#102
tw: abuse, threats, knives
The superhero barely sleeps anymore, but he can’t afford to. His mind is always haunted by one question: where has the hero gone?
His assistant lingers on the threshold to his office while he stares blankly at the table. She clears her throat when he shows no sign of acknowledging her. She holds a little envelope out to him when he glances up, his name written on the front in glittering cursive.
He reads the contents. Rereads. Looks to his assistant for answers. Receives none. Stares back down at the words on the little note in front of him.
“Well,” he says flatly, “I suppose I best go if we want the city to stay intact.”
-
The supervillain answers the door with a winning smile and a shocking amount of hospitality.
“I’m so glad you made it,” he says brightly. He ushers the superhero into what can only be described as a mansion. Crime clearly pays well—or he likes to pretend it does. Who knows how he came into a house like this.
The supervillain sets the superhero down in an extravagant dining hall. Servants line the room, practically invisible in the shadows, almost as much of the furniture as the table and chairs in the middle of the room. Most of them have their eyes pointed to the floor.
The supervillain settles in the chair opposite and motions for one of the servants to step forward with a wine decanter. They pour it out agonisingly slowly, their focus honed in on the glass, before skirting around the table to do the same for the superhero.
The superhero startles. “Oh, there’s no need—”
“Nonsense!” the supervillain gestures for the servant to continue. “You’re my guest. Have a drink, please.”
The wine is poured. The servant steps back, their gaze flitting to the supervillain, and with the slightest nod of his head they retreat back into the shadows.
The superhero watches them go, catching the eye of one of the other servants standing on the outskirts of the room. It catches him off guard slightly—he could’ve sworn they were all staring at the floor—but after a moment to study their face he has to hold down a choked gasp.
That’s the hero. The hero he’s spent endless days searching for. The hero that disappeared off the face of the earth, who seemed to just cease to exist. The hero’s staring back at him like they’re equally stunned to see him here, their eyes wide and their jaw slack.
The quiet goes on too long. The supervillain twists in his chair to glance at whatever’s caught the superhero’s interest.
“Ah,” he says shortly. The single word seems to snap the hero out of it, their gaze immediately snapping back down to the ground. “Is my servant here bothering you?”
“You—” You invited me here on purpose. The superhero can’t think of words outraged enough. They’ve been here the whole time. “How dare you—”
“[Hero],” the supervillain says lightly. “Come here.”
The hero shares a worried glance with the servants next to them before slowly stepping towards him. They pause just behind his chair, their head bowed—out of fear or respect, it’s not obvious. “Sir?”
The villain holds his hand up to them expectantly. “Give me your hand.”
The hero spares a glance at the superhero. “B-But sir, our guest—”
“Your hand, [Hero].”
They hesitate, their breath uneven. Then they slowly, slowly put their hand in the supervillain’s.
The supervillain moves faster than the superhero can react. He slams their palm down against the table, his grip deathly tight on their wrist. A steak knife sits in his other hand, the tip poised over the back of the hero’s hand.
The superhero’s on his feet in an instant. The hero desperately tries to pull away, but the supervillain’s grip on them is vice-like.
“Now,” he says smoothly, “what have I said about manners?”
“[Supervillain],” the superhero tries.
“Haven’t I taught you anything?”
“I– I’m sorry.” It comes out of the hero’s mouth like a knee-jerk reaction, like it’s been said a million times before. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again—”
The supervillain twists the knife testily against their skin. Something of a strangled sob tears from the hero’s throat. “Staring is rude, [Hero].”
“I– I know, I’m so sorry—”
“[Supervillain],” the superhero snaps with all the authority he can muster. “Stop.”
“I deal with my servants how I please, [Superhero].” The supervillain’s gaze pulls up to him lazily. “This is my domain, not yours.”
But he thankfully lets go of the hero. They pull back nervously fast, their hands cupped over each other protectively. The supervillain glances back at them as they attempt to meld back into the shadows. “Go downstairs, [Hero],” he says flatly. “We will discuss this incident later.”
The hero’s gaze snaps back to him like he just asked them to walk into hell itself. “Down– Downstairs?”
“Don’t make me repeat my instructions twice, [Hero]. You know this.”
Their eyes flit between the supervillain and the superhero for a moment. Then they dip into a short bow, and with a slightly choked “sir,” they practically bolt from the room.
A couple of the servants behind the supervillain exchange whispers and sorrowful glances.
“I must apologise,” the supervillain says with an innocent sigh. “I thought I’d trained my servants better than that. I assure you such behaviour will be dealt with.”
The superhero’s still on his feet. “Release them immediately.”
The supervillain idly swills the wine for a second. “Or what?”
“The agency will not stand for this.” The superhero clenches his fists at his sides. “I will not stand for this.”
“Well,” the supervillain drawls, “you can have them back when I’m dead.” The supervillain sets his glass on the table a little too hard. “This has been a wonderful evening, [Superhero]. Now get out.”
-
It takes 20 minutes to get back to the agency, and by then the superhero has a half-formed plan in his head and a burning cry for vengeance.
When he’s dead. So be it.
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cw: angst
Osamu’s day, as always, starts with the sun rising. Conditioned to its presence, he wakes when it does. Though hardly, especially these days, does he find himself falling to bed with it.
He does not consider a shitty day until its peak. Having started the morning with only one clean sock, he considered it as a one off. It’s a manageable inconvenience among the already ever consistent hardship of life.
Then his check engine light turns on. That in of itself, is not a surprise, more of a matter of when it will reappear again. So once more, Osamu trucks on by.
It’s when he goes to pay for lunch, when he reaches into his back pocket, does Osamu officially consider it a shitty day. He forgot his fucking wallet.
The cashier is kind enough to play along with his dance as he pats the front of his jean pockets, the back again, and the front once more. He even circles in his spot as if the faux leather item will appear at his feet. It finally hits him 350 degrees into his swiveling that he’d left his wallet right at the edge of his kitchen countertop. He thinks to call you and maybe you could save his day, drop it off to him and maybe he could get a chance to relish your presence. But he knows you’re not there to, so Osamu apologizes as the cashier bows back in understanding, pockets empty along with his stomach. It grumbles as he walks out.
What a shitty fucking day and against himself, he calls you anyway.
Osamu doesn’t expect you to answer. He waits through the rings patiently, but immediately, his mood lightens at the sound of your voice.
“Hi! Sorry I didn’t pick up your call. I don’t know when I’ll call back. Maybe I’ll text you or something. But leave a message if you need to! And if you’re calling me, know that I love you! I say this in confidence because who the heck calls people anymore? So if you’re calling me, that means you love me. And if that’s the case, I love you too! Talk to you later!”
Osamu thanks the gods you’d merged phone plans before the incident happened. He’ll never deactivate it, doesn’t matter what the cost would be on the bills just to keep your phone on. Because you may never pick up again, but at least he can still hear you say that you love him.
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can i just say that I'm haunted by the image of Ice wearing "one of Mavericks cheapest rolexes". One because of the mental immage of Maverick being the kind of men who not only owns multiple watches but also Rolex, which is absolutely delightful, because oh the quiet vanity of that. And two because of the implied and groundbreaking (to me) domesticity (and defiance of the not talking/acknowledging the thing between the 2 of them) of wearing another person watch. I'm screaming into the void about your brilliance. So I need to ask, do they do that on purpose (before the mission) in a sort if roundabout way of acknowledging each other presence in their life? What would Mav wear that belongs to Ice (apart from that USNA ring eheh)?
pilots/sailors/doctors etc who do high-level specialized work with their hands tend to really be Watch Guys. and “cheap” rolexes (sub $7k ish) are actually pretty affordable if you’re making >$150k a year and want to treat yourself every fifth christmas or something. source: know several sailors & doctors. ALSO the watch ice is wearing in his famous gay plane photoshoot is actually a rolex. So theres some evidence ice at least is (annoying, ostentatious, bad with money, and) a Watch Guy. Maverick’s also wearing a kickass chronograph in TGM so i think he’s also probably a Watch Guy. also… you know, status symbol, honor, et cetera et cetera…
they probably wear each other’s socks because in-regs socks all look the same and they’re both men so who cares. i also hc that they’ve always worn the same size in shirts so each other’s t-shirts are also free game. and was very confusing at the start of their relationship when trying to figure out whose shirt was whose after a midnight rendezvous. lots of accidental shirt mixups. and, yeah, each other’s watches, because most people only see the status and don’t see the detail, and most people aren’t around both ice and mav enough to recognize that “omg last month adm kazansky was wearing the same omega chronometer capt mitchell is wearing today!! theyre totally together!!!” so if ice buys a new watch and maverick salivates over it, sure he can borrow it, whatever. and i think there’s a scene in wwgattai when maverick wears ice’s pj pants hold up lemme find it
“in bare feet.” now wtf does that mean. that could use a rewrite.
ice also wears mavericks leather jacket when they’re on their baseball date in debriefing. at some point when you live with someone long enough your stuff becomes their stuff which was the point of this graf
thinking about it… trying to decide if they’d wear each other’s cologne. that seems like a little much. no i don’t think so.
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