine of the overhead projector is the only illumination in the hall. His white hair gleams in the dim lighting and his long hands animatedly illustrate his points, elegant fingers opening and closing, gesticulating about the intricate nature of the human genome. You’re so focused on watching his movements that your elbow partner has to push the slip of paper onto your collapsible desktop. You blink at the sheet, your pen nearly clattering from your hand, and you twist to peer at the unfamiliar student beside you.

“It’s the attendance sheet and, um, I think you’re the last one,” they whisper, careful to lean away after they finish their explanation, not wanting to draw professor Shigaraki’s ire. You maneuver the paper under your pen and scribble down your name, biting your lip and silently berating yourself for your poor selection in seating. Great, now you’ll have to take the paper down to him after class. What if he talks with you again? Shit.

At 11:25, class ends. You collect your things and plod down the steps, the attendance sheet clutched between your fingers. He’s just snapping the projector light off when you reach his podium.

“I, uhh, have the attendance. You want me to just leave it here, or…”

“I’ll take it,” his hand is extended toward you and those red eyes are fixed on you now. It’s not the same disgruntled stare he’d given you on Monday. No, this look is a little more curious. Again, you’re taken aback by your reaction to him. He’s not even saying anything, just patiently waiting for you to deposit the sheet into his open palm, but there’s something about him that’s making your heart race.

Maybe it’s those eyes of his.

They are an unusual color and they have a strange intensity to them. Right as they narrow, the vermillion shining under the sharp lights; you press the paper to him and he pulls it from you, studying the names that are listed.

You want to say something. Maybe toss him a quick, friendly, goodbye. Or apologize for the other day? Ugh. What can you even say? ‘Gosh, so glad I was on time today! All that fascinating information about the genetic code! So glad to be here!’ No, that sounds stupid and a little patronizing. Besides, why do you want to talk with him at all? He’s an ass, remember?

“Did you need something?”

His question snaps you out of your stupor and you numbly shake your head at him, already lowering your gaze, but his exhaled chuckle makes you pause, your fingers curling around your backpack straps.

“I know I upset you the other day, but I appreciate you taking the effort to correct your mistake.”

“Oh,” you breathe, your eyes finding their way back to his. “Yeah, well, like you said, I’m a senior. Gotta take responsibility for myself someday.”

“Ah,” he smirks, that long scar on his lip quirking upward. “Seems like you’ve got some determination after all. You might be more interesting than I gave you credit for.”

“God,” you scoff, popping out a hip and crossing your arms at the bemused leer on his face. “Just come right out and say you think I’m a bad student, why don’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” he amends, tucking the attendance sheet into his shoulder bag and snapping the clasps closed. “There’s plenty of time for you to end up right back at square one with me.”

He’s already halfway out the door by the time you right yourself from the shock of his last comment and you follow him, a string of low curses falling from your lips.

The spring semester always flies by, and before you realize it, a full month has bled away. You’ve kept that same seat in Shigaraki’s class and at the end of each session you head down to his little platform, attendance sheet outstretched. Each day of class has a different ebb and flow. Sometimes he chats with you and it’s gotten easier to talk with him, both of your eyes holding and lingering, lips raised into calculating smiles. Sometimes it almost feels like he’s flirting with you. Other days he only spares you a curt nod, his white hair curtaining his expression from your curious gaze. You’re not bothered by these silences, not when you’ve got your secret weapon.

The days that you like best, the ones that you plan, sorting through your closet until you’ve found the perfect choice, are the days when you wear one of your skirts. You’d even gone on some skirt shopping sprees as of late. On those days he doesn’t just make some sort of fleeting eye contact with you, no, on those days he stares.

At first, you’d tested out your theory, staggering your outfits, careful to not screw up your suspicions with a hasty miscalculation, but as they say, the third time’s the charm. How did he expect you not to notice? He never bothers to hide those sharp ogles and recently you’ve made a point of dramatically gathering your things when you wear these cute little ensembles, bopping down the steps so his eyes have to work to follow the line of your hips and the long paths of your bare legs. One rainy afternoon you’d worn over the knee stockings, that came to an abrupt halt over the plush skin of your upper thigh, under your mini skirt and he’d practically leapt over the podium to grab the sheet from you, his eyes hooded and dark, almost wild.

“Test, on Friday,” he warns, eyes finally rising to meet your bemused expression. “Don’t stay out too late tonight.”

“What makes you say that?” you ask, brushing at a rogue fold in your skirt, luring him back to your legs.

He scoffs at you, that jagged scar arching into a smirk. “Humph. You’re dressed up. Most of the students just wear the sweats, or pjs, and call it a day.”

“I like to put a little effort in all that I do,” you retort, grinning up at his vermillion stare.

“Yes, so I’ve noticed. You certainly look the part…and you’re keeping up with the workload of this course.”

“Ahhh,” you crow, clapping your hands excitedly. “Are you saying I might get an ‘A’ in this class? Be the first time someone’s done that in a while, from what I’ve heard around campus.”

Shigaraki sneers and tuts out an inaudible reply, leaning a little closer to you, making you inadvertently fall back a step. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Awe,” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m doing ok on all the quizzes and the classwork.”

“So far,” he taunts, his pearlescent hair falling over his broad shoulder.

“Tch. Don’t be like that. I’ve been studying.”

“Sometimes it takes more than that.”

“Oh?” you smile, raising your chin. “What else should I be doing, professor?”

“We’ll know that after Friday, won’t we?”

God.

You’d felt so confident when you’d turned in your test and that stupid, horrible, sexy little quirk of his lip scar that he sends you, when you’d handed him your papers, carries you on some strange, half aroused cloud all weekend. Maybe, just maybe, this class won’t be so bad after all.

The tests are handed back the following Friday, passed from row to row so everyone can fish out their papers and marked Scantrons. Yours, since you still occupy that final seat on the back row, is the last. Biting back a grin, you flip it over, so ready to see that A, that grade that you worked so fucking hard for, that… wait.

The gross flash of red across the top of your paper leaves you reeling, your breath catching against the back of your throat. It’s not a terrible grade, well, it wouldn’t be, but there are only three tests in this class, so it’s going to plummet you down to a B. One more fuck up will leave you with a C, or worse, an automatic failing grade.

No. No, no, no, no.

You can’t afford a bad grade, you honestly can’t even let yourself slip to a B. Your fucking cap and gown have just come in and with them that cord that you can wear around your neck at graduation. The one that marks you as honors cum laude. Fuck. You’re already pulling one B, in one of your other classes, because you’ve been focusing so much time and effort on this one. Another B will strip that cord from you, leaving you barren, with a less than ideal GPA.

God fucking damn it.

You glare up at Shigaraki, who’s busy taking the rest of the class through a review of genetic mutations, but you can’t hear him anymore, too incensed, too overwhelmed to even care about what he’s saying. The test crumples under your fingertips, the paper shaking in your hands, and you seethe, your teeth biting your lower lip to pieces.

It’s not fair. You’d paid attention. You’ve taken all the notes. Read all the chapters. Drilled and studied till your eyes had drooped, heavy with exhaustion. You’ve done it all right. Plus, he’d been so fucking flirty, so open with you. You’ve never chatted with a professor this way, never gone out of your way to wear clothes they like, that make them watch you, their eyes hungry pinpricks as you walk to them, mindful of the luscious sway of your hips.

No. Fuck him. Fuck this class.

Before your elbow classmate can leave, you ask for them to hand in the attendance sheet. You barely hear their response, too busy slamming your laptop into your backpack. As you storm past the podium, you can feel his eyes on you. The distant sensation of his gaze makes your flesh prickle, but you ignore your involuntary reaction and shove your way out the door.

“(Y/N), you can’t switch classes this late. It’s almost midterms. Besides, I don’t think anything has opened up and if you’re going to drop it, you’ve gotta get the signature of the professor,” your advisor tells you, blinking at your stony expression over his thick glasses. “I don’t get it. Why do you want to drop it? Your grades are alright and it’s just one test. You can always try–”

“Gimme the paperwork.”

Shigaraki’s office is on the top floor of the research building, tucked away down another winding and weaving hallway that once again requires your careful inspection to navigate. When you finally hit the right set of doors, you slowly make your way forward, counting the numbers up as you pass. His door is wide open, a yawning cavern that’s filled with the distant light of a lamp. You brush a hand down your skirt, smoothing away any wrinkles and steadying your nerves.

You’d tossed on the skirt this morning, before you’d gotten the grade, and you hadn’t thought to go home and change, too consumed by that simmering rage bubbling within you. And now, like this fucking class, this skirt felt like a mistake, something stupid and vapid that you wished you had time to change out of. He’d told you he liked your attire, liked that you put effort into your outfits. At the time, you’d been so thrilled and excited that he’d complimented you, but now you wish you were confronting him in baggy jeans or lazy sweats, anything that would turn that avid gaze of his away from you.

Lost in thought, you waver beside his open door, nibbling on your lips and tugging at your clothes. It’s now or never. No point in putting it off. What’s the worst that can happen? What can he do now? Or, a darker side of you whispers, what do you want him to do to you? What? That’s a stupid thought, you scold yourself, lifting a hand to the wall and rapping against the beige paint, announcing your presence.

When the sound fades away, swallowed up by the empty and darkened hallway, you poke your head around the corner, searching for him. His head is tilted quizzically, and he blinks twice when he spots you, that all too familiar smirk lifting his lips.

“Ah, Ms. (L/N), what can I do for you?”

His voice is softer than usual and your name sounds like honey, his tone resting on the syllables and consonants for a beat, almost as if he’s savoring their lift, their sound. You can’t help but swallow heavily at his appraisal. Suddenly this may be a terrible idea.

Ugh. Get a grip (Y/N).

“I-I need you to sign this withdrawal paperwork,” you finally reply, digging in your bag and tugging out the thin leaflet, holding it out to him. He’s silent after your demand, meditatively threading his fingers and peering up at you, his red eyes bright.

“Step inside and shut the door behind you,” he instructs, his gaze never falling from yours. Despite the simplicity of his request, you can’t help but bristle at his imperious tone. Why does he always have to sound like that? Like he’s seconds away from taking control of the situation, or of you? He’s always one stupid step ahead, and no doubt he’s going to try and talk you down. Or, he’ll sign it and say that he always knew you were a screw up, someone who only did things halfway, who could never match up to his lofty expectations. Humph, the sooner you’re outta here and out of his class, the better. So, you obey, closing the door and petulantly flopping into the unsteady chair that sits in front of his low desk.

He maintains that uneasy quiet, his red eyes whisking over your disgruntled face, waiting, watching. Unable to take this strange standoff, you push the university paperwork toward him, sliding it as close as you dare to his bent elbows. “I would like to withdraw from your class,” you repeat, lips setting into a thin line.

“Why?” he asks, cocking his head so his loose white hair falls a little further down his rough brow.

“Something came up.”

“Hmm, I can try to work with a new schedule, if it’s your job, or home life,” he counters, eyes narrowing as he sharpens his observations of your brittle expression.

“It’s not that,” you smart, crossing your arms. Great, he’s going to make this difficult.

“Then I suggest you tell me what’s on your mind,” Shigaraki replies, mirroring your movements and leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t think this class is working out for me.”

He exhales a soft laugh at your lie, and you watch that tiny mole at the edge of his chin lift in his quiet mirth. “This is a freshman level course and you’re a senior. You’re in my class because it’s likely the last pre-rec that you need to take before you graduate.”

“Um, yeah. But–”

“And now, you’re wanting to drop it because of one poor grade.”

You grind your teeth and fix him with a stark glower. “I–”

“There will be two other tests. If you read your syllabus, you’d know this.”

“I read the syllabus. Your tests are worth a stupid amount of points and it only takes one of them to tank my grade.”

“Frankly, you did better than most of the class. You only need to work on practical application. I said that the written portion would be a major component of the exam. I also provided you with a review and a rubric. So I’m not sure–”

“Your grade drops me to a ‘B’, and that ‘B’ pulls me from the honors list. And… well… I thought that…”

“Oh? What did you think?” he presses, his voice suddenly dropping to that lower octave it had drifted into when he said your last name.

“I thought I’d get a better grade,” you spit out, turning your head and biting at your lip again.

“Why?” he counters simply. His obtuseness is making your blood boil.

“What do you mean, why?” It takes all of your will to not slip a ‘jackass’ into that question.

“It’s not a hard thing to answer. I graded you fairly and according to my rubric. Why exactly do you feel you merit a different grade than the one you earned?”

You fall into a frustrated silence. You can hear your heart pounding against your ribs and you want to scream at him, to leap over his desk and shake him until his teeth fucking rattle. Your shoulders are rising and lowering disjointedly and his vermillion eyes are honed in on your face, shifting over your pinched expression with a distant interest. You can feel tears pricking at your eyes and you hastily rub a fist over them, brushing away any rogue drops of moisture.

“How can you ask me that? You think I didn’t notice you staring at my legs? Or that you always had something to say to me when I was wearing a skirt? What was I supposed to think, huh? I fucking thought shit like that was gonna help, ok? God, I’m so stupid. I can’t… fuck.”

Shigaraki arches forward when you finish, a deep sigh leaching through his parted lips. His teeth snap together when you look up at him, your eyes gaining back some of that earlier defiance, and he gives you a quick grin, clearly pleased by your shift in attitude and pushes your paper aside, fixing you with a dark look. “Here’s a thought, since you feel you’re so different, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a chance to make up the score.”

“I don’t care about the score anymore. I wanna drop your class,” you snap, but it’s a halfhearted barb. Something has changed in his demeanor. He’s dropped the concerned professor act and is leaning so close you can hear his steady intakes of air. He’s only a few inches away; if you want, you could touch him.

“I doubt you want to attend a class in the summer. Besides, they won’t let you walk if you haven’t finished your freshman level courses. And you can’t tell me you don’t want to graduate, to earn that cord that lets you into the honor cum laude. So stop pouting and hear me out. I think you’ll like what I have in mind.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever like anything about you,” your voice is sharper than you mean it to be, but the challenge makes Shigaraki smile. As it crosses his cracked lips, it pulls that scar up and it makes those eyes of his glow. He looks like the cat that’s got the cream and you’re not sure how to respond, so you cross your legs and wait for him to make the next move.

“You sure about that? Well, I’ll have to change your tune then, won’t I? But that can wait, lemme tell you what my requirements are. I’ve got a copy of the textbook in here. I’ll have you review some of the major concepts, you’ll read the passages aloud so I’m sure you’re on the right track, you’ll hand the book back to me, and then I’ll verbally quiz you over the material. If you answer them correctly, I’ll bump you to an ‘A’ on your test.”

You have to actively work to keep your mouth closed. “So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And… answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Your eyes boggle and you have to clench your thighs tighter, your stomach churning, you feel light-headed and you can feel your core fluttering with your sudden arousal. “Wh-what did you just say?”

“Stop gaping at me like that, you’ll make me blush. Now come on.”

Your jaw snaps closed and you shake your head, trying to clear your mind from your whirling emotions. He takes this reaction as a surrender and stands, stepping toward a marred table that rests a little ways away from his desk. He licks his thumb pad and flips through a few pages before finally settling on an appealing section. Once he places it on the table, he twists back to you and crooks a finger your way. “Come here,” he orders, his voice deep and languid. Obediently, you rise on unsteady feet, hands tugging at the length of your skirt, careful to keep it pressed down as you walk toward him.

He makes space for you to stand in front of the book and shifts back, one hand resting on the table, propping him close to your bent figure. You look up at him, but he only nods his head toward the table, a wicked smile curling the corners of his lips. Blink a few times but finally, the words clear and you can see the block of text that’s in front of you. It’s passages on DNA encodes and RNA proteins, hefty stuff, things that you had to make flash cards for. This isn’t going to be easy. If anything, he’s picked some of the harder concepts, the ones that take steady knowledge in the foundations. Flustered, you look back to him, but he’s moved. He’s leaning against the wide window beside the table, a dark mark against the glass.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a laugh bubbling in his tone.

“There’s no way…” you stammer, shaking your head at him.

“Want me to throw a curve in?”

“I should ask what kinda curve, but knowing you, it’s likely gonna be something terrible.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he rumbles, stepping away from the window and leaning close to your stiff form. “It just takes an open mind and some enthusiasm on your part.”

“Enthusiasm?” you question, trying your best to withstand his closeness. You can feel the heat radiating off of his broad shoulder and if you tilt a little nearer, you could graze against him, or feel his breath on your skin.

“You’re right,” he amends, his forearm contacting your side. You startle at the touch, a gasp falling from your lips, but you don’t pull away and you can’t stop staring up at him, your eyes wide. “Obedience is a better word. From here on out, whatever I tell you to do, I expect you to obey it, although it’s not exactly, ah, school approved.”

“You want me to suck you off or something?” you sneer, hoping to stumble him off his guard, even if it’s only for an instant. Too bad he’s always one step ahead.

“Don’t be vulgar. Think outside of the box, (Y/N). Do you think I’m going to go for something so short sighted when I could have you bending to my will? Obeying every little demand that I make? I’d much rather see if that skin of yours tastes as good as it looks, then simply have you on your knees. No, I want you to fucking scream for me while I stuff you full of my cock. But first, you need to put in some work. You should know that by now.”

Oxygen is suddenly very hard to come by and you can feel your mind hazing over as you stammer up at him, your mind flitting from word to word disjointedly. Shigaraki grants you a wolfish grin, and he dips his lips beside your ear, whispering over those tiny hairs that rest against your tender skin. “I’ll make this part easy. Nod and I’ll give you the first set of instructions.”

What did he say? Nod? What happens when you nod? Fuck, why are you letting him do this? Is your grade really worth it? Are you that desperate that… that…

Shigaraki is whispering other promises over you as you war with yourself, speaking his words gently, slowly, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. It’s like you’ve fallen under some kinda spell and before you realize it, your traitorous head is bobbing up and down, letting him know you want him to keep going.

“Perfect,” he sighs, his lips grazing over the shell of your ear, jerking a shiver from you. “Now, lean forward and put your hands against the table.”

You do as he says, but he’s not satisfied with your positioning, his fingers wrapping around your wrists and yanking you forward, jutting your ass out and pressing your chest down, maneuvering you until your nose is right above the pages of the textbook. “There we go,” he rasps, pulling away so he can admire your splayed form. “Hmm, your legs are too close together. Spread them.” Knees trembling, you obey, gasping when he runs a palm against the curve of your thighs.

“You’ve got such nice legs (Y/N), so let’s put them on display, shall we?” His fingers search against the top of your skirt and they still when he reaches his prize: the zipper. When he pulls it down, you let out a sharp squeak of protestation but he silences you with a swift pinch to your side.

“Now, now, don’t be like that. You nodded, remember? Besides, you could have left when I told you I’d give you a curve but you couldn’t help yourself could you? You want me to keep going and to do that, I need you to take this skirt off. No, don’t move. I’ll get rid of it for you. Why don’t you focus on the task at hand, hmm? Aren’t you supposed to be reading for me?”

You arch away from his fingers and he chuckles at your impudence, one large hand hooking under your chin and pulling you toward his face. His red eyes blaze as they find yours, the dark pupils threatening to swallow up that deep vermillion. “Let’s start with the second paragraph. If you do well, I might grant you a reprieve.”

Jerking your face from his grip, you twist back to the text, trying, and failing, to ignore his inquisitive fingers, unable to resist sighing as he works one up your inner thigh. He pauses when no words fall from your lips and you grumble out a few low curses before acquiescing to his silent demand.

“The flow of genetic information in cells from DNA to mRNA to protein is described by the Central Dogma, which states that genes specify the sequence of mRNAs, which specify the sequence of proteins. The decoding of one molecule… the… the… molecule… by spec-specific…”

He’s slipped your skirt down over the swell of your ass, but he’s taking his time, flexing out the front of the material and dipping his fingers over the bump of your lower stomach, kneading into the delicate flesh that’s stretched out for him. You can’t help the twitch of your spine and you involuntarily wiggle, palms slipping forward, dragging you further along the tabletop. Shigaraki chuckles above you, running his rough lips over the back of your neck.

“You’re so sensitive. I’ve barely touched you.”

He circles his hands back to your skirt and edges it along, lowering it sharply on one side and then giving the same treatment to the other. You’re doing your best to keep up with your stammering readings, but it’s difficult when he keeps sighing and running his long nails across your newly bared skin. Finally, he works the skirt down and it thumps against your bare ankles; the fabric tickling your skin.

Meanwhile, his other fingers skitter against the elastic band of your rapidly dampening panties. Once he hooks the lace under his hand, he yanks them along your legs, trailing them sinfully slowly, ensuring that they glide down the billow of your thighs. His teeth nip at your ear when you stumble to a halt in your recitation and your hands tense over the grains of wood beneath them, your nails pinching into your palms. “If you stop, I stop,” he warns, his head bumping against yours, his sharp nose pressing against your pulse.

“You’re not exactly making this easy,” you grumble, doing your best to ignore his renewed pets and strokes.

“Stop complaining,” he smirks, leaning away from your head to peer at your newly exposed flesh. “You better pay attention to what you’re reading or you’re not going to pass the questions I’ll be asking you.”

“Yeah, yeah, ow!” you squawk, whipping your head around to glare up at him. He fucking pinched you again! This time, he’d slipped his hand between your spread legs and tweaked your inner thigh, painfully.

“Read,” he repeats, running those guilty fingers upward, lingering beside the heat of your cunt, careful to not get too close. When you start on the next sentence, one of his hands tugs up the fabric of your shirt, snaking upward until he’s thumbing against the wire of your bra. Once again, you falter to a halt and exhale a wavering breath.

Goddamn it. This review is no review. You’ll be lucky if you can even recall what a cell is if he keeps this up. You hear his ominous intake of air and quickly resume your recitation, mumbling something about RNA and mRNA differences.

Wait. Didn’t you just…

“Looks like you’re having trouble listening to me. I told you to read aloud, not to repeat the same passages over and over.”

“Hey, at least I’ll have a firm grasp on those. You should ask me something about that s-section… ah–”

The hand that was resting under the cup of your bra has made its way underneath the lightly padded material, and his thumb and index fingers have trapped your peaked nipple between them. As soon as your snarky comment left your mouth, he’d twisted the bud, squeezing it until it throbbed.

“Pay attention,” he commands, shoving your bra upward, freeing the globes of your breasts and cupping both of his broad hands under them. Your abused nipple stings and the mixture of sharp pain and jarring arousal goes right through you, stoking that coil that pulsed within your core, and sending a tacky flush of your essence down your spread thighs.

The next few words are a struggle. The text keeps blurring and your breaths are coming in fast and heavy. Shigaraki is still feeling you up, keeping his lips close to your ears, rasping sharp commands to you and dealing out lightning fast rounds of pinches and squeezes each time you falter.

“I–I can’t… I don’t even know what I’m reading anymore,” you bemoan, your hips pressing against the edge of the table, legs trembling as you attempt to keep them apart. He’s deliberately ignoring your throbbing clit and a desperate edge is creeping into your voice.

“Are you always this whiny? Fine. I’ll give you a moment to read without any distractions.”

Thank God.

True to his word, he slips away from your back and you’re left shivering against his sudden absence. Despite your quaking, you’re determined to make the most of this chance and you quickly read out the paragraphs that are on the second page. As you ramble down to the last bit of text, you realize you can’t hear him anymore and when you finish the last sentence; you start to really wonder where he’s drifted off to. A tense silence follows your completion of the material and you arch up on the tips of your toes, jutting your ass out and stretching the stiffened muscles of your lower back.

“Didn’t say you could stop reading, and judging from all of your complaints, I don’t think you got some of those earlier concepts, so I’d suggest doing a quick review,” he taunts, the sudden rasp of his voice startling a low gasp from your lips.

He’s close; somewhere behind you and to the left from the sound of it. You try to twist around, your chest lifting from the table, and when he notices, his hands return, creating a rough pressure against your neck as he forces your body back down. His weight plasters you to the surface, scraping your partially exposed stomach and tender breasts over the nicked wood. Shigaraki is merciless in his swift correction, his breath puffing out angrily behind you. “Didn’t say you could move, either.”

Stunned, you freeze. Your arms are arched awkwardly, but he keeps his weight against you, flattening your breasts and forcing your back to arch into an awkward bend. Fuck, you think, how are you supposed to stay like this? Your legs are already aching and if he shifts away again, he’s likely going to expect you to maintain this absurd pose.

“Yes,” he groans, his voice catching against the word, “Good girl. Now, stay just like that.”

Damn it.

“Go on, read the first part again,” he instructs.

“The entire genetic content of a cell is known as its genome and the study of genomes is gen-genomics. In eukaryotic cells, but… but not in p-prokaryotes, DNA forms a complex with histone proteins… with histone proteins… sub-substance… of…”

His teeth have latched onto your neck, and he’s sucking bruises into your tender skin. He’s still pinning you to the table, but his hands are widening their explorations. He’s started dragging a fingernail across the puffy folds of your cunt, teasing against the dripping and swollen flesh, chuckling when you buck against his hold.

“You always seem to lose it when you get to cellular modulations.”

“I–I–It’s not… I can’t help that you keep…” you whimper, your fingers curling under your palms, head shaking back and forth. You can’t think. He’s not being fucking fair, and you can’t even string your goddamn words together. Shit. “Y-you’re not being fair,” you accuse, falling on the only thing that keeps running through your mind, your splayed feet shifting uncomfortably under you.

“Not fair? Not once did I say fairness would come into this arrangement,” he lifts himself off of your back and leans beside you, one arm planted beside your crooked elbow. His fingers trace over the curve of your ass, cupping at the thickest part of you and squeezing.

“But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get a little satisfaction out of this arrangement. I bet you look good when you cum. And you’ve been working so hard to get my attention these last few months. So careful to do what I tell you. Looking at me with those big eyes of yours, all wide eyed every time I catch you looking at me. And don’t even get me started on your lips. You’re lucky I didn’t fucking bend you over after class, especially when you started wearing all of those cute little skirts for me. Ahhh, don’t moan like that, I won’t be able to help myself if you do. Let’s see how you’re doing, shall we?”

Without warning, he slips his longest digit into your cunt, groaning loudly when he’s sucked into your welcoming heat. Your pussy, hungry for any kind of scrap, ripples around his intrusion, clamping and pulling, desperate for more.

“Fuck,” he groans, his weight falling against your shoulder. “You’re soaking.” His elegant digit pushes deeper and you roll your hips under him, urging him closer, sighing when he sinks to the last knuckle. As he pulls his finger back, he adds another, swiftly v-ing the two before curving them together as they slip back out, dragging a steady line of pleasure from your quivering cunt. Shigaraki whispers another round of awed praise against your ear, his voice dark and breathless.

A third digit is added on another trip out, and it creates a ragged sensation within you. It’s close to what you like, but he’s stretching you too far and it’s starting to hurt. He either needs to speed up, or give you a little more pressure. If you can hump your clit against the edge of the table, maybe it’ll give you the friction that you need. When you mindlessly buck your hips, your thighs threatening to lose that spread, he stops, holding his fingers inside you, laughing as you agitatedly try to shift him back into his earlier rhythm.

“So eager. I’d say you’re ready for my questions.”

“W-what?” you gasp, wholly focused on making him restart the push and pull of his fingers inside you.

“I’ll start you off with something easy. What’s the cell membrane?”

“W-what? The cell… ah–”

“Answer me. Now,” he grunts, leaning forward, re-steadying you as his fingers pull outward, dragging against your sensitive folds and schlicking through your arousal lewdly, loudly. You moan and your eyes roll back, completely ignoring his demand as you fall into the haze of pleasure that comes after his movements.

His free hand travels up your neck and he tangles his fingers into the tendrils of your hair, yanking and jerking at the strands, demanding your attention.

“I said, answer me.”

“Shigaraki–I–fuck. I can’t even… ugh… think right now!”

“Do you want the grade, or not?” he questions, his voice tense. “Answer correctly and I’ll give you what you want.”

“I–I don’t think I can,” you whine, pressing your hips back as he thrusts his fingers forward again, curving them upward, searching for the spongy pad of nerves that rest against the front of your pelvis.

“Oh? What happened to wanting that A? What about your graduation? You gonna let me fuck up your entire college career? I can do it, you know. I’ve done it to so many simpering freshmen. I fail kids left and right and you’re no different, (Y/N).

The university lets me ahh–there it is! God, you’re so fucking wet.

Where was I? The university can’t say no to me; they let me do what I want. I bring in too much money, too many tempting grants, and that’s all they really care about. So what’s it gonna be? Let me see that you can answer this basic crap and I’ll pass you. Or would you like for me to tie you down and force it outta you another way?”

He’s picked up the pace of his fingers as he rambles over you and a swift press against that newly discovered spot inside you has you falling to pieces in his hands, popping up onto your tiptoes and rutting yourself against the surface of the table. “O-ok, God, ok! Just–fucking repeat the goddamn question,” you pant, head slumping forward, forcing his fingers to tighten against your hair to hold you upright.

“What is the cell membrane?”

You wince your eyes closed, trying to rack your brain to focus on something other than the heavy pressure of the three fingers that are teasing their way across your dribbling pussy. He’s moving his presses with a lackadaisical, inconsistent rhythm now and it’s hard to fucking think. You can’t tell if his next thrust will be hard, or soft, or so rough that it’s bordering on that bittersweet line of pain.

You shake your head, doing your best to ignore the mounting pressure that he’s building inside you and the ache of your neck and legs. Finally, after another sharp tap against that secret bunch of nerves at the front of your cunt, you latch onto a vague remembrance.

“It… it’s a double layer of–of phospholipids that make a boundary between the cell and t-the surrounding… ugh… it controls the passage of materials.”

“Very good. Elaborate on the cellular wall.”

He’s unrelenting in his domineering treatment, twisting and frigging his fingers each time your breath hitches, and your arousal is leaking down your legs, making your skin stick and pull. It’s too much, you can’t! How can he even ask this? Words are falling from your lips incoherently, and all too soon you’re gasping out his name rather than reciting the answer.

“Cellular–oh, fuck, Shi–Shigaraki–Please, keep–don’t stop! S-Shigaraki, God that… feels… ah–keep going!”

He ignores your request and pulls his fingers away, robbing you of that sweet pressure that he’s so carefully mounted within you.

“I’ll count that one as incorrect. Your ‘A’ is swiftly becoming an ‘A’ minus, (Y/N)” he snarls, his teeth gritted, hands falling to the swell of your hips, wet fingers digging into your soft skin.

“What? No! You didn’t give me enough… e-enough time! How can–can you expect me to answer that qui-quickly!”

“Let’s try another.”

It hurts. That ache that he’s drawn out of you is starting to sting and throb and he’s being such a dick about it! You twist and grind under him, and he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“I don’t–” you protest weakly, your legs trembling and chest heaving under his weight.

“Do you want this? Wouldn’t you like to pass this class? To graduate with honors?” he growls, leaning closer, his hands braced against you, his fingers no doubt leaving bruises on the supple crest of your hips.

“You’re such an ass! Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then answer another question. What’s diffusion?”

“D-diffu-diffusion is the process by which molecules move from an a-area of… of… fuck- of high concentration, to low concentration. Shigaraki!”

“I should count that as another miss, but you got the major concept correct.” He removes his fingers from your waist and yanks your ass toward him, keeping your overeager hips away from the fleeting relief of the sturdy table. “Pop your legs together,” he commands, one hand wrapping around your arched throat, squeezing until you obey. His other hand drops to that thatch of curls that rest between your quivering thighs and he gathers up your gossamer strands, rubbing against your clit for one hazy instant, sending a flash of spots across your vision.

“Mmm, now that’s a pretty sight. Good girl, don’t move,” he reminds you and you want to scream at him. Right before you can spit some frustrated vitriol out, he’s releasing your neck, his hands dropping from your skin and letting you fall back to the uneven surface below. Just before your chin contacts the wood, his hand is back in your hair, tugging you upward, holding you a few inches above the table. The sharp pain makes your scalp tingle and you unconsciously rut against the tempting heat that’s now plastered to your ass. He’s hard. You can feel the stiff bulge of his cock straining against the front of his dark jeans, pressing into the cleft of your posterior.

“T-that’ can’t be comfortable,” you pant, twisting your head so you can look up at him from the curve of your shoulder.

“Oh? You worried about my cock?” he asks, his red eyes flashing down at you challengingly. You don’t bother giving him a verbal response, opting instead to grind your ass up, catching against the jut of his length, earning yourself a low groan. His lips curl when you repeat the motion and you realize you love watching that smug face of his drift into a look of tense pleasure. It makes his scar on his lip flush and those red eyes of his fall to a lazy half mast. He spies your arched brow and pleased grin and pushes himself off of you, leaving you alone and open on the table.

“Keep pushing your luck. I’m more than happy to drop you back to a B.”

“What?” you scoff, teeth clinking together as you clench your jaw. “I didn’t move!”

“No, but you’re trying to take control of this and we can’t have that can we?” Shigaraki sneers. “Now, how shall I punish you?”

“P-punish me?” you stammer, a chill racing down your spine.

“Ah, I know. This’ll really piss you off,” he twists from your strained gaze and walks back toward his desk. What? What the fuck does he mean? You can’t see him from this angle, not with the way your legs are stretched and back is lowered, but it doesn’t stop you from trying, your chin lifting upwards as you do your best to keep him in focus.

Ugh. It’s no use. He’s slipped past your field of vision.

Hearing is likely your best bet, so you shift your forehead back to the table and listen, straining your ears to pick up any morsel. Something opens and closes and you catch the sound of the wheels of his chair as they shift, squeaking across the floor, and the groaning of the springs when his weight is applied to the cheap leather.

Okay, so he’s in his chair. Is he just gonna look at you? That’s not… wait…

There’s a faint clicking sound.

It’s both familiar and unfamiliar to your ears, but once the teeth slide over the last pull, you realize. It’s a zipper.

Oh fuck. Is he going to jerk himself off? With a gasp, your head whips back around. He’s still positioned himself away from you, and you can only just make out the sounds that are accompanying the undoubted rise and fall of his fist. All you can see is a tiny sliver of his body, but you catch sight of the coiling muscles on his neck and you notice that his head is dipped forward, pearl white hair settling across the cut of his collarbone. The one red eye that meets yours is blazing and hungry, it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand up.

God, he’s staring at you, watching you, getting himself off as you’re half naked and bent over a desk in his office, fully subjugating yourself to his whims and fancies for the sake of your grade.

Damn it, (Y/N). This should not be a fucking turn on. You should be disgusted, but the flush of slick that drips down your thigh says otherwise.

He lets out a choked moan, picking up the pace of his hand, letting you hear the click and slip of his palm as it strokes up and down his cock. A shiver echoes up your spine and your hips seem to have a mind of their own, grinding your clenched thighs over the dip of the table, easing the clenching pulsations that your cunt is shuddering through you.

“Look at you, so desperate for my touch that you’re humping the fucking table. Such a dirty girl, and so disobedient. You’ve only answered a few of my questions correctly and yet your slutty little mouth and body keep pushing at me. Making me put you in your place. Let me ask you something, why should I go out of my way to fix your grade when you can’t even prove to me you understand the simplest concepts?

Ah, here’s a thought. What if I told you I’ll wave the other requirements; no more readings, no more quizzes, but I won’t let you cum? What if I just get myself off? You’re putting on a such a good show for me! Why should I bother with seeing that you’re satisfied when that table seems to do the job for you? Sound good? Or would you like for me to come back over there and make you cum?”

“I–I don’t… I don’t want…” You can’t get the words out, your tongue feels leaden between your lips and you can’t think of anything but the steady itch that’s spreading from your clit.

“Speak up,” Shigaraki demands, slowing his jerking fingers. The chair he’s sitting in groans as he leans forward, and his eyes wide as they take in the delicious sight that’s propped before him. “You don’t want to cum? Is that it? You’d like for me to get myself off and leave you there?”

“No!” you cry out, your fingers digging into the scuffed wood of the table. “I-I want you to make me cum.”

There’s a sharp clatter and you jump at the abrupt noise. It must be the chair you think, your heart pounding against your chest, waiting for Shigaraki’s next move. He only lets a few seconds drift by before he presses himself back to you. He leans his broad chest over your back, the front of his legs pushing against the back of yours. His exposed length is wedged firmly against the cleft of your ass and its tempting hardness makes you squirm under him, but he’s propelling you forward, pinning you against the rough wood, and you can only flail uselessly under his control. His lips skim over your neck and he bites into your skin, sucking and licking bruises as he inches closer to your pulse.

You say his name pitifully, wantonly, and he lets out a shaky gasp. Something about your tone has shifted something within him and you can feel his cock swelling, dripping a rope of wet pre-cum down your shaking leg.

He leans away, removing his sticky hardness from your ass. “Seems your priorities have shifted. You’re a little preoccupied right now, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice gravel scraping against your overwhelmed senses. You let out a weak moan and he snaps into action, his fingers pushing under your flattened stomach and tugging against the fabric that he finds. He yanks you upward, pulling your shirt up as he goes. His palms dip under your half lifted bra, and he cups at your breasts, massaging the rounded bulbs and plucking at your peaked nipples. Your head lolls back, and he sucks at your earlobe again, his breath warm and rasping as it passes by.

“Hold still,” he commands.

It’s not an easy position, this stretched upward arch that he’s forced you into, but it’s worth it when you feel his cock pushing between your tensed legs. He doesn’t thrust into you, opting to run his weeping tip against your slippery folds, pressing until his bulbous head is twitching against your pulsing clit.

Goddamn it, you think as he stills, his lips smacking open-mouthed kisses over your shoulder, it’s not enough. You wiggle your hips back and forth and he abruptly exerts a firm pressure against your windpipe, leaving you sputtering and gasping. “What’s wrong? Not happy with this? Do you think you deserve something more? Do you think you’ve earned that?” He shoves you back against the surface of the table, his broad chest following the plane of your back, trapping you under his heavy form.

You’d replied, you know you must have, but you can’t hear yourself anymore, your attention attuned to the warm length that’s pressed against your shuddering folds. You’d likely thrown in a please for good measure because Shigaraki rewards you with a quick peck to your shivering neck and his thumb, swirling it around your clit, creating a cresting ache that leaves you mumbling incoherently, a thin line of drool slipping from your parted lips. As he keeps that faint osculation up, your fingernails scrape over the wood of the table, your feet lifting you onto your toes, curving your back, and shoving your leaking pussy into his open palm.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” Shigaraki says, a breathy desperation lingering around the edges of his rasping voice. “But it’s just not enough, right?”

You nod, licking up some of the excess saliva that’s built under your heavy tongue and crane your head back at him. His eyes are the first thing you see. They’re wild, ravenous and glinting with a roughness that makes you whisper out a soft whine. Fuck. It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re not supposed to want him this badly. Goddamn it. Now that he’s caught your gaze, he won’t let you look away, and he presses himself closer, his cock twitching and warm, the tip rubbing back and forth, keeping time with his circling thumb.

“You gonna fuck me, or not?” you finally ask, unsticking your lips and smirking up at his hardened face.

“Tch. Don’t rush me,” he grumbles, removing his hand and teasing cock from your cunt, watching as your body convulses under him, your pussy quivering against the excess stimulation that he’s wrought over you. Your thighs burn, aching to break free from his control, to rub against that throb, that tingling that keeps shuddering outward.

“One more question,” he tells you, lifting his dripping thumb to his lips and sucking off the traces of your arousal. The sight of him licking his pink tongue over his gleaming knuckles almost makes you lose your balance, your arms shaking precariously under you.

“A-another? Come on,” you pout, your eyes following the curve of his wicked lips, watching as his scar quirks upward, amused by your useless defiance.

“Make you a deal, answer it correctly and I’ll give you my cock. Sound fair?”

“Ugh, whatever, just hurry up,” you snap, so impatient and turned on that you can hardly think.

The tip of his cock presses against your sopping entrance, pushing forward just enough to part your dripping folds but stopping before he clears that first, tight ring of flesh. The promise of his dribbling tip makes you lose any semblance of self-control. You thrash under him, but he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“No! Don’t stop! Come on Sh-Shigaraki–Don’t be such a fucking–ah–”

“Do you want this? Do you want my cock?” he growls, leaning over you, his fingers squeezing down, no doubt leaving bruises in the supple crest of your hips.

“Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then you better answer. What are cytosines?”

“They… they’re n-nitrogenous base… fuck… base that pair… that pair with guanine during D-DNA replication… I–please, please, Shigaraki! Fuck me! I want your cock! Fuck me, fuck me!”

Thankfully, he either takes pity on you, or can’t control himself anymore, his hips surging forward, gliding his thick length into your cunt and snarling at the mind numbing heat that waits for him. He keeps driving upward until he bottoms out, sharp hipbones grinding against the plushness of your ass.

He’s not gentle with you, no he’s animalistic and raw, his thrusts papping into you with a terrifying strength. You would have liked something slower, something that lets you enjoy each imperfection and dip that raced along his cock, but this, oh, this is an exception because this is perfect. It’s not what you want, but it is what you need.

The heavy fullness that he’s stuffing you with leaves you breathless, but you somehow manage to gasp out a string of nonsensical praises each time he drives back into you, overwrought by his roughness.

This coupling isn’t kind, isn’t right, and is not healthy, for either of you. No, not with the way he’s using your shivering body, distracted with slacking that euphoric thrum that’s making his cock pulse and swell inside you.

But fuck it feels good and you can’t help but tremble with delight. These intoxicating thrusts of his ram him up against something that’s buried deep inside you, and each time he hits it another star of bright pleasure races through you. The familiar coiling of release is steadily mounting with each rapid fire rut he gives you and if he could just, ah, there’s something that’s… no, fuck, it’s, it’s not going to work. It feels good, but it’s missing one vital ingredient, one thing that he’s neglected to pay attention to, to notice.

Your clit needs to be tweaked and rolled, and right now it’s pulsing away against the table, beating a sad tattoo into the grainy wood. Oh well, you think, head fuzzy, lost in the euphoria of his powerful cants, grinding your ass into his hips as he digs into another teeth chattering thrust. He’ll likely finish soon, and you’ll probably need to get yourself off later. It’s not something new, and it’s not like he’s going to care enough to focus on that, on you. This whole thing has been about control, so there’s likely no room for your own pleasure.

“What’s wrong,” he gasps out, his fingers lifting from your hips to curl beside your turned head.

“What? N-nothing–I–” you pant, eyes rolling back as he hits that spongy patch of nerves again.

“Tch. Hold on,” he interrupts, his voice rasping and breathy. He pulls himself out of you with a grunt and yanks you upward, hauling you onto the tabletop and flipping you on your back, bending your stiffened legs and bracing your knees against his lean forearms.

He holds you apart, spreading you open with his powerful hands. You can see him properly now, and the sight makes your breath catch against the back of your throat. Fuck, he looks good.

His long white hair is draped across his bare shoulders and his eyes are blazing pits of hunger, devouring the sight of you with those red irises. His jaw is clenched, and he glares down at you from his imperious height, his nostrils flaring as he drags in a quick intake of air. To your shock, he gives you a little time to acclimate to this new position, opting to languidly step forward, letting his slippery cock head press and tease at the dip of your opening. But right when you think he’ll move again, he stops, his eyes roving over the lines of your face.

His sudden stillness makes you peer quizzically up at him and you scoot closer, your feet lifting from the table. The movement snaps him out of his stupor and he grabs your ankles, roughly pinning you back down.

“Keep still,” he snarls through clenched teeth, that scar of his lifting.

You nod mutely and he rewards your unquestioning obedience with another powerful thrust, sinking his swollen cock back into your waiting cunt. He lets out a sharp groan and grabs at your hips, jerking you forward, already drifting back into that all-consuming rhythm he’d started earlier. His ruts are a little slower from this angle but, in no time at all, that familiar ache pools in your core, stoking and building at an alarming rate. The driving force of his hips soon has you blinking back spots and distant stars, and this time he adds the all important pressure of his thumb, circling the finger pad over your clit and dragging a broken moan from your quivering lips.

“So that’s what you needed. You close?” he grits out, his lips set in a curled scowl. He’s lost some of that early control, his hips stuttering as they connect with yours, his power lessening, cooling, as he looks for your release.

“I–I think–oh fuck, do that again. Yes! Just–ah!”

He angles your hips upward and gives your clit another quick oscillation, pressing down until you’re gasping. “There you go. That felt good. You’re getting tighter,” he laughs, looming over you, shoving your heaving chest downward as he jerks your hips into him, forcing your body to do most of the motion, making your shoulder blades scrape across the uneven wood. “Cum for me. Fucking cum on my cock, (Y/N). Cum and I’ll give you your A, I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want.”

Your spine arches as you break around him, your cunt greedily pulling him deeper, slipping him past the barrier of your tender cervix and earning you a weak shout of praise from Shigaraki. Seconds later, he’s pulsing and twitching against your walls, the warm pooling of his cum filling you up and spilling down your spread thighs.

His head drops to your shoulder and the rough skin of his forehead sticks to your sweat dampened flesh. For a long moment you’re both still, each of you struggling to catch your breath, luxuriating in the tingling sensation of release.

“I fucking hate you, you know,” you gasp out, your arms circling his back, fingertips etching vague patterns over his neck and shoulders.

“Ha,” he snorts, “I’ll have to remember that. Don’t worry (Y/N), I’ll pay you back for that little remark next time.”

“Oh? Next time?” you chuckle, moaning as he twists out of your hold and pulls his softening length out of you.

“I’ll fail you on every assignment if you try to keep away,” he threatens, his eyes falling to the gaping mess that he’s left behind. You cross your legs, denying him the satisfaction of leering at your dripping pussy.

“Fine. But next time, fuck me on something softer than a damn table.”

tags: @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx, @yixxes, @ghstmthr, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love, @libiraki <--- i’m coming for you. you’re gonna have to read for this, lady. so, uh, i’m officially noneconing you here.

notes: you made it! this thing is a monster & i’m so sorry i can never stfu

#shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #reader insert #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #bnha smut #9 to 5 collab #bnha degeneracy server #collaboration #tw: unhealthy relationship #tw: teacher/student #tw: dubcon #tw: bribery

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amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines · 3 years ago

Text

Maeve//i don't belong, and my beloved, neither do you

Request: Could you please do something else with Maeve? Perhaps something where reader works with Maeve on an English project and she's surprised that they have so much in common. She realizes she has feelings for her somehow after that? Sorry that's sort of rubbish, have a swell day/night.

hey! what’s up everybody! i hope everyone is well, and i hope you like this!! title is from ‘the lakes’ by taylor swift!

- English projects are never fun

- I mean, who finds constant stress and a deadline that’s always far too close fun?

- Nobody

- That’s who

- Well apart from Mrs Jones

- Your year 9 English teacher who made every minute of her classes a living hell

- And who mysteriously went missing half way through the year after having a screaming match with a fellow English teacher

- When she was supposed to be teaching you Romeo & Juliet.

- One day she was accusing Miss Newman of being a terrible teacher and purposefully bumping up students grades so she looked better

- And the next day both her and Miss Newman were gone

- And you only got a replacement teacher when you moved into year 10

- Right now though

- Its seems Miss Sands is going through some stuff

- Because not only did she give you an assignment on Friday with a deadline of Monday

- She also chose your partners instead of letting you choose your own

- Which is why you’re stood outside of Maeve’s in the pouring rain

- On a frankly miserable Saturday morning

- It seems the weather knew exactly what sort of weekend you were facing

- And decided to make it even worse.

- By the third knock

- You’re about to give up

- The curtains are still drawn

- And you’ve seen more movement in a graveyard

- Plus

- You kind of already assumed you would be doing the project alone

- Maeve Wiley was known for being very...

- ...independant

- And group projects are no different

- You actually think she may be more independent during group projects

- So as soon as Miss Sands paired you together

- You knew

- You were 99% sure that

- You’d do your thing

- She’d do hers

- And then five minutes before the presentation

- You would figure out a way to connect the two.

- Anywayyyy

- While daydreaming about a time when you won’t have any assignments

- And making awkward, accidental eye contact with Maeve’s neighbours

- The door in front of you opens

- Simultaneously giving you a fright and almost knocking you out

- She yawns and scratches the top of her head

- ‘what are you doing here?’

- She sounds both tired and annoyed and you blink at her a few times before answering

- ‘er - i - the project. for english.’

- It takes her a few seconds to process what you’ve said

- But when she does

- She looks even more miserable than she did five seconds ago

- And you brace yourself for a long weekend

- She sighs and rolls her eyes

- Before slowly opening the door properly and letting you in

- You feel slightly nervous as you walk in

- But you really have no idea why

- It’s not like she’s a complete stranger

- But then again

- She’s not exactly a friend

- ‘don’t worry, i’ve hidden the drugs. i don’t really like to share anyway.’

- ‘what?’ you ask confused and she rolls her eyes again

- She huffs and crosses her arms before nodding to the slightly messy living room

- ‘i get it. we’re a bunch of benefit fraud chavs that do nothing but drink and smoke all day.’

- ‘that’s not what i was thinkin-’

- ‘sure it wasn’t.’ she rolls her eyes and you stare down at the floor. ‘i need to get changed so make yourself at home I suppose.’

- She walks into what you assume is her bedroom and slams the door behind her

- Leaving you to stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room

- It’s small and slightly cramped

- And most people would say that all the stuff makes it look busy

- But to you

- It’s wonderful

- It’s filled with stories and memories

- Some self explanatory

- Some slightly more bizarre

- Like the wonky blue and yellow clay swan living on the coffee table

- You really want to know the story behind it

- But decide it might be a little early in your partnership to start asking about her attachment to a half swan, half moth looking ornament

- So instead you pick up a pile of books on the dining table and move them onto the floor

- You can hear Maeve opening and closing drawers while humming a familiar tune

- And you feel yourself relax slightly as you place your laptop and books where the books were previously sat

- Even if it does feel like you’re using all of your braincells to try and figure out where you’ve heard it before

- ‘wow, do you actually trust me around that?’

- ‘what?’ you stop humming and look up at her

- She looks between you and the laptop, staring at you expectantly

- ‘oh no. i mean of course i do.’ you blush and she shakes her head before sitting opposite you

- ‘so what do we know about women in fiction?’

- ‘historically they are written as either a femme fatalle type or some sort of innocent angelic being.’

- ‘they still are’

- ‘true’ you agree and flick through your textbook

- ‘why don’t we write about that then?’

- ‘what? how we’re still depressingly far back in the equality movement, despite being told otherwise?’

- She stares at you for a few seconds

- A mixture of shock and surprise

- Before nodding

- And smiling

- An actual genuine smile

- You didn’t even know she could do that

- Well you did

- Of course you did

- But you just haven’t seen it a lot

- Usually when you see Maeve

- She’s either mad, grumpy or very, very, very angry

- But her smiling

- Puts a smile on your face

- And this was definitely not where you thought this was going

- ‘yeah...that’

- ‘okay.’ you shrug. ‘you can do classic literature because i know you prefer them and i’ll cover modern works.’

- ‘how do you know i prefer classics?’

- ‘the pile of books’ you nod towards the floor and she follows your gaze, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. ‘they’re all ripped and folded. you either love them or really, really hate them’

- ‘okay’ she eyes you suspiciously as you focus on your laptop

- And you can feel your cheeks heat up under her gaze

- However as quickly as they were there

- They disappear

- And the two of you fall into a surprisingly comfortable silence.

- After about half an hour

- Maeve stops what she’s doing to stretch

- ‘is it okay if i play some music?’

- ‘sure, it’s your place. do what you want...as long as its not awful’

- ‘and what constitutes as awful?’ she asks, a smirk playing on her lips

- ‘well’

- And with that one question

- Your entire day disappears in front of you

- Laptops and books are closed and long forgotten

- And instead you talk about music and movies

- Books and plays

- Characters that you love and hate

- And the fact that her favourite character is the one you hate the most

- She makes you lunch while you debate between movies and books and which adaptations are good

- And which ones should never have been made

- And you clean up and apologise profusely after a stray cushion (possibly thrown by you) ends up knocking the pan over

- Surprisingly

- She finds it quite funny

- And you let out a relieved sigh

- Soon the sun goes down on another day

- And you’ve barely written two paragraphs done between you

- ‘do you want to stay?’ she asks while your putting your jacket on

- If she’d asked you that this morning

- You would have thought she had lost it

- But now it feels almost inevitable

- And you feel genuinely lucky to be asked

- Not many people get to know Maeve

- The real her

- And that last person she told all of this to broke her heart

- Very publicly

- And she told herself she would never let herself be that vulnerable with someone ever again

- But this just feels right

- For some reason you feel right

- She feels safe with you

- And part of her hates herself for it

- But then again

- She hates herself for not getting to know you sooner

- She feels far too attached to you

- And it’s barely been twelve hours

- You of course agree to stay

- Shocking yourself and her

- And while she sorts to sofa out

- You excuse yourself to the bathroom

- Under the pretences of telling your parents where you are

- It takes two seconds to text them

- And the other 28 to ask yourself

- What the fuck are you doing?

- Why are you agreeing to this?

- Why do you feel like this?

- What are you feeling?

- Who knows?

- Not you

- Great

- Now you’ve been in the bathroom for a suspicious amount of time

- Just get it together, Y/n

- It’s just a study sleepover

- Maeve gives you a questioning look as you leave

- ‘you know how mums are. always worrying about where you are and what you’re doing’

- ‘i wouldn’t actually’ she shrugs and your eyes widen

- ‘oh shit, sorry. i’m so sorry. god, i’m an idiot.’

- ‘it’s fine’ she forces a laugh and you wince. ‘i got you an extra duvet and little women is ready to watch so i can show you that the book is better’

- ‘that’s not what i said and you know it’

- ‘i’m sorry. i can’t hear you over the sound of me being 100% right and you being 100% wrong.’

- ‘you may be good at english, but you suck at maths’

- The next day you wake up to the sun shining through the curtains

- And a clump of Maeve’s hair in your mouth

- You splutter and cough and wake her up quickly

- And she jumps away from you and smacks her head of the table

- The two of you ended up moving the blankets to the floor while watching Pride and Prejudice

- And neither of you bothered to move back

- Maeve yawns and scratches her head

- Exposing a small part of her stomach and you feel yourself become a little breathless

- ‘are you okay?’

- ‘ye-yeah’ you nod and she eyes you suspiciously

- ‘whatever’ she shrugs and starts making breakfast

- You watch as she pours to bowls of cereal

- Giving you the last of the milk

- And for a second you’re a little worried as to how she knew you liked it

- But then you remember that she also likes it and you had a whole discussion about the best and worst types of cereal at 2am

- And half way through breakfast

- You remember the original reason you’re here

- And both of you curse loudly

- Before rushing to finish eating

-You get half way through your project

- When Maeve asks if you want to go out for a bit

- And well

- She doesn’t need to ask you twice

- And by the time you come back

- The feeling you had last night returns

- And has settled in your stomach

- For the foreseeable future it seems

- It makes you feel both light and heavy at the same time

- And when you look at her

- You feel dizzy

- So you rush to finish the project

- So you can go home and pretend nothing has changed

- And yeah

- With the need to leave

- You get the rest of the assignment done fairly quickly

- But you end up leaving feeling more confused about Maeve as you did when you started this

- Maybe Miss Sands was right about a weekend project

- Any longer and you would have gone insane trying to figure out whatever the hell this is

- You just have to get through tomorrow and then you’ll be okay

- Everything will go back to normal

- You and Maeve can go back to being neutral to each other

- And you won’t have to deal with all of these confusing feelings that have decided to make an appearance for some reason

- Wellll

- Turns out Miss Sands was wrong

- A weekend is not enough time

- And the first few presentations are awful

- To put it nicely

- So you spend the next week in a permanent confused state

- Confused as to why you start looking for Maeve whenever you enter a room

- Confused as to why your heart skips a beat whenever you hear her laugh

- Confused as to why you never want her stop talking in class

- Even if the bell has rung and it’s lunch

- Confused to why you keep looking for excuses to go over to see her

- Despite your assignment being long done

- And even more confused as to why you feel anxious when you’re waiting for her to answer the door

- The next Monday rolls around both painfully slowly and far too quickly

- And while you wait for Ola and Danny to finish their presentation

- Your hands shake with anxiety while your grip your papers

- Maeve reaches over the table and gives them a reassuring squeeze

- But it just makes them shake more and she slowly pulls back

- Your turn can’t come quick enough

- But then it’s over far too quickly

- And you slump back down in your seat disappointed

- Despite Miss Sands’ praise

- Because it’s over

- You no longer have an excuse to hang out with her

- You never talked before

- So why do you care about after

- But there’s so much about her that you want to know

- Like the weird swan/moth hybrid

- And the ugly plate that sits on top of the bookshelf

- You want to be part of these stories

- You want to be able to point to these things and say

- ‘yeah, i know exactly why that is special to you’

- You want to be the reason to add to this random collection of stuff

- You want her to smile when she looks at them because they’ll remind her of you

- You want her to smile when she looks at you

- ‘y/n? are you okay?’ she asks making you jump

- The classroom is now empty and you didn’t even notice the bell go

- ‘ye-yeah’ you nod and grab your bag

- ‘are you sure?’ she grabs your arm forcing you turn around

- ‘whats the weird swan thing on your coffee table?’ you ask and she furrows her eyebrows at you. ‘it’s just i saw it when i first came over and i really want to know the story behind it’

- ‘oh. aimee went through a pottery phase last year and that was the only thing she made that didn’t have a hole in it.’

- ‘and the plate?’

- ‘birthday present from my neighbours’

- ‘they got you a plate?’

- ‘yeah, they don’t have any kids’

- ‘clearly’

- Silence fills the room and you stare at the peeling posters behind her head

- You can feel Maeve move closer to you and your breath hitches when she stops a few centimetres in front of you

- She grabs your hand and squeezes it again

- And your heartbeat increases

- ‘y/n?’

- ‘yeah?’

- ‘i’m really, really confused right now. like more confused that i have ever been in my life. but what i do know, is that if i watch you walk out of that door without saying anything first, then i’d regret it for the rest of my life. i’ve only ever felt like this about boys before, but now i feel this and more about you and i have no idea where it’s come from or what i need to do, but i do know i need to tell you. because otherwise, it wouldn’t be fair for either of us’ she whispers and you stare at her wide eyed

- ‘can i kiss you?’ she asks and you nod your head quickly

- Slowly she leans in

- Her eye flutter closed and you follow

- Your lips brush over hers

- Her hands wrap around you waist to pull you close

- And then your lips connect

- And you feel everything change

- She kisses you slowly

- And when you pull away you both feel breathless

- Her cheeks are bright red

- And there’s a shy smile playing on her lips as she looks at you bashfully

- And all of a sudden you feel really grateful for Miss Sands and her personal issues

- Although you really hope they are resolved now

- For your sake as well as hers

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