#also available on ao3

[mrspasser]

3. Free

RK900 wakes up at CyberLife Tower in a less than ideal way. He is no longer a machine and that doesn't make him happy. Connor is there to help him, though it must be said: Sumo is an even bigger help.

Cover made with fanart by @donlemefo​

RK900’s first memory of being free wasn’t a pretty one. He rarely pulled the file back up; the memory had affected so many other memories, so many parts of his code, he didn’t need to relive the moment to know how he felt.

How he felt back when feeling was still a foreign thing. RK900 had his missions, had his objectives. And when he carried them out into succession, he was rewarded with processing power being freed up from the missions and objectives being completed. Looking back, one might call it satisfaction. Yet machines don’t feel satisfaction, they don’t feel .

RK900 felt a lot when he woke up in the lab, his body suspended in the air by the robot arms. Confusion. Anger. Worry. Fear.

His vision was flooded with alerts, one after the other red and blinking, asking for his immediate attention. So many software instabilities. Urgent alerts told him three of his limbs were missing. Other alerts told him the missing limbs were in close proximity. Various prompts were almost hidden by all the red alerts, suggesting different ways of getting his limbs back. Most of those suggestions needed the involvement of the three figures in the room with him.

He couldn’t scan them before pushing back the alerts about his missing legs and right arm, dismissing the premature prompts and closing the numerous error messages concerning his software.

Three androids. Two of his own series, a 200 and a 800 model. There was a WR400 standing in the back of the room, a ‘Traci’ model. Besides their model designations, all three of them had a name: Markus, Connor and North. His software provided him with other information too, though most of it was scrambled and riddled with errors. He got the gist of it though. They’re deviants. Important figures of the android revolution. And he was supposed to neutralize them. Prompts came up again, suggesting different methods, most of them violent. The prompts glitched and trembled in his vision before disappearing, leaving a bunch of errors behind.

The one called Markus addressed him first. “Can you hear me?”

All auditory functions were in working condition. RK900 slowly moved his head to look straight at the android. He was dressed in dark jeans and a dark blue knitted sweater.

“Do you know where you are?”

Another question that RK900 didn’t deem with an answer. He knew perfectly well that he was in the CyberLife Tower, in one of the labs on the underground floors. A more important question was how he got here. More specifically, how he got here in this state of disarray. A search of his memories only provided him with error messages and glitching recordings of his entry through the main doors of the facility. He came here of his own volition, with his body intact. The objective of neutralizing was attached to the memories, giving him a sufficient idea of why he came here.

“RK900, do you know why you are here?” It was the RK800 model that spoke this time, Connor. He had a more gentle voice than the RK200, less authoritative. Connor’s tone told him he had nothing to fear, that they just wanted to ask him some questions, that everything would be okay, as long as he cooperated. It was all laced beneath the words of that single question. A negotiator indeed.

The female android in the back scoffed. “At least he’s upfront about it.”

A quick test told him his speech software and the required hardware were all working properly. It wouldn’t malfunction if he spoke.

“To kill you.”

Connor ignored her, taking a step closer towards RK900. “Are you sure about that?”

What an odd question. RK900 had his missions, his objectives. There was no question of not following them. He followed orders. That was how he was designed. Not following orders would mean he malfunctioned, that was not possible for him. He was the best of the best, CyberLife’s top of the line android. The perfect machine. RK900 had the liberty to choose his own path towards the desired outcome, making it possible to adapt to the circumstances he encountered on his missions. Depending on the phrasing of his orders he was more or less able to take his own route, yet there was no doubt that he would follow his orders.

Then why was he experiencing so many software instabilities from RK800’s question? In his efforts to dismiss or close the alerts, RK900 even blinked a couple of times. As if closing his eyelids would help get rid of the blinding alerts. His left hand jerked, triggered into motion by a useless prompt that wanted him to shield his eyes. He couldn’t, because the arm was pinned in place by a clamp. He shouldn’t, because the movement would be purely to benefit his onlookers, showing his distress and making him appear more human.

As if he could imitate a human in this state: held up by a machine, missing three of his limbs and his artificial skin deactivated. A thick cable was attached to the port in his neck, hooking him up to the CyberLife network and exposing his programming to other parties. RK900 didn’t doubt that they were responsible for the root of his software instabilities.

“RK900, I’m going to ask you this again, because it is an important question.” The android named Connor called for his attention again, in an almost apologizing matter. “You said you are here to kill me. Are you sure about that?”

“Good.” Connor nodded in satisfaction. “That means we are making progress.”

Another jerk in his left arm. Five blinks in rapid succession. And an involuntary stutter in his thirium pump.

“No.”

Progress was slow.

Two days after waking up ‘free’ - as Markus continued calling it - they reattached his legs. Another day later he got his right arm back. The return of his limbs reduced the number of alerts he was plagued with, though he was still suspended by the robot arms and had no freedom of movement. His artificial skin was back and when he came out of a short involuntary stasis someone had given him a black boxershort to wear. It was an unnecessary action, as a machine he did not have to worry about things like shame or modesty. Still, he couldn’t help but feel naked and vulnerable and the small piece of black cloth was not nearly enough to compensate for that.

RK900 managed to pack all warnings of threats and possible compromising situations into one bold alert that painted his vision with red letters that spelled ‘danger’. It was unsettling - another one of those undesirable feelings - yet it was more practical than being flooded with new alerts every time his systems detected something that was a possible threat.

It was another four days after the return of his limbs that they took the cable out of his neck and let him down. He needed to calibrate his equilibrium after being suspended for so long in alert condition.

“Thank you.” RK900 quickly dressed himself in the new clothes, finding himself relieved to be covered up. It was the first positive feeling he had since he was aware he even had feelings. Recognizing and naming the feelings that overtook him still took a disappointing amount of processing power. That million dollar processor CyberLife designed for him was certainly not equipped to deal with RK900 being hijacked by emotions.

Connor was there and brought clothes for him. Charcoal grey slacks, a black turtleneck, grey socks and black leather shoes. And a clean pair of underwear, however unnecessary.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I brought something neutral. If you want to wear more colourful clothing you can decide that for yourself later.”

The PL600 android that RK900 had gotten to know as Simon was waiting for him, to show him to his new room. The blond android walked by his side, unaware of all the prompts that popped up in RK900’s vision, providing him with all the ways he could eliminate the domestic model. The fastest one only took 1.7 seconds, on the condition that Connor didn’t intervene. Taking out Connor took significantly longer, as calculated by his predictive software. There were only two or three prompts regarding his predecessor, a result of labeling Connor as ‘friendly’. The presence of Simon, who was still in the stage of ‘unknown’, summoned over forty prompts. Dismissing them all was a tiresome task, mainly because of all the software instabilities it triggered.

The decision to ask Connor if he could provide him with a roof over his head wasn’t taken lightly. However, after a week of dealing with actively not killing every android in CyberLife tower, RK900 was desperate for a less triggering environment. His predecessor had been the most stable factor in his life since awakening to this crude form of self-awareness - RK900 didn’t call it deviancy, he didn’t think he was truly deviant, not like Markus or Connor. He did have many talks with Connor about deviancy and the RK800 always spoke fondly of the human who helped him find his footing.

Living in a home with a police lieutenant and a large dog maybe wasn’t exactly what RK900 had envisioned for himself - he had never envisioned anything for himself, really - but it would be nice to be around people that didn’t give him software instabilities all the time.

He discovered that walking the dog was a great way to realign his parameters and simultaneously patch up the countless tiny bits of software that were left in disorder after Markus and his troupe had found a way to install ra9 in his system. Sure, they had helped him take care of the large parts, yet RK900 thought it better to do the rest himself.

Hank Anderson’s home wasn’t that large. It had two bedrooms: one for Hank and one for Connor. The large Saint Bernard, Sumo, had the couch in the living room, so RK900 took the armchair. The dog was pleasant to be around, if one didn’t mind their trouser legs being covered in slobber after an enthusiastic greeting. RK900 didn’t particularly care for that, yet he was willing to overlook it because the animal was a soothing companion.

The lieutenant took some getting used to, although RK900 found the man largely to be as Connor had described him. Besides, lieutenant Anderson (RK900 only called him Hank to his face, and only because the lieutenant insisted on it) and Connor were at work most of the time, so most days it was just RK900 and Sumo.

He learned a lot of things about himself too. The effect he had on people for instance. Where the gentle giant that was Sumo called for fond looks, those looks most often disappeared when people saw who was holding the leash. This was mostly the case with humans, androids regarded him warily for a different reason.

“Why are you still wearing the oppressor's clothes?” a female android asked heatedly one day, making her male partner stop by putting a hand on his arm.

She was referring to the stark white jacket with the high collar he was wearing, a garment issued by CyberLife. It showed his model number and the blue triangle that made him recognisable as an android.

The two androids in front of him were barely recognisable to the naked eye. They both had their LED’s removed and had customized their appearance severely.

The woman looked like she was going to give him a piece of her mind, but her husband pulled her with him. “Leave it, honey. Other people are allowed to have poor taste in fashion.”

RK900 regarded them silently. He would have shrugged, but emulating frivolous human behaviour was hard for him. Lieutenant Anderson had repeatedly told him to “lighten up” or “mellow out”, whatever that meant. “Having a stick up his ass” apparently also was one of RK900 characteristics.

“I like my jacket,” he told the couple.

The strange encounter left RK900 feeling distraught and Sumo out of breath. The dog collapsed on the carpet when they got home - in less time than they usually needed - and he didn’t even wake up when Hank and Connor got home.

“What’s up with that dog?” the lieutenant asked, sitting down in the armchair to remove his shoes.

RK900 joined Connor in the kitchen, where his predecessor was making dinner for one. “Could you fix me a glass of thirium, please?” Connor asked. “I’m a little low.”

Instead of asking what happened, RK900 read the report Connor sent him of today’s incident. It was heavily redacted of course, RK900 was no police officer, but he liked reading those reports. Sometimes Connor shared information with him, using his successors superior processing powers to help speed up a case or gain new insights. He doubted it was completely legal, but Connor liked to stretch the rules every now and then.

“I have a request,” RK900 said.

“Shoot,” Connor answered pleasantly. The lieutenant’s influence was clear in his manner of speaking.

“I would like to make myself useful -”

“You are useful, big guy,” Hank interrupted. He walked into the kitchen, taking a seat at the small kitchen table. “Sumo never had this much exercise in his life!”

Connor chuckled. “I think RK900 was a bit too expensive to spend his days as a dog walker.”

“Ha, yes! That’s why he also cleans the house!” The lieutenants hearty laugh filled the kitchen. By now RK900 had learned to recognise these kind of remarks as jests. Connor had helped him a lot with this, still did. That’s how he knew he could ignore the remark without being insolent. Not that he had a problem with being rude, he would just prefer to not offend the man that had opened his home to him.

“I would like to assist the DPD,” RK900 stated clearly. He had given it a lot of thought, not just today, and he thought the job of detective would fit him well. After all, Connor liked his job and he often told him how rewarding it was.

The silence that followed his words was pleasing to RK900. It told him that his words were taken seriously, that his friends were thinking about his request.

<< 3/10 >>

Lieutenant Anderson was the first to open his mouth, though RK900 knew Connor had been waiting for his partner to speak up.

“I’ll talk to Jeffrey. The captain has the last word in this.”

DBH Partners masterpost

[enderman-pandas]

Iced Coffee (Chapter 1: The Beginning)

Red, Yellow, and Duck all leave and go on a trip, only to find that the world around them is a wasteland of frost and freezing air.

Tapping. Lots and lots of tapping. Red was growing impatient in his chair. Although he hated whenever the teachers just barged into the house, he also hated whenever they didn’t. He had gotten used to it, and it felt wrong without it. He crossed his legs, stopping his eternal tapping, and grabbed a book off the armrest of the chair. He stared at the book’s cover, and realised he didn’t… know what this was. The book’s cover was interesting, but there was something about it he just couldn’t understand. He got up from the chair and gently put it in the bookshelf, grabbing another book and sitting back down. This one was legible, he could understand that this was a book, but he wasn’t sure when he got it. Didn’t matter in the end, did it? He flipped it open and read.

Duck looked at Yellow, and Yellow looked back at him. “So what are we gonna do for his-- his birthday?” Yellow asked with a tilt of his head. Duck rubbed his beak with a wing. “Well, we could try and fix that weird car we stole that one time?” Duck shrugged. Yellow quickly corrected him, “you stole. I wasn’t involved.” Duck rolled his eyes, “yeah, yeah, who cares? The point here is we could clean it up and give it to him and go on a road trip. He has been talking about some ‘great escape’ recently.” Duck mimicked Red’s voice, trying to be as deep and monotone as he could. Yellow snickered and nodded, getting up and grabbing Duck’s wing to run outside. Duck didn’t get the time to get up, and got dragged through the air, screaming for Yellow to slow down. Red looked up from his book for a few seconds, staring at the blur of the two as they dashed through the rooms. Red stared for a few more seconds at the air before putting his book back up to his face.

Yellow gently put Duck down upon being outside of the door leading to the garage. He bent over, placing his hands on his knees to catch this breath, eventually just lowering against the wall and sitting, looking up at Duck. Duck looked down at Yellow and back at the door. He twisted the knob and gently opened the door, staring at the complete darkness inside. He picked up Yellow by the arm and the two walked into the garage together. “God, this is dark,” Duck commented. Yellow wiggled his hand out of Duck’s and ran forward a bit. A metallic clank was heard. “OW!” Yellow shouted. “Did you find the light switch?” Duck asked. “No,” Yellow admitted. Duck walked around, hand on the wall until he found the switch. He flipped it and it gave a click. After the two’s eyes adapted, they saw a room full of cobwebs, bugs, cleaning materials and the car. Duck also saw Yellow’s nose bleeding in front of the car, probably from slamming into it. “I found the car,” Yellow smiled. “Yay!” Duck gave a smile as well, and went to grab some of the cleaning supplies. He first rubbed Yellow’s blood off his face, and then gave Yellow some of the supplies.

Red had finished reading a few chapters, and he wanted to continue, but that other book was eating at him. He put the book away and stared at the bookshelf, noticing the odd book and picking it up. He stood in silence before grabbing his other book again, along with a paper and pencil. He started taking notes as he read. After finishing the book, he folded up the paper and walked to the bedroom, slipping it into his drawer, and back to the living room. He stood around before going over to the kitchen to make some food for the others.

Yellow and Duck had finished the car in a few hours, working as hard as they could. The two left the garage and flopped onto their chairs. Red stuck his head out of the kitchen. “I made food,” he said, before returning to the inside of it. Duck went first, and then Yellow. The three sat down and ate their lunch. “I don’t like today,” Yellow blurted out in their silence, “it feels wrong. Where’s the teacher that will give me lifelong trauma?” Red and Duck looked at Yellow. “Well, we could… do something. The teachers suck,” Red said. Duck’s eyes lit up. “I know what we could do!” he grinned. The other two looked at him. “A road trip!” Red’s eyes widened. “Leaving this place? Yes. Oh my god, yes. How?” Yellow was a bit concerned over Red’s willingness to just leave, but Duck and him guided Red regardless. They showed him the car and he quickly got in. “Oh, finally. I can try again on that horrid road trip and… and we can do something, and we’ll be out of this place again,” he said, mostly to himself. Yellow and Duck got in afterwards, Duck pushing the open garage door button on his way to the car. Red looked around until he found a map that he had no idea where it went. “We’re gonna finally do it!” he laughed, “we’re gonna make that great escape! I’m-- we’re gonna be free from those teachers and everything, and we can live our lives outside of this mundane place.” Yellow and Duck exchanged glances. Red fiddled around in the car a bit before finally driving out.

[nothinggathers]

Impatient

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47657341

Wet brick scraped against Connor's cheek. He screwed his eyes shut against the assault. Hot, dry, rough hands smoothed over his body, gripped the back of his head, forced him forwards. They hurried to the button of his shorts and tore at his shirt.

Connor's hands flew to the fastenings, undoing them as quickly as he could. He shoved them down, as well as the miniscule thong he wore beneath them, exposing the skin of his ass to the damp night air. A beard scratched at the skin, followed by the nip of teeth at the outer swell of his buttock. “God, I could eat you.”

Connor swallowed heavily. “I thought you were going to,” he pointed out, breathlessly. The hand at the back of his head pushed harder in response.

Lieutenant Hank Anderson was a regular at the wings joint. Connor had been eyeing him up for weeks. A flirty smile here, a tip there. It had been a cute little game of cat and mouse as Connor had swayed his ass and flashed his legs before the Lieutenant, daring him to pounce.

Connor had hidden his number in the receipt slip three days ago. Hank had messaged him a day later.

Now his enormous hand covered the back of Connor's head as he held him down and ripped the obscenely small shorts down his thighs like he was tearing at the wrapping of a long-anticipated Christmas present.

His breath brushed over the delicate flesh of Connor's bared backside.

 I get off at 11

 I can get you off at 10 past

“All those weeks you've been teasing me,” Hank growled, “and now you're impatient?”

Connor inhaled sharply. His heart hammered in his ribs. The wall scratched uncomfortably at his cheek. “It's already ten past. Tick tock, Lieutenant.”

He felt the beard first, pressing in between his thighs and rubbing against the delicate skin. Hank's thumb moved up, over his flesh, pulling his cheek aside. “Fuck,” Hank groaned, so quietly that Connor doubted it was intended for his ears, “where don't you have freckles?”

Soft lips pressed to the dark freckle at the apex of Connor's thighs that Connor had never seen for himself. He tried to spread his legs a little wider, but they were restrained by the limited give of his shorts. The lips progressed up the intimate crease of Connor's thigh, and then Hank's beard and lips and tongue and chin delved between his cheeks with a satisfied groan.

Connor groaned, too, swinging his arm behind his back to find Hank's hair and grip, holding him in place. Hank worked his tongue and lips over Connor's rim in quick, firm movements. Connor barely noticed that the hand pressing his face to the wall had gone until it curled into the front of his thigh, tugging his ass back towards Hank's tongue.

“Shit,” Connor hissed. He brought his free arm up, bracing it against the wall and pressing his forehead to it. It was a little more comfortable than the bare brick.

Hank's tongue worked at him with all the promise of a thorough fucking. The teasing pressure and wet friction swept through Connor's hips and into the head of his cock. Hank groaned with the same lascivious pleasure that he did when he had his first bite of hot wings at the end of a long day.

Hank's fingers dug in to Connor's thigh, pulling him further away from the wall. Connor pushed his hips back in response, urging Hank's tongue to work its magic a little harder. Every exhale came with a gasp. His cock throbbed with each luxurious swipe of Hank's tongue.

He tightened his grip on Hank's hair and tugged. A part of him could let Hank do this to him all night. The scratch of his beard was heavenly, but his tongue was sinful. Hank was right, however, when he'd called Connor impatient.

For weeks Hank had been so busy letting his eyes saunter down Connor's long legs that he'd completely missed the way Connor devoted the same attention to Hank's hands, and the bulge in his jeans. He leaned further forward, bracing his weight against the wall and gave a small cry as Hank's tongue pressed to his rim, probing and insistent. His grip on Connor's thigh was tight enough to leave marks. Connor hoped it did, and that Hank would be unable to take his eyes off them, remembering how Connor had tasted when he'd left them.

“Oh god, fuck,” Connor hissed, as Hank began to fuck him shallowly with his tongue. It wasn't enough. It wasn't the hard, deep, brutal fucking he wanted. This was release, a relief of tension, a hard and fast dirty tryst in the alley behind the diner. It was to get it out of their system before they screwed in a more civilised way, and place. Right now Hank's tongue was just teasing.

Hank dragged his tongue through the cleft of Connor's ass and up his back. “You taste as good as you sound,” he growled. His voice was low, deep and throaty, rumbling with arousal. Connor imagined Hank guiding him to touch himself over the phone, telling him to finger himself while Hank listened. Just the thought sent a shiver of want through Connor's hips. His cock stood, hard as a rock and utterly neglected in the cold night air.

“Ready for your entrée?” Connor asked. He wished he didn't sound as fucked out and breathless as he knew he must. Hank's tongue had made him ache for something deeper and harder.

“You bet,” Hank answered. His weight shifted, and Connor felt Hank's expansive bulk lean against him as he fought his way back to his feet. He was older. Kneeling on the floor in the dirt and detritus was probably not something he should make a habit of.

Next time they'd just have to do it on a bed. It'd be softer on Hank's knees, and Connor's hands.

He released Hank's hair in favour of bracing himself against the wall. The hurried sound of a belt being unfastened, a condom being unwrapped, and a packet of lubricant tearing open punctuated the background noise of Connor's unsteady breaths.

Two fingers dug into the cleft of his ass, blunt and firm, and every bit as impatient as Connor felt. His toes curled in his shoes as they pressed against his rim and then breached him. Hank wasn't being gentle, which was exactly what Connor needed. He bit his lip and bore down, easing Hank's way inside himself.

“Good boy,” Hank murmured, burying his fingers inside Connor. The praise dripped down Connor's spine and he bit his lip to choke back the groan. Those two simple words sounded amazing in Hank's lust-soaked voice.

His fingers dragged back and forth, thrusting into Connor and out again. It was a deeper fuck than Hank's tongue had been, and some other day Connor would like to see if Hank could get him off with his fingers alone. Right now it was a prelude. Hank's fingers stretched him out, making sure he was relaxed and ready. Connor had been ready since the moment Hank's tongue had swept into his mouth and his hands had pinned him to the wall.

“I'm good,” Connor promised, rocking his hips with the movement of Hank's fingers. The drag dulled to a slide as the lubricant spread, and Connor's toes curled in his stupid heeled shoes. He only wore them for work. They made his calves stand out and his ass more prominent. They made Hank trip over his own tongue, and for that reason alone Connor was going to have to get another pair, one that he didn't think of as work shoes.

“Yeah, you are honey,” Hank agreed. He thrust his fingers deep into Connor a few more times and then withdrew. They were replaced with a large, hot, blunt pressure at his ass.

One hand settled on Connor's shoulder, effectively pinning him in place. The pressure increased but didn't breach him yet. Shit, how big was Hank? Connor spread both of his palms against the wall and pushed his hips back.

It burned. It burned and it stretched and it dragged a weak, long cry from Connor as Hank's amazingly thick cock entered him. Connor's knees trembled. He fought for breath. Hank's fingers tightened on his shoulder. “You're doing good, sweetheart,” Hank groaned, “just relax for me, you're doing so good.”

It didn't end. Hank's cock reached for depths inside Connor he'd only dreamed of. He felt full, and stretched, and incredible. All this time he'd been teasing and flirting, trying to picture what Hank was really packing, and it had been this. “I should have jumped you the first day I saw you,” he breathed.

Hank laughed. The movement shivered through his cock and into Connor. “Got a size kink?” he asked. His hips pressed against Connor's ass, reaching as deep inside Connor as it was possible to go. Connor felt like one good thrust would split him open.

“I have now,” Connor answered.

Hank laughed again. He kept one hand tight on Connor's shoulder, but his other smoothed across Connor's hip and somehow found enough flesh that he thought it was worth delivering an affectionate smack. “Sweet talker,” Hank accused.

Connor had a retort lined up, he swore he did, but then Hank pulled back and the words fled. Connor's head dropped between his outstretched arms as the sensation of Hank starting to fuck him, slow but deep, flooded through him. Connor couldn't keep a thought in his head to do more than groan.

Hank built his pace up slowly. The leisurely drag of his cock in and out became a steady thrust. Each drive inwards punched a choked, “Ah,” from Connor's chest. All his concentration went on keeping himself braced against the wall, letting Hank fuck him.

“Fuck, you sound as good as you feel,” Hank praised, dragging Connor back onto his cock with hands at his hip and shoulder. Connor cried out wordlessly, reaching back with one hand to find Hank's hip and follow his rhythm. His cock leaked, neglected, and Connor didn't care. Each deep thrust Hank made into him sent a spike of pleasure along his dick. He wondered if he could come just from Hank fucking into him like this.

The force of Hank's thrusts made his skin slap against Connor's. It was noisy, dirty, frenzied. Connor followed the pace of Hank's thrusts, rocking back on his toes to meet him each time.

Hank gave a snarl. His hand moved to grip the back of Connor's neck. The span of his fingers spread and squeezed until Connor thought he might get bruises there too, like fingertip sized hickeys. He squeezed the back of Connor's neck and dragged him onto his cock hard as his rhythm fell apart. Connor felt Hank's cock bury deep inside him as his hips snapped forward one final time and then held there, pinning Connor in place like a debauched butterfly.

Connor released Hank's hip and grasped his own cock, stroking hurriedly. He wanted to come while Hank was still inside him. Hank moved again, giving another, lazier thrust deep inside Connor.

The tightness in Connor's hips unwound sharply, scything through him and making his thighs tremble. He came hard, splattering onto the ground and over his own fingers as Hank thrust into him again, drawing out the ebbs of his own orgasm. It intensified Connor's, until the wave and clench matched Hank's slowing thrusts.

Then Hank pulled out. “Jesus christ,” he hissed in awe. His arm scooped around Connor's midsection, pulling him upright. Connor wobbled and swayed, his legs suddenly unreliable. “I got you,” he promised, as Connor staggered back against Hank's chest. Hank's arm was solid and sure, holding him up as Connor struggled against the sudden onset of Bambi legs. He hadn't got off that hard in years.

Hank's lips pressed to the side of his throat, and his other arm hooked around Connor's middle, hugging him tight like Connor was something precious Hank had almost lost. “You were amazing,” he purred, directly against Connor's ear.

Connor fought to get his breath under control. He folded one arm over Hank's across his stomach, and reached up clumsily with his other to find the back of Hank's head. “So were you,” he replied.

Hank's lips found Connor's cheek, pressing a firm kiss to the skin. “Wanna come back to mine?” he asked. “Give me chance to find all your freckles?”

Connor heaved a breath. His brain was full of cotton wool and warmth and he ached inside and out, but in the best possible way. He was going to be sore tomorrow, and he couldn't wait. “How am I supposed to say no to an offer like that?”

Hank murmured happily and pressed another, softer kiss to Connor's cheek. This one was affectionate, an echo of the teasing one Connor had planted on him last week when Hank had tipped him. “Behave yourself and I might make you breakfast,” Hank added.

Connor eyebrow lifted, and he met Hank's gaze out of the corner of his eye. Hank was smirking. It was a good look on him. “For me, or make me into it?”

Hank's grin was bright, and amused. “Depends how good you are for me.”

[f0rgetf0rgetting]

my first time doing a ship chart dont throw tomatoes at me guysh. im elaborating on the tags because im embarrassed. user f0rgetf0rgetting extreme yap session

i also got too passionate on the madoka magica one and ended up doodling this

[zootopiathingz]

I DID IT!!

It took several weeks but I finally finished up the prologue of my new Charlastor fic! I’ve been dying to share this idea with you guys for a while!

I’ve seen some AUs of Alastor becoming Charlie’s guardian, and so this is kind of my own personal take on that premise. Feel free to check it out and make sure to give some feedback, as this is my first HH fanfic and I’m a little nervous about sharing it lol😅

[syb-la-tortue]

Hi there! Ik you're not into homestuck anymore, but I was wondering if all your old piratestuck art is posted anywhere else, since your original blog got deleted? I used to spend so long just going through that tag, cause I love your art so much. It rly sucks that Tumblr is so hellbent on censoring everything to the point of just trashing a decade or more of someone's hard work :(

sadly at the moment no, tumblr was the only place where the great majority of my Homestuck art was (along with some One Piece art and a good chunk of my early bnha art) and even though I don't think much about Homestuck and Piratestuck these days, I wanted to share these art back then and the sentiment is still true today, I really want all my old arts to still be accessible for everyone to find, even if looking at them today myself might make me cringe due to it being old and seeing all the flaws in them lmao

anon asked: Hope you’ll be able to reupload your art! Everything you make is gorgeous!

I know I won't reupload them on tumblr (wouldn't be able to post the sexy here anyway and I refuse to skip it), or twitter or wherever, one by one like they were posted in the past, because we're talking about hundreds, possibly close to a thousand pieces of art and doodles

what I intend to do is to sort them into a few .PDFs (by fandom? by year?) and make those available for download

it's just that. the task right now is a bit daunting, that's a lot of art to sort through! and I would also like to write some level of commentary, you know like captions to give some context, maybe some of the lore and headcanons for Piratestuck, that kinda thing! but yeah, lot of work that I'm currently a bit afraid to start on so that might be a while...

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Wait where do you post your writing cause I wanna read it if that's ok

unless you like DC comics, specifically Batman / the batfam, i doubt you'll find anything of interest to read On My Ao3! i have posted 53 works over the past few years and they're all That

but then on this blog, my tag Snippets From The Bog has little unedited tidbits/scenes from my more recent wips and imaginings. currently all of it is some flavor of Welcome Home

[yurozo]

a study in silence (fenhawke)

(e) fenris is selfish for loving hawke the way he does, but can't help but forever remain in her orbit. circling in her presence, but never getting close enough to taste it. he's simply accepted that hawke is something that will always remain out of his reach, until she reaches for him first. fem!hawke and fenris romance, in the moments between.

1. Fenris lingers in the Hawke mansion for far longer than usual, lounging near the fireplace in relative silence. Marian and him were never ones for rushing through a good bottle of wine; it was always an unspoken rule between them, even when they could rarely agree on anything. He nurses the wine glass with an uncharacteristic languidness while he pretends not to notice the way Hawke is watching him out of the corner of her eye. He watches her just as sneakily in turn, at how her legs stretch out on the couch opposite him and how her arm flexes when she lifts her glass.

He feels a sort of shaky relief that he’s performing in the act of indulging something after all the years of having nothing. They have that in common, he supposes. Hawke tries to break the silence, chattering on about some recent adventure of theirs that Fenris had definitely been on. Regardless, Fenris lets her go on, watching her with a keen eye and a curled lip that looks suspiciously fond. Despite the fact he’s a man usually prone to quiet, his demeanor always stone and sly, Fenris finds a particular calmness in her endless discussions of whatever comes to her head. Ultimately, Fenris is a weak man only for her, in the way she provides a form of relief for him– Fenris can simply sit and enjoy her endless meandering and take sips out of her glass when she pretends she’s not looking.

“Are you staying the night?” Hawke breaks the lull in her story, looking over at him with an expression Fenris can’t decipher.

“I suppose.” Fenris answers, still staring down at his glass. “The walk is far too long to make at this time of night.”

Hawke snorts at that. “Ah, yes. Walking to the other end of the street too much of a labor?”

“Exactly.” There’s a bit of a sly grin on his face. “Not after this much wine.”

Fenris doesn’t want to think about how much of a habit he’s made of staying the night at her place, sleeping stiffly in her armchair and trying desperately not to think about what she looks like in her bed. That every single time he will lie and tell her that sleeping there was comfortable, and the smile that she gives him will ultimately ease the ache in his muscles. The knowledge of Hawke in clothes other than her armor is enough to keep him out of the bedroom, because Fenris knows deep down he does not have enough self-control to be a gentleman about it. And knowing Hawke, she’s most likely sprawled out under her sheets, her dog curled up at her feet. The thought makes him smile anyways.

“You can sleep up in my room if you like.” Hawke’s voice lowers, and she looks away from him to stare down at her hands. “I do hate to see you sleeping on the chair like that.”

There’s a long silence that stretches between them, one that feels different than the others. It’s like a thick fog that settles on Fenris’ shoulders, clouding his better judgment. It’s a line that they’ve never dared to cross, despite their budding friendship over the years. Sure, Fenris has dragged her back home after a particularly tough venture outside of the city, or more often than not back from The Hanged Man. Despite this, he had never dared to cross the threshold into her bedroom. It felt private, like a barrier that always kept their friendship from developing into something more.

But then again, Fenris is a weak, weak man.

“Alright.” He answers, taking another sip of his wine. “I don’t believe the dog will fit on the bed with us.”

Hawke laughs. “He can survive sleeping on the ground for one night.”

They head up to the bedroom minutes later, once the bottle of wine has been thoroughly indulged. Fenris follows at her heels like a puppy, his fingertips lightly tapping against his thigh. Hawke pays no mind to it, opening the door for the both of them and gesturing to him to walk in first. Fenris takes a deep breath, and passes the threshold.

The first thing he notices is that the room is more sparse than he expected. There’s very little personal belongings in her room, save for a journal and scattered pieces of armor. Hawke had never been one for keeping things for herself, often being annoyingly generous with her gift-giving. He had been at the receiving end of it far too many times for him to count.

He lets Hawke climb into bed first while he takes off the remaining pieces of his armor. Fenris takes his time carefully placing it into the corner of the room, waiting for Hawke to change her mind. She doesn’t, and instead watches him undress with a sly grin on her face. He gives her a slightly scolding look, and she dramatically turns her head with a smile.

“Enjoying the view?” He climbs into bed, rolling his eyes playfully.

“Just admiring the Maker-given gifts.” She smiles back, settling under the covers.

Fenris lets out a light scoff, turning to face her. “I didn’t take you for an Andrastian.”

“I’m not.” Hawke answers simply, facing him as well. “But some sights almost make you believe.”

Fenris knows that part is true, at least. The sight of her once again, of Hawke lounging in her bed in something other than the armor he normally sees her in is enough to make even the most sadistic man believe in something more. Something pure and unbidden that Fenris is just self-hating enough to believe he will never deserve. Hawke had always been something that felt just outside of his grasp– humble enough to humor him with their friendship, but always too good for him to have. He’s thought about running away, about leaving Kirkwall and Hawke behind for good, but Fenris is selfish. There is no better fitting punishment for a man like him; to want something so badly, to hold it and feel it in his arms, and know that he is never going to be worthy of it. It’s a constant push and pull, a tease of something more without ever crossing the boundary.

There’s that silence again. That forgiving, comfortable silence between them that Fenris is too familiar with.

Hawke reaches over, unthinking, and presses a soft fingertip to Fenris’ face. He doesn’t move, too frightened to move, as her hand slowly cups the edge of his jaw. Another moment passes, his gaze crooked, before he wraps his hand around her wrist. His movements are slow– careful, like approaching an animal you wouldn’t want to scare away. Fenris is many things, cold and cruel and heartless; but here, in this moment, he’s vulnerable. He’s gentle.

It should stop being a surprise at this point, Fenris thinks, that she can so easily convince anyone to bend to her whims.

It still doesn’t prevent how his heartbeats trips and doubles over itself as she shuffles closer to him, the warmth of her thigh sinking into his skin. Ordinarily, he would move away. He’s too familiar with affection being used as a form of control, too familiar with the cold sting of a lash against his back. But this feels different, her hands are soft and warm and everything that Fenris is not.

There are certain things in the catch of a breath, in the flex of a muscle that had always entranced him. An unspoken language, one that says so much with so little sound. For all the talking Hawke does, she can appreciate Fenris’ silence in a way few can. In the moments before, Hawke looks down at Fenris’ wrist and studies the skin there– tanned and thin, his lilac veins too close to the surface. Nothing about Fenris had ever seemed fragile until now, when he’s peering at her with too large eyes and a strange sort of vulnerability.

Hawke leans forward and presses her lips to his. There’s no spark, no fireworks, no final piece fitting into the puzzle. It’s peaceful, and it’s gentle, and it’s silent. There’s no sound in the room except for the light puff of air that escapes Fenris’ nostrils, and the soft sigh that leaves Hawke’s mouth.

Perhaps the silence isn’t so bad.

In a moment, it changes. What was once gentle turns into something more. Flurried hands pull at his chest, greedy and wanting. Because her every whim is his purpose, and because his purpose is somewhat clouded and inhibited– Fenris complies. Under the endless staccato refrain of you should not be doing this and Hawke deserves better, Fenris' heart feels like it’s alive for the first time. Everything about this feels good, and he is selfish to the core.

“Curse you, Hawke.” He finally grumbles, their lips just inches from each other. She looks at him curiously, but the glimmer in her eyes gives her intentions away.

“That’s not the common reaction I get from people after kissing them.” Hawke laughs; bright and cheerful and happy. “What brought that on?”

“You made me need you.” He whispers, looking into her eyes with that look of vulnerability again. Hawke’s hand wanders to the back of his neck, and she pulls him in for another kiss.

“The feeling is mutual.” She smiles against his lips, and this time it’s Fenris that moves in first.

When he walks out the door that night, he leaves his heart behind the threshold, and tries not to cry at his first unselfish deed.

2. The silence is different after that. It’s stilted and awkward, and everyone else has begun to notice. Even Hawke is uncharacteristically silent, in a way that only Fenris can hear. They’re walking through Darktown, trying to find another damned sewer to crawl through when Varric finally says something.

“So, are you going to spill the details?” He asks, looking up at Fenris with a wry smile. Fenris only looks back at him with what can only be described as an expression of scathing anger, and Varric holds his hands up in surrender. “Just need some details for the novel, you know how much my readers love the tragic romance.”

“There is no romance to speak of.” He answers quickly, perhaps a little too quickly for his liking. Varric glances over at Hawke, then at Fenris, and his expression turns thoughtful. Fenris scowls. “Whatever you are writing in your head, stop it.”

Varric simply laughs, and re-adjusts his crossbow. “Alright, broody. I’ll drop it. But I care about Hawke. Try not to let her suffer for too much longer, yeah?”

Fenris looks ahead, and pretends he didn’t hear him.

3. He can tell Hawke is suffering. He can see it in the tears building in her eyes, her sluggish movements. The walk back from Foundry is silent again, and none of the other party members have the courage to speak. Fenris watches Hawke walk into her mansion with a conflicted look on her face, before Varric pats him firmly on the back.

“Go talk to her.” Varric’s voice is firmer than usual. “It’s best if it’s you.”

Fenris nods at Varric in thanks, and opens the front door. The moment it shuts, the first thing he notices is the lack of silence. He can hear Hawke crashing about her room, dropping her armor on the floor with a loud clang.

He heaves a deep sigh, and walks up the stairs. The banging stops.

Fenris is starting to have second thoughts once he reaches her bedroom. Thoughts that he shouldn’t entertain when he sees her sitting at the foot of the bed, the very same bed that they had shared one night months ago. These thoughts were dangerous and impossible, and Fenris tries to suppress the feelings lingering in his chest. It’s not what Hawke needs, and above all, Hawke is what matters. Especially now, when she needs someone so desperately.

He lingers by the doorway. “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.”

Hawke continues to look down at her hands, at the blood that still stains her fingertips. She hasn’t bothered to wash it off, and Fenris has the sinking feeling that she’s not going to for a while yet.

“It was all my fault. If I had been faster-” Fenris cuts her off before she can continue.

“You are looking for a forgiveness that I cannot give to you.” He sits down next to her, just close enough that their thighs brush against each others. Any more contact would cause Fenris to crumble, so he limits it to only what he can handle. Only to what Hawke needs, and nothing more. A line in the sand, drawn by Fenris in a desperate attempt to keep himself from giving into his selfish desire once more.

“There is no forgiveness for people like me.” She answers sadly, and Hawke’s face carries that same vulnerability that Fenris once showed her. People like us, Fenris wants to say, before he stops himself. If anyone deserves forgiveness, it’s her. The people’s champion, pushing the same boulder up the same hill countless times and hoping for a different result. Once again, they’re the same in that regard.

“There is nothing you could have done.” While his answer is blunt, both of them know it's true. This is the way Kirkwall works, circling the same tragedy and suffering like water entering a drain. The city lets it sink into itself, before spitting it back out with more tremendous amounts of force. It’s unfair that it has to be her, the person who has given everything to this terrible city, only to receive nothing but tragedy in return. The city does not pick and choose which ones are worthy of something better, no matter how much Fenris wishes it could be so.

“Perhaps.” She replies, so soft that it hurts. Fenris sighs, and like he’s done it a hundred times before, covers her hand with his. Her touch is warm, just as she is, and Fenris pointedly does not comment on the tears that splatter on his hand.

It’s Hawke that turns her palm up, lacing their fingers together. When Fenris casts a sidelong glance at her, she’s staring ahead at the wall like nothing is happening. Before he can do something incredibly stupid and out of character for him, he squeezes her hand once and lets go. He stumbles towards the door, ignoring the way he can feel her eyes on him.

“I’m here if you need me, Hawke.” He says, right before he closes the door. “I always am.”

When he finally shuts himself away, Fenris stands in the hallway for a moment too long and tries to force air into his lungs. Hawke’s expression is branded into his mind, the way that she cried and crumpled before him. In all the years that he’s known her, he’s never seen her so weak.

Everything ever written, all the books that Fenris forced himself to read after Hawke’s appalled shock at his lack of education cannot describe this feeling in words. Fenris was not someone made to love, he was made to hurt and follow orders, and this type of tenderness is entirely unbecoming to someone like him. But Hawke is someone made of love– it pours over her every word, laced in every tender affection she so freely gives.

He wants to give that to her, help fill the chalice that Hawke empties so easily.

But that was before– before Hawke had crawled her way into his heart in that fussy and incongruent way of hers that Fenris loathes so much. Before he kissed her, before he broke her heart, and before he left his heart in that damned bedroom.

4. Isabela is staring at him again. An unsettling and calculating gaze that’s sending shivers up his back. He can tell Hawke is pretending not to notice, keeping her gaze forward and towards their destination.

“What are you staring at?” He finally says, glaring at Isabela with all the

“Trying to see something.” She smiles, and Fenris can just barely see the glimmer of amusement in her eye. Isabela’s up to something, and after years of knowing her, he knows when she’s about to stir up trouble for nothing other than her own amusement. “Anders and her have been getting close, don’t you think?”

Fenris says nothing, but the slight twitch in his eyebrow gives him away. Isabela chuckles to herself, and turns her gaze forward. When he finally responds, his voice is tinged with the slightest hint of jealousy. “What Hawke does is none of our business.”

Isabela largely ignores him, continuing her train of thoughts much to his chagrin. “I see him lurking out of her house at all hours of the night. Always with that sly look on his face.”

His eyes flicker over to Anders in pure unadulterated anger, and Isabela nearly doubles over in laughter at the cross look on his face. Over the years, Fenris had become increasingly obvious with his affections, and Varric had made it a regular habit to mention the ‘puppy dog eyes’ that always breaks through his stoic exterior at the mere mention of her name. He can feel the energy humming through his veins at the thought of Hawke with anyone else but him, because Fenris is selfish and terrible and wicked.

Out of the corner of his eye, breaking his unrelenting scowl in Ander’s direction, he can see Hawke look back at him with a concerned look on her face. He softens at that, and his markings fade to a dull hum. It only makes Isabela smile wider, at the way Fenris becomes so uncharacteristically weak from only a glance in her direction. The very thought of her with Anders, of him touching her the way he once did, is enough to bellow the pit of jealousy flaming in his stomach. This spirited pursuit of inactivity ends here, he decides, and follows Hawke a bit closer.

5. Driven by a morbid curiosity, and perhaps the lingering feeling of jealousy seeded and nurtured by Isabela’s comments, Fenris begins to drop hints. Increasingly expensive bottles of wine that happen to show up on Hawke’s kitchen table with no warning, lingering touches on her back after an arduous battle. He rubs a droplet of blood of her cheek with his thumb, his expression filled with an aching tenderness reserved only for her. He lets their legs press together in the cramped seats of The Hanged Man, shallowly excused to his friends by having a glass too many of whatever swill he drank this time.

Hawke had also drank too much this time, it seems, by the way she leans her shoulder into him with a casualness that Fenris envies. Every move, every dance of affection was always carefully calculated by him, and yet Hawke touches him like they had known each other for millenia. They eventually get shooed out of the bar, with Hawke hanging off his shoulder and reeking of still blood and ale.

She rambles on once again about something Fenris is only half-listening to, his mind preoccupied by thoughts that are once again impossible and dangerous. The curve of her lips, the arch of her back. The white-hot contact of her arm around his shoulder that sears into his skin like a brand.

“My point is-” Hawke speaks a little too loudly for his taste, especially considering that her lips are right next to his ear. “My point is– they obviously love each other. I don’t understand why they don’t just buck up and say it.”

“It is seldom ever that easy.” He answers simply, holding her waist a little tighter. Love had never been Fenris’ particular forte, no matter the amount of terribly cheesy novels Varric makes him read now. It is something that will remain locked inside of his chest, dampened by his terrible and unselfish desire to see her happy. Happier than anything a broken former slave could ever give her. “And Isabela’s not particularly the sentimental type.”

Hawke rolls her eyes, and sighs deeply. “I know. I know, and yet I want them to be happy. Love is so… stupidly complicated.”

Fenris can understand that, at least. The ardent and unrelenting desire to see someone they care for truly content. “Love often ruins people. She is right to be cautious.”

“All I’ve ever wanted is to love someone.” Hawke answers, her voice softer, less slurred. “Like that, I mean. I never thought I would be one of those sappy romantics, and yet-”

Fenris looks at her out of the corner of his eye, trying to ignore the way his heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. Hawke’s silent for a long moment as they stumble through the streets of Hightown at a leisurely pace.

Hawke looks at him, hiccups once, and smiles crookedly. “I like the new sword. It suits you.”

“Thanks.” He shakes his head, fighting the grin rising to his face.

They make it to her front door, and the moment between them vanishes into the night air. He leads her into her house, where they play cards and he lets Hawke believe she won fairly. All he can do is try to shove down the image of her smiling at him so openly to the back of his mind.

6. Fenris is pacing around her mansion, muttering half-impassioned Tevene curses into the open air. Hawke simply watches him stalk around the room, sitting in the armchair with a half-empty bottle of wine.

“Festei bei uno canavarum.” He mutters angrily, the markings tainting his skin casting the room in an eerie glow.

“No need to go overboard with the thanks.” She teases half-heartedly, tilting her head curiously at him. Fenris was particularly known for these random bouts of anger, but this was different. He was mourning, broken by a life lost. Fenris only looks at her scoldingly, but says nothing in return.

“Hadriana is dead. I should be free.” He finally says, his tone still laced with anger. The energy thrumming through his veins is running too hot to dampen, and Fenris lets that anger simmer off him in waves. Hawke doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by this, sipping at her wine while he storms about the room. Suddenly he stops, his gaze fixed on the fireplace with a withering expression. “I should be happy.”

“You still can be. This is not the end of everything.” Hawke answers, leaning forward slightly in her chair. “Danarius is not all that you are.”

Fenris still doesn’t move, his eyes still lingering on the ashes flickering out of the fireplace. “It feels like it.”

“I know. But this is a chance for you to start over.” She stands up, walking over to him to lean against the wall. He only looks at her briefly before the flames feel like they’re licking up his ankles, and he forces his gaze back to the dying fire. “To have a new life.”

The phrase ‘You could leave this all behind’ is left noticeably unsaid. Fenris doesn’t want to leave Kirkwall, the thought only ever crosses his mind for brief moments before being quickly stamped by his aching fondness for this place. Particularly for one person within it.

“I don’t want a new life.” I don’t want to leave you, is what he doesn’t say. She understands it anyway. “I thought I would be free.”

“You are free, Fenris.” He also notices the way she doesn’t use his old name, the one whispered to him in Hadriana’s dying breath. Hawke is looking at him with that expression that he once again cannot describe. “You always have been.”

Fenris watches as the flames flicker out, leaving behind only flaring embers. “This freedom tastes like ashes.”

“I know.” Hawke answers, reaching her hand out to gently interlace her fingers with his. “But this time it’s going to be different.”

7. It’s another night that he’s lingering about in her presence, nursing another expensive bottle of wine that he not-so-secretly dropped at her place. He had been ecstatic at her invitation to drink it together, using the wine as an excuse to ensure Anders will not be making any more night-time visits to her mansion. Hawke is tittering about the kitchen, complaining once again that he doesn’t eat properly, that his mansion is a mess, that he really ought to stay with her while they at least clean the corpses off the floor.

Fenris watches her with a keen interest, fingers tapping on the wine bottle in an uneven rhythm. “I think it adds character.”

“Character.” She scoffs, turning to face him. “The smell alone– I truly have no idea how you can even bear to step foot within it..”

“Because it’s mine.” He answers, his brows slightly raised. There’s a slight pride in taking something from his former master, in desecrating it to the point of abandonment. A property of Danarius’ that Fenris can completely destroy with very little consequences.

“At least clean it a little.” Hawke sighs, leaning back against the counter. “Just the entrance, so I don’t have to smell rotting corpses when I need to come get you.”

“For you, I will.” He grins slightly, taking another sip of wine. For her, he would clean the whole damn place. Get on his knees and scrub every inch if it makes her happy. But he doesn’t say that, just looks up at her with that slight grin he knows she loves to see so much.

“Good. Maybe one day I’ll actually be able to spend the night there.” This time, her tone is lighter, more teasing. The comment gives him pause, his fingers resuming that endless tapping on the wine bottle. The silence grows heavy between them.

“We never did talk about it.”

“About what?” She takes a step forward and seats herself across from him. Their knees slightly touch against each other under the table, but Fenris doesn’t move away this time.

“That night.” He finally says, looking up at her. Her expression crumbles, and he can see the exact moment that she recalls the heartbreak he caused her. The very same expression she wore the night he left, the night he took what he needed from her and left her broken under the covers. The silence closes his mouth and twists at his heart. He loves her in such a vain and terrible way, an ember desperately trying to keep the fire burning no matter how much he tries to be altruistic.

“You never wanted to talk about it.” Hawke looks down at the table, one finger carefully caressing the edge of the wood. She follows the grains delicately, and Fenris tries not to remember the way she had touched him like that once, like something fragile. But he does, and it kills him. “And I never wanted to push.”

“I thought it would be better if you hated me. If I could forget about everything that happened between us, if I could forget-” Fenris pauses, “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I ask for it anyway.”

Hawke is still staring down at the table, her brows furrowed. “Remembering isn’t all so bad.”

He knows. Maker, he knows. Despite everything that’s happened, not only between him and Hawke, but with Varania and Danarius and everything else. Memory has brought him a terrible sense of tranquility that makes him uneasy. It’s painful, feels like being burned alive from the inside out, but the pain makes it real. Makes the memory real. “The worst thing is that I remember it.”

“I know.” She answers, finally looking up at him. Fenris looks at her eyes, at the way the light glimmers in them, and feels a part of him come to life. She remembers too, he knows in the way her eyes gaze through him.

“I cannot give you what you deserve. You deserve a lot better than me.” Fenris feels like he’s pleading, coming back to that line in the sand with a damned fortress, armed with cannons and soldiers. “A lot better than this.”

“I love you anyways.” She smiles at him. Stupid, caring, giving Hawke, emptying out what’s left of her just to see him smile. Her hand, once again, reaches out to lay on top of his. “But I need to know why.”

“I thought about what I would say to you. About the answer I would give.” Fenris can’t say the reason why he was so painfully and pathetically in love with someone who showed him a tender kindness when he was never deserving of it. That after seeing the past that made him, molded him into a lyrium-infused cold-blooded killer, he knew letting Hawke go would be the only chance he ever got to warrant her. That he made a stupid decision to try and be a better man, and it hurts her anyways.“I am a coward. The memories it brought up– I am not a man that could show you the love you deserved.”

“And yet?” She questions, her eyes peering up at him curiously. He loathes those eyes, the way it sees through every crack in his barrier so carefully put together by tattooed hands. “There must be a reason you’re bringing this up.”

“And yet I love you anyways.” He answers. “Because I need you in ways that I shouldn’t.”

Fenris lets himself be selfish, for this one long painful moment that sits between them. Love really is a complicated, all-encompassing thing. Fenris hates it, but cherishes the feeling anyways. He swallows the apprehension clawing its way up his stomach, and continues. “Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.”

“Perhaps -” Hawks smiles, her expression going soft. Her fingers lightly curl over his wrist, the same way Fenris had once held her. “Perhaps I’ll hold this over you a little while longer.”

He lightly chuckles at that, and pulls her closer. “Don’t you dare.”

8. They’re laying in bed hours later, his arms wrapped around her waist. This time, he has no thoughts about leaving, no doubts about his place here. It feels right, and Fenris can comfortably sit in the silence with her.

“Do you remember what you said to me? About needing me?” Hawke is the first to speak, as she usually is. Her finger traces light patterns into his chest, nails pressing right at the edges of his markings. They hum lightly at her contact, a pleasant dull sound that reverberates in his chest. It doesn’t hurt this time, nor will it hurt anytime after.

Fenris remembers. He lets the silence speak for him.

“I’ve been thinking about it.” She continues on, trailing down towards his abdomen. “I think we’ve always needed each other.”

He thinks about it, about the ways that they had always sought the other’s presence in their darkest moments. How Hawke held his hand after Leandra, how Fenris paced about her mansion after Varania. Two stars forever in orbit, refusing to keep the distance between them. A blurred line in the sand, washed away and moved inch-by-inch until there was no longer anything standing between them.

“You’re not selfish, Fenris.” Hawke turns to him. “There is nothing about you that my heart won’t accept. I will love you to any end, against all the pain.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Fenris laughs., kissing her once more.

[sheliesshattered]

Sylki fic: When She Sings She Sings Come Home

Loki/Sylvie, 3200 words. Post s02e06 fix-it, angst with a happy ending. Also available on AO3 under the same title and username.

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When She Sings She Sings Come Home

Sylvie wakes with Loki’s voice in her ears.

It’s been months since she last saw him, striding out to the Loom to save the timelines. Winter has come and gone, here in this little corner of a branch that she’s made her home. Every day that’s passed, she’s half expected to turn around and see him standing there, like that night he appeared in the parking lot next to her truck. But for months, there’s been nothing but the absence of him, growing larger and more crystalline every day.

She wakes with his voice in her ears, singing that ridiculous song from the train on Lamentis.

To Sylvie, everybody! he’d said, grinning at her, not drunk only too full. She would give anything to see him smile like that again. She would give anything to see him again.

And it isn’t that she hasn’t looked. Of course she had. She’d barely gotten through a single shift at McDonald’s after leaving Mobius standing outside his variant’s house before she’d used He Who Remain’s TemPad to try to find Loki.

He wasn’t dead. She knows he isn’t dead. But he also isn’t anywhere. There are an infinite number of branches now, layers of reality twisting around each other into something larger, a shape she can almost see, almost recognize. But Loki isn’t on any of them. No matter where she searches, he remains just outside her grasp.

Sylvie goes to work, she drives her truck home, she listens to music at the record store, she checks in on Mobius, she tries to sleep. But everywhere is marked by Loki’s absence, and every moment is overlaid with the sound of him singing.

She can’t find Loki, but that song is a thread she can pull at. Where did he learn it? The words were almost Asgardian, but not quite. Something similar, a branch of the original. A variant. Because of course it was.

It’s not until she thinks to quietly spy on the New Asgard settlement in Norway, forty years on from her quiet life in Oklahoma, that she hears the language again. Norwegian.

Remember this place, she hears Odin say, in a memory that is not hers, rippling through the interwoven timelines because it is what she needs in this moment. Home.

She turns her back on New Asgard, on the man who is almost but not quite her brother, on the Valkyrie who will come to lead their people like the hero out of a saga that Sylvie had once wished she could become. She turns her back, and walks into this strange, beautiful land. Norway. One tiny place on one tiny planet in one insignificant branch of the ever-growing tree of time, where the syllables are shaped into words that resonate with Loki’s voice from so long ago.

Sylvie wanders into pubs, into taverns, into bars, into concerts. She hums the few notes that never leave her head, and hopes to find someone who knows the song.

Until, miraculously, one day, she does.

“It’s an old drinking song,” the bearded man at the bar tells her, gesturing with his beer. “It’s about taking the long way home, but knowing you’ll get there in the end.”

“Can you teach it to me?” Sylvie asks, unblinking, gaze trained on the stranger’s face.

“For that, I will need a lot more beer.”

So she buys him beers. She coaxes the song out of him. She buys rounds for the whole bar, until they are all singing it. They teach her the words in Norwegian, teach her to shape the vowels as carefully as any incantation, and then teach her the meaning behind the words.

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone

Over the glacier I make my way

In the apple garden stands the maiden fair

and sings, “When will you come home?”

“You, I think,” her drunk bearded acquaintance says to her, “you are the maiden fair.”

“And what if I am?” Sylvie asks, raising her chin, still dead-sober despite the bourbon clutched in her hand.

“Then you must sing for him to come home!”

“From an apple orchard, if you can manage it,” leers his friend next to him.

“Will it work?” she hears herself say.

“Of course it will work! Music is magic. Galdr, they used to call it, in the old religion. The power of your voice to shape reality.” The man is drunk, but his words tug at something in Sylvie’s memory, long buried. “Sing, and he will come home.”

“As simple as that?”

The bearded man laughs uproariously. “When has love ever been simple?” he demands jovially. “When has magic ever been easy? But that does not mean it is not worth trying. There is beauty in the trying. There is love in the longing.” He’s slurring his words, barely managing to stay atop his barstool.

But he’s not wrong.

I know what kind of god I need to be, Loki had said, tears shining in his eyes. For you. For all of us.

But Sylvie is a god, too, she reminds herself, as she tosses back her bourbon and turns her back on the little Norwegian town, with the northern lights rippling over head. She’s not the goddess of chaos anymore, and she hasn’t felt mischievous since she was a child.

But the goddess of galdr, yes, that perhaps is something she could be.

She returns to her little Oklahoma town, cloud cover obliterating the stars, and drives her truck to the record store. There’s only one song she wants to hear, only one voice to sing it, but music has been her comfort since she came to this place, and she cannot simply become the goddess of music-turned-into-magic because she wishes it to be so. Music has been her shield, her cocoon, her comfort these long lonely months. Now she must learn to form it into other shapes, into weapons and tools. Into a lighthouse, shining out into the vast dark of the multiverse.

She taught herself enchantment, while running for her life from one apocalypse to the next. She can teach herself galdr in this quiet little record shop in this quiet little town.

Sylvie slides the headphones into place, and lets the music move through her.

Oh, sweet nothin'

She ain't got nothin' at all

Oh, sweet nothin'

She ain't got nothin' at all

But what if she had something? What if she had the one person who would make all of this worth it?

I know what kind of god I need to be, she tells herself. For you, Loki.

She murmurs the words along with the music, infusing them with intent, with magic.

And for one fraction of an instant, she can see him.

He’s alone, on the throne he never wanted, surrounded by the threads of the multiverse, pulsing green as they grow and twist. There is nothing, nothing else, only Loki alone in that vast emptiness, in that expanse of everything that ever was or ever could be.

His eyes are dull, unfocused, far away. And then— a flicker of recognition, a spark of life—

Sylvie loses the connection.

She’s alone on the sofa in the back of the record shop, with Lou Reed singing in her ears.

He ain’t got nothing at all

She drives home. She tries to sleep. She keeps hearing Loki’s voice, keeps seeing him alone in that emptiness. She murmurs into the darkness— not quite a song, not quite a spell—

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

There is a shape to the enormity of what Loki has done. There is an order to the way the branches of the multiverse wrap around each other. It is just outside her grasp, but Sylvie feels that if she could just see the shape of it, she might understand.

She might be able to reach him.

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone she whispers to the emptiness of her tiny apartment, in this tiny town, in this little branch of a timeline, one miniscule part of a greater whole, and falls asleep dreaming of trees dancing, of waterfalls stopping, of Loki taking her outside the flow of time to tell her that there was no other way to keep her safe.

Sylvie wakes with her own voice in her ears.

The song is coursing through her, jeg saler min ganger, and she can feel the magic at her fingertips, on the tip of her tongue, pushing at the insides of her ribs, swelling her lungs and begging to be released.

I know what kind of god I need to be.

She gets into her truck and drives. North and east, away from everything she knows, vaguely towards those northern lights dancing over the fjords, too far away to reach on roads such as these.

But once upon a time, when she was very young, there was another road. A rainbow road, the Bifrost, that could take her anywhere just like magic.

Every bit of magic she has now she has taught herself. And this, too, this song swelling in her chest, is magic of her own making.

There is beauty in the trying. There is love in the longing.

She drives past fields of wheat and fields of corn, through days and nights, with the glare of the sun or the pattering of the rain against the windshield. Sylvie drives and drives and drives, and keeps the song tucked away inside her, growing in fury like a hurricane in a bottle, like the storm that had raged outside the night they met.

She drives until the scent of apples wafts through the open windows of the truck, and then she pulls over, knowing this was her destination all along.

Iðunn, a childhood memory whispers, too long ago now to have any meaning at all. The apples of eternity.

Home she thinks, and then hears, from a memory not her own:

Asgard’s not a place, it’s a people.

This could be Asgard. Asgard is where our people stand.

Her brother’s voice. The voice of the man who had once raised her as his daughter. The family she lost and can never regain, no matter what shape the multiverse twists itself into. Words reaching across time, across branching timelines, to reach her here and now, because it is what she needs to hear.

Sylvie climbs out of her truck and walks into the apple orchard and doesn’t look back.

She walks until she can no longer see the road from between the trunks and branches. She walks until there is nothing but the smell of apples, the soil under foot, and the sky over head. She walks until the song finally bursts out of her, all of her desperation and loneliness flooding out of her lungs to shake the very air around her, in the shape of words that are his but also hers, now.

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

In storm-black mountains, I wander alone

Over the glacier I make my way

In the apple garden stands the maiden fair

and sings, “When will you come home?”

But trees dance and waterfalls stop

When she sings, she sings “come home”

When she sings, she sings “come home”

When she sings, she sings “come home”

When she sings, she sings “come home!”

And then he is there, standing beside her in the sunshine and the scent of the apple orchard. Loki glances around at the trees dancing in the wind, his eyes bright, before his gaze snaps to hers.

“You’re here,” Sylvie croaks, her voice burned through with the force of the magic that poured out of her, the magic that’s brought Loki to her.

“No, not really,” he says, his eyes never still as they trace over her face. “I’m still there too. I’m sort of everywhere, really. It’s hard to explain.”

“Help me to understand,” she says before the words even have the chance to fade away. “You said you knew what kind of god you needed to be. You saved us, you saved everything, and then you disappeared. Make me understand.”

“I can’t, Sylvie,” Loki says gently, and there is a sorrow in his eyes deeper than oceans, more boundless than the vastness of space. “It’s been centuries for me. Lifetimes. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Enchant me, he had begged her once, standing in the McDonald’s parking lot in his ridiculous TVA uniform. You can see what I saw.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she tells him, raising her hands slowly towards his face, green magic flickering between her fingers. “Just let me see what you saw.”

“Sylvie,” he starts, and there are tears in his eyes again, like there were in that last moment before he turned his back on her to destroy the Loom.

“We’re the same, remember?” she says, and if her voice cracks it is only because of the abuse it’s suffered, only because of the magic that poured out through her vocal chords to shape reality to her desires. “You shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone, Loki,” she tells him, with as much tenderness as she can force into her ruined voice. “Let me understand.”

“It was the only way,” he says, as if in warning, but Sylvie cups his face in her hands before the tears can fall from his eyes.

Centuries. Lifetimes. The same day, over and over again. Reality unspooling, starting with Victor Timely and ending with her, again and again. Their fight in the Citadel at the end of time, relived hundreds of times, always with the same ending. Always the death of He Who Remains, and the unraveling of everything, failure after failure after failure.

And yet in all of them, she does not kiss him. And he cannot bring himself to kill her. Until only one choice remains.

I know what kind of god I need to be. For you.

Sylvie watches in Loki’s memory as the temporal radiation burns away his TVA uniform, as his magic replaces it with something older, something primal, something true. She watches as he grasps the decaying branches of the multiverse and breathes life into them, wills them to live, to be whole and part of a whole.

She watches as the branches twist around each other, each variation of the timeline finding support in its neighbors, building into something greater than the sum of every moment of every timeline that has ever existed.

She sees the shape of what Loki has done, the enormous, infinite tree dancing in the nothingness outside of time. Yggdrasil, the worldstree, green and glowing, alive and growing, all because Loki willed it so. To restore freewill and safeguard it forever. For all of us.

His hands cover hers and Loki gently pries her fingers away from his face. “Enough, Sylvie. Enough. I know what I’ve done.”

There are tears on her face, the apple-scented wind plucking at the wetness as she stands there, staring at Loki. Even without the enchantment, she can see him sitting on his throne, alone but for the infinite tree he tends.

“It was the only way?” she asks in the ruins of her voice. It is only when he folds his hands around hers that she realizes she is shaking, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Not like dancing. Like shattering, collapsing in on herself with the weight of what he’s done.

“No,” Loki admits. “There was one other way. I could have left He Who Remains in charge. I could have let the TVA go back to pruning the timelines. But I would have had to kill you. I would have had to kill you with my own hands, and watch as you died, and then betray everything you ever believed in. I lived every variation of every action I could possibly change, but not that one. Not that.”

“You don’t even know me,” Sylvie blurts out before the words have fully formed in her mind. All of this, to save her? She cannot, she cannot—

Loki’s expressive face twists, stung by her words, hurt in this moment even beyond the deep sorrow that he wears like a cloak. “Of course I know you,” he says, wounded, his gaze searching her face. “Like I’ve never known anyone. Sylvie, I lov—”

She surges up onto her toes and kisses him, there among the apple trees. She kisses him for what he’s done, for what he refused to do. She kisses him for the loneliness they have both known far too much of, she kisses him for coming when she sang for him to come home. She kisses him because there is nothing else she can do, because there was never any other way for her, either.

And Loki kisses her in return, with a desperation borne of years, centuries, lifetimes of facing this alone. He kisses her in the apple garden, as the trees dance and the waterfalls stand still. He is there, kissing her, but also somewhere else, far away and outside time, tending to the tree that he gave his life to save.

“I can’t stay,” he says when they finally part, pressing his forehead to hers, his hands cupping her jaw in an echo of how she had enchanted him moments before. “I want to stay, more than anything, Sylvie, but I can’t, I can’t.”

“I know,” she assures him, even as she clutches at his robes for fear he will disappear at any moment. “I know you can’t stay here with me,” she says, then takes a deep breath to steady her ragged voice, her thundering heart. “But you don’t have to be alone.”

Loki pulls away abruptly, only far enough to see her face, confusion pinching his features.

“We’re gods, you said,” Sylvie explains, tripping over her words, her voice trembling with the weight of what she has already done, the weight of what she plans to do. “We have a responsibility. That’s what you told me, in that ridiculous room full of pie. We can’t just give everyone freewill and then walk away.” She offers him a small smile, the best she can summon at the current moment. “You have to sustain Yggdrasil. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I did this for you,” he says, holding on to her as desperately as she is clutching at him. “So you could have a life. That’s what you said you wanted, to live.”

“It’s freewill, Loki,” she says, shaking her head. “You can’t just give it to everyone and then be surprised when I use it to choose to be with you. I know what kind of god I need to be. You taught me that. I won’t let you bear this burden alone. That’s the kind of god I choose to be.”

“I can’t let you sacrifice yourself for me—”

“The only sacrifice would be giving you up.”

He gazes at her for a long moment, his uncertainty slowly transforming, then sings softly, “I stormsvarte fjell, jeg vandrer alene,” and this time Sylvie understands the words. “Over isbreen tar jeg meg frem. I eplehagen står møyen den vene, og synger: ‘når kommer du hjem?’”

The apple orchard dissolves around them, replaced by the rippling greens and blues and purples of Yggdrasil, shimmering in the darkness outside of time.

“Home,” Sylvie says, and kisses him again.

[ofsappho]

treehouse 🔞 (also available on ao3)

tags: smut, pregnancy, 🔞, mental illness, trauma, eventual happy ending

Dream of the Endless | Lord Morpheus x reader

It's a common story; you meet a tall, dark, and handsome man outside of a club and take him home that night. When he leaves, you don't think you'll ever see him again.

Now, what's less common is what happens a couple of weeks later, when you realize you're pregnant. But you only know his name, if that even is his real name: "Dream".

What exactly are you going to do now?

(title from the song Treehouse by Alex G) (originally posted on AO3)

You don’t usually do this kind of thing.

‘Thing’ here refers to venturing out of your apartment, alone, dressed to the nines and in search of trouble. The kind of thing that every other twenty-something you know does on a regular basis.

But it’s always been too hard for you to gather up the energy for such an effort. Depression can do that.

Tonight, though, you’re trying, even though you’re definitely the only person in this club without anyone else to accompany them.

The party feels like something out of that new Batman movie; bass reverberating through the soles of your sneakers and smoke curling through the air, heavy-fingered and tinged blood red from the colored lights.

You had choked down a panic attack on the walk from the train to the club, only making it down those few blocks of sidewalk by reminding yourself that you can leave whenever it stops being fun, over and over.

The ice in your drink is fully melted and in the whole hour you’ve wandered around, you’ve really only spoken to the very pretty bartender. She complimented your dress, and you would’ve complimented her eyes in return, but you’re aware that she was only being polite and doing her job.

Without much fanfare, you abandon your glass filled halfway with water and halfway with vodka sour next to all the other discarded glasses. This has officially stopped being fun, though whether or not it was ever fun to begin with is up for debate, and you take that as your cue to dip.

Once you’re outside, the cool air a pleasant balm on your sweat-sticky cheeks, you quickly snag a cigarette out of the carton in your purse. A raven watches you struggle to light it.

He’s a curious bird, calm as any human, and you win the staring contest between the two of you. When he cocks his head at the sound of your laughter, you swear he can practically understand you. You keep giggling as you crouch down and offer your shitty lighter to the raven. “Well? Are you gonna help me or just stand there making fun?”

“Matthew has always had a sense of humor.” At the sound of someone’s accented voice, as rich and deep as whiskey, you stand and turn to see a man looking at you and your new corvus buddy.

Oh fuck, he’s beautiful.

You go with beautiful as handsome is definitely the wrong word. The stranger is beautiful in a way that doesn’t quite seem humanly possible, like it breaks your brain a little bit to look at his brilliant eyes, to take in his high, sweeping cheekbones and plush mouth.

“The raven’s name is Matthew?”

“Yes.” You’re tempted to ask him if he, like, has a podcast or maybe records audiobooks. If he doesn’t, he should. He’d do super well.

Seriously. It’s catnip to you. The sound unfurls from his throat with a touch of rasp, but still purer and more resonant than any other voice you can recall.

You’re reminded of what priests say the voice of God sounds like. This is a very weird thing to come to mind when a random guy talks, especially as you aren’t really religious like that. He definitely could get a whole lot of people to do as he wished just by asking, you think. A God needs to have that quality. Or a cult leader.

You swallow down the heat inside that stokes hotter with every moment his bright gaze clings to your face, to the curve of your lips. His structured black coat fits across his proud shoulders well; it looks expensive and he appears to have an awfully good tailor.

You decide to go along with the bit. Bits are fun and talking to this man is exactly the kind of shenanigan you were hoping to stumble across. “That’s a good name. Did you give him that?”

He smiles knowingly. “He named himself.”

That’s funny. It makes sense; ravens are as clever as any person, the Internet says, so someone looking at one of those birds and feeling as though it named itself isn’t totally out of left field.

You hope he elaborates on that, but the stranger doesn’t seem inclined to help you out there. But you don’t want the silence to settle much longer. It might drive him away, and you’d like him to stick around longer. Maybe get his number. “Well, I hope he knows it suits him. Hey. You think you could light this for me? You saw me try it with Matthew, but I don’t think he has enough claws to make it work.” You hold out the lighter with shaky fingers, nervousness fighting desire in your veins.

When he takes it from you, his skin brushes yours. It’s almost electric. “…of course.”

You’ve never felt attracted to someone so fast. The wanting hits you like an avalanche; a dream of his palms on your hips and red marks on your skin from his teeth pours through your mind.

The man cups his other hand over the flame as you lean in, at last lighting your neglected smoke. Your lungs fill with him, not tobacco smoke. His scent, sharp and comforting all at once, makes you just as woozy, just as lightheaded as the nicotine does. “Thank you, I, um, appreciate it. Do you have a name, too?”

“You may call me Dream.”

Your best friend would appreciate his excellent grammar. Clever of him to use ‘might’; if you were a Fae trying to get his real name, he’s answered in exactly the way someone trying to not get fairy abducted should. These are the kinds of tidbits that amuse you, even if you won’t ever use them. So you’ve spent your life hoarding random information like this, just for funsies.

“Your choice of words there is noted, ‘Dream’.” Your smile warms your voice and he steps in a little closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head up a bit to maintain eye contact. Like staring at an eclipse. That’s bad for your eyesight, you tell yourself. But you can’t look away.

His lashes are as black as his thick, undone hair, framing a lidded and darkening gaze.“Were you just leaving?”

Oh fuck yeah. “Um, yeah, not really my scene. Kinda boring, at least for me. It’s a shame; I was hoping to actually make getting out of the house tonight worth it, but. No dice.” You haven’t done this game in quite awhile, but you still remember the rules. A bit of a tease at the end, just to imply that you’re interested. What can you do? He makes you bold, bolder than normal. You want him to want you.

“Pity.” A pause stretches between you and you feel your heart sink into your stomach, your anxiety revving up again. What if he just walks away and leaves you here, embarrassed and in your head for believing someone like you could attract someone like him?

“Do you still wish to make getting out of the house tonight worth it?” Your words sound out of place in his mouth, too modern.

What’s that joke about how some actors in period dramas clearly look like they know what an iPhone is? Dream is apparently the opposite of that. He seems entirely above petty concerns like lamenting the lack of decent hookups.

The discordance has you stifling a giggle.

You dream some more about his hand tangling in your hair and his body covering yours, his knee between your thighs. And the fire, deep in your belly, burns brighter and brighter. “Depends on what we’re doing.”

When Dream smiles, it’s beautiful and uncanny. He looks like a predator, and you’ve stumbled right where he wants you. It’s hot. You’re good with that. “You know what.”

“…yes.”

You can’t really remember how you got back to your apartment - Dream has been far too busy pressing his mouth to yours, devouring the heady, saliva-slick kisses you’re freely offering up, for you to pay attention to something like that.

As soon as you’ve made it inside the front door, he pins you against the wall to wrap an elegant, long-fingered hand in your hair, tipping your face towards him so he can nip at your bottom lip with sharp teeth. “You are… exquisite,” He murmurs against your lips, pupils blown so large that his eyes look like galaxies with an endless black hole in the center, pulling you towards his gravity.

You grow wetter at the sound of the lust roughening up the edges of his polished voice, at the awe in his words. “Please,” you moan as he bites aching marks into the column of your throat that are sure to bruise purple and red tomorrow. You want them to bruise, you want to have something left behind after this hookup ends, proof he was there.

You’re not even sure how to articulate what exactly you’re begging for. That’s beyond what your mind is capable of right now, as his hand fists in your hair and tightens until it’s the perfect amount of slightly painful and you’re gasping, desperate for more. Your hands have twisted into the collar of his coat this whole time and you don’t let go. The feeling of the cloth rounds you and more than anything, you don’t want him to back away.

Dream seems to understand your pleading - he lathes the bruises with his tongue and you would do anything he wanted, as long as he would do that between your thighs. His other hand trails against the swell of your breast, gently caressing them through your thin dress. You arch into his touch, his fingers rolling over your nipple, plucking at it before palming your chest once more.

You’re greedy - you want even more. With a frustrated groan, you shove your dress off about as fast as you’re capable of doing so, getting tangled in the sleeves in your enthusiasm. A whine escapes your chest - seriously?

You’re so horny at this point that any fumbling delay like this might cause a meltdown, especially in front of someone as hot as Dream, but he simply smiles affectionately and untangles you, soothing your ruffled feathers with his calm, steady touch. The dress flutters to the ground in a heap. “Be still,” He admonishes you, before sucking in a sharp breath at the sight of your body bared to him. “Fuck.”

Your underwear is soaked through and it clings to your thighs as you shift, desperately trying to relieve the yearning need inside.

Dream seems transfixed by you, utterly enraptured by your full breasts and the dip of your waist, the soft curves of your hips. Those pretty, blinding eyes almost glow in the dim light of your living room lamp and as his fingers leave your hair to trail down your neck, a line down your clavicle, his touch relishing in the softness of your skin, you’ve never felt more desired.

Then, he meets your round, hungry eyes. “Do you want this?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course,” You pant. He’s moving too slow for you; you yank him towards you again, your mouth vicious as you kiss him. Dream’s still fully clothed, which seems a bit unfair, but there’s something about the intentional vulnerability of standing before him mostly-naked that you secretly enjoy. He has the upper hand at the moment, and you’re actually pretty okay with that.

Impatience and a bratty touch of mischief briefly win out over the urge to please him, to revel in his affections, so you quickly slip away from his grasp and flee towards your bedroom, with Dream hot on your trail.

Before you make it all the way to your bed, still unmade from earlier today, he catches you by your waist, wrapping his hand around your jaw tight enough to leave fingerprints so he can expose the side of your neck to the burn of his lips.

You fully expect him to toss you down on the bed and have his way with you, but Dream lowers you down carefully with one hand cradling the back of your head and his eyes fixed on your face, possession and lust blossoming in his terrifyingly beautiful smile

You need him.

He peels off his clothes quickly. Underneath all those dark, rich fabrics, his lean, muscle-bound torso gleams in the moonlight like a marble statue of some old god. You’ve always loved Ancient Greece and their perfectly-sculpted effigies.

Then Dream is on you again. He sinks to his knees before you and his position doesn’t feel like submission, not when you’ve fully surrendered to him. His mouth trails down your body and his hands can’t stop touching you; you gasp as you writhe in his steady embrace holding you still.

Your underwear gets discarded in some corner of your room - you’ll look for it later, when your hookup leaves.

He hooks one of your legs on his shoulder and buries his head between your thighs. He’s like, really good at eating you out. You’re sort of shocked, because you haven’t had great experiences with this, but his tongue traces your clit and the overwhelming pleasure from Dream’s touch forces a desperate cry out of you.

He chuckles against your pussy, now teasing intentionally as he traces around your clit, around your dripping core, before returning to his task. Dream carefully sinks two fingers inside of you and his groan at how your cunt flutters around his fingers vibrates through you. You’re so full already, the pressure pinching a little, and he’s careful, so careful when he starts to move in and out of you, sucking at your clit to soothe the ache from the stretch.

You’re moaning, and you can’t even breathe, can’t catch your breath; it’s so fucking good, and you feel the beginning of an orgasm coiling inside you already.

Any pain completely dissipates as Dream’s mouth indulges you, tastes you like he wants nothing more than to eat you out for the rest of time. Your body instinctively twitches away, hips trying to escape his touch. The pleasure burns through your body like a wildfire, and the intensity is almost too much, especially when the pads of his fingers find a sensitive spot inside your trembling, hypersensitive cunt. “Fuck, Dream, fuck-“

When he pulls away from you, his mouth is slick with your arousal, and you watch him lick it from his lips. “Did I not say to be still?” He speaks quietly, evenly, a contrast to the needy whines you make at the loss of contact.

But his fingers don’t let up. Dream keeps moving them inside of you, and it’s hard to find the capacity to answer him when he intentionally brushes against that delicate, tender place.

You’d do anything for him to keep going. Anything. “No, you did, I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry.”

He does nothing for a moment; even his fingers pause as you spasm around him. And just when you think he’s going to completely withdraw and punish you for not following his instructions, he absolves you. “Good girl.”

Dream braces his other arm against your hips so you can’t escape how he pleasures you, and even as your body jerks when he enters you again, picking up the pace and fucking you open, you can’t move away. He replaces his tongue on your clit with his thumb, pressing even circles into your sensitive flesh so he can watch your face twisted in ecstasy and the brilliant flush crawling up your tits towards your throat with hungry, star-bright eyes.

Dream needs you undone before him just much as you want him to take you apart.

You’re so wet that it’s obscene, his fingers dripping with you, and the sound your pussy makes with every movement is embarrassingly loud, almost as loud as your moans.

Your impending orgasm sparks back to life as he patiently builds you back up, your thighs trembling and eyes rolling at a particularly forceful thrust. When he fits another finger inside your soaked core, your eyes roll back in your head as you cry out in surprise. It’s too good, the pain and pleasure bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

Fuck, you can feel it, right there, feel it threatening to pull you under like a riptide, and each movement pushes the breath out of your lungs. It takes a minute to realize Dream is matching his thumb teasing your clit with his careful, gentle pushes against that spot inside your pussy. He knows your body so well for someone you’ve never met before, and in his capable, clever hands, you’re so close to coming apart.

He’s still looking at you, completely enraptured by your back arching off the end and your eyes hazy with lust. Dream takes your clit into his mouth once more, tongue flicking against you as he chases your orgasm.

“Thank you, oh my god, I’m gonna come,” You beg helplessly, writhing and squirming against him, your body wound up so tight that it hurts.

“That’s it. Give it to me.”

He commands, and you obey, coming around his fingers with a drawn-out cry. You’re coming, and it eats you alive, the fall flooding through you like lightning. Dream helps you through it, bearing down, so your pussy trembles through your orgasm on his firm, clever hands. You feel yourself gush around him, and he groans at the feeling of it, slowing his fingers pumping in and out of you without stopping altogether, eking out every last bit of your pleasure that he can.

And Dream instinctively knows when you’re done, when you can’t give him any more, so he finally withdraws and licks his fingers clean of your cum.

You can’t totally feel your legs, and you need to finally catch your breath, but you look at him, pleased and benevolent and still desirous of you, and you know you can go another round.

You prop yourself up on shaky arms to meet his filthy, messy kiss; the taste of your salty musk blooms on your tongue, and he wraps his arms around your sweaty, heated body. “Will you fuck me? Please? I want it,” You ask when you break the kiss. You’re a quick study, and Dream seems to like it when you tell him that you want him.

His eyes are almost completely black when he answers you. “Yes.” Dream’s tone is menacing and dark, and fuck, if you don’t drip on your blankets at the promise in his voice.

You like submitting to him, like how he handles your body like it’s his, and before he can push you down, you flip over and sink down on your knees, back arched and face pressed into the bed. “Like this?” You realize you’re asking for permission, which is something maybe you should’ve negotiated beforehand.

But you shouldn’t have worried; he’s very much on the same page. “Yes.”

You wait for him to shift behind you. You can’t see Dream, and the anticipation sends a thrill down your spine. You’re exposed and vulnerable in this position, and he could do anything.

His hands caress your ass, your thighs, your curves, lingering indulgently. It’s as if you’re precious, as if you’re the most holy thing he’s ever touched.

After pressing a single, sweet kiss on the base of your spine, Dream kneels behind you, and you can feel his hips against your ass. He seems intent on soothing the tension out of you, patiently stroking your heated skin until you melt at his touch.

And when you’re soft and pliant, he pushes in.

He’s pretty big, big enough that even after three fingers and an orgasm, you still feel a pinch as he thrusts deeper. You involuntarily make a soft noise of discomfort; you don’t want him to think you’re not enjoying this, to draw away from you. But Dream takes his time, gently opening you up on his dick as you start to relax.

When he finally seats himself inside you, that slight noise of discomfort turns into a deep, contented sigh. You’re so full, your pussy stretched comfortably to its limits, and you go slack against the sheets. Your cum from your last orgasm is soon matched by a new well of arousal from the feeling of his dick in you, heavy and hard and incredible.

And when he starts moving, your pillow muffles your loud moans. He fucks you slowly at first, mindful of how tight you are. It’s so caring, and it works; you enjoy the leisurely build-up much more. Before long, you’re aching for everything else he can give you.

He doesn’t have you entirely out of your mind yet, so you slot your hips back against his to meet his thrusts. And when you clench particularly hard around his cock, Dream also groans. “Alright,” he says with a hint of amusement. “You can have it.”

He fucks you in earnest now, one hand fisted in your hair and holding you down as he moves in you faster and faster, tears forming in your eyes from how ridiculously good it feels. With each push, he takes pieces of your higher functioning abilities with him, so all that’s left is your body responding to his touches, your mind drunk on his dick. Dream is addictive and so completely good at this; he hits just the right angle that torments you with pleasure.

“Holy shit, fuck, that feels-“ you cut yourself off with a long moan as his dick presses against your most sensitive places. But Dream is fed up with the pillow muffling your sounds. He wants to hear them, wants you to scream and moan and cry out as much as you want, and he draws you up off the bed by your hair as he keeps pounding into you.

Your shaky arms barely support you, but you manage.

Dream keeps moving as he hisses into your ear. You can barely focus on what he’s saying, not when he’s stretching you out with each furious push and forcing you closer to your second orgasm of the night. “I need to hear you. You’ll let me hear you,” He promises before biting at your throat, sucking in another mark on your skin where you’ll struggle to conceal it.

“Yes, yes, yes,” You chant. Anything. Anything he wants.

Dream keeps hold of your hair to arch your spine in such a way that every time he enters you, his cock thrusts against that tender bit inside, and your cunt spasms around him.

He wants to hear you. And you let him. Wailing with every brutal thrust, eyes rolling back in your head. God, you don’t want this to end, but you’re not sure you can take much more; he’s already maxed you to your limits with how good Dream can make you feel at once. You can hear his deep grunts as you start fucking yourself back on his dick.

Your clit aches at the lack of contact, and he gently lets you slump against the bed once more so he can slip his hand around your hips and gently play with the sensitive nub.

Your orgasm is back with a vengeance. You edge towards it so quickly that it takes you by surprise, encouraged and beckoned by his fingers moving on your clit in tandem with his cock ruining you. You keep waiting and waiting to go over the edge before realizing that Dream is gatekeeping you from it, cleverly changing up how he fucks you to stave off your orgasm. To torture you. If you were capable of thought, you’d tell Dream he’s being cruel and beg him to let you come.

But you’re cock-drunk and boneless under him, so you take what he gives you with a pained, longing moan. No more pushing back against him, no more pleading. You just lie there and take it, and there’s maybe some saliva dripping out of the corner of your slack mouth. Yikes -  hopefully, he doesn’t notice.

Dream can tell you’ve just about hit your limit. “Can I come inside you, sweet girl? Do you want me to?” You probably should’ve asked him about that before you started throwing down; maybe gotten out a condom or checked to see if he was clean.

But you’re on birth control, and really if he pulls out of you now, you think you might start crying for real. You want him to come inside you, to fill up your twitching cunt until he spills out of your spent body. Like. That’s hot as fuck. Suddenly, you need it as badly as you need to come.

“Yes, fuck, please.”

Dream begins fucking you in earnest again, and his fingers never let up between your legs. “Then I need you to come one more time. Do it for me.”

“I- I can’t-“

It’s just out of reach. Even though his cock feels incredible in you, even though your legs are quivering and tears run down your face from the pleasure he forces through your body, you can’t quite come. It’s driving you insane.

You get to the point where you stop making any noise at all, so twisted up in the sensations rushing through you that you don’t have the strength to do anything else besides tremble around him.

And then Dream tips you right over into it with a single, soft sentence, murmured into your ear. “I know you can.”

You come with a choked sound, blood rushing in your ears as you spill over around his dick. He rides you through it, fucking you through this orgasm that’s brutally wrecking you, that’s washed you clean of anything other than feeling Dream deep inside your quaking pussy.

He pounds into you once, then twice, before coming from the sensation of you fluttering around him. You feel his warmth fill you up inside, slick and silky. His cum spills a bit from your spent core when Dream finally pulls out.

He’s shaking, too, as he draws you into a tender embrace. You curl up into him on your side, body aching after it all. “You’re good at that. Like, really good.”

Dream smiles into your shoulder, where he has started pressing fond butterfly kisses into your sweaty, flushed skin. “And you are very good. You were very, very good for me, my dear.” You like being good for him. You have a praise kink in general, but being good for Dream somehow feels better, more meaningful, more special.

Just when you open your mouth to ask if he has any plans for the rest of the evening, he cuts you off with a voice undercut by regret and longing. “I cannot stay, unfortunately. My apologies; I don’t wish to leave you here so suddenly. But I have… to go.”

Oh.

You swallow down the quick flash of sadness.

You’re always a bit emotional after sex, and you like cuddling, but Dream doesn’t owe you any of that. He’s been nothing but polite and considerate, and you’ve just met him tonight. Even if you want him to stay, there’s no reason he should.

You know that the sadness and accompanying feelings of loss and inadequacy will soon build into something more substantial, messed up, and all-encompassing. And you’d rather not have Dream around when the dam breaks. He doesn’t have to do anything, and you have no right to make demands on his time.

You should get his phone number or something. But your phone is somewhere in the living room where you dropped your purse, and you really don’t feel like getting up.

Already your body is starting to crash now that the endorphins are gone, and you realize just how exhausted you are. A stroke of genius comes to mind. “It’s all good, don’t worry about it. You’ll leave your number for me? On the notepad by the door?”

“I- yes, I‘ll do that.” He looks at you for a long moment as if he wishes he could stay longer. Dream’s genuine remorse softens your heart. He’s a good guy, and it’s unfortunate that your time together had to be so short.

“I’ll see you around then,” You murmur quietly, asleep before you get to see him out.

[shsl-box-worshipper]

A Grave Mistake

Hi, @vexfulfolly! I'm your gifter for @code-swap 2024! I honestly had a lot of fun with making this gift and coming up with ideas. The story I went with was 'What if XANA came back and Jeremie was the last LW after a horrible XANA attack and this is the start of his comeback?' and I ran with it lol.

I decided to go for an art-fic mini combo, starting with the art and building a story based on that and finishing them both simultaneously. Named after a song by Ice Nine Kills (Which is based on the film The Crow (1994)). Hope you enjoy!

Three months.

That's how long it took. Just three terrible months of hell.

It started two years after they were sure XANA was dead. They had all thoroughly moved on from those two years fighting XANA in that time. They all stayed together of course, in one way or another. Odd was still Ulrich's roommate and Kiwi's owner, Yumi and Ulrich were actively dating, William had slowly been accepted back into their friend group to the point where he often shared the big sibling role with Yumi, and Aelita and Jeremie were both the best of their class and smitten lovebirds.

Everything was perfect. Everything was great. They weren't paranoid. They weren't scared for every second they were awake.

Then it happened. It was quite innocuous and almost unnoticeable at first.

Power fluctuations, news about blackouts in areas around former Replikas, phone lines going dead for hours and hours at a time. Two weeks in, multiple regional governments around the globe suddenly shut off all communication with the outside world, shut off access to their areas, and became communication-less zones.

Jeremie jumped at the idea that XANA could be causing all this. But the others calmed him down, reminding him that the multi-agent was dead. Jeremie himself sowed its destruction.

He wished, for once in his pathetic life, he didn't listen to his friends and that he booted up his old laptop. But he didn't, so he did nothing.

Then it began.

Disasters of all sorts struck. Floods, hurricanes, tornados, power plant failures. Infrastructure was failing all across the board and no one could figure out why.

Then they came.

Robots, cyborgs-whatever you want to call them, they stormed into every capital conceivable. Monsters of flesh and metal, attacking what Jeremie could only assume was their former friends and family.

It was at that moment that they all scrambled back to action. But they were unprepared for such a threat.

Odd was first, shot down while they were still at Kadic by the robots while saving Ulrich. He went out as he always did: Smiling and making jokes.

Yumi, Aelita, Ulrich, and himself made it to the factory, but they were hot on their tail. Ulrich stayed behind and tried to hold them off, like he used to. Jeremie knew he didn't make it.

William, meanwhile, stayed behind to keep Kadic safe. Jeremie hoped he was still alive. But even he knew that hope was fleeting.

Jeremie immediately virtualized Yumi and Aelita, but before he could give them instruction, they were onset by a new monster they hadn't seen before.

When Yumi lost all her lifepoints, Jeremie was expecting her to come out of the scanners.

But she didn't. She was nowhere on Lyoko and nowhere in the real world.

Yumi was dead.

Jeremie desperately tried to guide Aelita out of danger and toward the tower, but he lost contact with her.

And whatever Ulrich did to distract the robots failed. One was above him.

Pain filled his entire being as that one robot landed a blow to his gut, causing him to bleed profusely. And he could hear the elevator going down, carrying more of those things. Knowing his time was limited, he did the only thing he could.

He set up a delayed virtualization and crawled his way to the scanners.

That's where he found himself now.

Jeremie knew all for certain that he was the last Lyoko Warrior. The others were either dead or last seen in situations that could only logically conclude with their deaths.

He groaned as he tried to stanch the gaping wound in his abdomen. He nearly swore as his nerves once again screamed at the pain.

So, this was it, huh? Jeremie chuckled at how fate had led to where he was now.

Four years ago, he came to this factory for such an innocuous reason. He was an ignorant 11-year old who simply wanted to win a robotics contest.

He was alone. He was friendless. And he treated technology like his lifeline.

Then he found and turned on the supercomputer, met Aelita, and his whole world was flipped upside down. Friends, love, and a reason to live beyond the technology that was defining his life.

Now, he was back where he was four years ago. Friendless, alone, and with technology acting as his literal lifeline.

01:00:00

It's ironic. The last time he was like that, he was innocent, scared 11-year-old boy. He had done nothing interesting in particular, and was just continuing the status quo he had built for himself.

Writing programs, making robots, hiding from his bullies.

Now he was 15. Nearly 16.

Now he had experienced what he had missed out on. What he never got to taste because of his introvertedness.

And it was amazing. Never before had he had friends who actually cared about him. Never before had he have a reason to keep on living, to keep on fighting.

Never before had he ever fallen in love. Have a girlfriend. KISSED.

He had faced trials and tribulations no child ever should...and he grew from them. He had turned from a cowardly, innocent, lost boy into a wise man, intelligent beyond his years and surrounded by everything he could have ever wanted or needed.

00:30:00

But he had to throw that away. He should've trust his instincts. He should've jumped at the opportunity and stopped it before it got worse.

But he didn't. He trusted his friends too much. He fell victim to his own logic and reasoning.

And now, they were dead.

Everyone Jeremie had ever known or loved...was dead.

*CLANK!*

?

Its the robots, Jeremie realized. They had found the hatch, whether by following his blood trail or using deductive reasoning, and they were coming down now.

00:20:00

At the same time, he could hear the scanner he was in start to whir. It was drawing power, something these things always did. Especially when he was beginning the transferring step of his process.

*CLANK-CLANK!*

They were getting closer now. Jeremie from the distance of the sound that they were climbing the ladder now.

0:10:00

They were down the ladder now. All it would take was one shot and he would be dead. The scanners would not register his brain activity and would virtualize his corpse as a catatonic dummy.

"Heh..."

All it took was one mistake...and his world had ended.

00:09:00

They were scanning the area now, Jeremie deduced. Probably to figure out which scanner he went into.

He purposely chose one that wasn't facing the ladder. Buy himself a few more seconds before they would inevitably find him. Maybe then, he would be safe.

00:08:00

He could hear their metal feet pounding outside the scanner, shaking the entire room and maybe the entire complex.

Knowing he would practically be a sitting duck if he stayed sitting, he tried to push himself up onto his feet.

00:07:00

His body was protesting his every move, his nerves practically begging him to stop. But he needed to stand. He needed to be prepared.

He had to. He made the mistake of not being prepared once.

00:06:00

It took some effort but he was on his feet now, gritting his teeth and trying to keep as quiet as possible.

He could see some of them now. His glasses were in absolute ruins, but he could still see out of one lense.

00:05:00

Metallic feet crushed against the otherwise hard metal of the scanner room, horrific visages of metal and flesh entering his view. He nearly vomitted when he saw his first one only a couple of hours ago. He didn't even know XANA was capable of such inhumane things, but then again, what has this AI not done up to this point?

One in front of him was male, in his 30s, and overweight. Other than that, Jeremie couldn't figure out much about it. Whatever person made up that mechanical monstrosity had their facial features practically rotting off.

00:04:00

The first one didn't spot him, thankfully. It was too busy heading toward the other scanner to realize Jeremie was there.

He left out a sigh of relief as it went. If his calculations were right, the delayed virtualization would be enacted in a few seconds. He just needed just a little more time-

A second nightmare stepped forward, one much more sloppier than the first one. Bits and pieces of it's tech were practically falling out of it.

00:03:00

The second one was smaller than the first one. Looked to be male...and around Jeremie's age.

It set off such uncomfortable feelings in Jeremie's stomach once he realized that. The fact that someone his own age was turned into one of these things...

He couldn't bear the thought.

00:02:00

!

This one was turning around. SHIT!

The sound of crunching motors and gears filled the air as the cyborg monster turned it's head to look into the scanner.

And at that moment, a loud, piercing alarm sound filled the air, the thing's eyes flashing the Eye Of XANA as it's allies gathered around Jeremie's scanner.

00:01:00

...But they didn't do anything. They all stared at him, eye to Eye as he held himself against the scanner.

It was at that moment that Jeremie realized what was going on, and with it, his remaining vestiges of sanity faded.

It was...toying with him. Gloating at its own success.

It had Jeremie surrounded, it was ready to kill him. And it was gloating. Four years of constantly fighting and it came out on top.

But Jeremie didn't break down into tears. He didn't submit himself to defeat.

In fact, he smiled.

Not a cheery one, no no. Not any that would be seen worn on Odd's face.

It was a look of madness. Insanity.

00:00:30

If XANA thought it had won, it was sorely mistaken. As long as Jeremie was still living and breathing, it would never win. As long as there was something against XANA, it would never be assured victory.

00:00:20

He may be bleeding, he may be alone, he may be even throwing himself to his own death...but in actuality, he wasn't alone.

They may not be among the land of the living now, but he could feel them. His friends. His true family and companions.

00:00:10

Odd's smile, Yumi's protection, Ulrich's comradery, William's devotion...

And Aelita's love. The girl who started it all. And who he shall avenge.

00:00:05

As he heard the scanners begin to rev, knowing that the virtualization process he had so carefully set up was about to begin, he stared directly at the enemy. At XANA's eye.

00:00:04

The eye of a monster, created a decade ago by a desperate man fueled by love and revenge.

00:00:03

Now it will be killed by a desperate man. Fueled similarly by love...and revenge.

00:00:02

Knowing the virtualization was imminent and stanching his wound as much as possible, Jeremie said one, last thing...to this monster.

"Buildings burn and people die...but real love is forever. And I'll say this, XANA...you've made a grave mistake letting me live."

XANA didn't have time to react before the doors closed.

Its minions panicked and shot endlessly at the scanner, trying to destroy before the process had finished.

They succeeded in destroying it after 30 seconds of constant firing.

...But when they checked the resulting debris...there were no remains.

Nothing was left of Jeremie Belpois in the real world.

Now they were even.

For both, man and machine, good and cruel...had committed grave mistakes. And paid the ultimate price.

[mrspasser]

8. Partners

After the incident at the printing factory, things slowly return back to normal. As far as possible, anyway...

However, where Gavin took the physical hit, Nines took the emotional hit. He has no idea how to help the android with that, especially because Nines doesn’t say a word about it, no matter how much Gavin pries. There is a case of misconduct filed against his partner, with Internal Affairs investigating the thing. As far as Gavin knows they had one interview with Nines and when Gavin asked how it went, the answer was not even a full sentence: “Fine.” 

Cover made with fanart by @donlemefo​

After a week rest at home, Gavin returns to the job. He’s confined to his desk for now, with his arm still in a sling and under the constant watch of Nines.

“You should turn off your terminal,” the android suggests, no, instructs . He sits at his own desk, his watchful eyes trained on Gavin.

The detective scrunches up his nose. “I’m fine, Tin Can.”

“Do I have to list the signals that tell me you’re not?” Nines turns his chair a little so he can give Gavin his full attention. Or so he can easily get up to turn off Gavin’s terminal for himself.

The detective pushes the little button that switches the terminal’s screen off and rummages through his desk drawer in search of the bottle of painkillers. Nines being right - Gavin has a headache from looking at the screen for more than half an hour - doesn’t mean he has to acknowledge it verbally.

He gets up from his chair and walks off in search of something to occupy himself with during his mandatory ‘screen break’. He’s not really supposed to be back at work already, yet a week of sick leave had him crawling up the walls of his home. Fowler let him back into the bullpen, on the condition that his android partner would monitor his health closely. As if Nines needs an order from the captain to do that.

Gavin finds Tina on the other side of the bullpen and sits down on her desk without asking.

“I was working on those, asshole,” she grumbles, pulling at the corner of a manilla folder he is sitting on. “Now those reports have your ass print all over them!”

“Makes them more interesting to read,” Gavin smirks, though he does lift his lower half to allow Tina to pull the folder from underneath him.

“Mandatory break again?”

Gavin nods. “You up for a coffee break?”

She smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry, Gavin, I can’t. I took a break with you an hour ago already.”

“An hour and a half,” he corrects her. “Come on, Teens, I’m bored!”

“Some of us have work to do, you know,” she chides him lightly, pricking her finger in his thigh. “Go find something to do without computer screens or something.”

“Like what? Assort the coffee cups in the break room by size and colour? There is nothing to do here that doesn’t involve a screen.” He had already sorted through evidence, picked up some old case folders from the archive for who ever needed them and he was sick of the odd looks he got when he brought his co-workers a round of coffee. Okay, he never ever brought them coffee before, but he was bored. B. O. R. E. D. And whenever he looked at a computer screen for more than half an hour at a time he got a headache, thanks to his - slowly healing - concussion. So he had to find something else to do.

“I think Connor already did the coffee cup thing,” Tina answers with a chuckle. “I don’t know, Gav, alright? Maybe you should take off for the rest of the day? I know it sucks being at home and not being able to work, but it’s not like you are getting a lot done here either.”

“Excuse me? I’m making myself useful!” Actually, Gavin doubts his own words. His partner is picking up his slack, unintentionally showing him that an android could take over his job. It sets Gavin on edge, dredges up some old feelings.

“You know what? Fuck this. I’m going for a smoke.”

This whole ordeal has him smoking more than usual. A while after they started working together, Nines took it upon himself to make the detective quit smoking. Gavin put up a fight at first, yet the android was nothing if not persistent. He tried different methods, from telling Gavin off, to hiding his smokes, and eventually settled on the method of distraction. It took Gavin a while before he was on to that, he actually thought RK900 finally gave up on trying to make him quit at first. In the end, the one that gave up was him; it was not like he quit smoking all together, he just smoked a lot less on most days. Besides, if he wanted to keep up with the android in the field, he needed his lungs fully functional.

Nines finds him outside, two or three drags in. “Detective, are you coming? We’ve got a case.”

Gavin rolls his eyes and shakes his arm in the mitella. “Desk job, remember?” He had to stay behind earlier this week too, not being allowed to crime scenes in his current state.

“I know. That’s why I told the captain I would drop you off at home.”

It isn’t until they are in the automated car that Gavin notices that they are going towards the wrong part of the city. “Nines? Are you sure you put in the right address?”

The slow yellow cycle of his LED stops for a moment, Nines looking up from reviewing the case file or whatever it was he did inside his computer mind. “I am.”

“I thought you said you would drop me off?”

“I did. And I will.”

Gavin smirks. “But you’re taking me to the crime scene first.” He bumps Nines in the shoulder. “You lied to the captain!”

The android raises his eyebrow minutely. “I did no such thing. I told him I would visit the crime scene and that I would drop you off at home. I merely omitted mentioning in which order.”

Of course Nines doesn’t let Gavin out of his sight at the crime scene and he finds himself trailing behind the android in some sort of reversed early Anderson - Connor situation. But it is good to be out, to do something constructive in the field instead of reviewing evidence of cold cases until his head aches.

***

A couple of weeks go by like this. Whenever possible, Nines takes Gavin with him to crime scenes. Most of their cases involve homicides, with little to no danger of the killer still around to fire his gun at them. The detective can do his job there with minimal risks, injured or not. Gavin suspects Fowler knows what they’re doing, yet he’s allowing it thus far.

His headaches slowly go down, flickering screens are bothering him less and less. His shoulder is also on the mend; he still carries the sling with him, though he only uses it when he feels his arm get tired. He is close to being cleared for active duty again.

The FBI took over their case when it turned out the criminals they apprehended were part of a national organisation. He doesn’t particularly mourn about that, it was a shit case to begin with. Being fit again means that he can almost leave the unfortunate incident at the printing factory behind him. Apart from a couple of dreams in which he was falling - one time with Nines bursting into his bedroom because he yelled hard enough to rouse the android from his stasis in the other room - Gavin only has some physical trauma from that day. And that heals over time.

However, where Gavin took the physical hit, Nines took the emotional hit. He has no idea how to help the android with that, especially because Nines doesn’t say a word about it, no matter how much Gavin pries. There is a case of misconduct filed against his partner, with Internal Affairs investigating the thing. As far as Gavin knows they had one interview with Nines and when Gavin asked how it went, the answer was not even a full sentence: “Fine.” The thing is, his partner is anything but fine, even though Nines goes through the motions of the day like he always does. Everything looks fine, but it isn’t. It’s just a hunch, Gavin has no hard evidence. Nines is not talking about it, Connor also keeps his mouth shut, and Captain Fowler just sighs and says the IA cases are classified, even to him.

So he takes a page from his partner’s book and talks to Nines about anything but the case. Distraction works, right? An old recipe book Gavin got from his mom turns out to be a great distraction. It’s actually his grandma’s, with handwritten recipes that have the android almost vibrating out of his skin when he has the book in hand for the first time. Gavin worries for a second that the sheer amount of joy will break his partner.

Leaving the book out on the kitchen counter for Nines to find when he comes to visit Tiny turns out to be a good idea; Nines insists on trying every recipe in the book at least once. Gavin is not the only one to benefit from it; Tina gets invited for dinner every now and then and their other co-workers at the precinct also enjoy the fruits of Nines’ cooking and baking. Captain Fowler is even seen smuggling a second helping of the Triple Chocolate Buttermilk Bundt Cake to his office.

***

It happens when Gavin comes back from the doctor’s office with a clean bill of health. He wants to tell his partner that he is now legally allowed at crime scenes again, yet the android is nowhere to be found. So Gavin drops by Tina’s desk to tell her the good news, gets himself some coffee and turns on his terminal to check for messages. He has some standard emails and an alert for a shiny new case. The alert is an hour old, so it is safe to assume Nines has already seen it. He is probably already working on it. Somewhere.

< Gavin > Hey Tin Can. Where did you run off to?

Half an hour later the detective has reviewed the minimal information on the new case, yet there is still no response from his partner. That is odd.  

He looks around the bullpen for a sign of his partner. The tall android is nowhere to be seen. And now that he thinks about it, his brother is also absent and so is the lieutenant.

“Where the fuck did everybody go?” Gavin mutters to himself as he stands up from his chair. He really needs to go to the crime scene, the forensic crew is already present and if he wants to get a clear look he has to hurry up.

He sends Nines another message, with the address of the crime scene attached.

< Gavin > See you there.

Only he doesn’t see Nines there. Gavin is the only detective present at the crime scene, a marital dispute gone terribly wrong. The case itself is pretty straight forward, the evidence speaks for itself. The husband, the supposed killer, is absent, though Gavin is pretty sure his uniformed colleagues will find the man at one of the bars he is known to attend on an almost daily basis. He is not worried about this case. His partner who doesn’t respond to a multitude of messages, now, that’s another matter.

Back at the bullpen he sees Anderson sitting at his desk, working in concentration. Gavin books it across the room, almost skidding to a stop at the lieutenant’s desk. “Where is he?”

The older man doesn’t look up from his terminal. “Define he .”

“The Muffin Man, who else?!” Gavin impatiently drums his fingers on his crossed arms.

“He lives on Drury Lane, last time I checked.” Anderson finally looks up. “What do you want, Reed?”

The urge to pour coffee down Anderson’s horrendously loud shirt is hard to ignore, but Gavin manages. Barely. “Where is my partner?”

“How should I know? He is your partner,” the lieutenant taunts, before shrugging his shoulders and answering like a normal person. “He’s in DC, didn’t he tell you?”

“Excuse me?”

Anderson groans and rubs a hand across his beard, though his irritation seems to have little to do with the detective, for once. He mumbles something that sounds like ‘damned androids and their stunted emotions’, before he explains to Gavin that both Nines and Connor are in Washington DC for a hearing by Internal Affairs. “It’s the first time something like this happens to an android police officer, you know. Jericho stepped in too, it’s turning into a whole political mess.”

“Why the fuck do you know this and I don’t!?!” Gavin is ready to blow up and it is only because there is a sudden message from Connor on the lieutenant’s phone that he doesn’t haul the old geezer across the desk. He grabs the phone instead, looking at the message before it disappears.

< Connor > We’ve arrived in DC. Flight went well. Hearing is in two hours, so we’ll have time to check in at our hotel first.

Gavin tosses the phone back on the desk and grabs his own, quickly scrolling through his contacts until he’s at the P of ‘Plastic Prick’. He leaves an irritated lieutenant behind, making his way to the back door in big strides. He needs a smoke.

Connor picks up on the first ring, Gavin has not even crossed the bullpen fully. “Detective Reed, what can I do for you?”

“What the fuck are you doing in Washington? Is Nines with you?”

The silence is a second too long. “I think it’s best if you talk about this with Nines.”

“I would if he responded to my messages!”

“He says he’ll call you right away, detective.” Connor is calm, the exact opposite of Gavin.

The call gets disconnected and a moment later his phone rings, the display showing Nines’ name. Gavin angrily jabs at the green connect button. “What the fuck, Tin Can?! When did you plan on telling me?!”

“I’m sorry, detective. The hearing got rescheduled to an earlier date and I had to make arrangements at a very short notice.” The android sounds even more formal than usual, making him sound distant on top of the actual distance.

Gavin pauses with his hand on the door handle, two steps away from his usual smoking spot by the back door of the station. He clenches the phone by his ear, letting his head hang to take a deep breath. He is dangerously close to losing it and starting a full out screaming war, yet he knows that will not get him answers.

He takes another breath, and another. He is a little calmer when he pushes the door open and steps outside, automatically taking position with his back to the brick wall, his head leaned back. He starts talking with his eyes closed, asking the android why he didn’t tell him that the IA investigation was so much bigger than just a formality.

It’s not the first time he hears the android falter in his speech and he hates it all the more for what it means. “I… I don’t know, detective.”

“Bullshit. You do know.” Fucking hell, this is not a conversation he wants to have over the phone. “We’re partners, Nines. You’re supposed to tell me shit.”

The following silence tells him the android knows that too. Gavin sighs and rubs a hand across his face. “So what if you were a little rough with a suspect? I have the disciplinary record to back up the fact that it happens to everyone.”

“Not everybody shares your bad temper, detective,” Nines answers softly, not exactly disagreeing with him.

“Whatever, I’m just saying, we all make mistakes.”

“Androids don’t.”

And well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Nines broke the First Law of Robotics, he harmed someone. Granted, it was an android, but they are people now too. Gavin sighs again, he really should’ve paid more attention. He should have made Nines talk about it, not let him shoulder this alone.

“Are you okay? Is there something I can do?”

“I’m alright, detective. Thank you.” Nines doesn’t really sound alright and fuck if that doesn’t pull at Gavin’s heartstrings. However, he is here and the android is all the way over in the nation’s capital.

“Good thing Connor’s with you,” Gavin answers, trying to sound upbeat. “But, really, Nines, can I help?” I want to , I really want to. I’m the one that got you into this mess. If I hadn’t fucked up and got myself tossed over that railing, you wouldn’t have hurt that android.

“You could water my plant.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You could water my plant,” Nines repeats casually. “It has to be watered once a week and today is the day I usually do that. I just didn’t get to do it because…”

Because he had more important things on his mind.

“Sure,” Gavin agrees. “I can do that.” It’s not exactly the kind of help he has in mind - although he doesn’t know what kind of help he actually has in mind - but if he can help his partner by watering his plant, that’s what he’ll do.

“Great. I’ll send the security code to your phone. The watering can is in the kitchen, second cupboard to your ri -”

“I’ll find it,” Gavin interrupts him. Talking about such mundane things doesn’t seem quite right at the moment; although a deep, heartfelt conversation also isn’t on the spectrum. Not by phone. He clenches his jaw. “Good luck at the hearing. Let me know how it went, okay?”

Gavin can envision the small nod that accompanies Nines’ words. “I will. Thank you, Gavin.”

Fuck .

***

The detective goes by Nines’ apartment after work. He’s never been inside the building, he has only dropped his partner off in front of the main entrance. It’s as fancy and sleek on the inside as it is on the outside. Most of the occupants are androids, which explains all the fancy electronics and the lack of buttons. It takes Gavin a while before he knows how to make the elevator go up to the seventh floor; it turns out the glass wall of the thing is one giant touch screen, only activating when touched.

The apartment has a similar device - only much smaller - next to the door: a keypad that Gavin has to use to get in. He types in the code Nines sent him and the door unlocks with an audible click.

The hallway is white and empty, save for a row of coat hooks on the wall and a shoe rack underneath it. Nines’ white Cyberlife jacket with the high collar is on a hook, and there is one pair of neatly polished shoes on the rack. There are three doors in the hallway: two to the right and one at the end. Bathroom, bedroom and living room, probably.

Gavin instinctively goes for the farthest door and steps into a large, L-shaped space that has to be the living room and the kitchen. The kitchen, around the corner from where he is standing, is easily recognisable. It’s more of a kitchenette, because androids don’t need a lot when it comes to a kitchen. It’s separated from the living room by a bar counter, two high stools in front of it. A grey and white kitchen, black leather and chrome stools, nothing unusual there. The thing that has Gavin stopping in his tracks is the living room.

How long is Nines living here by now? Two, maybe even three months? Long enough to leave some impression on the home, you’d think. Yet the room is bare. White walls, light grey floor, floor to ceiling windows on one side, with dark grey curtains hanging down to the floor. The apartment has a decent view of the city and that is also the only thing to look at in the room. The walls are void of pictures or paintings, there isn’t even a tv in the room. The only furniture is a black, leather sofa and a coffee table made from glass and chrome.

The sofa is angled towards the windows, the only source of entertainment in the room. Sure, Nines is a walking and talking supercomputer, if he wants to watch a show he can do that in his own head. Still, when he is at Gavin’s place, he watches tv just like any human. And he knows the android also goes through Anderson’s record collection every now and then with Connor. So, what does he do when he’s at home by himself? Watch the lights of the city all night? Or would he stare at his plant?

The reason for Gavin’s visit is in the corner by the window. It’s a pretty large plant, with big, green leaves that stretch out into the space. On closer inspection it is clear that the plant is well cared for, there are no brown spots on the leaves, they are not even a bit dusty.

Gavin turns back to find the watering can in the kitchen, opening up all the cupboards in his search. Most of ‘m are empty. The one under the sink holds cleaning supplies, there’s one with a basic set of dinnerware, like those starter sets you can buy at IKEA. There’s also some glasses and a lone drawer holds cutlery and things like a pair of scissors and a can opener.

Gavin fills the watering can with a heavy feeling in his stomach. Not needing any food or drink explains the empty kitchen, though it is no excuse for the rest of the house. “How can he live like this?” he asks himself out loud, almost expecting an echo in the empty room.

When the plant is watered, Gavin looks around the place. Maybe there are more plants somewhere? He has one in his bedroom, maybe Nines has one too. It’s a good excuse to check out the other rooms of the apartment, like there is someone here to judge him for that.

The first door in the hallway leads to a bathroom. It’s decently sized, with a shower, a sink, a toilet and a stacked washer and dryer. Above the toilet there are a couple of shelves with neatly folded towels (all starch white) and some toiletries. There’s even a roll of toilet paper, probably for when Nines has a human over. Gavin doubts that has ever been the case before tonight.

The other door leads to a dressing room. There’s a linen closet in dark, almost black wood, with a full size mirror on one of the doors. In front of it is a large ottoman, and… well, that’s it. The dressing room is as bare as the living room.

Gavin moves back to the hallway and stops to count the doors. One for the bathroom, one for the dressing room and one for the living room. Where’s the bedroom? This is not such a large apartment, it has to be here somewhere. He checks the rooms one more time, looking for a door he might have missed the first time, but it isn’t there. There is no bedroom, or rather, Gavin thinks when he stares into the dressing room, there is no bed.

***

Gavin has just finished his dinner and is doing the dishes, when he hears the front door unlock. He knows it’s Nines, his partner told him what time he would arrive when Gavin asked him to stop by after he got back from Washington.

The android appears around the corner of the kitchen with an arm full of white fur. Tiny really isn’t tiny anymore, she now fills up most of the space in Nines’ arms.

“Good evening, Gavin,” Nines says, before giving the cat one last pet and putting her down on the floor.

“Hey Tin Can.” Gavin doesn’t protest when the android grabs a kitchen towel and starts drying the dishes. Pick your battles, that kind of thing. “How was DC?”

“Intense,” is the short answer. And it’s all the android says, even when Gavin leaves a silence, an opening for Nines to fill with words.

“Come on, partner,” he says, putting another plate in the dishrack. “You gotta give me some more to work with here.”

“You are right,” Nines answers solemnly. Gavin can’t see his LED, but he bets it’s spinning yellow, or even red. “I am sorry I’ve kept information from you.”

The detective hums in agreement. “You can make up for it by telling me about it now.”

And Nines does. It’s like the first words break a dam and everything pours out. Gavin wishes he had more dishes to wash, though Nines keeps talking even though the last dishes are dried. The detective listens quietly, watching Nines put away the plates and cutlery and making him a cup of coffee.

He explains how, even though his actions normally would have simply earned him a mark in his disciplinary record, he is being used to set an example. There is no precedence, no records of androids harming others while on the job. The only cases known were those of androids who turned against their abusive owners, mainly during the first stages of deviancy. None of that applies to his case. And because Nines is a cop, who carries a gun issued by the state, he is under great scrutiny.

“Will you lose your job over it?” Gavin asks, sipping from his cup of coffee. He sounds casual, but that is a front. A poorly executed front, if the knowing glance he gets from Nines is any indication.

The android shakes his head. “Jericho appointed me an attorney, she told me my job is safe. Although I will be suspended for a while. There will be a press statement tomorrow morning, she expects there will be a media circus for the next couple of days.”

“Fuck,” Gavin mutters. There is a knot in his stomach and his coffee suddenly tastes like crap.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Gavin,” Nines says and that has Gavin’s head spinning on his shoulders.

“What? Why would -, why do you think -, no!” He shakes his head, trying to get his words straight. “I’m not disappointed, Nines. This is not your fault. As far as I’m concerned, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

They stare at each other for a minute, a minute that has time slowing down and Gavin’s heart speeding up. When did Nines get this close? Or is Gavin the one who came standing so close to his android partner? He quickly backtracks, breaking the moment - whatever fucking kind of moment that was. His cheeks feel a bit heated, something he tries to cover up by talking over it. “Except for the part where you kept me in the dark about what was going on. That was a dick move, Tin Can!”

The movement is minimal, yet the corners of Nines’ lips curl up a little. “My apologies, partner.”

“Apologies accepted,” Gavin huffs, pushing past Nines towards the living room. He takes his usual seat on the couch, knowing Nines will join him without asking. He puts on an old cop show, in dire need of some normalcy after their talk in the kitchen.

It’s hard to keep his mind on the show, although he automatically puts on a new episode after the first one is done. Tiny is in Nines’ lap, like she always is ever since she first came to live with him. Sid is in the chair, on his personal pillow. Everything is like it always is and Gavin realises that, this, with the cats and Nines near, is what his life looks like nowadays. His work partner has become a solid part of his private life.

Gavin peeks at Nines from the corner of his eyes. The android is settled in a corner of the couch, one arm stretched out along the back and the other resting in his lap, slowly scratching Tiny behind the ears. He looks at ease, at home even. It solidifies the notion that the empty, white apartment is not a home for the android; no one can convince Gavin that his partner is that much of a minimalist.

The episode is done, the next one is only the click of a thumbnail away. Yet Nines carefully lifts Tiny from his lap and gets up from the couch. “It is late, I should leave,” he says.

“Why?” Gavin winches when the question comes out anything but casual or even plain curious. He sounds needy, whiny.

The android looks down on him from his standing position. “Because we have work in the morning,” he answers matter of factly. “And I have laundry to do.” He gestures towards the black overnight bag in the corner of the room, he came here straight from the airport.

“You can do that here too,” Gavin says, swallowing against the lump in his throat. The idea of Nines alone in that empty apartment doesn’t sit well with him. Like, not well at all.

He gets up and takes his empty glass to the kitchen, just to have something to do so he doesn’t have to look at his partner. He kicks his foot against the door of the built in closet that houses his washer and dryer. “Just put it in, it wouldn’t be the first time, right?”

“You are referring to the Tarte Tatin incident,” the android says, his head slightly cocked to the side as he watches Gavin.

It was the first time Nines made a cake from the recipe book and he had not yet picked up the habit of wearing an apron. He wore Gavin’s largest hoodie while waiting for the washing machine to be done with his spattered black turtleneck.

“That event is not related to our current situation, there is no direct need for me to use your household appliances.”

Gavin curses under his breath. Nines can be such an… android sometimes. He inhales sharply and blurts out his question before he chickens out. “Why don’t you have a bed in your house?”

His partner is taken aback by his question, his LED circling yellow for a moment before it returns to a steady blue. “Have you been snooping around in my apartment?”

“I’m a detective, it’s what I do.” He folds his arms in front of his chest defensively.

“Then you know I am an android. We don’t require sleep like a human does.” Nines is looking at him curiously, like he doesn’t understand why Gavin is asking him about this. “I do not have to lie down to go into stasis,” he adds, although it is unnecessary.

“Have you ever?” Gavin asks quickly. “Slept in a bed, I mean. Or stasis, whatever.” He moves his hand jerkily over his arm and across the back of his neck, nervous about the situation, although he doesn’t really understand why. “You know? Like people do?”

He expects Nines to run the differences between androids and humans by him, he doesn’t expect the quiet ‘no’ that is offered instead.

“No? You have never been in a bed?” Gavin’s eyes go wide. “How the fuck have you been spending your nights?”

It’s a mostly redundant question, because Gavin knows at least part of the answer. Whenever he stays over at his house, the android stays on his couch. It is a solid guess that he does the same thing in his own apartment; the black, leather couch is the only piece of furniture that could be used as something akin to a bed.

“Gavin?” Nines is looking at him with a hint of worry. “Why are you getting worked up over this?” The android is probably scanning him and finding his vitals flying all over the place.

“Because…”

Because I hate the thought of you standing in a corner of your clinical apartment. Because you got into trouble because you went after my attacker. Because I don’t want you to feel alone.

“Because you’re my partner.”

Gavin musters up some courage and puts on an air of nonchalance, nudging Nines roughly with his elbow as he walks past him towards the bedroom. “Come on, Tin Can. I’m offering you the possibility of sleeping in a bed. Who knows, you might even like it!”

And that is how the android ends up in Gavin’s bed, lying on his back, with his hands folded neatly on his stomach. After the first hurdle was taken, Gavin wasn’t embarrassed anymore to make their sleeping arrangements as pleasant as possible for Nines. It took some convincing, but in the end the android dresses down to his black boxer briefs and a white undershirt. He also has a pillow and he is underneath the blankets, even though he keeps insisting androids don’t get cold.

“Shut up, Tin Can. That’s how normal people sleep.”

Gavin’s bed is big enough for the both of them to lay down without having to touch each other. However, if Gavin wakes up the next morning with his back nestled against Nines’ shoulder, well, that is only because the extra weight of the android’s chassis makes the mattress dip towards him.

<< 8/10 >>

Right?

DBH Partners series masterpost

[tennessoui]

sorry if this is a dumb question but for ur Kofi do these fics stay forever or do they get like refreshed like a story and is removed after a few weeks? sorry idk how this works 😭😅

no worries at all and not a dumb question!!! everything i put up there should be accessible forever while a person is a monthly supporter - any active subscriptions can access the gallery posts and view the descriptions of those posts where the links to the documents are. i have not and do not plan to take them down or rotate them out.

and honestly, like. if you want. become a monthly supporter and then cancel the subscription and you'll have a full month before you lose access to all the posts. and then while you have access, like. bookmark the links on your browser. you'll lose access to the post where the links are, but you won't literally lose access to the link itself if you save it, so do that and then if you ever want to read the fics in the future you can do it

[cmyksky]

soulless creatures

Summary:

Today, emptiness, and a child in the mist. And yet, Daleth cannot bring themself to look away until the vision departs on its own. They suppose that has always been their weakness.

Isle Elder oneshot. Rated G. 925 words.

Read on AO3 here!

The brilliant flare of Eden feels eons apart from the Isle of Dawn’s shores.

It is a simple truth, but a bitter one nonetheless. There is beauty in being a place of beginnings, Daleth tells themself, despite the erosion of their stone mask. Despite the quiet murmurs of departing souls growing further away, and despite that untouchable, ever-looming peak.

To think their kingdom’s prosperity would bring such profound sorrow.

Each time the ocean fog rolls in, Daleth sees the ghost of curious eyes amidst dawn. Young and ambitious, almost profound in their childlike nature. The pair of eyes blinks inquisitively, and the Dawn Elder gazes back. A shiver from the sea breeze—

—and they’re gone, just like that.

Daleth doesn’t dare sleep unless necessary, but their dreams seem to catch up with them in the waking hours regardless. Yesterday, visions of the now-departed prophets gathered in celebration of their new ruler, boats and mantas alike dotting the sky’s tapestry. Days of festivities, adept hands carrying and weaving light, divine shades of orange, white, and gold bathing the masses.

Today, emptiness, and a child in the mist. And yet, Daleth cannot bring themself to look away until the vision departs on its own. They suppose that has always been their weakness.

Long gone are the days where Lamed would spend hours in Isle’s temple to discuss magical teachings and the kingdom’s history. Teth and Tsadi no longer linger in the doorway, poised in that way where they wish to say more but bite their tongues. Daleth is lucky if they hear anything of Samekh at all; Ayin, always a generous neighbor, shares what they hear of their fellow Elders, but there’s always a touch of something that leaks into their expression when it comes to the twins. Pity, perhaps. For Samekh or Daleth, one cannot quite tell. Daleth is not sure they want to think about being the object of pity of the gentlest Elder.

Of course. Daleth thinks the Elders have made it rather clear whose allegiance takes priority, and thus, the injury is laid bare. Sore, wound, ache, crack. No matter which name, the pain always lingers. Wind stirs the seas all the same, chilling Daleth to the core with its whispers of storm. A promise of destruction brought about by none other than the prince they once took under their noble wing.

Still, the days pass with little care for such sentiments. Newcomers arrive on the Isle’s shores periodically, albeit more sparsely than in the past. They always speak with a barely-contained anticipation for realms ahead, singing words of praise for the Elders and the kingdom. Daleth has heard it all one too many times. A wish for a quiet, relaxed life among the rippling Prairie grasslands. Words of contemplation among scholars and magic-wielders of the Vault’s vast halls. Hopes for prosperity amongst the Valley’s bustling roads.

And indeed, they treat the Isle with no small amount of wonder. Daleth has stood at the temple doors and gazed far below at the rising boats, newcomers’ faces morphed in quiet awe as dawn breaks over the clouds, streams of birds beckoning them onward. Reverence spills from their mouths as they seek blessings, recounting the telltale swathes of flame-colored tents and emerald grasses with excitement. A new beginning. A new life.

Daleth cannot even bring themself to loathe such sentiments. Not after this many centuries of living. There is only the quiet voice in their soul, wondering if the newcomers will ever know that this realm was once greener, warmer, softer, that the sand once did not pull so far inland.

Perhaps the birds will be the only life left in this place one day. The Isle Elder has always shepherded people and light creatures alike over the centuries, first and foremost. They do not dare to crowd the grass with anything more than travelers’ tents and simple stone structures. Above all, the temple’s bell will continue to ring, and the birds will heed its call.

No, Daleth does not yearn for the looming spires of Eden nor the gilded gates of Valley. At the very least, they know Alef will respect this request in the end, if nothing else. Daleth has spent far too many days searching the prince—or rather, king’s face for even a sliver of sentimentality. And too many times, the king has risen from their seat, discomfort and frustration radiating from their posture, quietly asking Daleth to leave.

“Is this the sort of king you wish to be, Alef?”

Alef’s eyes are carefully blank. “I am the king the people need. And I am certainly not someone who will be forgotten.”

Daleth suppresses a flinch.

“I promised this kingdom a life in the stars. We are not simple creatures like the jellyfish dwelling in our caves or the mantas in our skies. We have built these beautiful temples that touch the clouds, not I alone. We are a people, and I will do what is necessary to keep my word. And you, Daleth… I fear you have not done the same.”

And cold stone slams shut in Daleth’s face.

They breathe.

Standing at the foot of their temple, the beating of white wings and echoing birdsong bring Daleth back to the present. There has always been a different promise sealed within Daleth’s heart, a promise only spoken in whispers to creatures, stars, and waves, to the Light herself. One predating the King’s arrival.

A bird lands on Daleth’s staff, and just for a moment, it burns brighter than the sun.

[shiniestcrow]

I bought a used kindle paperwhite and spent all day crocheting a little bag for it

[nectarine-neuroticism]

none of my other irl friends have my tumblr, but my roomie does and i have his. i can even see his gore side blog if i wanted to lmao. and i think that is a testament to our friendship.