Kokichi, Mikan and Nagito with Fem!S/o
(who praises them but also says that she treat them terribly when she doesn't.)
Requested by: ☆🍄Anon☆
Mod-Tsumiki🎀🧸 will do this request!
Why are you praising him.
He's not used to being praised like this.
He thought you were pranking him at first.
But then you start talking about how you don't treat him well enough.
He was so confused.
"No- S/o your literally praising me-?"
He'd give you reassuring headpats and hugs.
He hates hearing you say that your treating him horrible.
Just wants to make sure your okay and that you stop bullying yourself over it.
He enjoys the praise and he doesn't need anything else.
SHE WOULD BE SO CONFUSED AND THINK SHE DID SOMETHING WRONG.
She's probably start crying out of confusion and happiness.
Doesn't think she's worth being praised.
But yet you still say you treat her like garbage even though you don't at all.
"S/o? What are you talking a-about? You praise me all the time! That's not true!"
She'd hug you to get you to stop It's like she's holding on to you for dear life.
And she doesn't like seeing you say that kinda stuff when you praise her.
But she really appreciates it.
Who, when, where, why and how.
He thought someone told you to do this.
He doesn't think hes worth being praised at all.
He's very upset but also happy at the fact that you think he is praiseworthy.
But once you over heard you saying you don't treat him well enough?
He was very upset at that.
"You take that back right now S/o. You treat me better then I treat myself."
He glady gave you a little peck on the forehead which made you feel better.
Loves being praised by you and only you now.
He'd also let you play with his hair thinking that it would help. (Which It does.)
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content warnings: panic attack, implied past abuse, violence as anxiety response
This an easy job for Cass, as far as jobs go. Pay attention, stay awake, look like you’re making notes while really reading the clients wants and wills and wishes. The sort of thing he did for Christopher as a playful passtime.
It’s still weird that it’s kind of his job now. It’s even weirder that he’s been to enough of these meetings now to recognise that this one isn’t going well.
Gregory Eaton – the client, shareholder, whatever the fuck he is – hasn’t had any trouble making his desires abundantly fucking clear since the moment they walked in and Tucker gave Cass strict instructions that he wasn’t to talk unless he had something helpful to share. Eaton has a panoramic office view that says he’s very used to people falling at his feet for him to walk over and very unused to having to negotiate. He seemed to have smelled sycophantic blood in the water from the second they arrived in the lobby and Tucker’s been rowing upstream ever since.
Tucker has a small list of stress habits that come and go. The sharp and specific lilt of his voice when he’s being particularly careful with his words. The tight press and twist of his lips. The absent flick of his fingernails. The twitch of his head. The ticking noise he does with his tongue between thoughts. Short of stopping off at the shops for a pack of smokes, Tucker has ticked every box in the list this afternoon.
Eaton speaks just a little bit too loud, with the authority of someone who knows no one would have the balls to tell him to use his inside voice. His eyebrows go up instead of down when he’s unimpressed, elbow leans on the desk with his hand up by his head. He gesticulates with little flicks of the fingers instead of his whole arm, squeezing his hand in a fist every time he gets increasingly annoyed. Every now and again, his lip curls up to reveal the tiniest bit of teeth, like he can’t decide if he wants to bite Tucker’s face off or spit him out.
Angry man syndrome. Simple as that. With an ego to boot.
Every time Eaton’s voice raises, tension seems to creep up Tucker’s spine like the coiling of a spring. It creeps up Cass’ too if he’s being honest. Every second sentence out of Tucker’s mouth seems to be “yes, I understand that but-”, and Cass hates him a little bit more for it each time Eaton’s eyebrows go up in response. He wants to tell Tucker to shut up, to just back off and agree, to tell Eaton what he needs to hear. Ease off. Appease. Ingratiate. Instead the tension rises and rises. Tightens and tightens. In Eaton and in Tucker. Ready to explode.
Cass tries tuning out. He’s spent the last five minutes trying to tune out, pen spiralling inky lace from the corner of his notepad and down the page. Heglances up as Eaton stands, both hands pressing in to desk, volume of his voice climbing and climbing as he towers over Tucker, who raises his hands to acquiesce.
“If you could just calm down-”
A finger pointed in accusation. “Don’t you tell me to calm down.”
Twitch of the head. “A poor choice of words-“
“I have been a client of this company for twelve years-”
Tucker swallows. “I understand that, but-”
“I have not had a single problem with them until you became my liaison.”
Flick of the fingernails. “Leoni is incredibly-“
“This isn’t about Leoni, this is about your incompetence.”
Lips press together. Twist to the side. “Mr Eaton-”
“I was promised in February-“
“And I understand that-”
“Stop saying that, you stupid man.” Eaton slams his hand on the desk, open palmed and loud like a bullet from a gun.
And Tucker flinches.
It’s no little thing either. A full body recoil, arm flying up to cover his face, shoulders hunched and turned away, eyes wide and alert and locked on the threat. It’s such a fast, animal movement that Cass starts back too. Freezes.
The slam echoes through the air, despite the way the carpeting of the office eats up the sound. A paper on the desk flutters and rests. A plane goes by in the distance outside.
Tucker’s eyes stay locked on Eaton. Eaton and Cassius’ eyes stay locked on Tucker.
Tucker lowers his hand. Smooths out his suit. Clears his throat.
“Right,” he says, quiet and still. “Well I can see we’re not going to be coming to an agreement on this today.”
Tucker stands and buttons his jacket, lips pressed together. Little twist to the side.
“You can tell Leoni-“
“Yep. I’ll tell Leoni your concerns.” His lips barely move as he talks, eyes everywhere but Eaton. “If there’s anything else, you have my email.”
“I have had a relationship with that company-”
“Yep. Twelve years. I heard you.” His voice is strained. Throat tight like he’s choking. You have Leoni’s email.”
Tucker leaves the room so fast he leaves his leather work bag beside the chair, the company tablet still sitting open on Eaton’s desk, showing graphs and projected deliverance dates.
Eaton picks up the tablet and offers it out, brows up to his hairline, “I do not appreciate being walked out on.”
Cass glances up as he takes the tablet, gives an awkward, apologetic smile. “Yeah. Um. Sorry.”
When he rounds the corner out of the office, Tucker’s already standing in front of the lift. He leans forward and presses the elevator button three times in quick succession. One, two, three. And then again. One, two, three.
“I got your bag.” Cass offers it out, strap balancing on two fingers.
Tucker doesn’t respond, just takes off his glasses, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to clean them of invisible dirt and smudges. Cass waits a bit. Shoulders the satchel.
He looks down the hallway instead of at Tucker, kind of relieved that it’s empty for now, “You okay?”
Tucker presses the button for the elevator another three times without looking over. He wipes at his glasses. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Cass can’t help his own scoff. “You’re joking, right?”
“Nope. I need lunch.”
“Tucker, when he yelled-”
Another three times. “Where is the fucking lift?”
“Tucker, come on, I saw that, you just flin-“
He’s up against the wall before he can finish the sentence.
“I just what?” Tucker growls, glasses still held in his fist. His eyes look darker without them on. Less crystalline. “Huh?”
It’s the pulse of energy coming off of him that’s the most startling. A wave of want that Cass has never felt before. Sharp and jagged. Violent like the rest of him. Desires abundantly ducking clear.
For control back, for control back, for control back.
Cass takes too long to answer. Tucker shoves at his chest, pressing him deeper against the wall. It’s not the way Tucker usually fights.
“What did I do that was so goddamn interesting?”
Cass shakes his head.
“Nothing,” he gets out. Half-whispered. “Nothing. You didn’t do anything.”
Sharp blue eyes pierce him through, and all the time that pulse for control, control, control.
Cass raises both hands in surrender, one still clasped around the work tablet.
“Sorry,” he whispers, eyes wide, head still shaking no. Seems like the best solution available right now. “Eaton was out of line. You didn’t do anything. Sorry.”
Just as quick as it came, the thundering pulse of Tuckers wants dissipate back to sticky-tar nothingness. He drops his arm, stepping back as the elevator makes a little arrival noise and the doors slide open behind him. Cass is left catching his breath against the opposite wall as Tucker walks into itwordlessly, glasses still in his hand, fingers raking back through his hair.
After a beat, the woman already in the lift looks at Cass over her glasses, red lips pursed in the way the lines on her face suggest they often are, “You getting in, darl?”
Cass nods, pulls the strap of Tucker’s bag higher onto his shoulder as he steps inside. He clears his throat a little, “What floor is the-”
Tucker gives a single, tight shake of his head, eyes averted, pale and shaky in the back corner of the lift. He’s pressed against the mahogany panelling of the back wall, hand white-knuckling the rail along the side. It’s only when pursed-lips-lady tuts her tongue with impatience that Cass realises he’s still hovering in the doorway. He presses the button for the lowest basement level just so the doors will close.
Cass can’t help watching Tucker in the mirror side-panelling of the elevator. He’s got his head tilted back just past the point of good posture, spine ram-rod straight. He doesn’t look like himself. Maybe it’s just his glasses being off. He looks younger. He looks harrowed. He looks small. In the few second it takes for them to get from the twentieth floor to ground, Cass watches Tucker’s Adam’s apple bob at least four times, swallowing down the same thing that’s making his nostrils flare in deep and even inhales, the same thing that’s making him clench and unclench his fist, the same thing that’s making him blink too hard and clear his throat too much.
The woman gets off at the ground floor and by some grace of the universe no one else gets on. The doors slide closed. The elevator slides past the ground floor and down past basement one, basement two, basement three, four and five. Cass feels, more than sees, the moment that Tucker breaks.
One of Tucker’s measured, deep breaths snags halfway on the inhale and he almost seems to gag on it. The moment his rhythm is lost, so is Tucker, breaths barrelling out of control in tight little pants, pressed into the corner, growing smaller and smaller. They reach the lowest floor Cass’ hand flies out, pressing in the close doors button and holding it to stop the lift from moving, from the space being violated by someone else. Tucker’s He stares forward at the steel doors where no reflection gives the other man away. He’d turn off his ears too, if he could.
The strangest sound pulls out from between Tucker’s lips. A strangled little whimper, too small and vulnerable for the rest of him. Nearly a sob. As soon as it escapes, Cass hears a growl follow it, the sound of Tucker wheeling around. A kick against the back wall. A kick against the back wall. A kick against the back wall.
Each one jolts through Cass’ spine and through every nerve ending like a jolt of electricity. Steel against bone. Fist to flesh. Still, he holds the button. He closes his eyes. The feeling of the elevator swaying is probably just in his head.
The kicks continue until there’s a distinctive crack, the false-mahogany panelling splitting under the repeated force of Tucker’s Oxfords. There’s one final punch, full bodied brutal. It shakes the whole lift and Cass’ shoulders hunched up like the sky’s gonna fall in. But nothing does. It seems to function like a full stop on the end of a paragraph and all at once, Tucker’s movements still and stop.
Cass opens his eyes, risking a glance in the mirror panelling. Tucker leans against the back wall, both hands pressed flat to it, head hanging between his shoulders. The laboured breathing now nothing more than the dwindling pants of exertion. The way he usually sounds after a fight. Minus the usual exhilaration, maybe. The second knuckle on his right hand is split. It’d be bruised tomorrow.
Cass watches as Tucker pushes off the wall and stands back straight, turning to look at himself in the mirror panelling beside him. He fixes his hair with a swoop of the hand, smooths down his suit. Just before he puts his glasses back on, his gaze flicks to Cass’ in the mirror. Reflection to reflection. Eye to eye. For a moment, just a moment, Tucker looks tired, vulnerable, like something in him might break. Then he slides his glasses back on.
Cass looks away again as Tucker turns back around to face the doors and straightens his tie. Clears his throat. Becomes Tucker James again.
“Basement four,” Tucker says. His voice is husky and quiet. Cass doesn’t mention it. He just presses the right button.
They leave what just happened in the elevator, trapped and suspended somewhere between the lowest basement level and the twentieth floor.
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