fandom; creepypasta/marble hornets, personal fanon
relationship; brian thomas and toby rogers | ticci toby (platonic, but could also be read as pre-relationship maybe)
word count; 1.2k
summary; brian reads to toby. based on a silly lil headcanon.
warnings; a little bit of cursing.
notes; i write brian and tim with DID/adjacent, just in case some details are a lil confusing without knowing that. takes place in my own version of slender mansion lore, post-marble hornets.
also psst, my writing requests are open for creepypasta and marble hornets fics. if you want more like this or something totally different, pls feel free to hit me up.
ao3 mirror
--
It’s late, tonight, when Brian hears the knock on the door to his room in the manor.
Masky is fronting, so he’s alone inside - Masky’s in his own room next door, not occupying Brian’s bed like Tim often does - but he knows he won’t be alone for much longer. He knows that knock, knows who it’ll be at this time of night, so it’s no surprise when he hums in acknowledgement and the door promptly creaks open to allow Toby to peek through.
He always peeks first. Just in case Masky (or Tim) is there and he has to act up accordingly, but no Masky tonight. Just Brian, leaned up against the headboard of his old bed and reading by the mediocre light provided by the equally old lamp on his bedside table.
Toby’s offered before that they just “rob an IKEA or some shit”, get Brian some decent furniture instead of the stuff that was here when he moved into the manor, but Brian’s always refused. Furniture shopping - legitimate or otherwise - reminds him of college and his old home and his old life, and he’ll keep reading by flickering, yellow lamplight forever if it means he won’t have to think about any of that.
It’s his problem, anyway. Because even on nights like tonight, when Toby wants to know what he’s reading, he won’t be doing any of the reading himself. He usually won’t even be listening, even when he crawls into bed beside Brian and asks him quietly if he can read out loud, but Brian doesn’t mind all too much. Not when Toby shuts the door behind him - too loudly, ticcing at just the wrong moment despite trying hard to be careful - and shuffles his way to Brian’s bed in his too-long pyjama trousers and ancient, ratty T-shirt, because he feels so much like a little brother that Brian could cry.
The springs of the mattress creak as Toby climbs on, the bed sways just slightly, and then Toby’s sat - right at Brian’s side.
“Hi,” he says, grinning with too many teeth, dark hazel eyes shining with the reflection of the lamplight, and Brian smiles back. A small quirk of his lips, really, but it’s been the best he can manage for a long time now, and Toby doesn’t seem to mind. Even seems elated when Brian very quietly says “hi” back, voice somewhat croaky from disuse - Hoodie, almost always nonverbal, had been fronting for a while, apparently - but his all the same.
Toby’s mentioned before that this - the soft, croaky sound, deeper than usual - is his favourite version of Brian’s voice, anyway. He’d called it “comforting”, once, and then - overwhelmed with the weight of his own confession - had stood up and been an asshole for the rest of the night, even rooted his way through Brian’s bookshelf and made a mess of everything and then fucked off, presumably back to his own room.
Brian hadn’t mentioned it after the fact, despite being pissed off. He’d cleaned up the mess and reorganised his books before he’d been able to sleep, and then a few days later - after Brian had had the chance to cool down - Toby had silently presented him with a new hardback. Stolen from a target’s house, undoubtedly, but it had been by an author that Brian had told Toby in passing that he loved the work of, and it was clearly an apology.
One that Brian accepted. He told Toby once he finished it how much he’d enjoyed the book, and the next time Toby crawled into his room in his pyjamas, a few days later still, Brian had let him pick the book Brian read that night.
“You wanna pick?” he offers again tonight, holding the book in his hands briefly aloft in clarification. He’s about halfway through it - Han Kang’s The Vegetarian - and he knows Toby will hate it. It’d probably send him straight to sleep, sure, but he’d complain the whole way down and interrupt Brian between each sentence.
So, sending the kid off to the overcrowded bookshelf - made of the same dark, old wood as all of the vintage furniture in Brian’s room - it is. Enjoying the brief, quiet, intimate peace of watching Toby eagerly browse, standing occasionally on his tiptoes to view the higher shelves, before he withdraws an old, worn paperback - and then tics and throws it.
“Fuck,” he says simultaneously, and Brian is unsure if it’s also a tic or a reaction - maybe both - but he smiles either way as Toby quickly picks up the book and scurries back over to the bed with his prize.
He presents the novel proudly, held out between both of his scarred hands. Off Season by Jack Ketchum. They’ve read it before - it’s one of Toby’s favourites, an ‘80s horror novel about a group of friends renting a rural vacation home and being stalked by a family of feral cannibals in the surrounding woods. Brian is both unsurprised by the choice - Toby loves classic horror, can’t get into the newer, psychological stuff that Brian likes most - and endeared by Toby’s open enjoyment of something Brian had shared with him.
He’s also, perhaps, a little bit happy that Toby is so willing to spend more time with him. It’s not a short novel by any means, not like the page-long short stories from anthologies that Toby will ask Brian to read on his worst nights, so this’ll mean days of Toby appearing and asking Brian to read whenever the two of them have spare time.
Perhaps Brian also enjoys the fact that Toby needs him.
He can’t read by himself—
(Well, he could. But he can’t focus and doesn’t care enough to try. Can’t hold books in his own hands without them getting dropped or thrown across the room by a tic, and can’t keep track of where on the page he is when he’s blinking and jerking and rolling his eyes, and his mounting frustration only ever makes it worse.)
—so. This is their arrangement. Usually when Toby can’t sleep - that’s how it had started - but especially now when Toby wants to read something. When he’s looking at the book with eager eyes, like he’s waiting for it to start speaking - like it’s not Brian that does that part - and shuffling further onto the bed to get himself comfy.
He comes closer this time, shoulder brushing against Brian’s. He’s as warm as he always is, almost too warm against Brian’s constant cold, but Brian appreciates it. Tim’s always warm too, and it feels familiar. Feels safe, even as he opens the book Toby hands him and flicks to where it starts, ready to delve into a world of campy cannibal horror.
“Do—d-do—“ Toby whistles and jerks his neck, head bumping against Brian’s shoulder, “—…do the voices.”
His voice is quiet, now. Something distinctly childlike in there, something anxious like there always is when Toby makes a sincere request, and he’s looking at the words on the page but not reading them. Waiting for Brian to read them to him.
what’s up lads, i’ve got too much time, no inspiration, and a new poorly-advised ship i’m up to my neck in, so please feel free to send some bottom/sub!victor zsaszmask prompts/ideas for me to throw on here and ao3 <3
[hawksilverwidow] “draw the blinds back slow (sun fades in the room)”
fandom; mcu
ship; natasha/pietro/clint
word count; 1.7k
tags/warnings; agere/age regression - little!pietro, mama!nat and papa!clint, lots of sleepy fluff
notes; for @frobster, heavily inspired by his universe set up in ‘collection of cuties’, and our interactions regarding hawksilverwidow hcs and how much he’s made me love them. also, uh, surprise! i’m 🌘 (waning crescent moon) anon! i wrote this lil thing as a surprise to finally introduce myself - i hope you like it!
-x-
Their quarters are quiet when Clint gets back. Admittedly, they usually are - Pietro is rarely noisy, save for the tantrums he throws - but now even the sound of the television is soft, a low drone barely audible from the front doorway, and Clint can’t help but smile with the implication of it.
He kicks off his shoes somewhat haphazardly, leaves them in a mess with the others, and tiptoes at a careful, careful speed towards the sofa, where he can just see a few warm red flyaway hairs of Nat’s peeking over the back, the only indication that anyone is there at all.
He can see exactly how messy her hair is as he gets closer, sleep-rumpled and wavy and tousled like someone’s had their hands in it, and Clint’s smile widens because he knows how much Pietro likes to mess with her hair when he’s small and she’s holding him. About as much as he likes playing with her necklaces, or wrapping a gentle fist around the strap of her bra or cami to clutch onto, because he’s a clingy little mama’s boy at heart.
The thought doesn’t even bring with it the vague pinch of jealousy that it had used to, back when Nat and Pietro had first started getting closer and Clint had feared what that meant for him. Now, the picture feels so natural, feels so perfectly full, and it’s so easy to round the sofa, so easy to smile warmly at his two loves and sit himself on the arm of the sofa by a sleeping Pietro’s socked feet and slot himself into the quiet.
“You’re back late,” Nat whispers, her voice the familiar playfully accusatory tone she often uses with him, but it’s still soft - so much so that he has to read her lips - and warm with the now equally familiar peace she finds in being Mama. Her hand is in Pietro’s messy white hair, short nails carding through the strands, and he’s curled fast asleep against her bare thigh below the hem of her sleep shorts with a sky blue paci in his mouth.
They make such a tender picture that Clint can do nothing but once again use as many expletives as he knows to mentally curse the meeting which had pulled him away hours ago, when Pietro was quiet and sweet and just starting to regress. Those are some of Clint’s favourite moments, coddling his little boy and helping to steadily ease him down from the stresses of all of their lives and the specific traumas of Pietro’s, but it seems that Nat’s done a pretty damn fine job alone. Fine enough to wrangle Pietro into a pull-up and baby blue onesie - things he rarely allows unless he really, fully regresses, and regresses well - so perhaps Clint isn’t quite as bitter as he could be.
It’s a unique luxury, after all, to be able to step right into a scene like this.
“I’m ever so sorry, my dear,” he whispers back, tone grave with a Transatlantic accent fitting of old television and a dramatised remorse that makes Nat’s lips curl into the sort of smile that’s as close as she gets to laughing. “At the very least, I trust you did well playing housewife with the baby while Daddy was at work?”
That earns him a shove, executed so gracefully that it doesn’t even jostle Pietro between them, and Clint has to bite back some sincere laughter of his own, diving off the couch with his hands held up in defence.
“Okay, okay, I’m the housewife,” he concedes, abandoning the accent, and Nat gives him a nod of stern approval, still sweetly petting Pietro’s soft hair with her other hand. He hadn’t been truly disturbed at all, but some part of him must still recognise the soft-spoken commotion and what it means for his companionship nonetheless, because he snuffles and begins to stir against Nat’s thigh.
“Mama...?” is the first thing out of his mouth, thickly accented and hoarse with sleep, and Nat’s eyes practically sparkle as she looks down at him, twirling a pale curl around her finger.
“Hello, sweetheart,” she murmurs, giving him a moment to rouse a little more before she continues. “Did you have a nice nap? You didn’t sleep for very long.”
Pietro slurs something that’s maybe words, maybe English, but seems satisfied that it’s response enough. He’s rarely particularly talkative when he’s little, especially not when he’s tired, but he’s got his own language of clumsy English and half-formed Sokovian and mumbles and noises and gestures which Nat and Clint are both pretty fluent in. Like right now - Clint knows that that mumble means Pietro is bone tired but entirely content, and it’s enough to make him grin like an idiot, heart thumping in his chest with the kind of adoration that aches.
“Too sleepy to say hi to Papa, then, ‘Tro?” he teases, voice soft, and his grin widens impossibly when Pietro’s pretty blue eyes dart open to find him.
“Papa!” he gasps, sending his paci tumbling to be caught by the clip on his collar. Clint opens his arms and Pietro is diving into his embrace in a single moment. Both Natasha and Clint recoil from the natural vertigo of watching Pietro use his powers - which he’s not allowed to do when he’s small, but sometimes he just can’t help it - sending a brief swirl of silver through the air, but it passes in a moment and Clint can’t help but laugh. He presses kisses to Pietro’s soft, messy hair and cuddles him so tightly he can almost feel himself getting bruises from where the boy’s bones jut in sharp angles, listening to his baby mumble and coo as he settles. Still sleepy - so tiny.
“God. How’d you get him so young?” he can’t help but ask Nat in a whisper, breathy with wonder, and he looks up over the mop of silvery hair in his face to see her smiling.
“He must’ve needed it,” she replies, reaching out to smooth down some of the curls tickling Clint’s nose and then leaning in to kiss them both in turn - Clint’s nose and the crown of Pietro’s head. Pietro coos again then, reaching out clumsily for her, and she takes his hand and holds it tightly, more than used to the routine of assuring him that she’s there - that she isn’t leaving. Clint wants to kiss her then too, watching the way her fingers curl with Pietro’s, her grip strong and protective even though her hands are so much smaller than his, but he can’t reach like this, not without disturbing Pietro curled tightly in his lap.
Instead, he kisses Pietro again, kisses his temple and the corner of his eye and the warm apple of his cheek and finally the pulse point in his neck, pausing there to feel the rapid thumpthumpthump which once upon a time made him anxious and now relaxes him like nothing else can, and Nat smiles like she can feel it through him, all of the love Clint has for the both of them. In her smile, Clint can feel the love she has for them, too - and, in Pietro’s one hand curled tightly in his shirt and and the other hand curled tightly with his Mama’s, he can feel the love their little boy has for the both of them.
Love enough that he doesn’t want to let either of them go, and he whines heartbreakingly when Nat tries to slip away a little while later. She coos at him then, murmuring soothingly until he settles, and then she waits again until his grip on her finally, finally loosens, transferring to cling tighter to his Papa.
She kisses his forehead before making her way to the kitchen, steps loud and purposeful to serve as a reminder of her presence enough so he doesn’t get anxious, and Clint squeezes him comfortingly as he lays back across the warm couch cushions, hoping to distract the boy. Feeling decidedly sleepy himself, he’s more than content to watch the movie still softly playing while Nat potters around the kitchen, only pulling his attention away long enough to clean Pietro’s paci off and pop it back into his mouth before he can start sucking on his fingers, but then he’s gone. He’s practically asleep when Natasha returns, cooing something teasing that pulls a giggle from Pietro before he’s lifted carefully from Clint’s arms.
Clint opens his eyes blearily, attempting to stifle a yawn as he searches the room, but it turns into a lazy, definitely unattractive sort of smile when he finds what he’s looking for. Pietro and Nat are curled together in the arm chair, ‘Tro’s paci dangling again as he suckles instead on his favourite sippy cup - the one with the smiley turtle on it. Nat interrupts him every few sips or so to cajole a spoonful of porridge into his mouth, and he takes each one with considerably less fuss than usual. Either he’s particularly hungry - which happens just about every hour - or she put sugar and honey in it, which is a luxury enough to warrant Pietro not fussing during mealtime. Clint watches them for as long as he can, heart warm, but finally the relaxation of his environment truly catches up with his early start and dull, stressful work day, and he dozes again.
Some time later, he’s dimly aware of a warm, wriggly bundle being laid down atop him again - the press of a pacifier guard against his neck as the bundle snuggles down and settles. Another body joins them a few moments later, laying beside them on the edge of the sofa and pressing close, and even almost entirely asleep he manages to wrap them both up in his arms, easy as anything.
And the three of them rest.
(At least until Nat pokes Clint awake a few hours later, smiling sugary-sweet, and tells him to go cook dinner like a good housewife.
Pls...I will literally cry thinking about Pietro having his godawful childhood slowly but surely rewritten by his daddy Clint and mommy Nat who love him so much and give him structure and the firm hand he needs to stay grounded while also giving him all the coddling and affection and spoiling he’s never had before and teaching him how to relax and be loved and treated gently 🥺🥺🥺 —🌘
Listen, I am so emotional for angsty, sad characters to find a proper family and finally receive the love they deserve. I’m so soft rn...
☆☆☆
Wanda had tried her best to take care of Pietro after their city was destroyed. It was a lot of work and she ended up using her powers more often than not to see into his head and figure out what he needed. He was hesitant to share anything, to let anyone in beyond his sister. Wanda knew Pietro was not fragile but sometimes needed to be treated a little... differently.
When they became an official part of the Avengers and Clint began showing interest in Pietro, Wanda was immediately protective of him. She didn’t want her brother to be hurt again, to be taken advantage of or abandoned. They had difficult lives and obviously wanted to avoid more pain, but Pietro was even more affected by it all.
Wanda had noticed a strange relationship between Clint and Natasha, which only added to her distrust of the archer when he tried making moves on Pietro. There was miscommunication, misinformation, and quite a few mistakes. Nobody on the team was all that naturally trusting, but things seemed especially tense between those four.
Until, finally, Clint took Wanda aside to talk to her. He tried to explain himself - his dynamic with Nat, his interest in Pietro, his hopes for the future. Wanda was still wary, but she didn’t cast him aside entirely.
And as Pietro and Clint’s relationship grew, Wanda allowed herself to relax. They seemed to be good for each other. She just wasn’t entirely sure how Natasha fit into the picture yet.
But her questions were answered one day when she heard a sharp, familiar yelp from the common area. She darted over to see Clint holding Pietro as he cried and Nat giving the younger boy a stern look. Wanda was ready to move in and save her brother until she heard his voice, soft and wavering without a hint of fear.
“I’m sorry, mama,” Pietro murmured before sniffling and rubbing his face into Clint’s shoulder.
“You are forgiven, Tro. But do not speak back to me like that again, or your punishment will be far worse.” Nat sat down again and reached out to gently rub his back.
The moment became gentle and sweet, full of mutual affection between the three. Clint and Natasha calmed Pietro down again until he was happy to settle between them on the couch, blue blanket and brown hedgehog tucked close, as they resumed watching the movie they had paused earlier.
Their relationship didn’t really make sense to Wanda, at least not yet, but it wasn’t really her business anymore. Pietro was finally happy and loved, and that was all she could really ask for.
I’ve been reading your fic “a cure I know (that soothes the soul)” and I’m in LOVE. I don’t even indulge in a lot of DC media, but I’m very tempted as of recently
dude, thank you so much!! i’m sososo happy that people are enjoying that fic, especially to any significant degree. i’m not going to lie, i haven’t been particularly active in the dc fandom recently, but i hold such a dear love for so many of the characters and it is - luckily enough - easy enough to dip in and out of. if you’re ever looking for recommendations or just want to chatter about stuff, feel free to come back to talk to me!
thank you so much for reading my fic!! (and thank you for motivating the update i just posted, teehee)
summary: Shizuo wants a dog. Izaya just wants Shizuo to be happy.
ao3 mirror.
“I want a dog,” Shizuo declares one day, with the same cadence one would declare that they want a particular food for lunch. He is sprawled casually on one of Izaya’s expensive leather sofas, arm thrown over the back while he watches the television which is, apparently, playing a show about dog shelters.
It has been on for about three quarters of an hour; Izaya cannot see the television from where is sat at his desk, so he relies on the audio. An elderly but smooth-voiced presenter is explaining how such places operate, speech occasionally halting in favour of what Izaya guesses to be scenes of the dogs in the shelter, barking and yapping and growling. The sounds make Izaya grimace; he had spent the time since the show began attempting to devote his attention to his work, with little success, but now that Shizuo has spoken he knows that he cannot rightfully ignore him. Not without pissing him off, at least.
“Why?” he asks casually, like he has no strong feelings one way or the other about the concept of dog ownership, despite that being about as far from the truth as possible. He glances up just in time to catch Shizuo shrug, eyes still on the screen. It is getting to be late and the light from the windows behind Izaya is slowly dying, but neither of them have bothered to turn on the ceiling lights so the television cuts through the dimness to dance blues and yellows across Shizuo’s features. He is relatively blank-faced, but his eyes are gentle where they are glued to the screen; it would be a nice scene if it wasn't for the loud barks every few seconds making Izaya’s heart freeze.
“Dunno,” Shizuo replies, oblivious, “Might be nice, I guess. We could adopt one - an older one, so we wouldn't have to worry about training it. If that's your first concern.”
Izaya has plenty of concerns, training is low on the list. He had, in fact, been slightly less daunted by the idea of a puppy. A puppy could not, logically, hurt him, and watching something small grow into something large is far less scary than simply being thrown in at the deep end, but of course Shizuo is ruining all of that without even intending to. In fact, he’s probably trying to be helpful - he knows Izaya isn't overly keen on the idea of getting a dog, but he likely presumes it’s just a matter of cleanliness and routine. If only it were that simple.
“It's still impractical,” Izaya says. He can't even use the excuse that they aren't allowed, because there isn't really anything that his apartment building prevents them from doing. If they're willing to look past barely-concealed firearms and yakuza members loitering about, they're certainly willing to look past a dog. So Izaya searches for reasons, which isn't too difficult - it truly is impractical. “We don't have a garden, for starters.”
“There's parks,” Shizuo responds easily, “We could take it for walks every day.”
“And who would do that?”
“You? You go out all day anyway, and get up stupidly early. You could take the dog out with you then come drop it back.”
Shizuo sounds genuinely enthusiastic, like he's making actual plans even though he manages to keep most of the childlike joy from his face, and Izaya can't help but feel as if he's being somehow selfish in his unwillingness.
“That's a lot of responsibility to put in my hands over something that you want,” he says. The words sound too harsh, especially in response to Shizuo’s soft enthusiasm, but it's instinctual for him to push the blame and guilt away from himself, make it out as if Shizuo’s making unfair demands, at least outwardly. He can overthink it and hate himself sometime when Shizuo isn't around to pick up on it. He's gotten frustratingly good at that.
“Plus, it would completely ruin my ability to blend in,” he continues, which isn't a lie. An ‘attractive’ young guy with a cute dog may be useful in gaining the trust of teenage girls, but it would hardly have the same effect on the thugs and gangsters he is often set on the trail of. “If I suddenly saw somebody I needed to follow, or Shiki-san requested my services, what would I do then? Tell him, ‘Oh, I'm sorry, just give me a moment to pop my dog back home! Then I'll be right on that urgent and highly dangerous job you've got for me!’ I don't think he’d be pleased with that. And what if I was attacked? The dog could, and most likely would, be hurt or killed.”
Shizuo seems to consider this. Concern creases his brow, and Izaya can't tell if it's concern for him or for their imaginary dog.
“It's too much of a risk,” Izaya concludes, voice somewhat softer than the tone he had adopted to shoot Shizuo’s ideas down as something like guilt settles slowly and unpleasantly in his stomach. Shizuo nods slowly after a moment of silence, and Izaya can tell that he's upset even if his face remains mostly impartial. Shizuo truly does have a soft spot for animals; he often tells Izaya of the strays he runs into in Ikebukuro, the dogs in the park that he takes the time to pet and feed. Izaya had scolded him the first few times and immediately demanded he showered, but soon came to the conclusion that the genuine joy on Shizuo’s face was too rare a sight to attempt to ruin. But, of course, he had managed to ruin Shizuo’s happiness anyway and is painfully aware that the defeated look in his boyfriend’s eyes is entirely his fault.
Izaya turns off both of his monitors, closes his laptop, and rises slowly. He descends the steps leading to the sofas and television, but remains where he is to watch the screen, out of Shizuo’s line of sight. Shizuo’s attention has returned to the show and there is no clear indication whether he is even aware Izaya has moved (maybe he's mad, and is ignoring Izaya on purpose?), but from the angle he is at Izaya can just barely see the look on his face. His eyes are gentle once again, happily watching the dogs on screen run about and play, but Izaya flinches with every noise, every flash of teeth sending a jolt of anxiety - not panic, of course not panic - down his spine. He is aware of the irony that lies in him being able to watch (and enjoy) the most violent of horror movies and action films - hell, he can even calmly watch such terrors in real life - without so much as blinking, but that's different. He can tell what these people, real or fictional, are thinking and feeling - can tell why Person A wants to kill Person B, and why Person C doesn't want that to happen. With dogs - with all animals - there is no such intricate thought process, no expressions, no clear body language, just violence with no room for bargaining or discretion.
Shizuo is still paying him no mind even as the show draws to a close and the credits roll over even more footage of the dogs, running about and playing in large open gardens. At least there is music playing - a soft, jovial tune, rather than the growls and barks Izaya can see their mouths shaping, baring their awful yellow teeth. At the end of the credits, a note appears on the screen thanking the featured dog shelter - some place on the other side of the country.
“Hey,” Shizuo says, and for a moment Izaya is sure he is going to request they visit it, “What if we just went to a shelter?”
“Hm?” Izaya quirks an eyebrow, trying to appear casual even if Shizuo isn't looking at him. It's at least better than Shizuo requesting they go to the featured shelter specifically, but still certainly not something that he wants to do. At all.
“We don't have to actually get a dog, but….I dunno. I like dogs. It'd be nice to just hang out with ‘em.”
Shizuo’s voice gets somewhat quieter towards the end, like he's fully expecting Izaya to shoot him down again, and it makes something heavy and unpleasant curl in Izaya’s stomach. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip. This is a terrible idea. This is a terrible idea. For a multitude of reasons, including but not limited to Shizuo’s complete and utter lack of self-control, and Izaya’s phobia (except not a phobia, because phobia means ‘irrational’ and Izaya’s fear - not fear, anxiety , fuck - is anything but), but Shizuo’s got that earnest look in his eyes again and Izaya cannot bring himself to ruin it.
As if to mask his hesitation, Izaya moves around the sofa to sit beside Shizuo. Immediately, Shizuo is shifting to pull Izaya into laying in his arms, pulled back just far enough to be able to meet his eyes. Anxiety soothed, at least somewhat, Izaya tells himself that it can't be that bad. No matter his instinctual reactions to the dogs on the television. It’s been years since Izaya’s even really seen a dog - he doesn't frequent many places that encourage or allow them other than the streets and parks, and even then he tries to avoid the few he catches a glimpse of - but surely his fear has lessened since middle school. He isn't a child anymore, he has real things to worry about now - including actual people trying to kill him, not just mindless animals - so, for all he knows, maybe his fear will disappear completely once he's surrounded by the stupid furry beasts. He'd managed to tame one stupid beast, after all, hadn’t he?
“We could make it a date?” Shizuo offers softly, almost shyly, and after a single moment’s hesitation Izaya is pressing close into Shizuo’s chest to hide the look on his face and signing his own death warrant.
--
Izaya finds himself stood in the foyer of the nearest animal shelter early in the afternoon a week later, infinitely thankful that Shizuo had not elected to hold his hand at any point lest he become aware of Izaya’s almost violent trembling, which had only gotten worse the closer they had gotten to their destination. Tom had apparently recommended the place after Shizuo had asked and Tom had looked it up, but Izaya knows little to nothing about it. The shelter is quite clean, at the very least, but there are muddy paw prints (which Izaya had carefully avoided in his expensive boots) littered across the linoleum floor and the distinct smell of wet dog hanging stifling in the air. Shizuo does not seem bothered by either of these facts as he greets the young woman at the desk and explains that they're just here to play with the dogs for a little while, if that's okay.
“Are you thinking of adopting a puppy sometime soon?” she asks, smiling sweetly and sounding genuinely enthusiastic. Izaya manages to catch himself before he glowers at her; Shizuo is happy, and Izaya does not need to ruin it by externalising his own discomfort. Even if he can feel his breathing stutter slightly as he inhales.
“Maybe,” Shizuo responds, still somewhat awkward as always in the face of friendly interaction with strangers, “We, uh...we’re living in an apartment, right now. So maybe it's a plan for the future. But we’d probably get an older dog, y’know?”
The woman’s smile widens. “I think that would be a great idea! Most young couples come in here looking for puppies.”
Izaya’s breathing almost stops at the word “couples”. It's absurd, because that's what he and Shizuo are , a couple, and while he's willing to admit that much to himself it's a completely different thing for a stranger to say it, to assume just by looking at them.
“But I suppose it's different for them, trying to start a family and all that,” the woman chuckles, “You two are roommates, huh?”
Izaya’s shoulders drop in immense relief, which he hopes goes unnoticed by Shizuo and the woman, but his heart is racing even faster than it had been when they’d first walked in. He inhales deeply, with even more difficulty than before, and wills to just get this over with.
Shizuo speaks to the woman for only a few minutes more, before she is leading them through a door and then a hallway, opening a few baby gates on the way with practiced ease and stepping around the thoroughly-chewed toys strewn throughout the building. It's more eerie to Izaya than it perhaps should be, like broken children’s toys in an abandoned house, but he keeps his face completely neutral - not that Shizuo is paying him any mind at all. Conversation has resumed between his boyfriend and the woman, more relaxed than it had been at first, and the two of them walk a pace in front of him as the door to his doom looms ever closer. It looks innocuous enough, plain white wood with “Dog Room 2 / Outside” engraved on a metal sign beside it, but Izaya’s anxiety builds up nonetheless. He can hear the muffled shuffling just beyond it, not right up against the door but close enough. A handwritten sign in scrawled kanji, sellotaped to the middle of the door, commands that it be kept shut at all times.
“The pens are all open,” the woman explains, smiling brightly, “But I expect that most of the dogs are outside. You can just go straight through, if you’d like - there should be someone out there.”
Shizuo nods and thanks her with a certain note of excitement in his voice, and then she's walking back down the hallway and leaving them alone. Izaya is tempted to grab Shizuo’s hand, but he knows that’s stupid, and that Shizuo will definitely feel him shaking if he does. Instead, he nods towards the door and hopes that Shizuo doesn't look directly at him.
“Go on, then,” he says, shocked at his own composure, and Shizuo quickly obeys without even properly glancing his way. The door clicks shut behind them once they've both stepped through, and the smell of dog hits Izaya like a wall. At least the woman had been right in her assumption that all of them would be outside, the only things in the room are the empty pens occupied by blankets and half-eaten bowls of dry food, but the presence that hangs with them is enough to send Izaya’s heart racing.
Shut up, you're fine. You're safe. They can't hurt you. Shizuo is here. He won't let anything hurt you.
But Shizuo doesn't even know . How is he meant to protect Izaya against something that he sees as the total opposite of a threat? He’ll probably just laugh if Izaya says anything, not that he would even dream of doing so, or be that terrible mixture of annoyed and disappointed that he always is when Izaya pushes him just a little too far, or ruins something special or important. Besides, Shizuo is happy - smiling, excited - and fuck , Izaya thinks to himself, do not fuck this up for him .
Shizuo leads the way eagerly across the room, towards the half-open door to what is presumably a garden for the dogs to play in, and Izaya glances warily at the empty beds as he follows. You're fine. Shut up. You're fine. But he can feel his thoughts begin to grow less and less rational, simultaneously slowing down and speeding up tenfold. The usual constant stream of vague uneasiness - assessing his environment and the people around him, comparing names and faces and conversations and compiling it all - loses focus, and instead his mind is overrun by one main sense of danger . He’s glancing back behind him as he walks, thinking over the layout of the building, considering escape routes, and is halfway through considering whether he would be able to outrun a standard adult dog when he suddenly stops in his tracks. Shizuo pushes the door open casually, and cannot even take a step outside before the dogs from outside begin to flock to the new stranger, barking and jumping up and down to try and assess him. Suddenly, Izaya finds himself unable to breathe. The noise is worse, more panic-inducing, than gunfire, and the moment the beasts set their sights on him all logical thought leaves his mind. One of the dogs bounds towards him, teeth bared, and then he’s running.
All of his consideration of escape routes is forgotten as he flees, throwing open the door to the hallway and staring down it in blind terror. The door in front of him leads to the reception, there will be people there, so he takes the door to his right and slams it behind him when he hears the dogs following him through the open doorways. Trembling violently, he blinks at the room he is in; it's a storage cupboard of sorts, the size of perhaps a small bedroom and filled with boxes and cages piled high. Now that he has fled, and is still being hunted, his next instinct is to hide. He clambers over the boxes in his way, too panicked to find a way around them, until he is pressed up into the far corner staring wide-eyed at the door. It is silent for several moments, only disturbed by his choked, rapid breathing, but then the door handle moves and in another jolt of panic Izaya is dropping to the ground and curling up as small as possible, hidden amongst the clutter.
“Oi, flea,” Shizuo’s voice calls, sounding somewhat irritated but mostly confused as the door clicks shut behind him, “The fuck was that?”
He steps into the room, and Izaya hears the harsh noise of him violently kicking what he assumes to be a cage out of his way. “Where are you?”
His heavy footsteps draw closer, stumbling as he makes his way through the small but overcrowded room, and Izaya’s mind reaches a conflict between Shizuo is safe and Shizuo is angry . Cornered, and too terrified to fight, he presses his face into his knees and curls up tighter as if he can disappear if he just wills it hard enough. Shizuo’s footsteps stop.
“...’Zaya?”
There is a beat of silence, a shuffle of clothing, and Izaya opens his eyes to catch a glimpse of Shizuo kneeling on the floor in front of him, hand half-outstretched.
“You’re--you’re crying.”
Izaya blinks, stares at the slightly darker patches surrounding the rips on the knees of his jeans, then suddenly draws a harsh, shuddering breath that doesn't at all reach his lungs. He’s hyperventilating again now, but he doesn't know what to do, feels guilty and cornered and Shizuo is just looking at him, hand still hovering uselessly in midair.
It is about a minute more until Shizuo reaches forward like he's trying to touch an injured bird and settles an uneasy hand on Izaya’s shin. This has the opposite effect than was likely intended, and suddenly Izaya’s crying even harder but his breathing is coming ever so slightly easier. He wants to crawl into Shizuo’s arms like a child, but this just makes the guilt bubbling up in his throat choke him once again.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps out, too sudden and harsh in the silence even though he's been repeating it over and over in his head ever since he’d come to the realisation that he’d probably already succeeded in ruining Shizuo’s joy, “I’m okay, I’m fine. I’m sorry.”
He meets Shizuo’s eyes for a single second - they're wide and confused, but he can see the single sliver of anger in them and that's enough to cancel out everything else in his mind. He's aware of the hot, ugly tears dripping down his cheeks, gathering at his chin, and he must look like an embarrassing mess , shaking and sobbing and causing a scene even if there's no one to hear or see them. He wants to calm down, wants to stop being like this so that Shizuo can just go out and have fun without having to concern himself with Izaya’s bullshit, but he still can't get any air in his lungs as he desperately mutters apologies and he hates it.
The dogs are suddenly barking again in the next room over, scratching at the wall separating them, and Izaya scrambles as if it's possible for him to get any further away, eyes wide with terror. “Stop,” he whispers to no one in particular, perhaps begging the dogs themselves to mercy him.
“Shit.” Shizuo shuffles closer, heedless of Izaya lashing out weakly to try and ward him off, until he can wrap his arms around his boyfriend and pull him into his chest. Surrounded by Shizuo’s scent, and the warmth of his jacket, Izaya’s breathing steadies slightly and then he's giving up any warped sense of pride to wrap his arms tightly around Shizuo’s shoulders and hide himself in the crook of his neck.
“You’re scared of dogs,” Shizuo says quietly after several moments, and of course the idiot’s only just caught on, but at least Izaya doesn't have to admit it out loud.
“I’m sorry,” he says very quietly, reluctant to say the words now with a very slightly clearer head, and suddenly Shizuo is leaning back and staring him in the face, hands holding his shoulders with such care that Izaya is struck with the urge to lash out again. His eyes are wide with something between horror and concern, as they very often are when another thing about Izaya comes to light.
“I’m not--fuck, ‘Zaya, I’m not mad . Well, I am. Kind of. But not...not at you .”
Perhaps Izaya should take offence at being talked to like a child, but with his shoulders still shaking under Shizuo’s hold he finds himself tentatively submitting to the comfort. Shizuo stares at him for a moment longer with his eyes melting into something sad and empathetic, before he is pulling Izaya close again and slowly rubbing a hand up and down his back. Izaya presses his head into the juncture of his boyfriend’s neck and shoulder and breathes, pretending he can't feel his eyes begin to sting again.
“What are you sorry for?”
The question is asked so softly that at first Izaya is not completely sure he has heard it. For a second, he hears his mother’s voice echoing in his mind: ‘What are you sorry for ?’ The memory is enough to send a jolt of guilty, childish panic through him, the way he always used to feel when his mother got angry. His apologies and excuses were never good enough. Sometimes, when he was much younger, he wondered if that was why his parents left all the time. Because he couldn't be good.
“I’m being selfish.”
Because he was selfish .
That was his parents’ favourite thing to call him. Whenever he asked why they left, said that he missed them or that he was lonely and afraid. Stop being so selfish, Izaya. This isn't all about you, Izaya.
We’re playing with Mairu and Kururi, now, Izaya. You’re much too old to be acting like this.
Much too old to be acting like this.
Izaya shifts, tries to wriggle his way out of Shizuo’s grip in a sudden burst of desperate shame, but Shizuo merely tightens his grip and turns them around so that he is sat against the wall with Izaya is leaning against his chest. He has gotten frustratingly good at understanding when Izaya means the things he does and says, and when he doesn't, and it drives Izaya mad to be seen through so easily. Shizuo lets the silence hang for the time it takes Izaya to calm down again; he knows to leave distance between his questions, lest Izaya clam up completely.
“Why d’you think you’re being selfish?” Shizuo’s voice rumbles where Izaya’s ear is pressed to his chest, just above his heart. Izaya does not want to talk about it, so he begins to focus on the rhythm of Shizuo’s heartbeat.
“Oi,” Shizuo says, softer this time, “Answer me. Please. I hate it when you're upset about stuff I don't get.”
Izaya is silent for a minute. “It isn't something you need to worry about, Shizu-chan. Besides, I’m sure that poor secretary is wondering where we’ve gotten to--”
“Don't try and brush this off.”
Izaya laughs - barely a sharp exhale, and an inhale that shudders as if he's about to cry again.
“Why not?” he asks lightly, “That’s what I’ve been doing my whole life.”
“That should be proof enough that maybe it's a shitty thing to do.”
“Everything I do is shitty, Shizu-chan. We’ve established this.”
It's likely a low blow, to bring up their past full of insults and hatred, and Izaya can feel the way Shizuo tenses behind him. For a moment, he is positive that Shizuo will grow angry, huff or yell “whatever” and give up on him like he probably should. Izaya is good at pushing Shizuo’s buttons to make him back off whenever he gets too close to something painful, but again, Shizuo is adapting. Slowly, the tension leaves his body and he's dropping his head forward so his nose just brushes against Izaya’s hair.
“I want to know why you did this,” he says softly, in a way that makes it sound like he's just stating his desires rather than expecting Izaya to cater to them. Izaya gives a somewhat pained, and utterly false, smile, which goes unseen.
“Because it made you happy,” he replies. The honesty feels heavy, unpleasant, and for once he doesn't want to consider the meaning behind his words. He just wants to say them and let them be heard.
“It doesn't make me happy to see you upset.”
“Not that,” Izaya manages to huff something almost close to a laugh, even though he's sure that Shizuo isn't trying to make a joke, but the pause until he continues is long. “You said you wanted a dog. So...so, who am I to say no? I said no, but then you looked so miserable.”
Shizuo remains silent, waits for him to continue. Izaya can feel tears gathering and hates himself for it.
“I didn't want to be selfish.”
“This isn't all about me, y’know?” Shizuo says, “Relationships are all about compromise. They're about trying to find...a balance, or something. A way to make both people happy. Any relationship - any kind of relationship - that’s all about just one of the people is bullshit. And if the person that's getting all of the focus is calling you selfish for wanting any fraction of what they get--”
Shizuo stops suddenly, and Izaya can feel the way he's beginning to tense again, hands curling into fists against the fabric of Izaya’s jacket. He breathes, leans further forward and presses his nose against Izaya’s hair, pulls a hand back up to rest over his shoulder and pull him closer.
“If they're doing that to you...if they did that to you. Then fuck them. Okay? Fuck ‘em. ‘Zaya. Fuck. Please . You've gotta understand that this isn't a one-sided thing. This isn't like that. I want you to tell me when you're upset about something, or when you don't want something that I want. A ‘no’ always overrules a ‘yes’. You're not being selfish for not wanting something, especially not if you're fucking scared.”
Izaya doesn't know what to say, finds himself unable to get any words past the sudden lump in his throat even if he did know, but he does feel the tears spill over and begin to flood down to his chin, and then Shizuo is pulling him impossibly closer and pressing a kiss to his temple. A pause, and then a kiss just under his eye, on his cheek, covering the tear tracks until Shizuo meets his lips. It's wet and tastes like salt, and only serves in making Izaya cry harder, but it also makes the horrible something that settled in his stomach go away, makes him forget the sound of his parents’ voices and the sound of glass shattering against the wall. It's all still there, in the back of his mind, and it will come back again and again and again on many days after this one, but the knowledge that Shizuo will be there even in the worst moments makes it all feel slightly less daunting.
“I love you,” Shizuo whispers, meeting Izaya’s gaze and smiling. Izaya still cannot say the words back, cannot even imagine a time when he will - just the same as he cannot ever imagine a time when he can tell Shizuo all the things that he deserves to know - but he can begin to allow himself to believe them - at least a little bit.
The next time Shizuo’s eyes blink open, his room is dim but bathed in daylight which flickers with the rain pouring outside. The drops hit sharply and rhythmically against the window beside his bed, and for a long moment after waking he is unable to differentiate the noise from the sound of someone knocking impatiently at his door.
Hi! I just started to read your shizaya fanfiction, "Godless (denied us)" and I find it really really really good! You take time to bring the plot, we get to know Shizuo's spirit, your chapters are long and I feel fully satisfied even though Izaya didn't appear yet! I can't wait for the following. Good luck and thank you for writing 😊
ahh, im so sorry for the late response but asdfghjkl thank you so much!! im so glad you’re enjoying the fic! thank you so much for reading, friend! （＾◇＾）
Shizuo isn't sure exactly what time it is when he hears a knock at his door, but he guesses that it's been at least a couple of hours. Jolting suddenly, he swipes a hand over his cheek to ensure that no tears somehow remain. Once ensuring that there is no way anyone can tell he had cried, he moves to get up from his position on the floor to open it, though it's clear who it is that's knocking, but it flies open before he can even stand up properly.
When Shizuo walks through the doors, he expects to at least be greeted by a carer or two, maybe a social worker, but is promptly surprised to find the small (but neat and modern-looking) foyer completely devoid of life.
notes: daddy kink + phone sex. this is the result of me, a) realising my desire for more daddy kink shikizaya content, and b) realising that i am a writer and that literally no one can stop me. pls enjoy.
ao3 mirror
It is late at night - just past eleven - when Shiki’s phone in his pocket notifies him of a text, the sharp noise of two short vibrations cutting through the vague tension of the silent room. He is sat stiffly at his desk awaiting some important information involving a recent ‘mishap’ from Akabayashi, but the man is taking his sweet time and thus he is alone bar the two lackeys stood respectfully against the opposite wall. It is this fact that allows him to pull his phone out despite the knowledge that that was the vibration tone he had set for Izaya’s private number. The fact that Izaya was texting him meant two things: one, he had missed his bedtime, and two, he was up to something. Neither of those things were good.
Shiki unlocks his phone and is met with he and Izaya’s string of texts, the most recent being a simple, “Daddy.” Shiki hates when Izaya does that, because texts don’t allow him to hear the meaning or feelings behind the word, and Izaya certainly won’t just tell him. Is Izaya hurt? Distressed? Teasing, or does he just want Shiki’s attention? This lack of knowledge doesn’t give Shiki any room to respond appropriately, so he sticks with something generic and vaguely concerned until he knows what Izaya wants or needs.
To: Orihara Izaya
What is it?
It is several long minutes until Izaya responds, during which Shiki makes no move to return to his work. He stares at his phone, watches the dots that indicate Izaya typing appear then disappear several times before they stop entirely. He is prepared to send another message, demand Izaya tell him what’s wrong - because that’s what he needs sometimes, orders, commands - but instead, a moment later, a picture pops up on the screen. It is Izaya, shirtless (perhaps naked, the picture cuts off at his navel), taken with the front-facing camera but still somewhat sloppily framed, as if taken in haste or with little regard for the end product. For a moment Shiki panics, expecting to see blood or bandages to indicate an injury, but then he notices the light flush across Izaya’s chest. He knows exactly what that means. He taps the screen to get the keyboard up, though he isn’t really sure what he plans to say, but then hurriedly swipes it back down after catching sight of a fold of black fabric in the bottom corner of the image, across Izaya’s hip. It doesn’t look soft enough to be one of Izaya’s t-shirts, nor a jacket, which only leaves one possibility.
To: Orihara Izaya
Baby boy. Are you wearing one of my shirts?
From: Orihara Izaya
You left me alone all day.
On the surface, the message sounds curt and somewhat standoffish, but Shiki hears it in the little whiny voice that Izaya uses when he’s trying to make excuses for himself - usually just before a punishment. But Shiki isn’t angry at him for going through his things, nor taking something without permission; in fact, the mere idea of Izaya trawling through his wardrobe (or perhaps the washing basket) to find the shirt that smelled most like Shiki, already slightly flushed with desperation and arousal, is enough to send a jolt of electricity down Shiki’s spine. Mindful of the men present in the room, he opens the keyboard to type another response.
To: Orihara Izaya
Let me see you.
The distance between replies is longer this time, and when one does come in it is petulant and uncooperative. Izaya is always more shy when he’s on his own.
From: Orihara Izaya
It’s embarrassing.
To: Orihara Izaya
Daddy wants to see you, baby. Go on.
A minute, and then another picture. This one is framed better, taken with purpose, and shows Izaya lay across their black silk sheets from just above his protruding collarbones down to his skinny hips. He does indeed have one of Shiki’s black shirts hanging loosely from his shoulders, one of the sleeves covering the one hand that he has across his chest entirely. Shiki can picture him touching himself, shyly rutting into his palm as he presses the other against his mouth, muffling soft noises into the fabric of the borrowed shirt as he desperately inhales the scent. Raising a hand, Shiki gestures the two men to leave the room and doesn’t make a move to respond until he hears the click of the door behind them.
To: Orihara Izaya
Good, baby. You look so pretty.
From: Orihara Izaya
Daddy please
To: Orihara Izaya
Are you touching yourself?
From: Orihara Izaya
Yes daddy
To: Orihara Izaya
Did I give you permission to do that?
From: Orihara Izaya
No, daddy.
Shiki’s thumbs hover over the keyboard, preparing to respond, but his thoughts stray to the noises that Izaya must be making, the little whimpers high in his throat that he only forgets to be embarrassed about when he’s desperate to come. Before he fully knows what he’s doing, Shiki is selecting Izaya’s number from his recent calls and holding the phone to his ear as it rings. Izaya picks up almost immediately.
“Daddy,” he whines as soon as the line connects, voice breathy, and Shiki can hear the sheets crumple as he writhes. He’s already half-hard in his trousers.
“I’m here,” Shiki soothes, keeping his voice low both because he doesn’t want to risk anyone overhearing, and because Izaya loves it. “Are you touching yourself?”
“N-no, daddy,” Izaya shudders a breath and shifts again, “You didn’t give me permission.”
“Good boy. But you were, weren’t you? What were you doing?”
The question draws another whine from Izaya’s throat, and Shiki can picture the way he flushes. “Not…not properly. I was just..j-just palming myself over my underwear. So I didn’t really break..break the rules. Did I, daddy?”
Shiki hums, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. The stress of the day has already melted at the sound of his baby’s voice, and he is in no mood to be cruel.
“I suppose not. Well, I’ll be coming home in about an hour, so if you don’t mind waiting a little b–”
“No!” Izaya cries, voice almost breaking in desperation. Shiki closes his eyes and appreciates the sound; it isn’t often he gets Izaya this wound up, at least not without hours put into teasing or neglect play, and he thanks the heavens for blessing him with this today.
“You don’t want that, baby? Are you that desperate?”
“Yes, daddy, please.”
“Well then,” Shiki sighs, pretending to consider his options, “I want you to touch yourself for me, properly. Put your hand on your cock–”
Izaya whines again. Shiki tries not to smile.
“You don’t want that either? You’re being quite demanding, sweetheart. Tell me, what do you want?”
“You,” Izaya gasps, and Shiki suspects he is touching his cock despite what he said, “D-daddy, please, please, I want you to fuck me, please.”
Shiki is fully hard and very uncomfortable in his trousers now, and Izaya whimpering and begging in his ear definitely isn’t helping, but he is unwilling to let his self-control slip enough to grant himself any sort of relief.
“I can’t do that right now, baby,” he soothes, only to be met by another petulant whine. “Come on, sweetheart. Do you have any lube out?”
“D-don’t..don’t need it, daddy, please–”
“Yes, you do. I don’t want you hurting yourself. You know where it is - it’s in the top drawer. Just lean over and get it, baby.”
Shiki hears the sounds of sheets ruffling, then a drawer gliding open and snapping shut. It is silent for a moment, with only the quiet wet sounds of lube being applied to fingers, until Izaya is whimpering into the phone again. He lets out a breath bordering on a moan, high and needy, and Shiki presses the ball of his hand to his cock over his trousers. That reaction was too much for a single finger, and he suspects that Izaya went straight for two like the little masochist he is.
“Does that feel good?” Shiki breathes lowly into the phone, finally beginning to palm himself gently. Izaya responds with a sudden moan - sharp, as if he’s startled himself - then a softer noise.
“Daddy,” he whispers, and it’s so sweet that Shiki feels himself shudder.
“Fuck,” he hisses, and Izaya moans again; getting Shiki to lose his composure is one of his favourite things. “I love you, baby.”
“I…I love you too, daddy, please,” Izaya begs, voice rising again in desperation though Shiki presumes he doesn’t really know what it is he’s begging for.
“You know what I’m going to do to you?”
“Te…tell me,” Izaya gasps, cutting himself off with a high-pitched noise as he undoubtedly presses his fingers against his prostate again. “Ah–daddy..!”
Shiki begins to grind more enthusiastically into his palm, biting his lip harshly to stifle a groan.
“When I get home, I’m going to fuck you until you’re too exhausted to move, baby, since you want to stay up so late. Or maybe I’ll stuff you full of one of your favourite toys - a vibrator, and I’ll turn it on every time you’re just on the verge of finally falling asleep. Keep going until you can barely keep your eyes open, and you can’t decide whether you want to come or pass out.”
Izaya moans a desperate noise of protest but Shiki knows that he’s delighted at the idea, despite the fact that he really prefers overstimulation to edging.
“Nn..no, I’ll…I’ll be good, daddy, please, just…j-just…”
“Just what, baby? What do you need?”
“I need..ah…! I need to come, daddy, please. Please let me come.”
“Already?” Shiki keeps his voice light, but adds a tone of subtle mocking, “My baby really is desperate.”
“Please!”
Shiki pretends to sigh, draws it out for as long as he can bear with Izaya whimpering so pitifully, then concedes. “Alright, I’ll let you come - on one condition.”
He receives no response other than another whine, and thus drops his voice to a more stern tone. “Listen to me, baby. Stop touching yourself. Are you listening?”
There is a pause until Izaya shudders a breath, and Shiki can hear the sound of him writhing until he eventually stills. His heavy breathing crackles through the speaker. “I…I’m listening.”
“Good boy. Now, I’m going to give you a choice, baby,” Shiki says, struggling to keep his voice from softening too much - this is meant to be a punishment, after all, “You can either come now, and then wait with a plug in and cock ring on until I get home. Or, you can wait until later to come.”
It isn’t too drastic a punishment - Izaya shouldn’t be waiting for more than a couple of hours, depending on when Akabayashi manages to get his act together - but it’s enough to send him whining in protest.
“Daddy!” he cries, and Shiki can hear a noise as if he’s kicking his legs at the sheets in apparent frustration.
“Those are your only two options, sweetheart.” Shiki truly is in no mood to be particularly cruel, nor to administer any legitimate punishments, but Izaya has broken several rules over the course of the night - too many to be ignored, and Shiki suspects he knows that - so Shiki will settle for the middle ground. He plans to give Izaya exactly what he wants once he gets home, anyway. He always does. “Now, come on, baby, which do you want?”
“I…I want to come, daddy, please.”
Shiki’s lips curl; Izaya must really be desperate.
“You’re sure?” he questions, just to tease, and Izaya moans his affirmation. His voice is slightly muffled, however, and Shiki suspects he has turned face-down to press his face into the pillows - or he’s making use of his free hand to press his face into his sleeve again.
“Alright, baby, go on. I want to hear you.”
In a moment, Izaya is gasping into the phone again as he presses his fingers in as far as they’ll go and rubs them none too gently against his prostate.
“Daddy,” he whines, as if he can pretend it’s Shiki despite his own fingers being smaller, less calloused than the yakuza’s. Shiki wishes he could be the one touching Izaya, dragging those sweet noises from his throat, but he’s being held to his desk and the best he can offer is his voice to bring Izaya pleasure.
“Come on, sweetheart. There you go, let me hear you. Daddy wants to hear you, you make the prettiest sounds.”
Izaya has descended into a babbled mantra of “daddy” and “please”, as he usually does when he’s on the brink of orgasm, and Shiki guesses when his voice suddenly grows more distant accompanied with the ruffle of sheets that he has dropped the phone onto the bed beside him. He keeps talking, despite the fact that he isn’t quite sure if Izaya can even hear him anymore, repeating praise and encouragement until Izaya gasps a moan and suddenly goes still. He is silent for at least a minute, and Shiki keeps talking, keeps his voice soothing and even until the sheets shift and Izaya brings the phone to his ear again.
“Daddy,” he whispers, sounding lost as he always does after orgasm, and Shiki hushes him gently. He wants to be there, to hold Izaya, but he reminds himself that there is no drastic distance between them, no more than there usually is; the miles just seem to stretch forever at times like these.
“Do you remember what I asked you to do?” Shiki asks gently, knowing that Izaya will not respond to any concerns for his wellbeing, even when he’s like this.
“…yes,” Izaya finally breathes after several long moments of silence, “Yes, daddy.”
“Good boy. You can rest for a little bit now, but I want you to do as I asked once I hang up, alright?”
Izaya’s breathing is starting to even out a bit now, his inhales sound less harsh on his throat, and he makes a soft noise of affirmation.
“Is it alright if I go now?” Shiki asks, and Izaya hums again.
“I love you,” he mumbles, “Daddy.”
“I love you, too, baby.”
Shiki pulls the phone away from his ear and presses ‘End Call’, unwilling to listen to the beeps to signify the disconnection. He leans back in his chair, still hard and uncomfortable, and sighs. It's going to be a long night.
summary: Heiwajima Shizuo has never been able to control his anger, and at the age of twelve is taken from his parents and placed into foster care after a particularly dangerous attack on his younger brother. After several years spent deteriorating in a group home, Shizuo is moved to a larger institution specialising in cases even more difficult than his own, where he meets resident problem child Orihara Izaya.
notes: hopefully you enjoy this! i’ve been working on it for a long-ass time (i swear it was meant to be just a couple paragraphs of character-building before plot rather than what is basically a 3k character study) and panicked so hard about uploading it, but it’s here now and it exists so please let me know if you liked it!
ao3 mirror.
If Shizuo thinks hard enough, he can remember a point in his early childhood when things were normal. He was the first son of a middle-class couple, who loved each other well enough and loved him too.
He was the ideal first kid, really; messy dark hair and gappy teeth and the type of laugh that could make strangers on the street turn to smile. Perfect practise, and a perfect example, for a second child, Kasuka - who was born just after his third birthday and quickly deemed perfect. Kasuka was a mostly quiet baby; only cried when he really needed something, quickly adapted to sleeping in a cot, didn’t whine when he wasn’t given attention. The type of baby that parents could brag about, could take to restaurants and parties and parade around their friends while they cooed about what a ‘little angel’ he was.
Shizuo, meanwhile, quickly turned into a nightmare. It had been alright when he was the only child, when his parents didn’t have anyone to compare him to directly, and they could excuse his behaviour as normal. Kasuka’s birth and subsequent perfection made that impossible; even an average child looked like a hell beast beside him, making Shizuo’s tantrums and screeching simply unbearable. He wasn’t a spoilt child by any means, but as he got older he got louder and more fussy - wouldn’t sit still, wouldn’t eat properly, wouldn’t be quiet and would clamber out of his cot (and, later, his bed) to hammer on his parents door or simply cause a ruckus in the night. Shizuo, of course, did not remember any of this, though he understood well enough that there must have been something wrong with him in the long run. Wrong enough for his parents to sit him down age eleven and tell him, very gently, that they had thought long and hard, and they had decided that it might be better if he went away to live somewhere else. Somewhere where he could be looked after properly, where people would understand him better, somewhere that his parents described as being lovely and kind and special, but Shizuo was old enough to understand what foster care was. Old enough to understand the concept of abandonment.
And Shizuo, with a split brow and a bruised cheek from a particularly violent rampage at school several days previously, burst into tears. He begged his parents not to get rid of him, that he was sorry and he didn’t know why he got so angry, but he would stop and he would never get into fights anymore, that he would be more like Kasuka and then everything would be okay. His mother then began to cry herself and gathered him up in her arms. She swore that he just didn’t quite understand, that they didn’t want to get rid of him at all and loved him very, very much. But Shizuo was afraid and already felt as if she was letting go of him, so he swore to himself that he would be good from now on. That, at least, earned him several more months, during which he did try his very best to be good. He swallowed his unpredictable rage, went through every single method that the counsellors and psychologists at school had taught him (counting to ten, breathing in for three seconds then out for five, stopping and thinking about what the ‘best course of action’ would be), and for a while he was doing alright, but it was obvious that it couldn’t last. He had tried, he had tried so hard, but ultimately it all came to a head on the day he tried to attack his little brother.
He attacked plenty of people - that was what always got him into trouble at school. He had a short temper, everyone said; they were hesitant to use the term “anger issues,” (and were loathe to think of anything more clinical) though that’s what all the other kids taunted him for. The moment something annoyed him, be it the sound of someone’s pencil tapping or an insult aimed at him, he flew off the handle before he could even fully comprehend the situation. His body acted before his brain could even think anything, like he was a jockey trapped on top of a rampaging horse who could only watch the destruction he left in his wake, unable to do anything to try and stop it. At school, he threw chairs and pens and books, shoved people into walls and punched them until they cried and bled. He didn’t enjoy it (or, at least, the vague satisfaction he got from his fist connecting with flesh never surmounted the agonising guilt he felt afterwards), and he wasn’t a bully - he just couldn’t control it. Home was a safer environment, at least, where there was little to irritate him and he could largely be left alone since his parents were often at work, but there was still Kasuka. Kasuka, who was sweet and quiet and never got into anybody’s way, who was gentle and fragile and utterly doomed the moment Shizuo set his sights on him with rage burning in his chest. Thinking back, Shizuo could not even remember what the argument had been about. Something stupid, fickle, the sort of thing that only two young siblings possibly could argue about, but Shizuo had snapped and tried to throw the closest thing - which just happened to be a refrigerator.
He had failed, rather spectacularly of course, and could only be thankful for that fact when he came back to himself, sprawled on the kitchen floor under the crushing weight of the appliance. He could hear Kasuka talking on the phone, voice taking on the childish air that it rarely ever held as he spoke to the ambulance operator, trying to relay the necessary information beyond “please help my brother, he’s hurt, it’s bad, please”. When Shizuo next woke up, he was in a hospital bed with his neck in a brace, his right arm and left leg in plaster, and a dull ache spread throughout his entire body. Kasuka was sat in a chair beside the bed, staring at him with a look in his eyes - mature far beyond his years - that Shizuo couldn’t decipher, but still he didn’t seem afraid. He’d never been afraid, no matter what Shizuo had done - who he’d hurt or what (be it bones or property) he had broken.
“You should rest, brother,” is all he said, quietly and evenly as if he was the older brother soothing the younger, and, with no other option in his drowsy mind, Shizuo obeyed.
The next person to wake him was his mother, staring down at him with a look in her eyes that Shizuo decidedly could decipher. In her eyes, he saw grief, disappointment, resignation. She looked tired, too; too tired to try to hide any of this from him. Kasuka was gone, long gone probably, and Shizuo couldn’t help but feel dreadfully alone under her gaze.
“I’ve talked to the doctors,” she said once she was sure he was awake enough to understand her, busying herself with pouring him a cup of water so that she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes, “And they’ve agreed that perhaps living with people who…know how to help you properly would be best.”
Laying in a hospital bed, held together with plaster casts and bandages and tortured by the memory of Kasuka’s eyes widening - slightly, ever so slightly - when he had snapped, Shizuo couldn’t help but agree.
“It doesn’t have to be permanent,” she soothed, voice very tight as she stared down at the cup in her hand now full of the lukewarm water from the jug beside Shizuo’s bed. She made no move to offer it to him.
“It can just be for a little while. Until you get a bit more settled in yourself. Until you're…”
She sighed. He was young, young and so fragile and she knew that this was wrong, that this wasn’t fair, but when she had received the call at work telling her of what had happened - that they were considering her son unstable, a danger - she knew that this was the right choice. To protect Shizuo, to protect Kasuka. To protect herself. With a gulp, she continued.
“…until you’re less of a danger.”
Shizuo’s chest restricted so sharply at the words that for a moment he couldn’t quite breathe, though he knew they were true. It was just…different to hear them out loud. Different to hear them in his mother’s voice, rather than his own or the other kids at school. But he knew - he was dangerous and uncontrollable. He was almost surprised that they hadn’t decided to send him to a juvenile detention centre or something. He’d heard about them on the television, and the older kids at school all mocked that he was going to end up in one - and then, eventually, a real prison, too.
‘Shizuo-kun is such a monster! Who is he gonna kill first?’
He could’ve killed Kasuka. So easily. Even if he’d just dropped the refrigerator, if it had hit Kasuka he would be broken like Shizuo was. Probably broken so much worse than Shizuo was because Shizuo got hurt so much that broken bones didn’t even really hurt anymore, not as much as they used to, and Kasuka just seemed so small and breakable, especially in comparison. Even if he wasn’t afraid of Shizuo, Kasuka was in danger when they were together. So were the other children at school, so were his parents. Once he was bigger and stronger, though he was already tall for his age, surely he’d end up doing something terrible.
Maybe it was better for everyone if he was just locked up.
His mother had explained everything that she could, speaking constantly in that soft, soothing voice that Shizuo had last heard when Kasuka was a baby, but she admitted that she did not have much of a hand in what would actually happen. This only scared Shizuo further, until a doctor came in and informed them that one of the foster carers from the home where he would be moving would visit them the next day to tell him everything that he wanted to know - though this, also, was not as comforting as it should have been. His mind supplied him with images of the evil orphanage workers from old movies, crotchety old women who would screech at him and lock him in the attic for misbehaving, and that night after his mother went home he did not sleep at all. He stayed awake, staring at the bitterly familiar paintings on the ceiling of the hospital room as the hallways bustled around him, footsteps echoing through the children’s ward as babies screamed and mothers wept.
He could not remember much of the meeting the following day, only the anxiety he felt and the texture of the sheets gripped in his hands as they shook. The carer - parent? He’d never called her that, always just Kanna - had spoken mostly to his mother, all smiles and promises of a loving, nurturing environment that he could thrive in. She was kind-looking, the way one would expect a young mother to look, but she did not look at all as if she would be able to ‘handle’ Shizuo - especially since his own mother had failed at the task. This observation soon proved to be true.
Roughly a week after the meeting, Shizuo was walking through the doors of the small group home he was to reside in with a duffle bag of his belongings and pure vindictiveness in his heart. There were three other children in the group home already: two boys and one girl, both boys several years older than him and the girl several years younger. The oldest boy, Asahi, was sixteen when Shizuo moved in and incredibly boring - studious and charismatic in a way that made Shizuo slightly jealous, but he was also rude and far too self-assured for someone so average. He liked to argue and enjoyed goading Shizuo into petty fights, but he was always the first to start blubbering when things got violent. The other boy, Itsuki, was fourteen and frankly pathetic. He got into almost as many fights as Shizuo did, but rarely if ever came out the victor and instead spent his time sulking in his room with black eyes and broken hands. The little girl, Aoi, was three and thus too young to be of any interest to Shizuo. Sure, he liked Kasuka, but he didn’t like children - or, at least, he liked to tell himself that he didn’t, when in reality he was merely terrified of hurting her.
It was perhaps due to this fear, combined with the desperate desire for privacy and isolation from the other boys, that drove Shizuo to be even more violent than he had been at home. He got into screaming matches with Asahi, threw plates at the dinner table and sent food flying at the walls, got into fights with Itsuki at any possible opportunity - even when they were both bruised and bandaged from other scuffles - and let his frustration at Aoi’s unwillingness to go away boil over until he was yelling at her, too. Kanna did her best, really she did, but it seemed as if she would have had her hands full with Itsuki alone, let alone two other children - one still a toddler - and Shizuo. She looked less pretty and put-together as time crawled on, grew irritable despite all of her best efforts, and even the help of the other temporary carers and volunteers going in and out of the house each week wasn’t enough to hold down all four of them. It took just under four years for her to finally snap.
It is mid-February when she sits down Shizuo - freshly sixteen - and informs him that he is going to be transferred to a different foster home. She doesn’t bother phrasing it like an offer, because it isn’t, it is a decision that had likely been made months ago, and now all that if left to do is boot him out and send him on his merry way. Shizuo can’t even find it in himself to feel any sort of betrayal or abandonment like he had the first time - this was a long time coming. Asahi and Itsuki had both aged out the foster care system and were living happy, free lives somewhere in the city - or perhaps miles and miles away, where Shizuo would like to go - and now Kanna is left with only him and Aoi.
“Then you’ll finally get the happy family life you wanted in the first place,” he says, not at all bitter as he inspects the paperwork displayed over the coffee table in front of him, and Kanna smiles ruefully.
“I love you, Shizuo, you know that. And I love Asahi and Itsuki, too. But I’ll admit that I was too ambitious in taking you all on. Maybe I’ll do better with just Aoi.”
Shizuo shrugs casually. “You did just fine with all of us. ‘S’not your fault we’re all the way that we are.”
“The whole point of this was supposed to be for me to raise you better than that. Let you grow out of your wrongdoings.”
Shizuo’s gaze is pulled to the stars on his knuckles not quite covered by the clumsy bandages wrapped around his hands. They are almost healed now, and he is reminded that in just under two weeks’ time - after the week-long break - he’ll be off suspension and back at school.
“Is this place far away?” he asks, leaning forwards to pick up a brochure. This place is more of an institution than a home, a huge building that looks something like a hospital or a school, and the paragraph on the back says that it specialises in “particularly difficult cases”.
“Not terribly,” Kanna replies, “Other side of Ikebukuro. You’ll be going to a new school.”
Shizuo glances up at that, somewhat anxiously. “What school?”
“Raijin High School, nothing special. But it might be good for you - a fresh start,” Kanna picks up a letter from the table and glances over it, then looks over at Shizuo beside her, “I think this place will be better for you. I wouldn’t have requested you transfer otherwise.”
“It looks like a hospital. Or a prison,” Shizuo snorts derivatively, unwilling to admit to the fear still sitting heavy in his stomach.
“Don’t let appearances fool you, it’s a nice place. Not too crowded either. There’s lots of space there, lots of privacy - not like here. And they know what they’re doing.”
“‘Particularly difficult cases’,” Shizuo reads flatly, and Kanna chuckles.
“Yeah. They specialise in children from traumatic or particularly sensitive environments - kids of criminals, or abuse victims, or…well, you know.”
“And you’re sure this is the place for me? I’m not a trauma survivor. I’m just a fu-fuck–freakin’ monster.”
“Don’t say that,” Kanna admonishes firmly in a tone more concerned than at all harsh, though she smiles softly at him managing to (almost) censor himself, “There’s nothing wrong with you, and you’re certainly not a monster.”
Silently, Shizuo thinks back to the way Kanna yelled when she was especially tired. When she was surrounded by broken plates and Aoi was crying and Shizuo could feel blood on his hands and Itsuki was cradling his already-bruising face, swearing and shouting while Asahi stood on and watched. It’s been years since then, but he is still the same person - the same kid. And maybe, with this, he’ll finally be able to let that kid go.
Softly, he speaks up after several beats of silence. “Will they really be able to help me?”
Kanna looks over to him and smiles. She reaches out a hand and gently takes his, running her thumb softly over his healing knuckles. When she speaks, her voice is nothing but a whisper - like she’s sharing a secret. Something sacred. “They will, Shizuo. I promise.”
~
Four days later (far too soon), Shizuo is climbing out of the same car he was taken from his home in four years ago and facing the place that will likely be his home until his eighteenth birthday. It doesn’t look quite as threatening as it did in the photographs, but it’s large and does give off the impression of a hospital - clinical, rather than homely. Kanna climbs out of the driver’s side and makes her way to the boot, but Shizuo rushes over and intercepts before she can attempt to put the burden of his bags and suitcases on herself.
“How chivalrous,” she chuckles, and ruffles his messy brown hair. Disgruntled, Shizuo huffs and lifts a bag (one a duffle containing mainly clothes and technology, the other his school backpack) onto each shoulder before hefting up his larger suitcase with little effort. The second he rolls behind him as he makes his way from the car to the double doors of the building.
“Do you want me to come in with you?” Kanna calls from behind him when he’s halfway there, and Shizuo pauses. He doesn’t want her to, knows he needs to do this on his own, but he turns around and tries desperately to find the words to ask her for what he does want. However, it seems that Kanna is already a step ahead of him as she rushes from the car to take his face between her gentle hands and press a kiss to his cheek since she can’t even nearly reach his forehead. She smiles when she draws back, and her eyes look slightly wet.
“I love you, Shizuo,” she says softly, traces her thumb over his cheekbone, then turns and makes her way slowly back to the car to allow him the time to get inside without any eyes on him. He tightens his grip on his suitcases and turns. And then, with his heart in his throat, he walks through the automatic doors - home.
summary: mikoto suoh has a lot of enemies. usually, after they try to face him, they run home with their tail between their legs - but every so often, some will come crawling back with the urge for revenge.
and what better target than the one the king holds dearest?
(or, alternatively, misaki is kidnapped by a rival gang formerly defeated by mikoto, and the king is given an ultimatum.)
notes: not beta read so sorry for any stupid mistakes. i started this aaaages ago and never got around to finishing it until @shy-canadian-snowflake popped up and magically motivated me like an angel - so a huge big thank you to them!! this is also the first post on this shiny new writing blog, and there’s no initiation quite like one of my oldest rare-pairs. enjoy!! (and pls let me know if you did so i’ll know to continue!)
Mikoto is wandering alone down one of the less crowded streets of Shizume, heading back towards HOMRA with several new packets of cigarettes held in a bag in his right hand, when his phone vibrating in his back pocket interrupts his lazy train of thought.
It is mid-January, early evening, and the snow on the streets has yet to melt so the slicing cold air hangs with it. Mikoto had left the bar early on a mission to track down a smaller gang stirring up trouble on the other side of the city, but his body temperature (heightened considerably by his aura) continues to attempt to oppose the winter. Cringing as the hand that had previously been seeking refuge in his jacket pocket is exposed to the air, he draws his phone clumsily from his jeans. The blue light of the phone screen is harsh in the dusk and it takes several long moments for his eyes to adjust so he can check the caller ID. Izumo. Mikoto stares at the screen for a moment, before its incessant vibrating reminds him that Kusanagi is actually waiting for him to answer.
He swipes to answer the call and holds the phone to his ear, trying not to think about the fact that the last time Izumo called him, Totsuka was dead.
“Hey, Mikoto?”
Kusanagi’s voice over the phone is as even as ever, casual lilt carrying the words in a way that in any other situation would be relaxing. But Mikoto has known the man for years, since they were teenagers, and they've been through too much together for him to not immediately notice an underlying sense of anxiety. His mind, as ever, goes to the worst scenario first.
“What is it?”
Kusanagi barks out a laugh after hearing his tone, but it sounds inappropriate and somewhat forced. “No one’s dying, I promise.”
Mikoto quirks an eyebrow. The joke is in poor taste, though he doubts the man intended it as such. “Then why’d you call?”
“I was gonna ask if you knew where Yata was.”
“Yata?”
“He hasn’t come in today. I wouldn’t be worried - well, I’m not, really - but he’s not answering his phone. Kamamoto offered to check his apartment, but I figured I should call you first. Make sure I’m not interrupting some steamy date.”
Mikoto considers informing Kusanagi that the closest he and Yata have gotten to a date has been a make-out session in HOMRA’s rec room while some action movie played in the background (that’s basically a cinema date, right?), but he bites his tongue.
“I haven’t heard from him.”
That statement brings Izumo’s laughter to a nervous standstill. There is a long beat of silence.
“Since when?”
“Last night at the bar. I last saw him the same time you did, unless you’ve talked to him since.”
Mikoto hears a slight ruffle, and assumes that Izumo is shaking his head. “No...no. He said goodnight and then he left on his own. It was late.”
Mikoto’s slow pace down the street draws to a stop.
“What are you implying?”
Izumo pauses, the only sound through the phone his deep breathing.
“I can’t stop thinking about Totsuka.”
Mikoto feels something like anger rising in his throat, but he knows it’s closer to anxiety. “What are you implying?”
Izumo sighs deeply. “I’m not--I’m not saying anything. But, fuck, Yata’s just a kid. And, yeah, he can look after himself and I get that but I can’t help worrying. I feel like, with Totsuka, I didn’t worry enough. And look where that got us.”
Mikoto lets the silence hang, watches his breath dance in the cold January air like the smoke of a cigarette. He finds himself craving one suddenly, but he doesn’t have a free hand to draw his open pack out of his jacket pocket.
“I’ll go check his apartment.”
His tone makes it sound like an offer, like something he’s willing to do to calm Izumo’s nerves, but they both know that there is now the beginning of panic coursing through Mikoto’s own veins. Misaki has always had such an effect on him, and more often than not he finds himself cursing the teenager’s innate ability to cause him such grief.
Izumo makes a noise of affirmation, another rustle to indicate a nod. “Call me as soon as you find him,” he says, with an air of confidence that disappears like smoke in the wind the moment he continues, “And call me if you don’t.”
Mikoto hangs up the phone and breathes deeply, deciding after a moment’s hesitation that Yata is more important than his body’s craving for nicotine. He sets off again at a significantly brisker pace, turning off a few streets away from the bar and heading instead to Yata’s apartment, tucked far into the worse side of the city. He hasn't been there many times, since Yata basically lives at the bar, but he’s also aware that Yata’s financial situation is a bit of a sore spot. God knows how many part-time jobs the kid’s working to try and keep up with the rent, for no real reason other than a desperation to provide for himself, rather than rely on other people. Yata had been taught the rather harsh (and false) lesson in his life that relying on others always got you hurt, and Mikoto is always trying to encourage him to loosen his grip on that belief, but his efforts are largely in vain. Yata’s mistrust of people on any level deeper than the surface was ingrained in him, through pain and loss and regret, and no amount of encouraging was going to get him to let go of it. Especially not with the still-raw grief of Totsuka’s death in his heart.
It seems to get colder the further away from the shopping district Mikoto gets, as the buildings thin out and the streets grow broader - intended for vehicles, rather than slow-paced shoppers - but with a sense of purpose burning in his mind, he doesn't notice it as much as he had before Izumo’s call. He walks through alleyways and under footbridges, keeps his distance from the guys lingering under them with their hands shoved deep in their pockets, no doubt gripping switchblades. He doesn't have the time to get into a fight, especially not one that he can't end with an effortless wave of his aura. He can feel it itching under his skin, burning in a way that it hasn't since the evening of December 7th, and he knows it well enough now to know that it means ‘danger’. Anxiously, he chalks it up to his surroundings, to the guys holding nail-embedded baseball bats eyeing him from the alcoves of shuttered store fronts, but deep down he knows better. His aura is unsettled with the need to protect, to shield...and the knowledge that it is helpless. Something is happening. Someone is going to be hurt. And, as he pauses at the bottom of the metal stairs leading to Yata’s second-storey apartment, he can only selfishly hope that it is anyone else.
He begins to scale the stairs slowly, steadily, but his anxiety gets the better of him and soon he is taking them three at a time, leaping over the bannister as it angles around to save him a few precious seconds, and then he is stood at Misaki’s front door and time seems to freeze around him, like he's been plunged sixty feet into freezing water. The lock is broken, and there is a dull trail of blood dragging from underneath it.
No.
No.
No. No. No.
Mikoto is bursting through the door in a moment, but there is nothing he can do. He is hours too late already.
Misaki’s apartment is only one room - two if you count the semi-divided kitchenette, three if you count the bathroom - and it is in chaos. Shelves formerly housing photo frames and books and DVDs are overturned, the small old-fashioned television smashed from some apparent impact with wires dangling it precariously from its previous perch atop a chest of drawers. The drawers are all opened, too, sorted through and their contents dumped on the ground, but Mikoto doesn't notice any of it, not really. Because the old mattress on the floor, including its single unwashed white sheet, is covered in blood, and there is a message spray-painted in purple on the wall above it.
“CUT YOUR LOSSES, KING”
What the fuck? Mikoto is lost too suddenly to immediately feel the rage that he knows is coming, and instead stares dazedly into the ransacked apartment. Is this revenge? Revenge. For something that he has done. Misaki is paying the price for something that Mikoto has done. The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach, but before he can do anything he notices the note on the table. It looks so out-of-place amidst the chaos that Mikoto is shocked he didn't notice it before, but he approaches the table cautiously nonetheless. He snatches up the paper and begins to read.
“Red King. Or, rather, Suoh Mikoto. Did you really think you would get away with fucking with us?
You tore us down. Thought you’d defeated us once and for all. Taught us a lesson good and proper, yeah?
We don't play no fucking games like that.
We remember. Bide our time. Act with more strategy that you HOMRA fuckers do.
Bet you feel pretty fucking stupid right now. Don't worry; the grief’ll kick in soon.
And then you can really feel like shit.
But that's not really what we’re after. We’re after suffering in the broader sense. More shame-filled. More regret.
We did consider that little princess of yours, but even we have standards. Besides, the other type of love is always more fun.
Depending on how long it takes your stupid ass to realise what's happened, your boy here probably won't be dead. Maybe. Depends how loud the fucker is.
All we’re asking, Mr. Suoh, is for you to cut your losses.
Let us win and we’ll spare the rest of your boys. And the girl.
But if you come chasing after us, you’ll find pretty boy here with his throat slit and a hundred men off to do the same to the rest.
jacobvanloon
izzy806
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