Alright! Getting more comfortable with my merfolk au of the DCAs. I have officially named the AU "Inkwrithe". I am working on a story outline to write. I am designing Reader Y/N currently but I need to make a character sheet for them. I will get there!
For now a little blurb about the boys, Sun is happy and curious about the surface world and humans. His spines are poisonous but he is careful and aware of them when interacting with anyone! It. takes a lot to upset or frustrate Sun. He is generally a very sweet albeit nervous guy! He is diurnal and enjoys dusk and dawn the most because that is when he and Moon spend the most time together.
Moon is your typical brooding loner. He doesn't want to admit it, but he is super happy that Sun agreed to be his mate and isn't sure what Sun sees in him. He lived on the edge of the "Deep Court", but did not want to be involved with politics so left to be with Sun closer to the surface. He doesn't trust humans and has that they pollute the water. He enjoys knocking over boats and causing havoc. He is nocturnal!
Alright, I imagined that Y/N has a favorite kid at the DayCare and they’re really close. Y/N often calls her "Love" (or more) it’s just something normal between them, lol. I’ll add the background later heheeeeeee
When I tell you that it is such a delight to have another commission from @vixenfoxpup, I mean it! We continue the tale of the news reporter, and the mob boss brothers from where we left off in the previous fic. The aftermath of the mob bosses taking the photo of the ex comes upon you while at work. Someone needs to ask you an important question. You don't know what to think or feel anymore, but you have to do what is right.
Content Warning for suggestive themes, implied abuse, death, and bruises.
———
A fan lazily blows on your desk, combatting the rush of heat that had descended upon the city. Some of your coworkers remarked that it might be the eternal punishment the city is owed and laughed off the omen. There are plenty of reasons to deem this city too far gone to be saved, but there are still good people, and you try to give them something to read that isn’t just murders and gang violence and another politician accepting bribes from a questionable source.
Unfortunately, the page stuck into the top of your typewriter remains empty. You flick a pencil absentmindedly. Everytime you try to think of resources or someone to interview, or even simply put your fingers to the keys, your mind tumbles down into a dark wandering path.
It’s been a long week. Seven days since the mob bosses of the Celestial Gang entered your apartment and took the only evidence you held onto about your ex. You wish you had never kept such a memento. Now, you’re wondering what they’re doing with the photo—the brief flicker of happiness you had with your ex before it all got bad.
You brush the pencil against your wrists. The yellow marks of healing bruises have been wiped away, and the lingering signs of damage to your throat have disappeared like mud washed down the drain. As if it was all a bad dream after a terrible storm.
You’re grateful. You’re not sure you could endure more high-necked sweaters in these kinds of temperatures nor having your arms covered and hot.
Shaking your head, you push the pencil behind your hair, half sliding into your hair, and straighten in your seat. Pushed into an attentive position, you churn through your mind. There has to be something you can write, anything.
Would Sun and Moon hurt your ex?
Maybe they wouldn’t leap to conclusions so quickly. Perhaps they wanted to know your history. If they had asked about any previous boyfriends, you’re not sure if you could have lied. At least, not well.
You’re not going to have anything to give to the editor if you keep this up.
Groaning, you slump back and press your hands over your face.
You can’t think of anything but of what those two dangerous animatronics are capable of, and what motive that would spur them on to find the one who left you bruised and beaten, but not broken. No. You survived. You picked yourself up and kicked your ex out, and you were doing just fine—
Until the mob bosses picked you up in their car. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, right?
Footsteps hurry down the hallway. Your office is a destination, not something to pass on by. Removing your hands from your face, you straighten just as your open door is engulfed by your boss.
“Mr. Singh,” you say quickly, caught off guard. You reach up a hand to your typewriter, but how could you hide a blank page? You give up and fold your arms into your lap. You speak quietly, half-defeated, “I’m still working on my article.”
Mr. Singh is a big man who smiles wide with white teeth. He’s a great boss. You’ve had little issue working on his paper as he is one of the few good ones. The ones that actually talk about what’s going on in the city instead of skirting it with small, unnoticeable articles and minor notes before moving onto lighthearted happenings such as the mayor throwing a parade or the stock market statistics.
And he might be wondering where your next piece is. It’s already well past lunch.
“Relax, I’m not here to hound you,” he tugs on the flaps of his jacket, relaxed and confident, all at once. “I know you’re working up a storm on your next article. But that’s not why I’m here.”
You glance at the pale, empty paper on your desk then back to your boss. “What is it?”
You grimace at the thought of another grievance coming from someone high in authority not liking what you wrote. It wouldn’t be the first time. Your boss has little concern for those who seem to look down upon his paper simply because he is proud of it, no matter the cost. Which is a brave, albeit dangerous, thing.
“I received another compliment on my paper today. Do you know what a stranger told me, just before I walked into the building this morning?”
“I can’t imagine,” you confess, all while in awe.
“She said she found the article about the gang slayings down near the bridge disturbing, and that was the whole truth. There was nothing hidden nor brushed under the rug. She said she found your article unbiased and real.”
He laughs, fixing his suit jacket again.
“A lot aren’t brave enough to do that. Not in this city.” He holds your gaze. “But you are.”
A flinching, guttural spasm within you reflectively says ‘no’. You are not brave. You feel anything but. And the very words you wrote that seem to make you so defying might be exactly what got you caught in the crossfire of the mob bosses’ attention.
You have no idea what might have been different if you kept your head low and never sought out more of the dark underworld dealings to put into your pieces.
You squeeze your hands into a tight fist, hidden in your lap. You murmur, “Thank you, Mr. Singh.”
“Of course. I’m glad to have a reporter still willing to do good. Keep it up.” He tidies the collar of his shirt before flashing you his big, perfect smile again. “It’s good to see you doing better after getting rid of that no-good boyfriend of yours. You seem happier.”
You startle. For one moment of adrenaline surging fear, you wonder if he knows something, anything about your ex and the mob bosses. Then your senses regain control and you recover enough to mumble through a, “Yeah…”
Talking about your ex was never something you set out to do, but you did speak of him when you two were together, and then, you dropped off into silence. Mr. Singh noticed. He asked now and then, before you offhandedly mentioned that you were no longer together. He seemed glad for it, which you’re not sure how or why. You didn’t say that much, did you?
Maybe you didn’t have to. It was written underneath your skin, on your wrists and throat.
You fidget with your neckline before Mr. Singh levels you with a look that you do not want to decipher.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says, waving to your desk, “and I can’t wait for the next article from you. Good luck!”
He departs from your office, carrying his big grin, and leaving you even more discombobulated than before.
What are you going to do? You sigh and brush your fingertips against your wrists, before glancing up to the paper, waiting for inspiration, waiting for you.
There is something you’ve been thinking about and have yet to write. Maybe now would be a good time, no? You make a few notes, search up a few experts from little cards noting names and occupations that you might use as references and quotes, before you finally face your typewriter and put your hands to the keys.
The topic of domestic violence is difficult. It’s hush, and meant to be kept under wraps and behind make-up and under scarves. Maybe this could be a brave piece too.
You still don’t feel brave, but that’s never stopped you from going after the truth.
Only a few minutes pass by that you can cram into the beginning of the article before a sharp rap against your open door pulls you out of the working zone. You turn to find Mr. Singh, once again.
He’s not smiling.
“Is everything okay?” You try to stop your heart from dropping into your shoes, and fail. “Mr. Singh?”
“Come with me,” he says, his face serious. “You’re needed in the meeting room.”
“What’s this about?” you ask, standing up.
“Quickly now,” is all he says, before ushering you into the hallway.
He wastes no time in pushing you towards the large room filled with a great table and many chairs, meant to serve as a gathering for the reporters and editors while discussing what goes into tomorrow’s paper. It’s not unfamiliar, but there’s a tension clinging to Mr. Singh’s shoulders. You try to ask him again what this is about. If he meant to discuss some serious matter with you about the backlash rising from one of the articles you wrote, he’d do so in his office.
The blinds are pulled down. There’s a shocking lack of cigarette smoke as usually rises from many of the employees in the building. When Mr. Singh opens the door, he looks you carefully in your face, once again, wishing you luck.
You step inside, much to your confusion. You’re met with a figure who freezes your blood into ice.
There, seated at the head of the table, is Police Chief Eclipse.
An animatronic no less. You wrote about the day of his anointment, and his many promises and vows to clean up the city. He towers in the small chair. An almost unearthly presence with his clean, professional suit and golden optics that burn in the slightly shadowed space. A lone lamp burns, the light pointed toward a chair opposite of him—your chair, you must assume.
A female officer is seated close beside him. She holds a notepad. Her gaze is heavy, penetration underneath the brim of her uniform hat.
You struggle to swallow a lump in your throat. She looks at you like you’re a criminal.
The police chief smiles. His face plate is dark and maroon, spanning out around his head in a crown of piercing rays.
“Thank you for seeing me. This is Officer Cafarro. Would you mind taking a seat?” He gestures to the chair with the beam of the lamp set before it.
Upon numb legs, you reach the chair before sinking into it. The light falls between you both, highlighting a graveness to his expression despite his warmth.
“What’s this about?” Your eyes snap between the officer and the police chief.
“I’m afraid I have bad news.” He faces you completely, his eyes burning low.
Your heart threatens to leap out of your chest. Did the mob bosses do something? Did they frame you? Maybe it could be any of the other plethora of enemies you’ve made. There is no reason for the police chief to visit you that does not spell danger.
You clench your hands tightly together.
“Louis Nelson was found dead in an alleyway several days ago.”
You don’t move, caught in the quiet. The inexplicable falls upon you. The echo of the impossible fills the room.
Your ex.
“Dead?” you repeat, almost inaudibly.
“Yes.” He pauses, and you realize you are under his observation. “He was murdered.”
Murdered?
No, no… that can’t be.
You start to shake your head. A burning blooms behind your eyes, and the world becomes blurry.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says with real empathy. He regards you quietly for a moment, “I need to ask you a few questions. Do you think you can do that?”
You blink against the fire and tears overflow down your face. You quickly wipe them away, smearing the liquid across your cheeks. Inhaling, you try to find strength somewhere deep within you.
But you are horrified. You didn’t think—you didn't want to imagine that this is what the mob bosses would do when they found that photo. But what else would ruthless and dangerous crime lords do? Sun and Moon are violent and efficient. You have countless eye witnesses and testimonies you’ve recorded over the months to speak to that.
“It’s alright, you take as much time as you need.” The Police Chief sits patiently, and plucks a tissue from the box upon the table. He holds it out to you, the light from the lamp beaming on his metallic digits. Automatically, you take the tissue, but you don’t lift it to your eyes. You squeeze it in your hand.
Everything that’s happened, all that your ex has put you through—you never wanted him dead. You didn’t want him murdered and left in an alleyway like trash. You just wanted the hurting to stop. Did the mob bosses consider that? No. Why would they?
This doesn’t fix everything. It only makes the pain compound, built upon a layer of complicated emotions that you’re still trying to unravel from the relationship.
Sniffling, you push your shoulders back and face the police chief.
“What do you need to know?” you ask, water in your voice. You’re unable to lift your gaze entirely to meet the police chief. There’s still a blurriness to your vision you must blink away, then catch the tears that follow.
The female officer, Cafarro, digs into you with her gaze alone, but she makes a note as Police Chief Eclipse interlocks his fingers. As if gauging your strength, he sweeps a hard look up and down your person before speaking.
“Were you still in a relationship with Louis?” His optics lower, pulsing like embers in a hot hearth.
You finally use the tissue for its intended purpose, feeling foolish when the paper rips vigorously in your effort to wipe away the stains on your face. Defeated, you lower your hand back into your lap, sopping wet tissue paper torn down the middle.
The last time you saw Louis, you told him to never come back. That was for the best, wasn’t it?
“We broke up a while ago.” Your shoulders hitch with a sob. Steeling yourself with the muscle memory of your trade, you finally meet the police chief’s gaze. “How was he murdered?”
Your hand twitches, clenching the tissue as if it were a pen. But this is not a news article. You just have to know. You can’t look away from the brutality of it all with bliss and ignorance. Whether the mob bosses intended this, for you to be stained in their work, you will never know.
Eclipse pauses carefully, allowing the space to fill with your tight, sobbing breaths.
“He was beaten severely. There was also a gunshot wound to his temple.”
You stop breathing. Your mind turns violently, wondering how long he suffered before it was all over. Was it just a flurry of attacks before the deadly fire? Or was it drawn out, slow? Was he taken for several days or several hours? You have to think of the black car, driving slowly by, before your ex was forcibly stuffed into the vehicle and driven to a second location. Mob bosses don’t do their dirty work out in the open.
The nature of this violence is personal. Upclose, and only definitely delivering a blow that would end it all when there was nothing left to do. There was true hatred behind such an attack.
A churning in your stomach begins. You start to shake your head before stopping yourself.
“When did you last see him?” the police chief continues gently on, handling the gravity of the conversation with grace and compassion.
You do not feel worthy of any of it.
“When we broke up,” you breathe. Clenching your fists, you ask, “Was he kidnapped before he was found dead?”
The animatronic tilts his head slightly. Officer Caffaro’s eyes briefly narrow before she scribbles another note down upon her paper. Your pulse is crashing in your ears, almost drowning out the police chief’s answer.
“He was reported to have missed his Saturday shift, and then his Sunday. He was found early Monday by a garbage collector.”
The blood turns to ice in your veins. Two whole days. 48 hours.
“Oh, no…” You press a hand over your face.
No one deserves your ex’s fate. Not even him. You want to turn away, maybe find a garbage can to unload whatever remains from your breakfast, but you’re paralyzed. The reporter side of you wants the details, and needs them described in length, but the other wishes you never walked into this room today.
“Where were you Friday night?”
“At my apartment,” you answer automatically, “I went to bed.”
“All night?” the police chief leans forward slightly. His presence nearly cuts into the lamp light, and you are very aware, suddenly, of how small and inconsequential you are. Well—not inconsequential enough, it seems.
“I slept all night,” you stress, much more deliberately.
“Okay,” the police chief seems to believe you. Officer Caffaro, less so. “Do you have anyone who could verify your whereabouts that night?”
You stare. No, you don’t. Neighbors could have seen you go into your apartment, but any investigator wouldn’t stop at just that. There would be something more concrete, something that gives results—especially pointing into a singular, perfect conclusion.
Swallowing thickly, you ask, “Do you know who’s responsible?”
“We’re still trying to determine that.” Police Chief Eclipse smiles in a way of reassurance, but it does not reach you as it should.
You grow colder the longer you sit here, half touched by the shadows where the lamp light doesn’t quite reach.
Something else is going on. The intuition that pushes you further into a scoop has never failed you before.
“What is this really about?” you ask, as if holding your breath.
Officer Caffaro seems less than impressed, but the police chief spares her a glance. Quickly, she fixes her expression to something more neutral.
You’re hit by the realization that this is an interrogation. Blindsided by the news of your ex’s murder, and left entirely off-balance, you grow sicker in the pit of your stomach. Clenching the arm chairs, you force yourself to sit up straighter.
Surely this should be the job of some detective, not the head of the police department.
The police chief opens his jacket and removes a small bag labeled as evidence. He sets it upon the table, close to where you can see the contents within.
The photograph. Upon it are little brown blots of something dried and dark. Your smiling face is left unmarred by the mess, somehow. The vision of your ex is nearly doused in the splotches.
The amount of blood that could have reached such a small photo couples with the information of his demise. You must choke back a wretched sound, burying it in your throat.
A dizziness spins you around and around, but you hold onto the chair for dear life. It was no accident that the photo was left there. Was it to get rid of the last remains of your previous boyfriend or to send a message or to simply frame you?
You don’t know anything anymore.
“Chief,” you say, over the sickness overtaking you, “Do you believe I’m responsible for this?”
You are, in a way. If you hadn’t let the mob bosses find the pictures, your ex would still be walking and breathing.
“No.”
You lift your salt-burning eyes.
The police chief regards you with a mixture of pity and compassion, and he seems exhausted, somehow. The briefness of this crosses his face plate. Then, it’s gone in a flash of the lamp light.
“I remember your restraining order coming across my desk. I reviewed it personally.”
You stare, shocked into muted silence. He knows about your history with your ex? And he doesn’t find it suspicious that he’s dead and you would have good reason for wanting him to be so?
The police chief fixes you with a level gaze. “That photo came from your apartment. Is that correct?”
You simply nod in your confusion.
“There were reports of gang members being spotted near your apartment building a week or so ago. Some of those reports even said it appeared to be the leaders of the Celestial Gang. Did you see anything of that nature around that time?”
You fall back against the chair slowly.
He knows.
And somehow, past your lips, falls the words, “You know.”
A look darkens his face, as if you confirmed exactly what he was hoping to not find.
You just did.
“Yes, I know.” He leans forward, and you do your best to not cower under his presence. “The mob bosses Sun and Moon have a connection to you. I have come here to ask for your help.”
You balke. This can’t be real.
“My help?”
“Yes. If you are willing.” He straightens, his expression somber. “You can help us make an arrest on the crime lords. But it will be dangerous.”
You look down to the tissue caught in your fist. Slowly, you unfurl your fingers. The crumpled and stained tissue unravels and falls to the floor.
It’s the right thing to do. They are criminals. They are violent and dangerous, and they have flooded the streets with their illegal dealings and bloodshed. They are the leaders of a vicious gang that nearly controls the city.
Then why do you hesitate?
The slow touches of their hands. The swiftness of which they drag you close. The low purrs of their voices, pressed close to the shell of your ear. The way they acted upon seeing the bruises on your wrists and throat. It comes together in your mind, exploding into a kaleidoscope of colors, staining everything else.
You lift your head slowly. The shine of the light is harsh upon the police chief’s sun rays, almost cutting through the shadows of the rest of the meeting room. He waits, determined to have your answer.
You look back to the photo stained in what might very well be your ex’s blood.
You tell yourself to swallow it all down and do what is right. Because this is the right thing to do… right?
“I’ll do what I can,” you turn to the police chief, “but I’m not a good liar.”
“That’s alright.” He nods to officer Caffaro who begins writing furiously. “You need to only focus on what you’re doing. Be calm and clear. Do not show your fear or else they will know. We’ll take extra precautions as well. You need only to lure them into our designated spot. Then, you need only hold their attention until our officers have them surrounded.”
It seems so fast. You nod along, but you have no idea how you’re going to pull this off. The police chief gives you more details and additional instructions, a phone number to call, and where to arrange this meeting.
Really, it’s a date.
“Thank you.” The police chief rises, and his expression seems heavier, much heavier than when he arrived. “Be careful.”
You only nod. He departs with the officer, and you are left in the silence of the meeting room before you decide to tell Mr. Singh that you have to go home early. He tries to grill you about the police chief, but you say it’s confidential, and that you promise you’ll inform him on the details when you are able, but really, you just have to escape. And you do.
You go for a walk at sundown. The night is thick and you feel a heaviness clinging to your body. The streets are not safe, but you trudge down them under each lamp light.
What have you gotten yourself into? This isn’t a scoop. This is a plot. A takedown. Are you really going to lure in mob bosses and hope they don’t immediately gun you down when they realize you’ve set them up?
You don’t want to think about it: Sun and Moon getting arrested.
But it has to be done.
You return to your apartment, and you phone your seedy connections. She’s proven reliable in leading you to less than clear places involving gang activities, and she’s fine taking a cut from all of your hard work. But when you make it clear that you need a message delivered, she gets cold feet.
You push, and tell her that there’s a generous compensation. You just don’t tell her it will be funded by the police department.
At last, she agrees.
So you sit down in the quiet of your apartment, half reeling, before picking up a pen and scrawling a letter to Sun and Moon.
you ever have situations that make you want to take people by the shoulders and go "you are not 15 any longer. this behavior is no longer quirky and cute. it is exhausting for you and everyone else to act like a teenager you haven't been in a decade or longer. knock it the fuck off"
lots of ppl making this about adults who have interests they find cringe but let me be clear this is about emotional immaturity. idgaf if you're 35 and like goku okay but can you have an adult conversation without making yourself the victim is the matter at hand here
andulkaphoto
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
jbbartram-illu
janainaart
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
blakekathryn
pixelskylines
