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palbabor-writes · 4 years ago

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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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softomi · 4 years ago

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now accepting boyfriend applications: intro to business

synopsis: it’s crazy how things can slip the mind, just like how you posted about wanting boyfriend applications but granted, you were drunk. It seemed like Akaashi had the upper hand; until a certain classmate intrudes your mind.

series: now accepting boyfriend applications

previous: literature

next up: biology

series taglist: @kyomihann @chesley-cant-deal @bluearmufs @your-consulting-fangirl @itsmeaudrieee @winunk @aegiseterna @katelyns-stuff @mochipk @3rachachoo @kyuudere @sixthself @merakiulous-k @notsostraightweeb

*bold means I wasn’t able to tag you*

general taglist: @graykageyama @tsumue @thesorebae @micasaessakusa @alouphen @waitforitillwritemywayout @chibichab @trifliz

“I’m almost positive that guy wasn’t your boyfriend.” Kuroo would know, he probably isn’t going to tell you that he’s familiar with Akaashi due to a mutual friend. Instead, he lifts his chin, “ex-boyfriend.” He corrects himself.

You bite the insides of your mouth, “No he was not.”

You’re back to an internal groan, now you were stuck with the next boyfriend candidate and it’s starting to feel like you’re speed dating.

“Business is all about—” It’s ten minutes into class and your professor enjoys beginning class with an inspirational quote which then smoothly leads into lecture. Only, today, it seems as though he’s taking forever to get to the point of the quote.

Like always, Kuroo remains fixated on the lecture. He was the type to never take notes, though his notebook was out, and his pen is twirling in his hand, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him write anything down. Yet he was somehow managing a ninety-eight percent in the class, what an intelligent prick.

“You good?” He’s mouthing to you and you’ve realized that you had been staring.

You nod in an attempt that he doesn’t catch how embarrassed you actually were to have been caught looking at him. Kuroo turns back to the lecture and now you’re staring down at your phone that is reaching sixty percent. You shamelessly pull up the pdf he had sent you.

“Are you reading my letter of intent?”

You lock your phone so fast; it almost falls on the floor. You’re only lucky that it falls off the desk and Kuroo’s reflexes quickly catch the cell. The action makes both of your desks squeak against the floor and everyone’s heads turn. Both you and Kuroo mutter apologies as he hands you back your phone.

“Cat got your tongue?” He’s stupidly smirking, and you’re tempted to kick him, “Did you read it?”

“No.” You say in a hushed voice, turning your eyes to the board trying to pay attention for once.

He, also, turns to look at the board. Chin resting on his palm, “What a shame.”

For the rest of the class period, he remains silent. He’s fixated on the professor’s lecture, but your mind is racing. Your leg is bouncing rapidly, fingers tapping against the desk, you’re itching to touch your phone but scared it’ll make Kuroo pull another move to talk to you.

The lecture drags, you want to go back to sleep, and you’re suddenly realizing that you’ve skipped breakfast and lunch. Your stomach growls, to you it sounds like a dinosaur’s roar but no one else in the room seems to have heard it. Once more it growls, making you lean your head on the desk with a heavy sigh. You were starving, suddenly aware that you’ve left your wallet at home, and you’ve neglected to add your card to your cell phone so now you’re contemplating skipping your biology lab or starving for the rest of the day.

Your head is laid on its side, giving you perfect view of Kuroo’s side profile. His bed hair looks soft and you’ve got to admit that his jawline is exquisite. He smirks, eyes looking at you from the side. You’d feel embarrassed but you’re hungrier even to the point of being angry.

The lecture drags on and at this point you think you might die from the way your stomach is crying.

“Are you hungry?” Kuroo asks after the fifth time your stomach as growled.

“Is it that obvious?”

Kuroo laughs lowly, “You sound like a car that won’t start.”

You take full offence, “Shut up.”

He was always like this, playful and poking jabs at you. He loved to banter with you and you’d be lying if you said that you didn’t like it. Talking with him was like talking to a childhood friend, it’s easy going and free spirited. Even when the two of you were studying for the first business exam, tucked in a hidden space on the second floor of the library; the studying was abandoned when he kept showing you funny scenes from an anime, resulting in you watching the anime on his tiny cell phone screen despite the both of you clearly having your laptops out.

Kuroo leans close to you, “Want to get out of here?”

“Right now?” You whisper, “We still have forty-five minutes left.”

Kuroo is shutting his notebook, “I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Bet.”

You’re trying to hide your laughter as you and Kuroo slowly pack up to leave. Now the only thing was to try and leave without making the biggest scene. You’ve successfully stood, only drawing small attention as you’re headed for the door. Kuroo seems to struggle, as he picks up his bag, it knocks against the empty desk next to him, drawing full attention to himself and you. It’s deadly silent, you’re frozen at the door and Kuroo is rushing to you.

“Go!” Kuroo pushes you out of the class.

“That was so embarrassing!” The laughter coming from you makes you run out of breath, “How are we supposed to go back to class on Tuesday?”

“Why were you just standing at the door!” Kuroo is yelling yet laughing at the same time.

You slap his arm, “You’re the one who decided to announce that we were leaving in the middle of the lecture. God, the professor probably hates us now.”

You’ve reached the small café in the business department, it doesn’t have a lot of options, mostly cold sandwiches and packaged snacks. The café drinks are way too expensive and even the water bottle is pricey; way to go education.

“Get whatever you like, I’m paying.” His words are smooth and for a second you believe him.

His body turns away from you, pretending as though he’s looking at the drink menu, you can clearly see that he’s checking his wallet. His shoulders visibly deflate and while you fake trying to pick something from the prepackaged area, you watch as he checks his account balance on his cell phone. His head seems to fall back irritatingly. It’s cute, he was trying so hard, but the world was being too cruel on him.

“Kuroo?” You call him. He’s slowly turning, hoping that he doesn’t have to take back his words. You wave him over to show the cheapest sandwich possible, “Want to split it with me?”

“You could get something better?” Kuroo tries looking at the other options, “What about a coffee?”

He was too sweet. You’re smiling, “Nah. I drank a lot last night so I don’t think coffee will sit well in my stomach and I’ve been meaning to go on a diet so if you take half my sandwich, it’ll be like I’m starting early.”

He’s still adamant on wanting to buy you something more expensive, “You could literally get this sub, it’s more filling and what do you mean diet, you’re literally perfect right now.”

A heavy blush appears on your cheeks, you slap his shoulder, pushing him by his back, “Just share a sandwich with me idiot.”

“But the sub.”

You’re kicking him in the ass, “Mention the sub one more time Kuroo, I swear to god I’ll leave you high and dry right now.”

You settle on seats by the window, you’re opening the packaged sandwich and in an attempt to stay cheap, Kuroo secretly stole cups while you distracted the cashier and he was grabbing water from the fountain.

“So.” Kuroo starts, “You haven’t read my application yet?”

You almost choke on your dry sandwich, “Must we talk about that now.”

Kuroo raises a finger, “You know what, I’ll just read it to you now.”

He was dead serious, pulling out his phone to bring up his pdf form. He was the absolute worst, yet it’s absolutely hilarious the way he fixes his clothing as if preparing for an interview.

“I’ll start with my letter of intent.”

You’re already giggling, trying to hide behind your sandwich.

“I am writing this to inform you of my interest for the position of Boyfriend. I have been highly interested in this position ever since you asked me for a pencil and then returned it back to me a week later, not realizing that you had given me a different pencil. I knew I liked you because of how cute you looked apologizing for not returning the pencil earlier.”

You never thought you could smile so wide before until this moment. Kuroo mimics your smile, looking back down to his phone.

“I don’t have a lot to offer but I can say with confidence that I can beat you at Mario Kart. I’ve been practicing and honing my skills for this moment; I heard that boyfriends need to be good at Mario Kart and if I am accepted for this position, please don’t fall for my best friend because he is better than me at Mario Kart.”

You snort, laughter emitting from your lips. You were on the verge of tears at how funny this application was.

“Lastly, we have similar taste in anime so obviously the 2d world also ships us.”

You hum at the last sentence, “Obviously.” You roll your eyes.

He sets his cell phone down, he’s finished his sandwich by now, practically inhaled it and he watches you eat your last bite. It’s a comfortable silence, really, maybe you were so caught up in the friendship that you had never gotten to think about him in a relationship sense.

“If you think about it.” He’s staring, “This is basically our first date.”

You choke on your water, coughing loudly and he finds your reaction funny. He’s patting your back and you feel so bad that you’re basically spitting on him.

“Kuroo.” You begin.

“Ah.” He knows where this is going. He waves a hand around, “You don’t have to give me an answer. Just.” He pauses, “Just consider me in the future.”

“Is that y/n I see?”

Your expression falters the moment you hear the voice of your biology lab partner, “Atsumu? What are you doing here? Did you get lost?”

Atsumu chuckles, a hand over his heart at your jab, “So hurtful. My brother’s taking some business classes, I had to drop something off for him.” Atsumu makes eye contact with Kuroo, “Hope I’m not interrupting something.”

That was a lie, you can tell. His cheeky grin says that he was absolutely hoping that he was interrupting something. Kuroo seems to not mind, at least from what you can tell. But in his mind, it’s the same as when he had seen Akaashi; a competitor. Especially when you’re trying to shrug Atsumu’s arm off your shoulder, Atsumu pinched your cheek causing a tick to grow on your forehead.

“Kuroo Tetsuro.” He puts a hand out.

Atsumu smirks, gripping the male’s hand, “Miya Atsumu.”

There’s a strong way that they grip each other, their faces are smiling, but their grip is testing the other.

“Well.” Atsumu has a hand on the back of your seat, “We have biology in about fifteen minutes, we should probably head over there.” Atsumu grins to Kuroo, “We’re partners, I was hoping you could show me again how to use the microliter pipettes.”

“Again?” You eye him.

Atsumu has his hands in the air defensively, “It’s just so confusing. The lab manual doesn’t describe it well.” You miss the way he smirks from behind you, “And besides, I learn better with hands on education.”

Kuroo returns the smirk, “Your hand must hurt having to grow up teaching yourself.”

The sharp inhale of laughter you take when you’re drinking causes the water to come out your nose. You’re laughing, coughing, and your nose is burning. Kuroo is handing you napkins and Atsumu’s jaw clenches.

“I’m sorry.” You put a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder, “but that was really funny.” You pat his cheek when he pouts, “Let’s go, I’ll show you how to use the pipette before lab starts.” You turn to Kuroo, “I’ll see you later.”

Kuroo gives you a smile, “I’ll message you.”

Atsumu frowns, even as he walks away with you, he looks over his shoulder, chin lifted, attempting to display dominance even until the last moment.

#now accepting boyfriend applications #haikyuu x reader #kuroo x reader #hq x reader #kuroo scenarios #haikyuu scenarios #hq scenarios

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marshmallowprotection · 4 years ago

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[AE Spoilers]

“So, let’s get this straight, you decided to call me when I’m driving... in the car with you in the passenger seat? How interesting, my love,” he hummed as his cell phone rested against his ear in one hand, while the other remained on the wheel. “Well then, let me set this in the holder if that’s what you’re playing at.”

He ignored the urge to cast a glance in Lila’s direction. If she was teasing him or testing him, he wanted her to elaborate. She seemed to be amused, though, as he couldn’t help but hear that giggle underneath her breath. He saw her hand press to her mouth.

“Oh? You’re driving, then? My bad,” she was smiling right through her teeth and he could hear it from the way she spoke. “I should’ve checked with you first then, darling.”

Saeran blinked, and then thought about that for a moment. Upon realizing what she was playing at, he couldn’t help his own chuckle. “You’re quite literally right next to me. Oh, wait, you’re playing pretend. I see now.”

There was so much going on right now, from the need to find his brother and the need to see through mission through together to the end, and while he’d known that he had lost himself in his thoughts as all of the possible plans that he was preparing for rattled around, it was probably written all over his face that he needed to breathe.

She had always sensed what was going on within his heart just from the way that his expression shifted. She’d learned to read him like an open book, just as he had started to see more facets of her own smile that sparked a fire inside of him.

Clearly, she’d gotten the bright idea to draw him away from those thoughts for just a moment so he could breathe. There was so much that he didn’t know, but letting himself get worked up wasn’t going to help him deal with everything that was ahead of them.

“You know, I can touch you when I reach out like this...” he murmured.

If Lila wanted to play that way, he thought as the amused smile grew on his face, he would play with her right back. With his hand freed, it wasn’t hard for him to slide his fingers across the center of the car and let his fingertips brush against the top of her hand.

She didn’t jolt away from him, but he did hear the slightest hitch in her breath that proved him right. She was keeping herself composed, though, which told him that she was committed to her game. “Are you sure that you keep playing that game knowing that I’m right here next to you?”

Though, Lila did huff and look outside her window in response as the shifting landscape around them continued to change from sprawling trees into more and more city streets. It wouldn’t be much longer until they would be able to find the address that V had sent to them.

It would be okay.

Saeyoung would be okay.

They just had to believe in that.

“You know,” he mused. “It’s been a while since we were able to go out for a drive like this. I know that I’ve been rather busy with C&R, working non-stop with the task force. I know that I’ve been neglecting you somewhat, even though you’ve been there right by my side the entire time.”

“I’m still trying to figure out when you had the time to learn how to drive,” was her response. That was when she flipped her hand over and intertwined their fingers together once again. “I feel like you’ve neglected to inform your poor girlfriend on all the milestones that you’ve learned!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I mean, how am I supposed to plan for all the things that we’re going to do together once we save Saeyoung? I have to have a good idea of what you’ve done before and what you haven’t, sweetie. Sometimes, it feels like you’re just good at whatever you try the first time,” she said, though her voice was a little bit dejected at that.

It was in reference to her baking skills. She’d tried to do something for him that she’d seen him do with relative ease. Of course, then he helped her do it over again so it turned out right. His face felt warm at the thought of spending the day underneath the sun with her after that.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I would say that you’re pouting. I didn’t know that you had it in you to have an attitude, princess,” Saeran teased. That got a “hey!” in response which spurred him to laugh out loud. Not at her pouts and whines, just that he was able to see this side of her.

As the silence slowly rolled over them again, he felt her shift and lean over close to him. Close enough that he wouldn’t be able to ignore the way that her voice hitched in a sultry tone. “So... You wouldn’t mind if I got myself a kiss because you pulled at my poor heartstrings like that?”

Now, that made him hesitate, his brain pausing as he thought about how that would turn out. The heat began to burn at his cheeks without mercy. She’d got the slip on him. “Uh... should I pull over for that?”

Lila paid no mind to that, and without missing a beat, she changed directions to leave him floundering to see what he could do about that. “Mmm, you know, it’s been a while since you ate today, right? How’s about some corn, then? You have had some fascinating with vegetables, lately.”

“...Hmm? What corn?” He paused, and thought back to an earlier conversation that the two of the had. Oh, she had been recounting her childhood back to him and how often she spent in the gardens with her grandparents. They grew a lot of flowers, but plenty of fruits and vegetables, as well.

He really had the gall to ask her if the country was a rustic as he thought that it was. Or, if the farmer stereotypes were real. She seemed rather amused about the whole thing but reassure him that the question was fair, given that he’d not known!

Saeran snorted, “Do you want to see me gnawing at it like a rabbit, or something like that? You should’ve brought a straw hat and some spare straw to go with it, then. If you’re at it, why not go the full mile, my love? Hell, I’ll go ahead and play the harmonica while we’re at it. I’d say that’s what sells the experience.”

That made her laughter ring in his ears again. She couldn’t control her giggles this time around. His dry tone had always had that effect on her when he was able to make jokes like this. He was still getting used to feeling this weightless but she made him feel like he could do this.

It also made him want to make her laugh more just to hear that sound.

“I’d be happy if you did feed me, though.”

“Mmm, be patient, mister. I need to catch my breath again!”

Saeran gently pulled her hand to his lips where he pressed them against the back of her hand. He glanced at her this time, seeing the way her brown eyes widened and pink dusted over her freckles cheeks.

He hadn’t looked at her for a moment this whole time, and that had given her the gall to speak more with a brazen tone.

She looked beautiful bathed the in the dimming afternoon sunlight. He wondered if she knew that. He would have to let her know when they were on solid ground again.

“Are you going to keep your phone on?”

Lila cocked a brow, “Are you concerned about your phone bill?”

Saeran shook his head. Though, he smiled at her reassuringly as her face fell a bit. He knew why she had bothered with him in the first place. “No, no... I wish I could be as close to you as humanly possible right now. I want to be able to give you more... but it feels like the phone is watching us. Besides, I only want you to hear what I’m thinking right now.”

She pressed the end to the call and smiled back at him. It would be okay in the long run. He knew that. She was here to reassure him and confide him when he needed it. “Well then, Mr. Choi, my full attention belongs to you.”

“Don’t say my name like that, it only reminds me that I’m sorely slacking at figuring out how to make you Mrs. Choi.”

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schoolmascotbyday · 3 years ago

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BASIC QUESTIONS

First name? “Frederick.”

Surname? “Frederickson.”

Middle names? “Flamarion.”

Nicknames? “Fred, Freddie, Dumbass, Knuckle Head, Idiot, Mr. Fred, Lizard Guy, Fredzilla… Fredzilla totally counts.”

Date of birth? “I was born on August 15th of 1997.”

Age? “I am twenty three years young.”

PHYSICAL / APPEARANCE

Height? “Six foot even.”

Weight? “140 or something. Don’t body shame me.”

Build? “I guess I’d be a mesomorph.”

Hair color? “It’s blond-ish.”

Hair style? “Medium length. Sometimes it is straight, sometimes it has luscious waves.”

Eye color? “Grue. (That means green-blue.)”

Eye shape? “They’re kind of squinty, whatever you call that.”

Glasses or contact lenses? “No sir!”

Distinguishing facial features? “I have a big nose.”

Which facial feature is most prominent? “My nose.”

Which bodily feature is most prominent? “My chest.”

Other distinguishing features? “My hair. If you see my hair, you know it’s me.”

Skin? “White. Disturbingly white. I should get more sun…”

Hands? “Big.”

Make up? “I don’t understand how people wear makeup everyday. It’s hard. It would take me hours to not look like a clown. I wore eye shadow for the pride parade, and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

Scars? “Nothing too noticeable.”

Birthmarks? “Nada!”

Tattoos? “None, but I think one day I’ll get a big monster on my entire back .”

Physical handicaps? “I don’t have any.”

Type of clothes? “Worn out.”

How do you wear your clothes? “Too long.”

What are your feet like? “Also big. My socks are dirty. So are my shoes. There’s a hole in my favorite pair, and the bottom is coming off…”

Race / Ethnicity? “Caucasian.”

Mannerisms? “I am overexciteable and it shows.”

Are you in good health? “I keep forgetting to make a doctor’s appointment. Actually, I just don’t wanna do it by myself. But probably.”

Do you have any disabilities? “Fortunately no!”

PERSONALITY

What words or phrases do you overuse? “I think I just shout too often.”

Do they you a catchphrase? “I say whoa-ho-ho a lot. Is that a catchphrase? Or should I have said that for my overused word and/or phrase?”

Are you more optimistic or pessimistic? “Optimistic!”

Are you introverted or extroverted? “Extroverted.”

Do you ever put on airs? “I turn the AC on a lot.”

What bad habits do you have? “Sometimes I chew with my mouth open and I stay up too late and I ramble and I don’t eat healthy foods and get obsessed with entertainment and I don’t blink enough when I’m playing video games and I choose being lazy over being productive and, oh, yeah, run-on sentences.”

What makes you laugh out loud? “A lot of things. I laugh all the time.”

How do you display affection? “Bear hugs and hair ruffles.”

Mental handicaps? “I don’t give myself time to be sad.”

How do you want to be seen by others? “Helpful, loving, loyal, genuine, fun!”

How do you see yourself? “Helpful, loving, loyal, genuine, fun!”

How are you seen by others? “I don’t worry about it too much.”

Strongest character trait? “I care so much.”

Weakest character trait? “I care too much.”

How competitive are you? “I can be kind of competitive, but I don’t trash talk or anything.”

Do you make snap judgements or take time to consider? “It depends on the situation, but I usually make snap judgements.”

How do you react to praise? “A lot of thank you!s and beaming.”

How do you react to criticism? “I don’t usually let it get to me, I try to be better.”

What is your greatest fear? “Losing another person I love.”

What are your biggest secrets? “Sometimes I say I know what I’m doing when I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Shh.”

What is your philosophy of life? “Life is short, have fun.”

When was the last time you cried? “I don’t remember. A long time ago.”

What haunts you? “Losing Tadashi. Not being able to save him.”

What are your political views? “I’m probably a liberal.”

What will you stand up for? “Anyone that needs me to stand up for them.”

Who do you quote? “My friends. They’re so smart.”

Are you indoorsy or outdoorsy? “Indoorsy.”

What is your sinful little habit? “Buying a lot of merch. A lot of merch.”

What sense do you most rely on? “Definitely not common. Hearing.”

How do you treat people better than you? “I try to learn from them!”

How do you treat people worse than you? “I try to teach them!”

What quality do you most value in a friend? “Genuineness.”

What do you consider an overrated virtue? “Chastity.”

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? “I think I’d like to be smarter. Just a little bit, just enough to understand half of the things my friends talked about.”

What is your obsession? “Manga, comic books, video games.”

What are your pet peeves? “Being rushed, people being mean, being ignored.”

What are your idiosyncrasies? “I talk too fast.”

FRIENDS AND FAMILY

Is your family big or small? Who does it consist of? “Small. It’s just me, my dad, my mom and Heathcliff — the butler.”

What is your perception of family? “They’re supposed to be loving and accepting.”

Do you have siblings? Older or younger? “No. I think that would’ve been nice, though.”

Describe your best friend. “I have five, and they’re the best friends in the whole world. Tadashi isn’t here anymore, but he’s still one of my best friends. They’re all smart and unique and I love being around them.”

Ideal best friend? “Anyone who can be themselves around me.”

Describe your other friends. “Most of them are online.”

Describe your acquaintances. “I don’t have acquaintances, just friends.”

Do you have any pets? “I have a bunch of fish in my saltwater aquarium!”

Who are your natural allies? “Hm, Haven.”

Who are your surprising allies? “The rest of our friends.”

PAST AND FUTURE

What were you like as a baby? As a child? “Loud, wild, energetic, friendly.”

Did you grow up rich or poor? “Rich.”

Did you grow up nurtured or neglected? “I don’t want to say my parents neglected me…”

What is the most offensive thing you ever said? “I don’t even know of anything I’ve thought that was offensive.”

What is your greatest achievement? “My current grades.”

What was your first kiss like? “Quick and nervous.”

What is the worst thing you did to someone you loved? “I didn’t save Tadashi.”

What are your ambitions? “I want to write comics that people want to read.”

What advice would you give your younger self? “Enjoy being a kid while you can!”

What smells remind you of your childhood? “Freshly cut grass, pancakes, steak.”

What was your childhood ambition? “To be a superhero.”

What is your best childhood memory?

What is your worst childhood memory? “The birthday my dad told me they’d be home in time for, but missed. They didn’t come home for another week, and I’m pretty sure he forgot about it completely, because the handwriting on the card that ‘came in the mail’ looked an awful lot like Heathcliff’s.”

Did you have an imaginary childhood friend? “A few.”

When was the last time you were crushed with disappointment? “Sometime last month.”

What past act are you most ashamed of? “Shame is not an emotion I know.”

What past act are you most proud of? “Beating Dark Souls (Demons Souls).”

Has anyone ever saved your life? “Probably.”

Strongest childhood memory? “The day I broke my arm falling out of a tree.”

LOVE

Do you believe in love at first sight? “Why not?”

Are you in a relationship? “Nope.”

How do you behave in a relationship? “Like myself. I’m an affectionate guy.”

When did you last have sex? “It’s been about five months, probably.”

What sort of sex do you have? “All sorts.”

Have you ever been in love? “I fall in love all the time.”

Have you ever had your heart broken? “My heart broke when Tadashi… when I lost my friend.”

CONFLICT

How do you respond to a threat? “Just shrug and say ‘bring it’.”

Are you most likely to fight with your fists or your tongue? “I don’t like fighting, but I’ll do what a situation calls for.”

What is your kryptonite? “Funko Pops.”

If you could only save one thing from your burning house, what would it be? “My fish.”

How do you perceive strangers? “50/50. Could be friends, could be villains.”

What do you love to hate? “Cliffhangers and hard to beat games.”

What are your phobias? “Death.”

What is your choice of weapon? “Depends on the game I’m playing.”

What living person do you most despise? “I don’t despise anyone.”

Have you ever been bullied or teased? “I’ve been teased, but it doesn’t bother me much.”

Where do you go when you’re angry? “The kitchen to get a snack. The only time I get angry is when a game is being really frustrating.”

Who are your enemies and why? “I don’t have any, but maybe one day I will be a true crime fighter and I will.”

WORK, EDUCATION AND HOBBIES

What is your current job? “Sign spinning.”

What do you think about your current job? “I love it. I don’t need the money, I just like bringing in more business to the local shops and showing off my skills!”

What are some of your past jobs? “I’ve never had to work.”

What are your hobbies? “Sign flipping, gaming, writing and drawing, reading comics, binging anime, practicing guitar, coming up with new costume ideas.”

Educational background? “I didn’t do so hot in high school, but I’m in college now.”

Intelligence level? “You could say I’m a selective learner.”

Do you have any specialist training? “I wish! That would be so cool!”

Do you have a natural talent for something? “I want to say my sign spinning is a natural talent — I kind of just picked it up one day and realized I was good at it. Also, super-hearing, headlights and flame throwing.”

Do you play a sport? Are you any good? “I’m not much of a sports guy.”

What is your socioeconomic status? “Ask someone who knows what that means.”

FAVORITES

What is your favorite animal? “Maybe lizards.”

Which animal do you dislike the most? “I don’t dislike any animals.”

What place would you most like to visit? “I’d like to go on a family vacation someday. I don’t really care where we go.”

What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? “The ending of Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood.”

What is your favorite song? “You’d laugh.”

Music, art, reading preferred? “Reading mixed with art.”

What is your favorite color? “Blue. No, orange. No, green! Yellow! I don’t know! There’s too many colors!”

What is your password? “FredzillaRulesTheWorld.”

Favorite food: “Changes too often to really say.”

What is your favorite work of art? “Death Note.”

Who is your favorite artist? “My dad. He counts, right?”

What is your favorite day of the week? “Sunday.”

POSSESSIONS

What is in your fridge? “A whole lot of ingredients I’ll never use and probably some I can’t pronounce.”

What is on your bedside table? “A lot of junk. I should clean that off...”

What is in your car? “Phone charger, aux chord, a half eaten bag of barbecue chips, stick of deodorant, loose change, hair ties.”

What is in your bin? “It’s empty. I have a butler.”

What is in your purse or wallet? “A group picture with my friends, money, a few different bank cards, a condom, more loose change.”

What is in your pockets? “My keys and my cell phone.”

What is your most treasured possession? “All of my pictures with my friends. I wouldn’t trade them for the world. You never know when you won’t be able to take another one...”

SPIRITUALITY

Who or what is your character’s guardian angel? “I’m sure Tadashi is somewhere looking out for me right now.”

Do you believe in the afterlife? “Yes.”

What are your religious views? “Loosely Christian.”

What do you think heaven is? “A place where everyone is happy and free and there’s no pain. And you can play games all day.”

What do you think hell is? “Sad and lonely.”

Are you superstitious? “A little bit.”

What would you like to be reincarnated as? “A fire breathing dragon!”

How would you like to die? “In a way that matters. If I’m going to die, I’d like to save someone while I’m doing it.”

What is your spirit animal? “Probably iguanas or something.”

What is your zodiac sign? “Leo.”

VALUES

What do you think is the worst thing that can be done to a person? “Torture.”

What is your view of ‘freedom’? “Pretty much how my life is now. I can do what I want, when I want --- for the most part.”

When did you last lie? “It’s been a long time. I don’t lie unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

What’s your view of lying? “It can be easily avoided. Just be honest.”

When did you last make a promise? “I can’t remember.”

Did you keep or break your last promise? “I’m sure I kept it, I don’t make promises unless I plan to do something about it.”

DAILY LIFE

What are your eating habits? “Questionable.”

Do you have any allergies? “I’m allergic to assholes!”

Describe your home. “It’s big. Real big. The yard is big and freshly cut. There’s not a blimp of imperfection until you get to my room, then it becomes a randomized mess.”

Are your minimalist or a clutter hoarder? “Hoarder.”

What do you do first thing on a weekday morning? “Turn my alarm off.”

What do you do on a Sunday afternoon? “Relax. Wait for my dad to call.”

What do you do on a Friday night? “Stay up late gaming.”

What is your soft drink of choice? “Mountain Dew.”

What is your alcoholic drink of choice? “Just beer is fine.”

MISCELLANEOUS

What or who would you dress up as for Halloween? “Oh, I love Halloween! I go all out! I’ll dress as another superhero this year, or maybe a villain to spice it up!”

Are you comfortable with technology? “I love technology.”

If you could save one person, who would it be? “Tadashi. I wish I could’ve saved Tadashi.”

If you could call one person for help, who would it be? “Haven, she always knows what to do.”

What is your greatest extravagance? “All the merch in my room, or my tank.”

What is your greatest regret? “Not doing anything to help my friend.”

What is your perception of redemption? “Putting someone else before yourself. If you do that, if you selflessly risk your own life or needs or wants for another person, you’re obviously redeemed.”

What would you do if you won the lottery? “Donate it all to charity.”

What is your favorite fairytale? “Jack and the Beanstalk.”

What fairytale do you hate? “I don’t hate any fairytales. People put a lot of hard work into their stories and I respect that.”

Do you believe in happy endings? “I do.”

What is your idea of perfect happiness? “Living every day how you want to live it.”

What would you ask a fortune teller? “I’d give my opportunity to someone else. I don’t need anything answered.”

If you could travel through time, where would you go? “Back to save Tadashi or die trying.”

What sport do you excel at? “Is flame throwing a sport?”

What sport do you suck at? “Soccer. I get confused and score for the other team. Every. single. time.”

If you could have a superpower, what would you choose? “All of them! Fire breath, x-ray vision, flying, rocket fists, gravity manipulation, invisibility, walking through walls, the ability to teleport through people’s phones so if they needed me I’d be right there... yeah, all of them!”

#yes i gave him my birthday what of it #this one took me a hot minute whew #walttasks #tasks.

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snowdice · 5 years ago

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Gaps in His Files (Part 8) [Relabeled; Refiled Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan/Patton

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton

Appear: Remy, Virgil (but only in the epilogue)

Summary:

Logan Berry has learned many things the last 10 years: a lot of math and physics, a bit of humility, and how to be a hero being just a few. Through his education, his experience teaching, and his exploits as the superhero Bluebird, he’s changed in a lot of small and large ways. He has recorded these changes in well-organized documents and files. He’s even had to create two new file designations: a red one for files about his moonlighting at Bluebird, and a light blue one dedicated to his boyfriend, Patton.

When Bluebird is targeted by a memory device and all of those 10 years of progress suddenly disappear, Patton Sanders and Logan’s extensive files are left as his only resource to get those memories back. But what is Patton supposed to do when there are clear gaps in his files? And what does he do when he is one of them?

This is set 25 years before Sometimes Labels Fail though it’s story is completely independent of it and it is not necessary to read that one first.

Notes: Superhero AU, memory loss, past child abuse, past child neglect, unhealthy ideas about ones place in relationships, emotional suppression, self-deprecating thoughts, medical procedures mentioned, very brief unhealthy views of sex

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Erm. Logan says a few not so nice things about people who struggle academically which are very wrong. I think from context it is clear that the author doesn’t agree with it. As a teacher I do not endorse his statement and in the missing 10 years he’s learned the lesson for himself... he’s just a very dumb smart high school kid. That being said, I thought I might warn you all especially with the fact that people might be in the middle of finals and a little emotionally vulnerable to that one.

Patton spent most of the morning getting Logan familiar with his red files while also asking him subtle questions about his real opinions on things. The mention of the crying thing did sting a bit even though Patton already knew it made Logan uncomfortable. Patton knew that from the beginning, but he’d still let Logan force himself to try to help when Patton was upset.

God, Patton was a bad person.

After he’d helped Logan get a good feel of the newer files, they started brainstorming about how best to work on recovering his memories over lunch.

Patton had thought they were on the same page, that being they were going to read through the pages in his files hoping he’d remember something in them. However, now he was doing that finger tapping thing on the table while he chewed slowly on his sandwich.

“What?” Patton finally asked.

Logan had clearly been waiting to share because there was no pause before his response. “Have you heard of Blight?” Logan asked, casually, as though that were not a name that made most of the population shudder when they heard it.

“This is nothing like that,” Patton said firmly before he continued with that line of thought.

“Why couldn’t it be?” he asked with a curious head tilt.

“Because… because it’s not,” Patton said.

“Do you have any evidence that it isn’t? Just because it was a device instead of a superpower does not mean it is not the same methodology.”

“It’s just not,” Patton said, “It can’t be.”

“Why?” Logan asked again.

“Because none of them recovered,” Patton tried not to snap.

Logan hummed. “Ah. That seems like an emotionally charged conclusion.”

“Can we please just not talk about it?” Patton implored, turning back to his lunch even though he wasn’t hungry anymore. There were a few moments of silence.

“Did you know,” Logan started, and Patton sighed, “that Blight was on record as having telekinesis before she revealed herself as a Mind Warper? People say she must have implanted false memories in her victims, but if she really was then it would be evidence of-”

“The Monofacultas Theory,” Patton finished for him.

Logan gave him a startled look. “You know it?”

“I’ve known you for over three years Logan and while I agree that the theory is interesting and feasible, there are no known cases of someone having a set of powers that span more than one of the Tri-divisions.”

“If Blight had telekinesis there is. She would have had a physical power as well as a mental one. Witnesses said…”

��She tore the minds of an entire city apart at the seams and restructured them to her desire. Excuse me if I don’t trust the validity of those mind’s statements especially when they have been disproved by video evidence.”

“Just because she didn’t use telekinesis for that one situation caught on video doesn’t mean she couldn’t.”

“Fine,” Patton said. “Say you’re right. Why does it matter?”

“Well I have telekinesis.”

“So, you want to… move your memories back into place?”

“Basically, yes.”

“With your telekinesis?”

“Well, brains are ultimately physical objects.”

“And you are going to not simply give yourself a stroke because…?” Logan shrugged. “Absolutely not Logan.”

“It would be interesting,” Logan said, eyes alight. “I could prove that powers are not truly divided into physical, metal, or energy powers but are originally one singular power that develops due to circumstance during early childhood.”

“If your brain doesn’t literally explode because you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“All science has risk.”

“No, Logan.”

He gave him the look that Patton was not allowed to call a pout.

“Can we at least try some less extreme methods of memory recovery before the theoretical methods with no hard evidence? Like continuing to read your files to try to jog your memory naturally as we had discussed.”

“Fine,” he agreed, looking downtrodden. Patton really hoped he got his memory back before he got too restless and tried something like that.

“If you’re finished eating, we should get back to reading,” Patton said. Patton was certainly finished with his lunch.

The afternoon went well without any major disasters or talk about dangerous methods to get memories back. Logan had not remembered anything, but he’d been calm and patiently started sorting through his files in chronological order. Then, when Patton left him alone for a moment to go to the bathroom, he somehow managed to find his daily planner from where Patton had hidden under a blanket in the front hall closet.

“It’s fine,” Patton insisted from the couch, watching him pace back and forth and wringing his hands. “I called your advisor and told him you wouldn’t be able to meet with him because you were sick.”

Logan frowned at him. “You shouldn’t’ have done that. I could have gone. I don’t want to appear irresponsible by skipping meetings.”

“He wanted to talk about your research. You would have had no idea what he was talking about,” Patton reasoned.

“I would have managed.”

“Logan,” Patton said patiently. “Your research area is partial differential equations. Do you even know what those are?”

Patton could tell by the look on his face that he had no idea. Yet he still stuck his nose up in the air. “I know what a differential is, and I know what an equation is. I am sure I can figure out how to do parts of them.”

“You haven’t even taken multivariate calculus.”

“It can’t be that hard.”

“It is,” Patton groaned, “It is hard.”

“Perhaps for you,” he said hotly.

“No,” Patton ground out. “For you. The 28-year-old you spends hours a week trying to understand these things and he has a bachelor’s degree and almost 6 years of graduate education under his belt. You are in high school.” Logan just gave him a withering glare and turned his attention back to the planner.

“I’m supposed to teach two courses tomorrow,” he said.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Patton said.

“I have a responsibility rather or not I have my memories.”

“Logan, listen to me. You have not graduated high school. You cannot teach a calculus class.”

Logan bristled. “I took calculus last year and got an A.”

Patton had to take a steadying breath. “That is not the same as teaching it.”

“It can’t be that hard. I will simply explain the information to them.”

“And when one of them asks you how to add two fractions?”

Logan’s eyebrows crinkled. “That is a basic skill. I am sure anyone in a college calculus course can do that easily.”

“You have clearly never taught a day in your life.”

Logan bristled. “Any adult who cannot add fractions should immediately be kicked out of university and returned to kindergarten where they belong.”

Patton looked at him for a moment hoping perhaps he would figure out on his own why what he just said was completely out of line. He just kept his jaw stubbornly firm. Patton took a breath. “And that is why you cannot go and teach these students.”

Logan scoffed. “I am not sure why my future self would put up with such things.”

“Because you almost failed your real analysis course,” Patton answered in a heartbeat. “Your first semester of teaching, you were also taking a first-year graduate real analysis course and you couldn’t understand a word of measure theory. It was the first time in your life that you had to work for a C. One day you looked at your students and came to the realization that the look on their faces when you tried to explain the product rule to them was likely the same expression your professor saw on yours when he tried to explain the existence of non-measurable sets. We all have our strengths and weaknesses and if we let someone else draw the line for stupid, there is every chance we’d end up on the wrong side of it. So,” Patton said crossing his arms, “I am not going to let you go ruin your own reputation with your students as a teacher who is not an asshole because you’ve not had to toe your own line yet.”

Logan met his eyes, clearly wanting to argue, but Patton just kept his face strict and his arms crossed. Logan’s face cleared suspiciously quickly, and he backed down. “Fine,” he agreed. “I will stay here.”

“Good,” Patton replied eyeing him. “Now put down the planner and let’s go back to work.”

Want to read more? Use the links below!

AO3 Part 9

My Masterpost

#sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #logicality #tsss #superhero au #memory loss #past child abuse #past child neglect #emotional suppression #self deprecation #gaps in his files #labeled universe #relabeled; refiled #adriana writes

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savvyblunders · 4 years ago

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Personal Post: Imposter Syndrome, Reading Traditional Books, and thoughts about my own writing

{Just rambles regarding books, fanfiction and some of my thoughts therein.}

It’s been a terribly long time since I read any published books--aside from those written by fellow fanfiction authors. It has reached the point that I find them entirely too cringey. The plots are tame, the characters stiff, the language rote. I especially have a hard time caring if there is a supposed ‘romance’ involved. Forget about het romances, they’re so formulaic that they leave me cold. It isn’t that I have no interest in the portrayal of a relationship between a woman and man, it’s that by and large they might as well have been churned off of a factory production line.

Part of my objection is to the tired old tropes and gender roles which authors (and readers) don’t seem to realize they’re not only falling prey to, but encouraging with their work. The world doesn’t have to be turned on its head to be interesting, but you shouldn’t know from the first few scenes between characters how it will play out--and further more, not care.

I did read a rather good psychological mystery a few days ago, however. I think perhaps it was successful in part because it was so different from the usual run of stories that people publish, but also because there wasn’t a romance shoe-horned into the storyline. The narrator wasn’t particularly sympathetic, but nor were they entirely unredeemed. I don’t want to give too much away, but it explored the themes of bullying, memory, redemption and revenge, with an enjoyable twist that I didn’t see coming--I was successfully led astray by red herrings, which isn’t always the case when I’m reading mysteries. The book, should anyone be interested, was Girl Gone Mad by Avery Bishop.

{I keep on rambling after the break ;)}

I also read another which was such a stinker I deleted it from my Kindle history and couldn’t tell you the title or author. This beauty had a somewhat interesting premise of a woman who wakes from a six month coma with full amnesia and throughout the book has to struggle with not remembering anything and depending on her husband, children and neighbors for the details of her life. Frustratingly, she finds parts of her personality and tastes have changed--at least as far as they all tell her. She begins to doubt that she is who they say--an issue further compounded when certain facets of her life pre-coma are revealed. Then when the ending arrives, there is a twist and a reveal which could have been pretty neat, only it arrived at the end of such a rote story, with such clunky storytelling and unimaginative language that I kind of didn’t care. It was clear, I might add, that the female protagonist was written by a man. Although blessedly he didn’t go into raptures over her perky breasts, long hair, or other physical attributes [insert vomiting]

My reading resulted in a two-fold feeling. One, traditionally published books are by and large crap. A few months ago I tried reading a book from a famous author whom I used to be quite a fan of. It was part of a series with which I used to be enamored. I settled in, expecting a very enjoyable read. After slogging through three chapters I gave it up. The writing was generic, the characters shallow and the ‘bad guy’ was so sketchily written as to be bewildering, not mysterious.

That book left me frustrated and annoyed. But it also revealed something to me which I had somewhat accepted and understood prior to that, but not entirely absorbed. Just because a book is traditionally published doesn’t mean it’s any good. Just because an author is well known--or even on the best seller list--doesn’t mean they can write. There are more places to find interesting, funny, heartbreaking, sexy, fun, amazingly written, daring and wonderful stories than at a bookstore or through Kindle.

The second part of my two-fold feeling was that while, as a writer, I may have much room to grow, I still have valuable skills to offer. My four years of writing fanfiction have honed my talent, refined my style, and influenced my voice, perspective and ability. A good beta, or editor, is invaluable. While I used to write solo and not show it to anyone, simply edit and post, I’ve come to understand the inherent value of feedback. It can be a tricky road, as you might find yourself influenced too much by a reader into trying to suit their tastes rather than your own, but a good beta (eternal thanks to @paialovespie & @hoomhum)--that is to say, a great beta, will not only see the nuts and bolts which might need tightening, but will offer insights which blow your story from ordinary to inspired. The same goes for a ‘personal cheerleader’ (the highest of praise to @mottlemoth) or someone who reminds you at your dark times that you are capable of far more than you can conceive of in that moment. Forget nasty comments online, most of us are our own worst enemies--after all, we know our weakest spots and can zero in on them mercilessly.

Even without a beta, I believe in myself as a writer enough these days (most days) to hope that one day, with hard work, skill, great editing, and some luck, I too could be published. Not a NYT best seller, perhaps, but then, I’m not entirely certain I’d like that. I don’t say this out of any sort of pretentiousness, but because, in essence, these days, I want to write the kind of things that appeal to a more niche audience. I’d like to point with pride at my small book, nestled there on a bookshelf, or available with one click of a button, as something that helps give a voice to a community which has, and still continues to be, marginalized, ignored, fetishized and pandered to, in equal measure. Perhaps it would be for the best if what I wrote wasn’t palatable to the greater reading public.

Of course, those days when I’m full of zest and confidence don’t always last. Like any creator, I fall prey to Imposter Syndrome. Lord, I can’t believe that a time used to exist when I didn’t know what that was! I knew the feeling (oh, how I did), but had no clue that a term existed to encapsulate it. The concept that I wasn’t alone in having days (weeks, months, years) of being cast into doubt that I had anything worth saying--a voice worth listening to--isn’t a new one, but to find out that I’m not alone was unutterably comforting.

Since, like so many people, I’ve been suffering from a lack of ambition and ability to focus during this global pandemic, I haven’t written much at all, that inner voice rang loud and clear. I’m a fraud, a fake. Any ability I had was used up, clearly as shallow as a mud puddle if a little adversity was enough to dry it out. The struggle to get myself past that was, and is, one that swings from good to bad almost day by day. I had to finally give myself permission to be sad, scared, worried, tired, uninspired. Eventually I decided it was enough that I could find comfort and solace in other’s writing. And oh, how I have! Even though days and days would pass when I couldn’t even muster the interest to read, other times I would consume fanfiction fervently, feverishly.

And there was so much out there! Adventure, sex, romance, comedy, crack, fluff, hurt/comfort. It seems funny that I can rail against the ‘formulaic’ writing of published books and then turn to ‘tags’ and ‘tropes’ for comfort. But I think the difference lies in the heart that is written into those fanfiction stories. Most of us, while being somewhat influenced by friends, mutuals and fans into writing for a hungry public, are, by and large, writing for ourselves. The old tried and true ‘write what you know’ advice seemed empty and meaningless to me for years. If we only ever write what we know, then how do sci-fi, fantasy, adventure, etc., get written? My brain went to the obvious and ignored the heart of the matter--it isn’t so much what you ‘know’ as writing what you need. What makes you passionate. Even if you’ve never been on a space ship, or been part of a polyamorous, platonic communal family group, if you write it with that yearning and spirit in your heart, it will reach out to someone else.

Fanfiction, at it’s core, is self-comfort.

In my estimation, looking at traditionally published books, it seems that what most of them lack is that heart. The writers aren’t writing because they need the story, or because they are compelled to tell it. It isn’t that they had a hell of a good time writing it, or that they made themselves laugh while doing so. They had a publishing deal to fulfil, a publisher to make happy, a reading public who had certain expectations. There’s nothing wrong with that of course, but if it’s your only motivation...then the writing suffers the neglect and a percerptive reader will note the difference.

By and large, the fandom, the ship, even the trope, aren’t what captivates me most. I’m a pretty eclectic reader. I enjoy a good story more than I do the fact that it is a particular pairing. The draw is how well it is written, any chances the author took, the indulgence into style, formatting, etc. that they allowed themselves. So why should published books be any different? I’ve heard (non-fandom) people dismiss fanfiction as niche. Perhaps it is. But it is also broad, vast, uncharted territory where we’re all having a lot of fun and enjoying the hell out of ourselves.

Maybe those published authors need to spend a little time with us.

#personal stuff #savvy ponders #writing #traditional publishing #fanfiction #pandemic #depression #anxiety #self comfort #introspection

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rayneul · 4 years ago

Text

Ray Route Bad Ending 3 Guide

(donʼt/never answer messages it give good heart so i suggest dont answer it :))

Day 8 (100%)

01:37 – Rapid Contact

Selection 1 I can’t sleep.

Selection 2 I might need some help now…. (Nothing)

Selection 3 There’s something wrong with the chatroom.

Selection 4 I’m scared…

Selection 5 …. Then what will happen to me?

Selection 6 That’s because I have to keep my promise with Ray… (Ray)

Selection 7 …Did you read what I’ve been writing so far?

Selection 8 I want to go rest now… I’m tired….

Selection 9 Wow…what’s it about? (Nothing)

Selection 10 But right now we have more important matter at hand. (Ray)

Selection 11 I think it’s better not to miss anything that could raise our name value.

Selection 12 I think it all depends on his luck…

Selection 13 But you can’t pessess and actor on stage.

Selection 14 I’m into games.

Selection 15 I’m too scared to sleep alone…

No Caller ID & 707 Calling

- Yes I am… Who is this?

- No recording, please.

- There’s one missing.

- I can’t hear you.

- Was it you just know who pulled the prank?

- What if I get caught lying?

03:46 – What Should I Do with You

Selection 1 Yes…?

Selection 2 I thought you’d be mad if I don’t….

Selection 3 Please don’t play with me….

Selection 4 Okay….

Selection 5 Maybe….

Selection 6 Why would you be mean with food…? (Nothing)

Selection 7 I’ll be good to you!

Selection 8 How can I make you happier?

Selection 9 I’ll get used to it fast….

Selection 10 I’m sorry…

Selection 11 I’ll do anything you tell me… Please don’t throw me away.

Story Mode – This is ridiculous…

- Ray has become different… I was so alarmed.

- No longer here…?

- Can’t you save me…?

Saeran Calling

- It would have been great if I could help you with hacking skills.

- I’m ready.

- I’m drawing it while listening. Keep talking please.

- Don’t imprison me…

07:21 – In My Opinion

Selection 1 Is it because of the governmental commendation? (Nothing)

Selection 2 Seven, you don’t have another you hisdden within, do you…?

Selection 3 It’d be near impossible to win….

Selection 4 Now there’s stronger and smarter hacker. Because the one before him was no good.

Selection 5 I’m scared….

Selection 6 The part will be held, right…?

Selection 7 Hello….

Selection 8 Don’t you think it’s better to accept when an offer is made?

Selection 9 Isn’t it a little suspicious that Seven is against it? I thought he liked anything that’s free.

Selection 10 Please trust Seven a little more. (707)

Selection 11 You didn’t want commendation because of your guilt.

Selection 12

So you don’t deserve the commendation….

Selection 13 I’m going to vote for you!

Selection 14 I think he offered the commendation only because he’s V’s fan.

Selection 15 We will be holding parties, right?

Selection 16 Good idea! (Email from housekeeper)

Selection 17 What files? Are they important? Can you send them to me too?

Selection 18 Have a good one.

Selection 19 You must be feeling awfully sorry.

Selection 20 Are you stitching right now?

Selection 21 Be careful not to prick your finger! (Nothing)

Jumin Calling

- Do you oppose in receiving the government commendation?

- Maybe…because of political reasons?

- Worst scenario?

09:03 – FINALLY

Selection 1 Zen… Can you talk to me..? This is so hard….

Selection 2 Now all you have to do is go out there and show them what you’re made of! (Nothing)

Selection 3 I don’t see anythng noteworthy apart from your face.

Selection 4 Hey…

Selection 5 Sounds delicious…. (Ray)

Selection 6 It feel so good to see someone else showing the evil I can’t….

Selection 7 I think I prefer bad guys.

Selection 8 I’m hungry…

Selection 9 But he added love. You should eat it….

Selection 10 I have a bad feeling about this.

Selection 11 Let’s throw it away and make a new one.

Selection 12 Did the luck really burn…?

Selection 13 Precious is food….

Selection 14 Make sure you’re on time. (Nothing)

Selection 15 Hungry…

Selection 16 Does it really make me lucky?

Selection 17 Can I cut them in chunks? (Nothing)

Selection 18 Yoosung, wanna marry me?

Selection 19 Back there you were neglecting your stew while chatting, weren’t you?

Selection 20 Yoosung, you’re adorable.

Selection 21 I’m going to enjoy it with my bias.

Selection 22 But I can’t even share it. I think I’m getting hungrier…

11:16 – I Really Want to Know!

Selection 1 Did the stew taste good?

Selection 2 I think so… You’ve done well. (Nothing)

Selection 3 Are you just going to leave me here?

Selection 4 There’s not much time. (Ray)

Selection 5 I wonder why you didn’t get a contact, Yoosung… (Nothing)

Selection 6 Why would you want to make sure?

Selection 7 Are you that timid?

Selection 8 I think Seven has so many stories….

Selection 9 Yes, I will. If there’s something I can do. (Ray) Depending on the situation.

Selection 10 Alright. Run along.

Selection 11 Can you call the prosecution series to find me?

Selection 12 Zen… I’m sure it’s nothing! (Ray)

Selection 13 IS this what the lucky stew brought upon you?

Selection 14 This isn’t related to me, is it…?

Selection 15 Didn’t you say V is calling you? (Nothing)

Selection 16 Yes, please do.

Yoosung Calling

- What are you uneasy about, he’s only being interview. Yoosung..did you…did you do something?

- Wow. What if that’s the case? I’m suddenly feeling uneasy too…

13:58 – Very Shocking

Selection 1 This is so shocking.

Selection 2 I’m the one who’s suffering the most…

Selection 3 Are you sure RFA is still innocent?

Selection 4 Or maybe Zen had a stalker.

Selection 5 Long is the pathway of stitching…

Selection 6 Do you think V will be willing to do that?

Selection 7 You’re leaving already?

Selection 8 I’d say it’s 96.74999654%!

Selection 9 Jumin, don’t you have to go now?

Selection 10 Maybe things will turn out the way an authority wants to…

Selection 11 Sure. You need to work anways.

Selection 12 I’ll try.

Jaehee Calling

- If it’s Zen, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about!

- Why don’t you look into it through the intelligence unit?

- I predict it as 99.99%!

16:04 – V’s Decision

Selection 1 I’m nervous….

Selection 2 You mean the hacker’s attack that’s still going on?

Selection 3 Have you now realized that you’re not good enough.

Selection 4 No…. If you cancel the party, then I…

Selection 5 It doesn’t sound completely rational.

Selection 6 You mean we’re not going to hold the party? (Nothing)

Selection 7 No… What if I’m thrown away?

Selection 8 But then won’t that affect the guests in a bad way?

Selection 9 Okay…

Selection 10 For what?

Selection 11 I don’t think I can trust you…

Selection 12 I’m scared… It feels like something will fall upon me.

Selection 13 My introduction to the RFA itself is a secret…. (Ray)

Selection 14 He must have a secret mission of his own….

Selection 15 Doesn’t that mean the messenger will soo be in crisis because of the hacker?

Selection 16 Bye.

Story Mode – Okay, that’s enough edge for today

(Door Opened)

- I don’t deserve to make any thought.

- I…think you’re amazing.

- I don’t deserve to say no.

- Yes…

- Yes.

V Calling

- V…this is tough.

- It’s nothing.

- Would you have made that decision if you were truly worried of me? What are you going to do if I do fall in danger?

18:31 – Sorry. This is all my fault.

Selection 1 Zen! Is your interrogation over? (Nothing)

Selection 2 Since you’re talking about selfies, I’m guessing nothing big happened? (Nothing)

Selection 3 What happened to the rehearsal? (Nothing)

Selection 4 Maybe that’s one of the emergency features of the app. Everything going on in here is confidential, you know? (Nothing)

Selection 5 Probably…..

Selection 6 Seven you must be busy.

Selection 7 There won’t be a party. Looks like I’m not useful anymore.

Selection 8 The party’s intention was never good in the first place…. It’s all V’s fault.

Selection 9 Is this true? (Nothing)

Selection 10 So what did you tell them? (Nothing)

Selection 11 It’s too late. You need to tell us what’s going on.

Selection 12 You sure have a lot of secrets.

Selection 13 Are you running away…? Though that is one option….

Selection 14 Where are you going? (Nothing)

Selection 15 Seven can manage himself. He’ll be fine… right?

Selection 16 Even if you do, he won’t tell you what you want… As always.

Selection 17 Will you come save me if I’m in trouble…?

Zen Calling

- I’m worried that your looks would have deteriorated.

- What’s there to be complicated about? You’re done with the prosecution interview, the party on hold is V’s decision, and Seven… he’ll take care of it himself.

20:48 – Cornered

Selection 1 Didn’t V say that he has a favor to ask you? (Nothing)

Selection 2 Can’t we talk to V to change his mind?

Selection 3 Do you think they’re also watching ‘me?’ (Nothing)

Selection 4 Tell me a secret. Anything is fine. Even if there won’t be a party, I must prove that I’m useful…

Selection 5 What is he up to now?

Selection 6 It’s fairly common to see an innocent people framed after a single wrong move… I should know. (Ray)

Selection 7 V guaranteed my identification. You shouln’t be suspicious of me.

Selection 8 Even if I do something wrong and someone finds out…I’ll be thrown away before someone arrives.

Selection 9 I need to do as they tell me….

Selection 10 Even if I do, I know that you’ll throw me out faster than they can save me.

Selection 11 I’m sorry….

Selection 12 Please don’t do that….

Selection 13 Am I useless now?

Selection 14 What are you going to do to me…?

Selection 15 Please don’t throw me away…

Selection 16 Okay… What do you want me to do?

Selection 17 I’m scared….

Selection 18 …I can only do what I’m told to do anyways.

Selection 19 Okay…. (Nothing)

Selection 20 I’ll try.

707 Calling

- I’ve lost contact with the RFA members! Please let me get in touch!

- Can you hear me? Tell V that we must have the party! If not, I…

22:14 – Treasure

Selection 1 Role play.

Selection 2 Hello…Ray.

Selection 3 Saeran and I are doing well… (Ray)

Selection 4 I don’t remember them very well… I must have forgotten because I’m an airhead.

Selection 5 I think so….

Selection 6 Now I know… That I’m nothing special…

Selection 7 Bye…

Saeran Calling

- I’m not up to something. I’ll here quietly.

- Yes. I understand. Do as you like.

23:39 – Survival of the Fittest

Selection 1 Why won’t you come see me?

Selection 2 I never thought about that. I’m too stupid to reach that part.

Selection 3 Do I deserve to see her…?

Selection 4 Hello, my savoir.

Selection 5 Where is Ray? My savoir! Please love me… Aren’t you the founder of the RFA…? (Ray)

Selection 6 My savoir…?

Selection 7 I made a mistake… Please let me make up for it!

Selection 8 It’s all my fault. I’m an airhead.

Selection 9 So you did save Ray…!

Selection 10 He must enjoy torturing me.

Selection 11 So you’re saying…I am useful, aren’t you?

Selection 12 …Now I know that I’m weak.

Rika Calling

- Not interested. He’s not Ray.

- Are you trying to say is that you saved him?

#mystic messenger #ray route

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kentuckywrites · 4 years ago

Text

Imperium 2: Chapter 1

Gratam mundi. (Welcome to the world.)

Elma decided, somewhere in the middle of Secretary Nagi’s speech, that it was a crime to schedule meetings during sunny days. BLADE Tower’s top floor was partially surrounded by windows, giving a full view to the city outside. The sunlight teased those inside with a considerable glare, a promise that nothing would dare stand in its way. For once, the meeting flew by, and Elma retained only bits and pieces of it, longing to escape outside. Maybe she could convince Lin to take the day off and come along for a picnic. Goodness knows, she hadn’t had the chance to sit down and truly relax, not even after the Lifehold was found.

The meeting was partially about that, after all. After her mission to the Lifehold, she’d discovered that the Lifehold had been flooded. On all accounts, everyone with a mimeosome in the city should have collapsed, never to wake up. And yet, something - something - was keeping the Lifehold in working order. Even the Outfitters couldn’t place what was powering the Lifehold, and they’d dug for a while trying to figure it out. Somewhere along the months and months of research, things shifted, and instead the focus was on using the Lifehold to create real human bodies. The meeting was a debrief on what the Outfitters had put together on the matter, which didn’t amount to much, unfortunately. Those systems were damaged after the crash, after the Ganglion attack, after the Vita and Luxaar and Lao and those hideous, awful chimeras. Elma shuddered at the memory.

When Nagi dismissed everyone, Elma was, regrettably, not the first one out the door. She made small talk with Nagi as the first group of people crammed into the elevator, waited for them to head down, waited for the elevator to come back up and take her to the first floor. It was quiet, thankfully, and when she stepped out into the bright summer air, she inhaled, exhaled. Freedom never tasted so sweet.

Elma took a few steps down the stairs, her goal in mind. She’d ask Lin about that picnic, maybe rope Gwin and Irina into joining them. She made the turn into Armory Alley and quickly spotted Lin, who was talking with L at his shop. She was holding something rather long in her hands. A pipe, of some kind? Elma couldn’t imagine what it was at first glance. As she grew closer, she caught some of the conversation.

“...from the interior of a xe-dom! Ferocious mechanical beasts, mind you, and so the part you hold is the rarest sight indeed!”

“Ooh, a xe-dom? What did it do? What was it connected to? Maybe I can incorporate it into this new Skell weapon I’m designing -”

“We believe that it - ah, Elma!” L caught sight of Elma, who approached Lin’s right side and peered at the pipe curiously.

“Elma!” Lin chirped, “How’d the meeting go? Any update on getting our real bodies back?”

Elma shook her head. “Unfortunately, not much progress has been made yet. It’ll be a while before we can say for certain when the Outfitters will be able to finish repairs to the Lifehold.”

“Aw man,” Lin sighed, “Well, it’s still good to hear that work’s being done. I still can’t believe I wasn’t recruited to help with that.”

“Your skills are far more valuable in the city than out there,” She said, “I know it doesn’t feel like much of anything, but trust me. The work you’ve been doing on Skells here is crucial.”

“I know, I know.”

Lin turned back to L, whose hands were clasped. He was leaning in slightly, as if he was trying to better hear the news Elma had brought along. “Hey L, how much did you say this would be again?”

“Ah, we are so pleased that your interested is picked!” L cheered, “It would be a mere five thousand credits for such a fine -”

“Deal!” Lin juggled her new pipe and her comm device as she transferred the credits over to L’s device. He smiled as his own device pinged with the newly received credits, and Lin quickly put her comm device away to admire her purchase. “Man oh man...L, would you let me know if you find any more of these?”

“But of course! We shall keep your name reserved and primed for any incoming materials of that nature,” L nodded, “Does anything else swipe your curiosities this fine afternoon?”

Elma spoke up before Lin could properly respond. “Actually, L, do you have time to spare today? I was thinking of taking the rest of the day off and inviting some friends along for a picnic out in Primordia. The weather’s beautiful for it.”

“Ooh, a picnic? Please tell me I’m invited,” Lin begged, “I need an excuse to get out of the workshop. Feels like I’ve been holed up in there for centuries!!”

“Of course you’re invited, Lin.”

“Yay!!”

L sighed wistfully. “We so wish to join, but our dearest assistant is out today, and we are tasked with managing this stand with our own two hands.”

“Is Jejebba okay?” Lin asked, concerned.

“Ah, he is doing most wonderfully!” L shook his hands in defense, “He is merely engaging in celebratory festivities. A friend of his recently partook in what humans would call ‘marriage’, and their party has since moved to Army Pizza.”

“I didn’t know Ma-non got married…” Lin wondered out loud, “I guess you learn something new every day.”

“That’s a shame, L,” Elma said, “Perhaps another day, then.” She turned to Lin, glancing at the pipe still in her hands before asking, “Do you know where Pongo is? We could ask him to come along.”

“Like a big family reunion!” Lin said, “Man, I haven’t seen him in ages, actually. What about you, L, has he stopped by recently?”

L put a thoughtful finger to his chin. “We don’t believe he has, not in quite some time. Last we heard, he was assigned to a tippy top secret mission!”

“Did it have anything to do with...the you know what?”

Elma watched L’s expression change in mere seconds. Of course, they both knew what Lin was referring to. It seemed like only yesterday that they’d seen Pongo walking through the city again, renewed and alive after the events in Cauldros. And it felt surreal, knowing that he was never truly human. Pongo was, in fact, an avatar of Mira, a creation of the sentient planet that it could inhabit and influence. From what Pongo had explained, his relationship with Mira was somewhat tense. They were both learning about what it meant to share a body, and though Elma couldn’t quite relate to his plight, she was proud of how Pongo was handling things.

Well...proud of most of it. She couldn’t admit to it out loud, but hearing about how he needed to sacrifice himself, watching him fall into Mount M’Gando without a second thought...it scared her. Not much could affect her, but many things on Mira had, and she knew many things on Mira would continue to haunt her. Even now, hearing that Pongo had been away on this mission for a while, she couldn’t help but worry. He was an incredibly strong companion, and it had been an honor watching him grow and improve. But he was always self-sacrificing, always cared about others more than himself. He couldn’t stop crossing the line, let alone draw the line himself.

And that worried look on L’s face...Elma thought of all the possibilities, good and bad. What did he know that they didn’t? Did he harbor the same fears?

“He would have informed us if his mission were to do with Mira,” L said, after a long pause. “He only managed to provide small cutouts of his true intent, but neglected to tell us specifics. From what we gathered, Pongo is the conductor of some form of treasure hunt.”

Some of the tension in Elma’s shoulders released, and Lin got stars in her eyes, blissfully ignorant of her and L’s concern. “Now that sounds exciting!! Forget working on the Lifehold or Skells, Miran buried treasure sounds awesome!”

“I bet he’ll tell us all about it once he returns,” Elma said, “For now, Lin, shall we prepare for the picnic?”

“Heck yeah!” She waved goodbye to L, who waved back with a somewhat forced smile. “See ya later, L! Thanks again for the pipe!”

“It is our pleasure!” L replied as they walked further away, his attention suddenly shifting to a new potential customer that had approached his shop. Elma led Lin down Armory Alley, who was skipping along with a pep in her step. It relieved Elma’s tensions further, seeing the young Outfitter look so full of life. Perhaps her concerns were a little misguided, rooted in previous encounters. After all, Pongo was a capable young man, and he could hold his own in a fight. She only hoped that whatever treasure he was after, he was cautious in his approach and took the right measures to -

“Elma?”

Elma blinked, realizing she had become lost in her thoughts. Lin was tugging her arm gently, the pipe cradled in her elbow, and she was using her other hand to point further ahead. Elma squinted. There was nothing terribly interesting up ahead, save for the usual tents, some Skells walking past, BLADEs whispering to each other as a woman, tattered and beaten, walked through the East Gate -

Wait a minute.

Elma didn’t waste any time in rushing forward. Even though everyone around her looked on with slight horror, she could only see that the woman was badly hurt, and she’d need help fast. She made it to the woman just in time to catch her as she fell, and Elma let her head rest on her shoulder. Her entire body was covered in blood, bruises, open gashes leaking blue...but at least, doing a quick once-over, nothing vital had been damaged. All flesh wounds, in an ironic twist.

Lin was by Elma’s side in a matter of seconds, her comm device out and scanning over the woman’s body. Some small beeps resonated from the device, and Lin looked up at Elma, frowning. “She seems okay, based on the scan. Maybe we should get her to the MMC just in case.”

“No...no.”

Elma was shocked when she heard the woman speak. She lifted her head slightly, her short black hair tickling Elma’s nose. Underneath her hair, Elma could see light skin, some scratches on her face, and…

Her eyes. Indigo, pupiless.

Just like Pongo’s.

“You must be Elma,” The woman gave a weak smile, “Sorry we had to meet like this. But...but I need your help. Pongo’s in trouble.”

Elma’s heart sank to her stomach. Lin’s eyes went wide, and any stars left over from her astonishment at the pipe vanished.

“You know Pongo?” Lin asked a question that Elma knew the probable answer to, but she wouldn’t be certain until she heard it from the woman’s lips.

The woman tried to sit herself up straighter, but Elma kept her hands on her forearms to make sure she didn’t fall again. She spoke again, after forcing a light giggle.

“I’m...well, I’m his sister. I’m Nessa-vara’is, but you can call me Nessa for short.”

#xenoblade x #Imperium 2: Chapter 1 #SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKERS #I said I'd be taking a break but #I have SO MANY IDEAS #anyways I hope everyone's ready for the inevitable angst #:3 #>:3

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kolhearted-archived · 5 years ago

Text

FOUR YEAR ANNIVERSARY STUFF

This wouldn’t be me if it had some sort of fancy banner, so you’re just gonna get my wall of text, lol.

So when I decided to create a blog for Kol, I didn’t have any idea — ANY IDEA — what I was getting myself into. I was happily RPing in the Disney rpc with my Toy Story muse, and had amazing friends over there, lots of muse, and was really happy with where I was, RP-wise.

But I’d just gotten back into The Originals, and had seen Kol’s comeback, and his story began to click for me. I needed that extra backstory — of seeing him, narratively, from the storyteller role and not just as an antagonist — to be able to really understand the potential of his character. We had a character who was introduced as a dark force, unpredictable, who was willing to get his hands dirty to achieve his goals. Originals fleshed out what he looks like from the other side of the story: his motivations, his relationship with his family, and what he is ultimately searching for.

So I decided to make a Kol blog, but I was expecting it to be, like, not a big thing, you know? I was going to make him my “weekend blog” and I was going to have fun on him, but he wasn’t going to be my main muse. But as soon as I started digging into him, and realized how much room I had to grow and develop with a character who had SO MUCH untold story?? I fell really hard, and really fast. Soon, Kol was the only blog I was logging into. And faster than I realized it could happen, there were people who were responding to my version of him! I was being validated and galvanized to just keep going.

I found this weird middle ground where I wasn’t apologizing for the horrific things Kol had done, but I wasn’t focusing on them, either. I was worried about making this blog because I don’t write viciousness that well. I don’t want a character who is in CONSTANT fight mode. I didn’t want every single interaction to be Kol hunting someone, Kol hurting someone.

The last four years has been a series of ups and downs, character-wise. There have been things I’ve tried that have worked really well, and stayed with my portrayal of Kol! And there have been things that really needed to be brought back to the drawing board. Everything has been important and it’s definitely made me a stronger writer.

I want to say THANK YOU to everyone who’s stuck it out, through huge changes on my blog, through me backing away from Kol for times when my inspiration was low, through personal ups and downs which played with my strength as a writer. The opportunities I have are because I have people willing to try things out with me. I appreciate you all so much.

lots of thank you notes under the cut

@seesgood: I want to make this long but I’m going to try to make everyone’s short and sweet. Thank you for taking a chance on a really new blog and being down to figure out what a Caroline/Kol interaction should look like. Thank you for being my Grove sister and I wouldn’t be half the Kol I am without you.

@herstolenson: Thank you so much for finding a way to work Matty into Kol’s life so flawlessly, and thank you for giving our muses the time they needed to figure out what they wanted from this dynamic. Thank you for always being there when I’m having a rough day and just need to whine, and thank you for making Matty <3

@outlawiism: Thank you for always following me no matter where my muse takes me. Thank you for being there almost from the very beginning of my indie career, and thank you so much for the genuine support I’ve always felt whenever I talk to you! Thank you for being the Glitter Queen™ and giving so many people reasons to smile. I am always so humbled to be your friend.

@hauntedgilbert: Thank you for giving me the opportunity to explore the Kol/Jeremy dynamic the way I had so desperately wanted to! Thank you for talking me through Jeremy’s side of things so we could figure out what was happening in any situation. Thank you for always being down to make something crazy, just because it’d be fun. Thank you for all of the AUs and angst that you brought along the way!

@fiercerebekah: Thank you for being there from like the VERY beginning! Thank you for showing me what an “established” blog looks like, and the real fun that can come from sitting with a muse for an extended amount of time. Thank you for the shenanigans you’re always willing to offer up, and for always letting me know what Rebekah’s thoughts are about what Kol does.

@ladamedemartel: Thank you for bringing different aspects to a character who did not originally have that many layers. Thank you for introducing us all to Aurora and allowing us to interact with her! Thank you for always being so fun to talk to, to debate with, and to bounce ideas back and forth.

@hardcoreproved: Thank you for creating the bizarre and delightful ship that is Kol/Bubbles. Thanks for figuring out what that would look like with me, and the why and the how! Thank you for always being one of the single most patient partners, and always know that even when I’m elsewhere and just bobbin along, I see what you’re making with Bubbles and I’m just like “that’s my girl!!!”

@portectorisms: Thank you for bringing some consistency to my blog!! We’ve been following each other forever, and the times we interact are always so much FUN and honestly, I want to make it more of a thing. Whether we have one thread or one hundred, though: thank you so much for your constant encouragement and support.

@grawpiish: Thank you for being so encouraging, and for reminding me how long it’s been that we’ve been in each other’s orbit! Thank you for writing an amazing character, creating depth where there wasn’t any in his canon. Thank you for giving me chances to practice my graphics skills, and thank you for reaching out again so we could reconnect!

@hiddensteel: Thank you SO MUCH for the moments I see you popping in to interact with my posts, to offer advice or support or encouragement. Thank you for writing with my smaller muses, even though I neglect them for so, so long. Thank you for writing an amazing Sansa and giving her the love she so deserves.

@asundrop: Thank you for being one of the first people to really challenge how soft a character could be with Kol. Thank you for dealing with him with a more tender touch, for seeing the scars that are around him and what his potential really is. Thank you for being a rock and a pillar in my RP life, because you, Polli, are a constant for me.

@anditsxsorrows: Thank you for crreating such a wonderful portrayal of Nik, and sharing it with us. Thank you for the sheer amount of time we’ve been in each other’s orbits, and the ups and downs, character wise, we’ve seen each other’s blogs through. Thank you for sticking with Nik so long and providing such a wonderful pathos to his character. You are an inspiration!

@predictableisnotbad: No matter how much time has passed since we’ve last spoken, you’re always so ready to jump back in and have fun. Thank you for your dedication to Alice, and the depth you’ve brought out in her. Thank you even more for being a constant source of support for me, even and especially when I feel like I don’t deserve it. You are a special and kind light and I am so grateful that you are around.

@oliverqxeen: Thank you for your friendship, because it means way more to me than I can ever really say. Thank you for being a source of constancy and support when my anxiety gets bad, or when I back off because my nerves and my thoughts are telling me things that aren’t real. Thank you for always being funny, and for really giving so many people the permission to push against canon if it doesn’t make sense. Thank you for being such an amazing writer and a friend that I don’t deserve.

@yovrstruely: Thank you for always being there, in one form or another! Thank you for always showing how much fun it can be to RP, and for always being true to your muses. Thank you for dancing back into my life, and for offering advice whenever I ask for it. You make the dash feel a little less like I’m yelling into a void sometimes!

@prlman: Thank you for not taking the fact that I know virtually and literally nothing about your muse as a reason why we shouldn’t interact. Thank you so much for sitting down with me and figuring out a way for our muses to meet, for their universes to collide and crossover, and for making Elio one of the very first baby vamps in Kol’s new sire line. I’ve gotten to know Elio a bit better over time — though I still haven’t read or watched his source material, oops — but you’ve provided so many opportunities for us over the years and I so desperately appreciate it.

@relishingvampirism: Thank you for always supporting my blog. You like and comment on so many of my posts, and really make it feel like someone’s watching and gives a care. Honestly, I constantly feel like I don’t deserve it. You make me feel so seen and I appreciate it so damn much. I see it.

@crimscnmalice: Thank you for every moment I’ve run to you to ask for help and you’ve been there. Thank you even more for the times when I didn’t need something and we were able to just talk about life, about our geography, about our characters and what it’s like to find yourself and your creative well in a muse. Thank you for everything you do for the RPC, and a little more selfishly, everything you’ve done for me. You are an amazing person and I am so grateful when you turn your attention to me.

@zcldrizes: Thank you for your constant support, no matter what blog I’m on! Thank you for your enthusiastic encouragement with my portrayal, because getting that “stamp of approval” from a blog I admired so much felt like the sun was shining on me. Thank you for all you’ve done for the GOT RPC and the RPC in general. Every muse I’ve seen you pick up is done with such depth and care. Thank you for letting me be a small part of the world you’ve built for your muses.

@tocxmply / @killthebxy: Thank you so. damn. much. And I can’t even begin to count the reasons why. Thank you for showing me just how far a crossover could handle going while still being IC with the brotp that is Kol and Jon. Thank you for humoring me on Becky ( but I want to talk more about Kol rn ) and everything you do. But beyond all of that, thank you so much for always being someone so willing and ready to be a source of positivity in the RPC. Your cloak of protection is something I will always remember. Your messages to people are always thoughtful and personal and I feel so humbled being in a place with someone as light and good as you.

@atomiism: Thank you for giving me the opportunity to explore Kol as a sire. Thank you for your amazing Ray, and giving me even the littlest chance of writing with him, because as soon as we started plotting, I couldn’t contain my excitement. Thank you for the moments together that we’ve gotten, and please know that I cherish each and every reply we get done.

@fire-hoes: Tagging you over here, but honestly this counts for any blog. Thank you for your enthusiastic support and encouragement you’ve offered me over the years. You made me feel like I was a part of something real and really special and I always felt so honored and grateful whenever we talked. Thank you for your support that spans muses for both of us, and always being up to trying something new. You are one of my true constants around here, and I am so, so, so, so grateful for you.

@itsgclden: Thank you for all of the time you’ve put into Rapunzel, because every time I see your posts, I just get so excited and sit down and read. Thank you for being willing to find ways for Kol and Rapunzel to interact. Thank you for the light you spread on the dash. Thank you for caring so much about someone who is so special to me, because I always feel like they’re in good hands. Thank you for being a real-life Rapunzel and spreading light and happiness.

@livevl: Thank you for encouraging me no matter what blogs we’re currently on. Thank you for always being one of the first people to remind me that there’s someone in my corner always, and that you like what I’m dong here. Thank you for being that special kind of person who reaches out and says a kind word, because there aren’t a lot of people who think to do that, and it really matters. You make it feel less isolating on here. You are so damn good, so damn special, and so damn talented. I always feel a great pressure of gratitude when I think that I have the support of someone as amazing as you.

#i. ( ooc ) — blogaversary 2020

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curiosity-killed · 4 years ago

Text

a bow for the bad decisions: chapter 15

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(on ao3)

He doesn’t avoid her. He doesn’t have to avoid her; she’s a visiting physician and he’s the sect leader. Their paths rarely cross. For the first two weeks, the only time he sees her is at dinner with the other disciples. She sits at a table alongside Xiong Chunfeng and two of the senior assistants, and even in grey rather than blue, she fits. Jiang Cheng’s heart gives a funny stutter at the realization, the ease with which he accepts her place here. Her eyes flick up toward him briefly, and the small smile curving her lips freezes. Catching himself, Jiang Cheng turns away and continues on to his seat with Xingtao and Bujue. He carefully does not look her way for the rest of the meal. He doesn’t want her to feel watched, to feel like she’s under some kind of probation. The last thing he wants is her to feel that she’s a prisoner here. Resolved, he starts taking his dinners privately. There’s still plenty of work left for him to attend to, and taking a break for dinner only means that work is waiting for him when he returns. He starts sending for his dinner to be brought to his study instead. A month into this new routine, he feels someone come to a pause outside his study door and then a short, sharp knock.

“Not right now,” he says absently.

He’s going to take the first night hunt that crosses his desk, no matter how boring it is. The last three hours have been devoted to an absurd complaint between two dyers in Jiangling over the rights to a new mordant they developed together. Each belongs to a different guild, and he has missives from nearly every member of both guilds strewn across his desk; all of them are laden with such absurd jargon that he’s almost ready to give up and tell them to figure it out themselves. As much as he’d like to, though, he can’t let two of the largest textile guilds in Yunmeng fight indefinitely. Still. He’s going to find a night hunt as soon as he can and kill some godsdamned ghosts. Steps cross the floor, and he looks up in irritation in time to see the bottom of a tray before it’s set in the only empty corner of his desk. He blinks and finds Wen Qing frowning down at him. “You aren’t taking care of yourself,” she says shortly. “Your cultivation may be plenty strong for inedia, but neglecting your own care will only injure yourself and your sect.” “I—” Jiang Cheng starts, but he rapidly realizes he has no idea how to finish that sentence. He stares up at her instead, utterly baffled and mouth slightly parted. This is— He was trying to distance himself from her so she didn’t feel undue pressure. She wasn’t supposed to come seek him out over something as absurd as his own dining. “Um. Thank you,” he says before looking down, cheeks warm. She inclines her head slightly, and he finds himself casting desperately for a conversation, for a reason for her to stay even a moment longer. “Healer Xiong says you’ve started assisting with some of the assistants’ training,” he finally says. It isn’t really what he means to say, but it’s the first thing that he seizes on. It has been over a month since she was brought here, after all. Now is a perfectly acceptable time to ask after her adjustment here. “Healer Xiong has been most gracious in inviting me into her lessons,” she affirms. “And your rooms?” he prompts. “The accommodations and food have been to your taste?” Something like frustration crosses her face, a faint pursing of her lips. “Respectfully, Jiang-zongzhu,” she says, “I brought your meal here to encourage rest, not to provide more work.” Heat rushes up his cheeks. The chastisement in her tone is mild but firm, and he finds himself sitting a little straighter under it. She hesitates before sighing. One corner of her lips quirks up, a fleeting half-smile, before she turns a stern look on him. “I’ll provide a full report if you eat your dinner,” she says. It feels a little like he should be offended by her bargaining, and he scowls a moment. He’d expected her to give a terse answer and then leave, surely not wanting to stay around any longer than she had to. He can’t guess what motive she might have for staying, except, perhaps, it is just her diligence as a doctor. In that way, perhaps it makes sense. She’s clearly taken on her responsibilities in the physicians’ office fully, and he is, in that sense, her new sect leader. Of course she’d take this task with all the solemn dedication with which he’s seen her approach every other responsibility. Resolved, he inclines his head in acceptance and gestures for her to sit as well. While she folds down across from him, he sets about rearranging the tray on his desk. It really is only one serving, but there’s a pot of tea and a spare cup that was clearly meant for the sauce in a separate jar. He arranges the dishes so that the proper cup is before Wen Qing and his own is a little hidden by the bowls of braised fish balls and noodles. Though her gaze lingers briefly on the cup, she doesn’t mention it before pouring for both of them. True to her word, Wen Qing doesn’t start to speak until he’s started eating. Her report is brisk and thorough, a decisive run-down of how she’s been integrated into the medical staff and what research she’s begun with Xiong-daifu’s approval. For a moment, Jiang Cheng can see her alongside the rest of them in the war. Healing the wounded and tending the sick, yes — but also as an advisor, with her clear sight and pragmatic analysis. If he had managed to bring her back, persuade her to join their side, would they have lost fewer lives? Would the war have ended any more quickly? He brushes the thought away brusquely. She never would have abandoned her family. The only reason she’s here, after all, is because they’ve already been killed. She wouldn’t be here if every last one of them hadn’t been murdered on that mountain. They discuss the efficiency of the treatment processes within Lotus Pier’s infirmary as well as the state of medicine in the outer cities. Wen Qing frowns over the prevalence of marsh fever among farmers and non-cultivators, and briefly wonders if there might be a way to encourage immunity through spiritual energy infusions in qinghao teas. She pauses before shaking her head and deciding to confer with Xiong-daifu instead. It’s all the kinds of conversations Jiang Cheng dreaded when he was younger — the logistics and minutiae of administration. Instead of being bored, though, he finds himself enjoying sharing them with her. Where he has greater familiarity and experience with Yunmeng’s systems and challenges, she brings a critical eye and clear insight. By the time they both stir enough from their conversation to notice time passing, his dishes have long been stacked neatly back on the tray and set aside, and the teapot is empty and dry as bone. Between them sits a rough draft of a proposal for physicians to train in Lotus Pier before spending a year each serving throughout Yunmeng in villages without sufficient medical care. A junior disciple passes by to light the lotus lanterns, a solemn frown on their still-soft face. Wen Qing looks down at it, her left hand slipping over to cover her fingers. A faint pink flush has started high on her cheeks. “I apologize, I did not mean to take up so much of your time or add to your work, zongzhu,” she says. “No, it’s— I. You have—” he pauses, fumbles for words. “You have good insights. I uh appreciate your thoughts.” She pauses, looking up. There’s a moment where she looks surprisingly young, with her lips parted just-so as if to speak and the lantern light catching in the dark of her eyes. Then she glances down, composing herself and pressing her lips together as she dips her head in a polite acknowledgment. “I appreciate the opportunity to assist however I might,” she says. Of course. She’s used to being the leader of her family, a doctor, a member of the upper court in Qishan — to be forced into idleness would nearly be a punishment. Discussing these matters with him offers more information, more opportunities for her to stay busy. His heart sinks a little in disappointment at the realization. Still — he’s startled and pleased when she returns a few days later, when they start eating together and talking a few times a week. Neither of them make any mention of the new routine, but the tray now often bears two meals and always two cups for tea. After six weeks of this, Jiang Cheng receives reports of a demonic cultivator who’s killed an entire village. “Reports started a few months ago, but when we sent a party out to see to them, they couldn’t find signs of anything more than some restless dead,” Bujue explains as Jiang Cheng trades his formal overrobe for something more practical. “But a merchant passed by yesterday and all of Juxinghu has been massacred.” Tightening his bracer, Jiang Cheng steps around the privacy screen. Not having had to be in diplomatic meetings all morning, Bujue is already ready to go. “Massacred? And you’re certain it’s demonic cultivation?” he asks. Bujue hesitates, drawing in a thin breath, before he exhales and gives a short nod. “I checked the earlier reports and they point to a Qian Xiashui,” he says. “She was cast out of the sect there after she insulted Clan Leader Shi’s second son. They say she started cultivating the ghostly path and threatening to take revenge on the clan if they didn’t comply with her demands.” A sudden wave of fatigue hits Jiang Cheng, and he releases a sigh through his nose. This will end in blood. It always does, in cases like this. He’s so tired of it — tired of cleaning up this, Wei Wuxian’s worst mess, and tired of people taking the skills his brother was forced to learn through desperation and twisting them into something evil and vengeful. Wei Wuxian may have used his cultivation to take revenge on Wen Chao, but he hadn’t chosen this path just for that cause. It’s like all the stories he hears now, of the Yiling laozu’s terrible deeds: stealing babes from cribs, sacrificing virgins to many-handed demons. His brother has become a horrible myth, a cautionary tale. Everyone draws a caricature of him in their minds, and none of them reflect the truth. That Wei Wuxian was arrogant and sharp-tongued and brilliant and deep-hearted. He was a brat and a nuisance, a stubbornly loving brother and unshakeable bulwark. In any world, Jiang Cheng would miss his brother, but he thinks it must be worse like this. The hole in his heart is so often rubbed raw by frequent mention of Wei Wuxian’s name, and yet no one’s memory matches the shape of his cut. Juxinghu is only two hours away by sword, and they take a group of senior disciples this time. There’s no lesson here for the juniors to learn. They pass over the lake itself on the way, little more than a pond but still and clear; the sun hangs like a white cymbal in its flat reflection. Landing outside Shi manor, they step off their swords into an empty road. The gate is ajar, wooden doors hanging off their hinges as if struck by some great blow. The air is still and sticky, the sun a heavy warmth on their shoulders. Spiderlegs shiver up Jiang Cheng’s arms as he orders the group into a defensive formation around the manor. He can feel the resentment already, the slivers pricking at his veins. Qian Xiashui is waiting for them. He and Bujue take point, guarding each other’s open sides. Nudging the gates open, they step inside and stop short. Red. Everywhere — there is — the courtyard is watered in it, lush with scarlet, a summer downpour replaced with blood. Streaks splash down the pale stone walls, lakes puddle up in the divots between stones. The sun is reflected in the pools, a thousand miniatures of the lake beyond the manor walls. In the center is a throne. Tall and misshapen, it lurches up from the garden at odd angles, rounded here and cracked there. It takes a moment for the lines of it to resolve into bodies, into broken backs and twisted arms. Atop them sits a small figure in white. Blood dusts her hem, splatters across the hemp cloth. “Qian Xiashui?” Jiang Cheng calls. A smile cracks across her lips, and she folds her hands before her in a crooked salute. “Sandu Shengshou,” she greets, “have you come to see my work?” Her voice is almost childlike, all bright pleasure. It twists something in Jiang Cheng, tugs at the threads of his spine with innate wrongness. She’s thin and small, could pass for a child if it weren’t for the shadows under her eyes and the hollows in her cheeks. “Why did you murder these people?” Jiang Cheng asks. “For revenge? Because they cast you out?” Her eyes narrow, dark slashes in her pale face. “I didn’t murder anyone, Jiang-zongzhu,” she says, “I brought justice to criminals. I did your job for you.” “You massacred an entire family,” Jiang Cheng snaps, gesturing to the desecrated dead all around them. “What could they have done to you that deserved that?” Her small hands clench into fists, knuckles sticking out bony and white. The smile has faded, turned to something hard and snarling. Around him, he can feel the air shifting, condensing. His hand tightens around Sandu. “What could they do to me?” she echoes. “You think this is about me? You think this is petty revenge?” She stands, and there’s a wet crunch of bone and viscera beneath her feet. “They ruined her,” she snarls. “They took my jiejie and they destroyed her.” Jiang Cheng flinches, startled, even as the corpses start to stir. There is so much rage in her voice, so much wrath — and a chasmic, burning hurt. “Their young masters couldn’t stand her talent and so they ripped her down and they killed her,” Qian Xiashui continues, voice growing stronger as she descends from her corpse throne. “And then, when that wasn’t enough, they desecrated her body and broke her spirit so that she could never come home. So that she could never rest.” Her hand flashes out in the start of a seal, and it’s Bujue who stops her. He flings his sword out, a silver-blue arc. Scarlet spurts out of her wrist, and she stumbles, falls with the sword. It lands point-first, pinning her arm to the bloodied tiles. Caught, Qian Xiashui writhes. Her lips pull back to bare her teeth, expression no longer childish but animalistic. “Why are you defending them?” she screams. “They ruined my sister! They deserve it! They deserve it!” Her howls are ghastly, sobs torn out of a broken throat. Jiang Cheng swallows and forces his feet to move. “You should have reported it to a magistrate or to Lotus Pier,” he says. There’s an order to these things, even if he can’t quite believe it would have mattered. Even small sects like this are fiercely insular and hate intrusions from the larger sects. They would have brushed off any inquiry from Lotus Pier and claimed Qian Xiashui was lying to save face. Now, Qian Xiashui stills, her wrist still pinned to the stones by Bujue’s sword. Her head tilts, brows flattening into a black line and dark eyes disbelieving. Her lips tremble, but not with tears. “I did,” she says, voice even and controlled. “I went to Lotus Pier and was turned away. I told the cultivators what they had done and they said it was none of their business. I waited and they never came.” Her voice rises, turns to a roar as she speaks, and with it, the resentment suddenly picks up. She’s faster than he expected; her hand flicks through her own blood in a simple seal before he can reach her. There’s a snarl and then Bujue’s gasp. Jiang Cheng twists, shoves Bujue behind him. His sword’s still pinning her wrist, still out of reach, he’s unarmed— Jiang Cheng chokes as a clawed hand rips into his side. “Zongzhu!” Laughter rises behind him, wild and off-key. Gritting his teeth, he brings Zidian down in a searing arc to cut the corpse in half. It sways before toppling in a wet thud to the ground. “You’re all the same. All you great houses think you’re so noble. You think you are better than us because you have a foot on our throats.” All around them, the corpses are stirring. Qian Xiashui stands in the center, wrist dripping red, and she burns. “They deserved what they got,” she says calmly. “And now you, noble cultivators, will get what you deserve.” Blood lines his teeth as Jiang Cheng turns back to her, Zidian live in his hand. Bujue has recovered his sword and holds it defensively, guarding his opened side. There are twelve corpses shambling toward them, but that’s not what has Jiang Cheng’s eye: Qian Xiashui holds a talisman in her good hand, and red smoke has started billowing around her. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Qian Xiashui, stop this! You can’t control it. It won’t give you what you want, it will just kill you.” She cocks her head to one side, fury writhing across his features. “I don’t care,” she spits. “I want my sister back. What’s the point of living if she’s not here?” The spirit manifests, all long claws and screaming face. Dismay sinks through Jiang Cheng like a stone but he forces his hand up into the air, a spark of qi enough to send the signal. His disciples descend before Qian Xiashui has a chance to command the spirit. It’s quick work in the end. Most of these cultivators fought at his side in the war. Many of them were there for Nightless City, others still for the siege of the Burial Mounds. Twelve corpses, a single spirit, and a half-crazed demonic cultivator are hardly a stumbling block. The suppression array they’d formed outside the walls bursts into violet light and flattens the corpses, pinning them to the ground. Qian Xiashui screams in anger and the spirit shoots toward Bujue. Jiang Cheng cuts behind it, slides Sandu through her chest. She gasps, gurgles as blood spills into her mouth. Her eyes flick up to him, wide and surprised. Childlike. She has to be close to his age, older than he was when he first went to war. Older than Wei Wuxian was when he died. “You…you killed me?” she says, and her voices comes out soft and shaking. They work together to cleanse the manor, liberating and suppressing what spirits they can. No one will ever be able to live here again. The whole town will need a more thorough cleansing later, something like the music of the Gusu Lan to properly disperse the resentment. He’s too tired now to think about the logistics of that. All of them seem subdued, after. They walk outside the perimeter of the manor and mount their swords in heavy silence. Jiang Cheng holds his side closed and does not think of his brother, does not think of wide eyes and blood on trembling lips. Qian Xiashui was not Wei Wuxian. She was crazed and vengeful. She wasn’t protecting anyone but seeking to destroy. Her death was necessary. The trip back to Lotus Pier is not long enough to make himself believe it. Three other disciples are injured, and two of them support the third, whose leg seems to bend the wrong way at the knee. Xiong-daifu breathes in sharply at the sight of them but doesn’t recoil or fuss. He’s always appreciated that about her. Instead, they’re each delivered to their own spot in the hall, with Jiang Cheng relegated to a private corner due to his rank. It feels silly, to be separated now when they were just equal in bloodshed. Still, he’s a little grateful when he’s pulled off his bloodied robes and hears footsteps round the privacy screen. He’s too tired to feel anything more than resigned at the sight of Wen Qing. He’s sure the mortification will rise up later, when he’s trying to get some sleep. “Fierce corpse,” he says stiffly. “Doesn’t seem too deep, just bloody.” Hurts like hell, too, but it’s hardly the worst he’s had. Adrenaline had kept it from immobilizing his arm, at least. “I’ll be the judge of that,” Wen Qing says. He lets her turn him and start cleaning the injury. Each gentle brush of cloth stings, and he clenches his hand in the bloodied fabric of his skirts. Distantly, he’s almost glad it’s Wen Qing. She’s seen this before, back when they were stuck in Yiling and he was waiting for his body to die. The first time he got injured after the war, Healer Xiong’s eyes had widened and grown wet at the sight of the scars across his back and chest, from where Wen Chao had gotten bored and wanted to see how Jiang Cheng reacted to Wen fire. Wen Qing makes no comment on the scars, doesn’t hesitate to adjust him as she needs to tend to the entire wound. He lets himself drift a little, turning his mind away from any thoughts at all and simply listening to the soft hum of her qi beside him. It’s quieter than most his senior cultivators — not quite as aggressive and thrumming as the golden cores of those who cultivate the sword path seriously. There’s a strength to its quiet, a firm surety in its hum.

“What happened?” He stirs a little, roused by the question. Her hands are steady as she threads neat stitches through his skin, but Wen Qing glances up at him with a furrowed brow. He shrugs his opposite shoulder and swallows. “It lunged for Bujue,” he says. “He didn’t have his sword.” Wen Qing’s hands fall still. Her gaze is still down, eyes hidden by the angle, but he can see the tension in the back of her jaw. He frowns. “So you decided your body would make a good shield,” she surmises, sharp. Her hands start up again, and this time he winces as she yanks the sinew through. “That the sect leader of Yunmeng Jiang should sacrifice his own well-being instead of trusting his lieutenant to protect himself.” His hackles raise. It’s not like he died or abandoned the sect. How could he have let Bujue get hurt? He’d been disarmed, defenseless. Jiang Cheng knew he could take the hit, after all — he’s fought through much worse. “He was disarmed,” he snaps. “I fought in the war; I’ve walked off worse.” “Surviving doesn’t make you invincible,” she shoots back. “It could have taken off your head or disrupted your meridians. This is deep, Jiang Wanyin. As it is, you won’t be lifting this arm for a week. Two weeks, at least, before you can use it for any training.” He recoils and then winces when the needle tugs at his skin. Her hand clamps down hard on his shoulder as she lifts her head to shoot him a venomous gaze. “Don’t you dare move or I will knock you out and make you rest for those two weeks,” she threatens. “I’m not a child,” he says. “I did what I thought was right. I couldn’t let Bujue get hurt, not if I could stop it. He’s family.” “And what if you had died?” Wen Qing snaps. “What if you had died for him and he’d been left? Knowing that you had sacrificed yourself for him, knowing that he was the reason you were dead? What would you have done, if Wei Wuxian had been the one to take the hit in your place?” Flinching, he stares at her with wide eyes even as his hands curl into fists. Wei Wuxian had done the same, had taken a hundred hits for Jiang Cheng. The spring before they went to the Gusu lecture, Wei Wuxian nearly died taking an attack that was meant for Jiang Cheng. He can still picture it: the set of his jaw, the blood running down his chest— Shoving the memories away, he clenches his jaw and scowls back at her. The answer is obvious, of course. He’d hated when Wei Wuxian did it. He still hates him, a little, for dying and leaving him now. Bujue’s always been kinder than him, quicker to forgive, but— Disgruntled, he turns back to the front and doesn’t look at her as she finishes stitching the wound shut and sets to wrapping it. “I didn’t— I’m not trying to. To leave or whatever,” he finally grits out. Wen Qing doesn’t pause as she smooths down the bandage and tucks the end into the wrapping. She doesn’t give any sign of hearing him at all, and irritation rises up Jiang Cheng’s back. What right does she have to judge him for protecting his own? Where does she get any authority to scold him? “There. Don’t jostle that shoulder,” she says, all brisk and professional once more. Gathering his ruined robes around him, Jiang Cheng can’t fight down the sullen frustration still lingering his veins. “I have some tea that will help with the pain,” Wen Qing says. “I’ll bring it with dinner.” She’s carefully not looking at him, and Jiang Cheng can’t quite help the way he perks up at that. There’s nearly a question in her tone, as if she isn’t quite sure that’s welcome. It takes all his restraint to keep from blurting out his relief. Clearing his throat, he tugs his robes closed and shrugs his good shoulder. “Alright,” he says. Wen Qing glances up from where she’s cleaning his blood off her hands. She narrows her eyes at him. “If I found out you’ve been working before then—” she starts. “You’ll stick me full of needles and drop me on my bed,” he huffs, flicking his hand. “I know.” A small smile quirks the corners of her lips before she suppresses it and straightens. Even toweling her hands dry, she looks regal as she lifts her chin to meet his gaze. “As long as we’re on the same page,” she says. “I’ll see you in an hour, zongzhu.” Despite himself, Jiang Cheng leaves the infirmary feeling almost like smiling. He can’t quite make sense of it, shies away from looking too closely. Still it’s…it’s good, he thinks, that Wen Qing came to Lotus Pier. For a few moments, at least, short weeks that stretch into months, he can forget Qian Xiashui’s rage, his brother’s terrified eyes. Something new and bright starts to grow over the deep rot of hurt and guilt and grief in his chest. There is so much wreckage left behind, but saplings are starting to grow through the ruins at last. Looking out over Lotus Pier, Jiang Cheng draws in a deep breath and lets himself feel the first brush of hope. Then, Lan Wangji returns.

#mdzs #cql #the untamed #untamed fic #chengqing #jiang cheng #wen qing #my writing

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930club · 5 years ago

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We recently chatted with Jamie Stillman, owner and mastermind of Akron, Ohio’s Earthquaker Devices, one of the leading innovators in guitar pedals/effects. We touch on everything from general guitar nerdery to how the pandemic is affecting the day-to-day operations of EQD. You can delve more into everything Earthquaker Devices related here.

Dave Kezer [9:30 Club]: There’s a joke that anyone who starts to listen to rap immediately wants to try to rap. It seems like anyone who starts to build guitar pedals immediately thinks they can start a pedal company. What do you think it takes to actually get a company off the ground in a sustainable way?

LOL! I used to make a similar joke that every guitar player with a soldering iron is a pedal company. It used to feel that way, but I think the craze has died down. It takes a lot of patience, hard work, and (possibly most importantly) good ideas to build a stable effect pedal company. They almost always start out as a hobby and it’s good to realize when it has moved beyond that point. In my case, it was very important to realize when I was in over my head and when to bring on people who have real knowledge in handling the business on a day-to-day level and have the ability to look at the bigger picture. I have punk rock business skills which worked up to a point, but I’m better suited to the creative role.

In your EQDQ&A Ep. 1, you joked about how long it took you to truly start understanding the differences/complexities of gear. I nerd out on gear so much that sometimes I lose focus on just enjoying playing instruments for the sake of it. How far is too far when it comes to putting every facet of gear under the microscope?

I think the threshold is different for everyone. There are people who won’t settle down until every piece of gear they own is top of the line and Reddit approved and there are people who don’t give a shit if their cable crackles if it moves a certain way. I put myself in the middle. I don’t really care about the proven quality or name brand of whatever I’m using, and I just make sure it works 100% of the time whenever possible. I make an exception on pickups, cables and power supplies because I think those are the most important part of the equation for me personally. I’ll always use the best I can find, and I decide what is best by putting it to use and seeing how it performs.

Your feature on the Rainbow Machine focuses on the usability of weird pedals. Have you designed something so weird that it is truly unusable?

Personally, I don’t find the Rainbow Machine to be so weird, but a lot of other people do, so we ran with that. I know the “pixie trails” function of the Magic switch is obnoxious, but I think it’s cool. There are way weirder pedals out there, lol. I’ve definitely designed things that I thought were cool but not exactly functional in every setting, but I usually work to make them more multi-dimensional. There’s only one that I’ve been working on for a really long time that has a million controls with minimal functionality. I’m not sure I’ll ever finish it but it’s (kind of) fun to keep trying once or twice a year when the mood strikes.

Are there any guitars that you’re completely satisfied with and won’t continue to modify? It seems like for gear people (myself included), a piece of gear will operate at 99% of its maximum potential, but the search for that 1% will make your brain itch forever and lead to continued modification.

No, I constantly modify all of my guitars lol. I change pickups a lot, more than anyone should. The closest I think I’ve gotten to “perfection” would be my stock Nash Telecaster and a heavily modded Fender Jazzmaster. The Jazzmaster is a 60th anniversary that I gutted and replaced almost everything except the neck and body. It has Seymour Duncan custom shop ’59 humbuckers for Jazzmaster with 500K push/pull pots for coil tapping and the rhythm circuit is removed. It also has locking tuners, a Mastery vibrato, bridge, and string tree. It still feels too new, but it sounds perfect.

Your Reverb “Does This Work?” interview focuses on old effects and their tendency to break down over time. What are the typical things that cause old circuits to stop working?

In my experience it has been dust, humidity, and neglect resulting in bad switches, corroded solder joints, cracked wires and dried caps. I never get around to fixing my old gear though. I’ll get in there if I really want to use something, but I’ll usually turn it over to Joe Golden, our in-house repair wizard. Most of the broken gear in the Reverb video is still broken…

Two of my favorite EQD pedals are the Tentacle and the Acapulco Gold, if not simply because there are one/no options to choose from when getting sounds. I tend to get freaked out when I see a pedal that has 4+ knobs, which is something I’m working on, haha. Where do you draw the line when it comes to simplicity vs. versatility when designing pedals?

I used to have a “whatever it takes” approach to design as long as it wasn’t confusing for the general user, but I’ve been moving towards a “less is more” approach. I don’t think pedals should require hours of reading manuals and menu diving to use. The faster you can get to making actual music the better. That’s not to say I don’t have some elaborate, sometimes confusing, products in the pipeline but I’m generally leaning towards simple design.

Don’t mean to be a bummer, but I have to ask — how has the pandemic affected EQD’s business operations? If I understand correctly — it seems like your builders are assembling pedals at home?

We have taken the pandemic very seriously. We knew the shutdown was coming and some of our employees had already been working to get things in place to make the transition to home building as easy as we could. We had almost 50 employees working from home for almost three months and the production capacity was greatly reduced. We didn’t ship any product for about two months. We kept all the employees on the payroll and had regular Zoom meetings to keep everyone up to date on what we were doing. Now, as of June 16, 2020, we are still mostly working from home but we have a skeleton crew in the shop so we can populate PCB’s more efficiently and start shipping product. We completely rearranged the shop to spread people out and invested a lot of time and money into making it a safe and sanitary workspace. We have gone above and beyond all the recommended protocols — too many precautions to list. It would be very hard to catch any illness inside EQD now.

Do you have a favorite “Let’s Go!” guitar riff? For example, whenever I’m driving and “Unchained” comes on the radio, I dime the volume and start driving like a complete lunatic.

I’m pretty reserved but, oddly enough, “Unchained” is also one of my favorite riffs ever! I think I play it at least once every time I pick up a guitar. Also a big fan of “Siberian Khatru” by Yes once it kicks in. Same with “In the Light” and “Rain Song” by Led Zeppelin and anything on Sonic Youth’s Sister. I guess these are more riffs that I wish I wrote than riffs that make me lose my shit. I guess most of them also make me sound like a real dad rocker too.

Is there a piece of gear you’ve spent a completely stupid amount of money on simply because you had to have it?

Yes, a Sunn Model T and it was worth every penny! It’s the most perfect amp I’ve ever owned.

Not asking you to talk smack, but do you have a “Dumbest Pedal Ever Designed” award in your head?

I’ll keep my mouth shut on this one.

Finally, have you been through D.C. while touring or seeing shows? Anything about D.C. venues or the music scene in general you’d like to share?

I’ve been through D.C. about six or seven times, maybe more. I’ve always held D.C. in high regard because of Dischord records and bands like Ignition, Bad Brains, Jawbox, Fugazi, etc. 9:30 Club is actually one my favorite venues ever. I’ve been through twice when I was tour managing and the staff was super friendly and accommodating, which is unfortunately rare in the touring world. It also has the best green room of any venue I ever worked in; the bunks are a nice touch!

— Dave Kezer

#9:30 interview #930 interview #earthquakerdevices #jamie stillman

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deliasbabygirl-blog · 6 years ago

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Don’t Want to be Alone Tonight

Summary: The reader is shattered, devastated after a breakup with the woman she loves, but she knows exactly where to go, what to do, and who to find to help her mend her broken heart. Inspired by “Dancing with a Stranger” by Sam Smith and Normani.

Request/Prompt: 87. “You taste so sweet, honey.” - Anonymous

Pairing: Sally McKenna x Reader

Word Count: 1,516

A/N: so, i accidentally completely fell in love with sally while writing this and watching hotel at the same fucking time aihaafsldfjn send help! this is smutty with mentions of death and blood.

I don’t want to be alone tonight, it’s pretty clear I’m not over you

I’m still thinking ‘bout the things you do, so I don’t wanna be alone tonight

The darkened skies above poured their despair over the crowded sidewalks, trembling the city with thunderous screams. People rushed with blurry umbrellas and sloshing boots, scurrying across the dim streets and into separate buildings hiding from the storm. Horns blared from troubled cars too anxious to withstand traffic, taxis risking their passengers’ lives dashing between the clutters of vehicles hydroplaning on lying puddles.

Heels steady against the slippery concrete, you continued swaying toward a familiar building, the intoxication flooding your veins, blurring your vision of the passersby. Someone shouted asking if you were alright, you thought, but your cotton mouth could not form the words. Instead, you remained silent, clutching the bottle of wine, tears streaming through the makeup painting your cheeks.

Though your thoughts were muffled, suffocating voices in your head, you could still hear your own screams finding your apartment empty of her. She had collected anything her money had purchased, anything she desired, stripped it from the home you thought you shared. Neglecting to leave a note, she tossed your furniture and abducted your favored bedding. She was gone, and so was your home.

Can you light the fire? I need somebody who can take control

I know exactly what I need to do

Approaching the doors burning vivid within your mind, you yanked one open with desperation, with anger, with determination. “Hotel Cortez,” you stated as though intoxicatingly greeting an old friend. “Hello, Miss Ethel,” you cooed toward the woman behind the regal check-in desk. “The remodel looks lovely, don’t you agree?”

“She’s at the bar, dear,” the older woman shooed you, your demeanor familiar to her, your mission the same as always, you knew your darkened eyes gave it away. “But be careful, she might not let you leave this time.”

With a weak, humorous shrug, you chuckled. “Maybe I won’t.” The older woman widened her eyes at your word, but you ignored further conversation, neglected to explain the meaning behind your weighted words. You swallowed a burning amount of the remaining crimson liquid within your bottle, stumbling toward the mentioned corridor at the top of the staircase.

Leaning against the upper railing, the woman you sought after awaited you, surely smelling your perfume three blocks away. Tears already tickled down her cheeks, over her smudged red lips, her mascara dark, smeared around her sad eyes. “Hello, Sally,” you purred with arrogance laced in your words.

She practically leaped into your arms, spinning the pair of your around, her body cold against yours. “Y/N, you came back! I knew you would!” she cooed over you, her fingers running through your hair as though you would turn around and disappear again. She held your face in her hands, ran her fingers over your shoulders, down your arms, back to your cheeks. “You’ve been crying,” she frowned.

Taking one of her chilled hands within yours, you offered her a weak smirk. “Let’s not focus on that right now, sweet girl,” you finished off the wine, dropping the bottle to the floor, the shatter of its glass comforting to you. “How is my girl?” Slamming her against the railing, eliciting a groan from her throat, you kissed her smudged lips with need, urgency.

The clearing of a throat abducted your attention for the desperate whore in your arms, an incredible Liz Taylor cocking a brow at you from behind the bar. “Would you like the usual, Y/N?” Nodding, you led the blonde into the bar, sitting the pair of you at the counter, her hands finding your thighs.

Two cigarettes appeared between your faces, each of you taking one, and she grinned mischievously before taking a long drag. You watched her carefully, you mind blurring more with each passing moment, heading tilting taking her in. From her cheetah fur coat to her tight black dress, her worn out heels housing her bluish feet.

Though you didn’t smoke the tobacco stick, you remained holding it between your fingers, awaiting the strong alcohol that would soon burn its way down your throat, numbing whatever remnants of pain lingered within your heart, within your damn heart. “My girlfriend left me,” you muttered stupidly, watching the glass lowering to the counter before you.

A gentle gasp fell from the blonde before she erupted into laughter, unsurprising to you. “I told you she would, Y/N. Only I can love you forever. No one else will,” she chuckled, drawing another breathe of smoke into her lungs, but tears startled pooling in the corners of her eyes. “I told you. But you didn’t believe me, and so I let you leave to find out.”

Downing the shot offered beside your glass, you grinned, nodding, feeling that orgasmic fire scarring your throat. “That you did, Sally. And I really appreciate you doing that for me.” Glancing over the rim of your usual, you watched her despair transform to pride from your reassuring words that she was right, that you knew she was right. “Ready?”

Look what you made me do, I’m with somebody new

Ooh, baby, I’m dancing with a stranger

Teeth sunk deep into the sensitive skin of your neck, your back slamming against the locked door. A deep groan vibrated within you, her hands wasting little time unzipping your dress. “Oh, sweet girl,” you moaned, kicking your heels from your feet. Her tongue traced along the bulging vein within your neck, the need growing between your thighs.

You shoved the coat from her arms, throwing it absentmindedly, feeling the smooth, chilled skin along her arms. If she weren’t dead you were positive her petite frame would restrict her but she lifted you, carrying you to the mattress as your lips reunited. The taste of vodka and saltine tears brought awareness that she was crying, again, her tears alluring for it was her heart’s pain proving too much for her own body to handle.

Once the fresh cotton sheets touched your back, you realized your dress had fallen from your frame somewhere between the door and the bed. You tangled your fingers within her coarse hair, feeling her hungry kisses down your torso, her own hand quite literally ripping your lace panties off. “Hmm,” she hummed. “I missed your smell. Tell me you love me.”

“I love you, Sally,” you practically whined, her finger lightly running over your clit. She begged for you to repeat it, replacing her single finger with her lips, kissing the hardening bundle gently. “I love you, and I’m not leaving this time.”

She appeared satisfied with your honesty for you felt her mouth parting and her tongue flattening between your folds, licking you as though you were her final meal. “You taste so sweet, honey,” she purred against you, your back arching off of the bed, the room spinning within your mind. Nothing existed on the planet other than you and the woman greedily eating you.

Girl, I need to get you off my mind, I know exactly what I have to do

I don’t wanna be alone tonight

“Oh fuck!” you cried feeling her two fingers thrusting into your dripping cunt, the puddle building beneath your ass. Her lips returned to yours, kissing you with such urgency you could hardly breathe, but you no longer needed to breathe, you just needed to feel this woman’s love and adoration of you.

The feeling of her fingers curling within your core caused your body to tremble like the skies outside, your hips rising and falling, basking in whatever friction you could obtain with her skillful thrusts. “You’re never leaving,” she cried against your lips, and you nodded with a whisper. “Never.”

“Such a sweet girl,” you moaned, echoing off the surrounding walls as your spasm overtook you, the feeling rushing from your body, down your ass, coating her hand. Suddenly, a sharp, excruciating pain curled around your throat, blood erupting from the wound, and as your vision blurred, hands reaching for your neck, Sally grinned down at you, her tears falling to kiss your eyes.

Awakening, the darkness clearing, you noticed you were in the entrance corridor of the hotel, Sally standing, smiling, only a few feet away from you, tears streaming, bottom lip quivering, but a smile nonetheless. “You promised you weren’t leaving this time,” she chuckled childishly, a cigarette in between her fingers. “I made sure of it.”

Shaking your head, you sauntered toward her, the thin carpeting soft on your bare feet. “I see that. Slitting my throat, really? You couldn’t slip me something,” you teased, wrapping your arms around her waist. You cupped her cheek within your palm, watching as she melded into it before you kissed her sweetly. “Now, shall we continue were we left off?”

She adorable tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, releasing a giggle expressing she was happy you were now forever hers, and you knew that it would never be a bad thing to be loved so obsessively.

#sally mckenna x reader #hypodermic sally x reader #sally mckenna imagine #ahs imagine

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gg-astrology · 6 years ago

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hello!!! it’s me again hehe.... i just wanted to ask do the rulers of your rising sign affect on how people see you? for example!! i have a 16° (2nd decan) scorpio rising, with my rulers on (7°) 4H pisces mars and (18°) 2H sag pluto!! and i honestly don’t think i’m intimidating (or intense?) at all!! (maybe it’s my 2nd decan scorp rising) but any thoughts on this? tysm!! 🥰🥰🥰

Hey there!! 💕💕💕 Aaah everytime I see your name I just bust the biggest uwu!! 💕💕 (all the fan-meeting content with the boys in cute head-gears are so wonderful as well, so my mood is: high) 💕💕💕

This is so interesting?? 💕💕I took some time to think about it, and it seems to be something people come to realize, expect or become a part of ‘how’ they get to know you? 💕

Chart Rulers n (kinda) How it works with ASC (brief) ⬇️

Your chart ruler will probably have an effect on what you know about yourself as well (since thats essentially the 1st house ruler) 💕

*ALSO whatever placement you have in your 1st house!!! Is also!!! Important!!!! This doesn’t neglect from that!!! 💕💕💕 Pls remember!! 💕💕

Anyways, it can also contextualize things because it’s supposed to lie in certain houses (like your pisces Mars in 4th, sag pluto in 2nd) – giving context clues as to ‘where’ you belong and what you’re known for/best realized in (*aspects to angles can also indicate this as well) 💕

Like imagine your ascendant going ‘hello! 💕I will be your guide for today! 💕’ and leading the gaggle of tourists to your chart ruler ( ‘and here we observe x in their natural habitat’) as a part of a ‘tour in getting to know ‘you’’ – is how I’d imagine it? 💕(as part of the ‘components’ of you) 💕

For me, how I’d observe this in in what house it lies in (the chart rulers) and what connection is it making (aspects)? 💕I kinda start to realize how people approach me, what for. What they’re relying/depending on me for, what they know me as and how I come across through that? 💕

It’s an accumulation of descriptions people give about you, that’s not necessarily what you see yourself coming from, but resonates with what they came to realize/perceive you as as well? 💕

It’s kinda like not exactly knowing why people say you’re nice or like this/that – but also having a vague idea/clue about how they could’ve picked up on that from an interaction you’ve had together. That becomes a ‘defining’ factor for them, and their impression of you sometimes? 💕

Let’s work through some examples?

Like with me, I have a Sagittarius ascendant and a Sagittarius Jupiter (chart ruler) in 12th. It’s conjunct to my Venus (Sag) as well.

But I zoom in on the 12th house part of it and start to realize there’s a reason people come to me for help with self-realization (self-help) stuff? 💕

That’s the influence of my 12th house where my chart ruler lies, but it also influences how got to ‘know’ me as well (or realize things about me, past my Sagittarius ascendant) 💕

Contextually – I like being alone, quiet things, one on one conversations. I like to direct my energy that way– when I’m not ‘forced’ to interact but can do so with my own time, pace, energy if I need it. When I have ‘space’. And that’s a part of the 12th house as well.

As my chart ruler– it’s literally telling me I do better when I can have a personal channel with someone in order to connect and contribute this way? 💕 And that’s when it manifests best.

But it’s also telling me I’m a stickass for helping people when I can’t help myself, or don’t know myself all that well yet (which leads to embarrassment later for me to go through ksjdnk)

Whatever house your chart ruler lies in doesn’t indicate ‘good’ or ‘bad’ — it’s just things being things, put into a context for you to see, realize and work on skdjnf

So let’s look at you. Scorpio rising with your chart ruler being in 4th and 2nd. What does the sign say about your traits? Pisces can be homebodies, can find comfort in being ‘in touch’ with themselves (but not too much because otherwise its 🤪’time to yeet’ for them) escapism when conflict arises from someone else (escalation in tension/emotions/anger) – also a sense of self-isolation for self-preservation (protecting themselves from danger)

But also a sense of acceptance in allowing others to ‘feel’ things and talk about it– listener and confidant, a safe space for people to go to if it’s not too heavy. If others can accept you, then you can accept them (*not always since you do tend to have good judgment on who deserves and doesn’t deserve your ‘acceptance’). If you vibe that they’re ‘good’ (and low-maintenance let’s be serious) and they help make you feel ‘not anxious’ around them (comfortable) – then it’s all good with you.

Comfort is a thing, y know? You want to be stress-free or comfortable in a ‘safe space’. And that space sometimes is the home or those around you, it’s the ‘i dont want to be alone’ but at the same time not wanting to push/exert yourself into a high-energy side of you. Just a comfortable– relaxed, accepted state.

On the other hand, you also have Sagittarius Pluto in 2nd. Making moves, acquiring skills and goals. Ambition and desire to accumulate and make changes (or add coins into the piggy back you call ‘self’ or ‘value’ – or ‘self-value/worth’ sometimes) An enthusiast and connoisseur ™️ for the Things in life.

Things that would serve a purpose after they’re bought/acquired. Things that can be referred to or used repeatedly. Things that isn’t expendable or disposable after one time usage. Harder to acquire things– whether it’s objects, values, philosophical ideas (self-love, self-care) things that can make changes bigger than just what it is (an idea, a book, clothes that can be styled so many different ways and become a ‘stable’ in your closet)

So what does this all have to do with your chart ruler and ascendant? It’s how people get to know you, impressions of you (part of it, part of the components) and how they perceive you.

People take note of this ‘value/worth’ quality in you from your 2nd house Sag Pluto, they may realize that you’re more interested in what to do with it rather than the thing itself as well. They may be fascinated with how you do it, how you just gravitate or naturally look past the initial and straight into the application/execution of the idea. What knowledge you’ve accumulated, what your insights and perceptions are. What and how it changes things.

They can also notice how you accumulate those things– keep it safe from other’s hands ( since the 2nd house is the ‘self’ and the 8th house talks about ‘others’ ) you’re not necessarily the sharing type, but more like the person who has all these things and is doing something with it and people are taking notice of it.

If I call you possessive would that be a fair observation? Sometimes you just don’t want to share, or hold yourself back from doing so unless it’s something you unclench your fist for ( clenching your fist around the 2nd house and calling it ‘mine, my safety/security, nobody is taking it from me’) – it’s not necessarily a bad thing, in fact most people probably realize your personal space and need for security with it. But also what you’ve accumulated as part of yourself/your self-worth as well.

Another component to your ASC + Chart Ruler component is this Pisces Mars in 4th. When you’re at home – you’re different. Well, not different. But if you have a comfortable and Good home environment (people who are good for you around you) you’re much more relaxed and less tense/nervous than how you are than say – another house.

It’s like coming home to see you chilling on the couch doing your thing, watching something or drawing/writing whatever it is you do. Having a catch up on What Goeth On outside in the individual daily life and just– y know, generally keeping the tension-low in the home/personal environment.

If there IS tension, it’s like your escapism kicks in. Either your anxiety rise and you scurry to try to fix it right away (because you know it’ll be a bigger problem later and you’ll drown in self-demotivation) or you plug in the ear phones and leave to go to bed (and chill in there until it’s over).

These becomes things that defines part of your ASC as it’s chart rulers, and outlines things that will need to be dealt with or talked about as well. Sometimes it’s just taking notice of the way people treats you, and how it progresses from first impressions -> seeing you in different environment/context (4th house especially, like when they live with you) or just the trait they came to realize about you as you ‘let them in’ sometimes. 💕

Also sometimes its just.. hmm... the houses itself, the 4th house and the 2nd house-- perhaps the themes around those houses such as family, home/domestic life, private situation or personal stories. As well as ‘how to..’ do something situation can be how/what people approach you for as well? 💕 Word of advice and comfort, or your ‘expertise’ on subjects they perceive you to have good energy in (2nd or 4th)

So yeah!! 💕 It’s not necessarily intimidating, since we’re not just looking at Mars and Pluto but where they are, in what signs? 💕There’s obviously more to you than just your chart ruler, but it’s a really cool thing isn’t it?? 💕💕

Anyways, I hope this kinda helps?? ;; or answer your ask?? 💕💕💕 Thank you for sending it in!!! 💕💕💕And i hope you have a good day!! 💕💕

#astrology asks #chart rulers #mars #pluto #4th house #2nd house #jupiter #sagittarius #scorpio #pisces #ascendant asks #nyam2seok #asks

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violetsmoak · 5 years ago

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Appetence [8/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn’t expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #cemetery #paranormal investigator

First Chapter

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

Jason is actually surprised when his office isn’t immediately descended upon by bats or birds or other nasty little creatures of the night.

It makes him like Red Robin—Tim—a little more.

(Not that he didn’t already.)

It may or may not have been one of the reasons he had to bail so fast the other night. The combination of not wanting to discuss his avoidance of Gotham, and the pained, earnest expression on Tim’s face when he asked about it. The one that made Jason feel guilty about it—which, why should he feel guilty, he doesn’t even know the kid—and sent him peeling out of the bar as fast as possible.

Of course, he doesn’t really think he’s going to be able to avoid Tim forever. There’s still that dark presence attached to him; one he needs to find out more about before he can do anything about it.

Still, it’s not an imminent threat, and he’s not sure how to broach that conversation.

By the way, you have this kind of shadow following you? It’s bigger than I’ve ever seen on anyone before. Might want to do something about that. Oh, how do I know? Yeah, I happen to see ghosts.

Tim might be used to all kinds of weird shit since he’s from Gotham, but admitting that you see dead people is something even established occultists don’t do on the regular. Either you end up being solicited for all kinds of ridiculous requests about the afterlife or have someone get offended and angry because they think you’re lying to them.

Or, you know, thrown into an asylum for talking to people no one can see.

In his experience, none of those things are fun.

And then there’s the other thing.

The small but strong, smooth voice, and the slightly too-long hair and the eyes that look as deep and dangerous as the Atlantic—Tim apparently checks all of Jason’s boxes and they’ve only met the one time.

Or more than one time, as it turns out. He just wasn’t aware of it.

“You know, you might be talented in other ways, but those fries aren’t going to burst into flame if you keep glaring at them.”

Jason glances up to where Trista is doing her weekly inventory; the pub is empty but for Jason, who was feeling too lazy to walk a few blocks to the local grocery for an actual healthy lunch.

“Who says I’m trying?”

“Oh, no, you see, that was my clever way of initiating a conversation without it seeming out of the blue. You’ve obviously got something on your mind.”

“I have a lot on my mind. Constantly. Most of it related to the sad sacks milling around waiting for me to solve their problems.”

“But that’s not what that is this time,” she points out. “This time I think it’s got something to do with the pretty boy who came in here the other night.”

“You’ve been sampling your own product.”

“Shut up, you know I’m a teetotaler. And I’ve seen you beat people up for less than looking at one of the girls out there the way you were looking at Blue Eyes. He can’t be older than the kids that run for the mafia.”

“He’s almost eighteen,” Jason says defensively, and then feels the blood rush from his face, because oh god, I’m trying to justify it what is wrong with me?

That earns a raised eyebrow from the bartender. “And how do you know that? Did you Face-Stalk him the minute you noped out of here?”

“Did I…what?” Jason asks, staring at her in puzzlement. He knows what the words mean individually, but the meaning behind what she’s suggested is lost on him.

Trista sighs. “How do I know more millennial slang than you do? You’re like ten years younger than me.”

“Because I was dead and you’re forever young at heart?”

“Smooth. You’re still paying for your fries.”

Jason makes a face at her but is relieved when she leaves the subject alone. Trista might tease and caution, but she doesn’t pry; just waits for the story to tumble out on its own.

Must be some kind of barkeep skill. But it’s not going to work today.

He tosses a twenty on the table—well beyond what the chips are actually worth—and heads back to his office.

Settling back at his desk, behind the clunky computer that looks like it might be as old as Jason, he scowls at the screen.

He might not know what ‘Face-Stalk’ means, but he can guess. And it hits a little too close to home.

Jason may or may not have spent the morning after his little interview with Tim doing research on his replacement, learning whatever he could about Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne.

And doesn’t that complicate things. The little shit neglected to mention that little tidbit.

Jason never bothered learning much about the Robins who came after him; it was too painful a reminder of a life that was no longer his. Of a family that moved on so easily following his death that they stuck another kid in the suit like Jason had never worn it.

Because of how often the world is in some kind of peril, he was never completely ignorant of them. He’s seen broadcasts of big showdowns in California and other places where Capes get together and get their hero on. He had watched his replacement and Nightwing joking and laughing, closer than Jason and Dick had ever been and decided he didn’t want to know anything more.

He’s starting to see why that might have been an oversight on his part.

It seems Tim Drake lived a few estates down from Wayne manor. They were goddamn neighbors and Jason never knew.

Which is a shame.

He could have used actual friends as the newly adopted son of Bruce Wayne; it might have made the transition easier. If he’d had someone to fall back on, someone outside of the Mission to talk to about what he was feeling, maybe he might not have been so determined to go to Ethiopia.

“Well, now, that’s not true,” Sheila says, making Jason jump as she suddenly materializes in thin air. “You were going to come looking for me no matter what.” He shoots her a glare. “You realize you’re talking out loud, right?”

“And you realize most people give a warning before they walk into another person’s living space?” he retorts. “I could have been doing anything in here.”

Sheila pretends to examine the water damage in the corner of the office. “As if you’re that interesting.”

“Is there something you need?”

“To move on.”

“Please, be my guest.”

She glares at him. “I would if you weren’t so thick.”

“If you’re going to start with that shit again, you can go back to wherever you go when you’re not here,” he grumbles. “I’m not in the mood for this argument again.”

“That’s not actually why I’m here,” Sheila replies.

“Oh, really? Imagine that.”

She ignores that. “The boy is dangerous. You should stay away from him.”

“Of course he’s dangerous, he was trained by B.”

“Not for that reason. You know what I’m talking about.” She shivers—if ghosts can actually shiver. “That shadow that’s attached to him. It’s feeding. On him. On others. You should stay away.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “On a normal person, that might actually sound like motherly concern. But we both know that’s not your thing.”

“You’re right. If that thing decides to make a meal out of the stubborn little medium, I’m stuck here for all eternity.”

“And there it is.”

“Self-preservation is not a sin,” Sheila informs him, before vanishing.

“Having selfish motives is,” Jason mutters to himself, as he goes back to his work.

But the fact is, if Sheila’s uneasy about the aura Tim’s giving off, that’s a bigger problem than he thought. For the most part, ghosts and spirits don’t interact with one another. They need a human conduit or emotion to use as grounding. If a malevolent presence is strong enough to disturb the personal sphere of other ghosts as well as the living, then that suggests a growing nexus of negative energy.

And any number of bad things can come from that.

Jason’s research has so far confirmed what Tim had said about his parents’ deaths—the potential reason the kid’s aura got disturbed in the first place. Negative energy needs some kind of disruption or inciting incident to thrive, and that’s probably what kicked it off. Both of them were murdered—one poisoned in a voodoo ritual, the other butchered by Captain Boomerang a few years later.

And that’s not the last time Death took someone from you, is it?

As a vigilante, he lost teammates—the Super kid and the tiny speedster. Bruce’s death, however temporary, still happened, still hurt. And then there’s the entire year and a half where the newest Robin, Bruce’s son, doesn’t appear anywhere. Tim mentioned it was because he was dead, and whatever his personal feelings are toward the kid, he couldn’t have not been affected by the death of an eleven-year-old that for all intents and purposes is his little brother. More recently, the public record notes the death of Tim’s stepmother from an apparent suicide in a psychiatric facility.

All that trauma and death happening to him so close together would explain a dark presence clinging to him, at least to some degree. But it shouldn’t be as dense as it is. Negative energy like that is supposed to dissipate as a person deals with whatever is causing it—in this case, grief.

So either he’s not dealing with it—which is possible considering his mentor and considering how most Capes like to brush the emotional shit under the rug—or something about him is actively drawing it to him. To it.

It sort of reminds him of something John told him he encountered in Japan, but he can’t remember the specifics.

Jason thinks the catalyst might be related to something Tim didn’t mention, the part of the story he obviously skipped over when it looked like he was reliving something traumatic.

Joker-related traumatic.

Somehow he doubts Tim will be as forthcoming with that experience as he was giving the rundown of the year Jason missed. If only there was a way to start that conversation in an inconspicuous way…

Of course, that would mean starting a conversation first. Which depends on whether he calls me or not.

Reflexively, he digs his phone out to check if there have been any missed calls and then shoves it away when he realizes what he’s doing.

He is not waiting by the phone for him to call. If this were an imminent problem, he could easily get in contact with Tim—he highly doubts the number to Wayne Manor has changed, and even if it has, it’s just a matter of calling the company line at WE and finding someone to let him speak to Tim Wayne.

(And yes, he might have found out where he worked. But that’s public record, and not an indication of any other untoward interest.)

But it’s not an imminent problem, and he’s not getting involved unless Tim asks him to, and even then he’ll probably stay out of it because he promised himself when he came back to Gotham he would avoid any drama related to the Bats.

Even if one of them is really hot.

Jailbait, he reminds himself doggedly. Jailbait, jailbait, jailbait-with-Batman-as-a-stand-in-father. Just an all-around bad idea.

And so, Jason dutifully closes down the webpages and ridiculous amount of open tabs on his browser and prepares himself to do some actual work related to his job.

The low-paying, barely acceptable job…

He spends a few days building up his business, putting the word out about his services and specialties. He makes rounds to suppliers that John told him about, stocks up on the usual staples like candles and holy water takes on the occasional haunting (and is forced to desecrate a grave or two in the process when the spooks get nasty).

Things are actually going well for a while, enough so that he (almost) forgets about Tim and his shadowy parasite, doesn’t have to deal with anymore cryptic warning visits from Sheila and even starts to relax into an honest-to-goodness routine.

Of course, it’s too much to expect that the brief lull can continue in peace. Tim’s promise not to say anything or not, it’s only a matter of time before Batman cottons on to Jason’s presence. Red Robin might be on the outs with him and the rest of the family for whatever reason, but he doubts anything would be bad enough to keep the former Boy Wonder from sharing such a juicy tidbit as Jason’s resurrection and return to Gotham.

Considering his background, the kid probably feels too much of an obligation to Bruce not to say anything. And buried beneath layers of denial and his own naïve plans, Jason knows there was never a scenario where he could stay under Bruce’s radar for the rest of his life.

Not as long as he decided to stay in Gotham.

But because this is Jason, so of course everything whatever he’s involved in always goes to shit, he doesn’t wake up in his office-cum-bedroom one night with the lights cut and Bruce looming over him in the dark.

Instead, he gets attacked while in the middle of burning remains in a graveyard.

Or, about to burn some remains.

One minute, he’s standing over the freshly dug grave with his lighter and accelerant, surgical mask and visor on because that shit burns—the next, he’s being hauled backward and knocked into a headstone, tools going flying.

When he looks up, his breath gets stuck in his throat.

Five years later, and he still feels like a snot-nosed kid staring up at the Bat in stunned amazement. Even though he’s long since caught up to him in height (there might be an inch or two difference, but he’s not sure how much of that is from the cowl) and musculature, he feels like a colt beside a stallion.

And beyond the mask, and the cape and the only face Gotham’s underbelly knows, he can sense the steely blue gaze of the man who put him on his life’s path.

The only father that ever really mattered to him, when it came down to it.

“Damn. I didn’t even hear you,” he remarks as he struggles to his feet, surprised his voice remains level. “I forgot you can be freakishly quiet.”

He blames not hearing the approach because of the noise filters in his ears—blocking ghosts has the nasty side-effect of blocking some of the living, too. He’s trained himself to listen for a normal person sneaking up on him—not too hard, considering most night watchmen or security guards make more noise than they realize—but Bruce isn’t exactly normal.

“There have been seven grave desecrations in the past month,” he growls at him in full Batman voice, and Jason swallows.

Not from fear, but because he had forgotten. How had he forgotten what that sounds like?

“The GCPD wants to know why. I don’t care. I want it to stop.”

There’s an implicit threat--an ultimatum there.

And it hits Jason, then: Bruce doesn’t recognize him.

He has no idea who he is, and it’s not just because his face is covered.

Tim really didn’t say anything to him.

Jason’s not sure what he’s more surprised about, that his replacement kept his word or that Bruce didn’t just jump him from behind and tie him up.

From what Jason remembers, he only ever went for the dramatic entrance on nights when he was looking for a fight.

Which, if that’s the case…shit.

“Okay, chill,” Jason says slowly. “Believe it or not, I’m past the need to do things the violent way first.

Batman looms, exuding menace. “And yet you have no problem violating graves.”

“I’d ask you to let me explain, but we both know you won’t believe a word I say. So…actions speak louder than words, right? I’m just going to take off my gear—”

Immediately, a batarang slices into the hand Jason moves, and it’s only training that turns it into a flesh wound instead of a worse injury. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Jason narrows his eyes.

And there’s the inflexibility. How much I didn’t miss that.

He forgot how sometimes, the only way to make Bruce listen to something was to grab his attention in other ways.

“Okay, you paranoid son of a bitch,” he mutters and rolls his shoulders. “Now it’s on, just on principle.” He shifts his stance. “Let’s boogie.”

If the words throw Bruce off, there’s no outward indication. He charges forward with intent, and without hesitation; Jason meets him the same way.

The older man’s body twists, bringing momentum to the downward punch meant to knock Jason out with one blow, but he braces, is surprised to catch it before it connects.

If Batman is surprised, he doesn’t show it; he’s already moving, left knee jerking up to hit him in the chest—Jason moves back enough to avoid that, but not the snap of the foot that catches him in the chest, sending him flying backward.

Jason doesn’t linger on the ground to recover, instead rolls forward and to his feet, then charges, vaults over a headstone to achieve lift, and aims a kick to the side of Batman’s head. The vigilante avoids it, and when Jason tries to follow up with an overhand hammer fist, he catches that, too.

Shit.

Realistically, he knows he doesn’t have a chance in Hell of beating Batman. Maybe in another life, if he kept training like his mentor, he likes to imagine he would have surpassed Bruce. Jason always had a raw strength to him, forged in the streets that no billionaire’s coddled son could have, no matter how many martial arts he studied and how many masters he learned from.

But Jason didn’t get that life, he got this one, and he’s learned to roll with the punches—literally.

They fight, trading blows and blocks. Jason is surprised that despite being a little rusty when it comes to close combat, he’s still able to keep up—still able to meet each blow and to even take a hit that he’s seen down a man twice his size.

Either I’m better than I thought, or he’s slowed down over the years.

Both options are as equally unlikely as the other.

The two men grapple for a bit, and Jason can’t help running his mouth, because that’s how he always fought.

And because he’s suddenly angry.

“It has to be beyond thought,” he bites out as Batman gets his hand free and tries to hit Jason’s face. “Well past instinct.” He avoids the attack, jerking his head to one side. The momentary lag in Batman’s movements is the only clue he recognizes the words he once spoke to him. “You simply act—”

Batman has hold of their joined hands and tries to use his weight to lever Jason backward, but he moves with it, bending and jumping, using the momentum to flip around in a backflip and free himself.

“—a finely tuned instrument—"

Years of unspoken resentment, feelings he tamped down because they were irrational, nights he woke up sobbing—

Why didn’t you come for me why didn’t you look for me why didn’t you imagine I could be alive why didn’t you get there in time?

They trade more blows for a few minutes before Jason is sent backward again, rolling into another headstone and back to feet.

“—a body trained to perfection—”

He charges forward again.

“—techniques honed and mastered—”

Batman has another batarang in hand, is trying to plunge it into a part of Jason’s body that’s both non-lethal but capable of neutralizing him at the same time.

“—and expensive toys to wield against the “malignant scum that ravage this city,” Jason sneers, narrowly avoiding the sharp edges as he shoves the blows off-course. “So what the hell are you doing here?”

“Who are you.”

It’s not a question, more a demand, and Jason ignores it.

Batman varies his approach then, giving up on the batarang and trying to use the sharp edges of his gauntlets to hobble him. Sometimes he comes from beneath, sometimes from above or the side.

There’s no anticipating the move, only reacting to it as it comes.

And taking advantage of an opening when you see one.

Jason moves then, lands a blow with the heel of his hand to the unprotected curve of jaw. While Batman staggers, Jason jumps up and twists around, slamming a kick to his side that sends him flying into a headstone this time.

Anyone who’s ever fought the Bat knows you don’t give him a chance to recover, and so Jason is already darting forward, bending and jumping with his knee forward, slamming it into Batman’s chest as he gets to his feet. The blow sends vibrations of pain up through Jason’s leg and around to his spine because of the damn armor, but it still has Batman doubling over as the headstone behind him crumbles.

“Grave robbing cases aren’t really your thing,” Jason points out even as the vigilante is up and ready again, raining down blows on him with all the vigor of a second wind. “Even the Commish wouldn’t expect you to look into this. Not with all the other freaks in the night!” He curses and ducks back when a gauntleted fist nearly busts his jaw. “So why go all out here on some petty crime?”

Jason flips him, but Batman only skids back a few paces before retaking his stance.

“Could it be, maybe you’ve got a personal stake in it?” he taunts. “This graveyard…the resting of your first great failure…”

The growl Batman emits is almost animal then, and Jason barely has time to brace himself for it as a vicelike grip seizes him around the throat.

“Who. Are. You.”

Jason gasps for breath, his own hands wrapping around the gauntlet in an effort to hold himself up, to keep breathing. He gasps out, “Not your last though, was it?”

As expected, the comment pisses Batman off enough that he has to let him go or risk collapsing his throat. Jason finds himself sailing back through the air again, landing on his back.

He coughs, trying to draw in air as the caped figure approaches.

“Heard all about the past few years,” he bites out. “Replacement-bird filled me in.” He swallows painfully. “Kind of surprised he didn’t fill you in.”

Batman moves then, barrels forward in what Jason recognizes as a crippling blow to the solar plexus. He rolls away just in time, clambers to his feet again to exchange blows.

It should be harder now. He’s amazed it doesn’t feel like it.

Lack of oxygen maybe. Starting to get punch drunk.

“Just what did you do to piss him off, B?” Jason challenges.

“I won’t ask the question a third time.”

“You won’t believe me ‘til you figure it out yourself.”

In the split second where he tries to parse the comment, Jason grabs hold of Batman in a move he learned from him long ago and perfected at Dick’s side, flipping him over his back in a punishing suplex.

There’s a muffled thump of a body hitting the ground, and Jason backs away, panting.

Batman’s already getting to his feet.

Goddamn him and his insane stamina…

“What would you do if I told you that grave over there—the most recent one in the family mausoleum? If I told you it’s empty,” Jason asks, still breathless. “That it’s been empty for five years.”

Batman snarls and is on him again.

“No body there while you went on training your bevy of child soldiers.”

They trade blows, fists and knees and kicks and blocks.

“That you being here tonight is just a pointless exercise in guilt to continue your damned mission.”

They have each other in a tight grapple hold now, and the vigilante’s face is inches from Jason’s.

“You cannot possibly imagine that I believe this…this ruse,” he grunts.

“Yeah, I think you do,” Jason wheezes back. “I think you feel it in your gut. You know whose arm you’re trying to break right now.”

“It’s not…possible…!”

“No, it really is—”

And then Bruce gets his free hand on his face, fingers punishing against the bones and muscles. Jason jerks backward, feels elastics snap against his head as the surgical mask is ripped off, and then he’s reeling backward.

He lands in a crouch, looking up as Bruce starts toward him.

And then freezes.

The cowl might hide his features, but Jason knows how Batman’s body language changes when he’s trying not to betray shock.

“Jason…”

“Hey, B,” Jason smirks.

⁂⁂⁂

To Be Continued

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There is no universe where Jason doesn't pick a fight with Bruce when he comes back, reasons or not. Some of the dialogue was from Under the Red Hood, just adapted to this timeline/'verse. Tune in next time for more emotionally stunted reunions!

Next Chapter

#jaytimweek2019 #jaytimweek #jaytim #fanfic #prompt: supernatural #jaytim fic #jason todd #drama #mystery #angst #jason being just as nosy #cemetery #paranormal investigator

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