#i keep this thing is pristine condition all this time and he goes and messes it up in a couple of weeks | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inoankin · 2 years ago

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Old Style, New Hands (scrapped)

finally. here it is. this dinosaur of a WIP, finally out in the world.

fair warning, i started writing this in DECEMBER and stopped a few chapters into DCSH, and i was still figuring out what worked and didn’t when writing. so it’s not the best writing, but i also had a lot more time to develop this thing, so it kind of balances out into pretty ok.

i changed nothing from the original, even the shitty title (sorry), despite every bone in my body telling me to fix the dozens of mistakes.

and yeah i’m about as pissed as you are that i stopped writing RIGHT when it was getting good. but i’ve lost all my steam for this, so there’s nothing i can do. sorry. anyways enjoy.

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There’s a ringing in Vincent’s ears, for just a moment. It’s quickly drowned out by the faint drone of the engine and a quiet commentary from the radio.

He feels his forehead against the glass of the car door window he’s found himself slumped against. He goes to remove it, but is stopped by a sharp pain in his neck, letting out a small groan. He hates sleeping in cars.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Vince,” Someone says off to his left, and it takes him a few seconds to register that it’s Leo saying it. Despite his body’s many protests, he shifts and sits up, a hand coming up to rub at the crick in his neck.

His eyes slowly blink open to a curtain of brown, and he brushes aside his bangs with his other hand, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“God, how long was I out?” He mutters, voice hoarse from sleep. He squints at the watch on his wrist. The tired blur of his still adjusting eyes combined with the low light make it impossible to read.

It’s night, he realizes. Glancing out the windshield, Vincent sees the yellow of the deadbeat headlights flicker every now and then, the only source of light for miles. The moon is shaded by clouds, though there’s still a faint spotlight on the grey sky that reveals it.

They’ve lost track of how long they’ve been on the road. At least, Vincent has. He gave up the driver’s seat after he momentarily fell asleep at the wheel, and Leo screamed so loud that they almost crashed.

“Three or four hours, I think. I was gonna stop to get some gas soon,”

His hair falls into his eyes when he finally peers to the driver’s seat. Leo’s focus is on the road, but he catches Vincent’s gaze for a moment and smiles softly.

There’s something unconditionally trusting, caring in his smile. Something so unguarded and vulnerable, that two weeks ago would never be there. He doesn’t know what he does to deserve it, but he allows himself to marvel.

He brings his hand up to sweep his hair away again, or maybe just to hide his face. He isn’t sure he’s lucid enough to school his expression to something more professional.

Vincent scratches absentmindedly at his, frankly, rather itchy goatee. He had it done professionally the day before he got shipped off to prison, and he hadn’t been able to replicate the immaculate work of the barber. He’s starting to wish he had just stuck with the moustache.

Leo, on the other hand, had no problem keeping his hair pristine, despite the harsh conditions of the penitentiary. Where he got the product, he’ll never know. His hair is also getting longer, though. Only an inch or so from his collar.

He sort of likes Leo with longer hair. There’s no gel on the road, and his signature pompadour has started to curl the longer it gets. He, for not the first time today, battles the urge to run his hands through it. To drag him down and kiss him, kiss him until he’s a breathless, desperate mess, kiss him until he’s forgotten his own name.

“You alright over there, mister dark and brooding?” The warmth in Leo’s voice cracks through Vincent’s thoughts, and Leo’s looking at him with that damn smile again. He keeps his eyes on the road, hoping that alone is enough to keep the younger man from seeing the heat on his face.

“Yeah, sorry. Just, uh, thinking,” He says, not even really believing himself when he says it.

“Uh-huh, right,” Leo says, perking up at something in the near distance. Following his gaze, he sees a small town, probably not much bigger than a few acres. How they found one in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, he’ll never know.

“Care to share?”

He shrugs, trying not to linger on every lazy syllable that slips past Leo’s lips, “I just think I need a haircut,”

Leo glances at him, seemingly surprised, “Oh, yeah? Shit, man, you shoulda said somethin’. I mean, I’m not as good as Linda, but I can fix it up in, maybe forty, fifty minutes,” He says, preparing to roll into a gas station without flicking on his turn signal.

Vincent blinks. He didn’t know Leo could cut hair. He didn’t know Linda could cut hair, either.

“Uh, no, that’s fine. Just complaining. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept,”

That earns him a light punch to the arm and a chuckle, “No, I’m serious. Go get some scissors and clippers from the pharmacy over there,” Leo leans over and points past the fuel pumps to a CVS sitting about 100 feet away, “We’ll find a motel, and I’ll make you look good for a change,”

Ignoring the tease, he shakes his head. “Really, I’m good, Leo,”

He huffs, “Fine. At least go in and get me some food or somethin’, then. I’m starving,”

Vincent walks into the pharmacy with only one goal in mind. Food. Because, if he’s being honest, he’s also starving.

He’s got $2.23 in his pocket, and as he skims the limited food selection, he regrets not asking Leo for some money. The most he’ll be able to get is some water and a small tin of peanuts.

He grabs them, and he’s about to go check out, until he catches sight of a pair of hairdressing shears. And clippers. An image of Leo standing over him, buzzing off his hard-earned goatee flashes in his mind. Hard pass.

He walks back to the car with a tin of peanuts and some shears.

“It’s just getting a little annoying, alright?” Is the only answer he gives when Leo fixes him with a smug grin.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, man,”

They manage to find a cheap motel a few blocks away, and disgust with the room quality can’t outweigh the relief of having a hard, lumpy, uncomfortable bed if it tries.

Leo drags their only chair to the bed, facing it to the door. “Take a seat, amigo,” He says, perching himself on the edge of the mattress.

He sits down, once again ignoring the way exhaustion eases the edges of Leo’s voice, the way it naturally slurs on the softer sounds. He ignores the way it bounces off the walls of his chest and settles warmly under his heart, like smoldering embers awaiting ignition.

Leo snips at the air behind his head a few times to test the shears’ resistance. Vincent feels practiced fingers run through his hair, inspecting what has effectively become a dirty mop on his head.

“Jesus, Vince. You’re a walking split end, you know that?” He says, scratching Vincent’s scalp pleasantly. It almost sends him back to sleep. “So, what are you looking for here? Just what you had before?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” He says, trying not to move too much.

They’re silent as Leo carefully combs through his hair with his hands, divvying it into sections and clipping them ever shorter. Every scrape of the cold steel against the back of his neck sends a shiver down his spine, more from the shock than anything. Leo doesn’t seem to catch the memo, though.

“There a draft in here or somethin’?”

“No,”

There’s a pause so short that Vincent almost misses it.

“You afraid of me with these scissors, then?”

Something in his voice makes him hesitate. Concern.

“No, of course not,” He straightens his legs out and crosses his ankles over one another, relaxing a little, “They’re just cold, is all”

Roughly ten minutes pass in silence, interrupted only by the sounds of the shears slicing through his overgrown hair.

“So, stranger,” Leo says eventually, mimicking the friendliness of a barber, “What special occasion brought you to my chair?”

Vincent rolls his eyes, “What are you doing, Leo?”

“I’m making conversation, dipshit,”

“You aren’t very good at it,”

There’s a swat on his shoulder, “Just answer the fuckin’ question, Vince,”

He chuckles, letting his head be turned to the right and sneaking a peek at the man behind him, “Well, no special occasion this time,” He rumbles, “Going on the road with a friend, thought I’d pretty myself up for him,”

“Really?” Tilting Vincent’s head the other way, Leo starts working on his left side, “Must be one lucky guy, huh? You don’t look like you get ‘prettied up’ very often,”

Pointedly ignoring the jab, he smiles, “Yeah, he’s alright. We’ve been through a lot together, and I bug him to high heaven, but he just keeps stickin’ around,”

“I know a guy like you. Cleans up a lot better, though, I have to say,” He can hear the smirk on Leo’s lips, and Vincent doesn’t fight the heat that blooms in his chest, “Got quite the stick up his ass. I can’t take him anywhere,”

“Well, who knows? Maybe there’s some fun, deep down in the depths of his straight-laced soul. All you have to do is find it,”

“Nah, I think I like him the way he is. I’d be in much worse shape if it wasn’t for him. Despite what I say to his face,” He runs his fingernails over Vincent’s scalp, scooching off the bed and making his way around Vincent, squatting in front of him. Gently, he grabs his chin and tilts it from side to side to see that both sides are even, before his gaze settles on Vincent’s and lingers. “He ain’t so bad,”

There’s that look again. His lips part, a small breath escaping before he can stop it. It tickles some of his goatee’s longer hairs, though it’s hardly the focus of his attention.

He swallows. It doesn’t go unnoticed how Leo’s eyes track his Adam's apple. Or how they lift to his lips.

“Maybe our guys should meet,”

Leo blinks, surprised by something. He shakes his head minutely, “Maybe you should learn how to fuckin’ shave right,”

His goatee.

He was looking at my Goatee.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He deflects, shifting in his seat and looking away to recompose himself.

“Oh, come on, Vince. You’ve been slacking, it’s all sad and shitty now. Just let me do it. If I don’t, it’ll drive me fuckin’ crazy,”

As if summoned by God himself, an itch rears its head just above his lip. He grimaces, trying to make his scratch at it as inconspicuous as possible, “Yeah, fine. You might as well,”

After a few more minutes of cutting Vincent’s hair, Leo stands, walks into the bathroom, and walks back out with a knife, a razor, and a wet cloth in hand.

“Where the hell did you get those?” He asks, because he’s very sure they don’t put any of those things in $8 motel bathrooms.

“What? Not the weirdest thing I’ve pulled outta my ass,” Leo says, sitting back down on the bed, “Turn around,”

Vincent does as he’s told, standing to sit backwards in the chair. His arms cross easily on the back, though it takes a bit of maneuvering to get his legs under the arms. He tilts his head up to get a good view of his partner. The height difference is more noticeable this way, but he doesn’t mind at all. He likes looking up at Leo.

Leo goes to start working, but stops short, frowning. He looks down at the space between them and grabs the armchair, pulling it flush with the bed with a small grunt.

His elbows bump against the younger man’s knees and it sends a bout of heat to his face. Leo brushes some of the stray hairs off his shoulders before resting his hands there, just staring at him.

There’s something in his chest, curling around his lungs, eating up his lies before he can breathe them out, coiling in the pit of his stomach and making a home. The trust he’s placed at Leo’s feet leaves him dizzy, gasping for breath with every new little intimate gesture Leo manages to throw his way, turning everything he thinks he knows on its head.

He begins shaving the stubble on his jaw and neck. Vincent realizes that he really shouldn’t trust Leo as wholly as he does, and he shouldn’t be trusted as wholly as he knows he is. They’re criminals, for God’s sake. He shouldn’t have to keep reminding himself that this could fall apart at any moment. There’s a blade to his throat and he can’t find it in himself to pull away.

Instead, he’s content with Leo’s steady hands gripping his chin, trimming his facial hair with a focus so intense it makes his heart skip a beat.

Leo sits back, inspecting his work. A moment later, he smirks wide and leans in, blowing hard on Vincent’s face. He squints, half in confusion and half to keep stray hairs from flying into his eyes.

Before he can get a word in, Leo’s swiping the remaining hair away with his hand. His grin has morphed back into a small, pleased smile. He’d like to think he isn’t imagining when calloused fingers brush over his bottom lip for a second too long.

“Now, where were we?”

“Excuse me?”

Leo rolls his eyes and leans over Vincent, draping his arms loosely over his shoulders. Lean muscle makes a home in his periphery, and oh how he wants to turn his head, admire every curve and contour he finds there; but there’s no time before their faces stand inches apart. He can smell the smokey cologne on his neck. When did he have time to apply cologne?

“Sorry for cutting our little moment short, earlier,” He says, low and husky, looking down at him from under the cover of dark eyelashes.

He finds his breath and lets it go, captured by the shimmer of want in Leo’s eyes. Want. Vincent had never thought someone could want him after Carol. Not Leo. Not in the way he wants him.

Leo slides a little closer, hands intertwining against the back of Vincent’s neck.

“I meant to ask why you did that,” He uncrosses his arms, placing an experimental hand at Leo’s nape, brushing through his curling hair. Their mouths are hovering closer by the second.

“Well,” Leo drawls, “I wasn’t just gonna kiss you with that itchy mess in the way, was I?”

“I guess not,” His eyes flit to Leo’s mouth, open ever so slightly, impossibly magnetic, “Now what’s stopping you?”

“Just your yakkin’,”

He breathes a small laugh as Leo leans down, sealing their lips.

In all of Vincent’s imaginings, he never expected him to be so… chaste. It feels confident, tender. A careful welcome to a guilty soul. Everything that’s been weighing him down since he arrived in that prison is suddenly the least of his worries, because all he can think about is Leo’s mouth on his, dragging him deeper into his own vices.

He feels a tongue swipe over his lips, and he parts them unthinkingly, cotton sprouting in his head as Leo sighs into his mouth. He tastes like bitter chocolate and bourbon, dark and inviting. One of Leo’s hands tangles itself in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him to expose his heart and soul to the mercy of a convict. And he so desperately wants to.

Eventually and all too soon, Leo pulls away. His cheeks are flushed, pupils blown wide, and he’s looking at him with something he can only hope to describe as desire.

“You gotta get out of this stupid fuckin’ chair,” He breathes.

Vincent just nods, gripping the wooden arms and pulling his legs out from under them. Leo stands, grabs him by the lapels, and yanks him back to his lips, reeling him in all over again. He starts pulling them back towards the bed, and Vincent props a hand on the edge, reaching the other up to tangle in his hair. He remembers every time he’s held himself back, denied himself this, and he thinks he’s the most blaringly stupid man on the face of the planet.

“What about Linda?” Vincent says between breaths.

He feels Leo nod against him, “We talked—” Another kiss, “We’re good,”

“You—” Vincent breaks them apart this time, confused, “You talked to Linda about this?”

“Well, yeah—” He drags him back again, “–-Wasn’t just gonna-–” Again, “-–Cheat on my wife,” Again, and if Leo keeps kissing him like this he may have an aneurysm.

Vincent shifts his weight onto his heels, keeping one hand buried in Leo’s dark curls while the other finds the back of Leo’s jacket. For a moment, he keeps it there, hesitant, reserving himself for some kind of unspoken line he doesn’t want to cross. But Leo, perceptive still under his carefully obtuse facade, makes the decision for him.

He unbuttons his jacket, far too slowly, and his eyes burn into Vincent as he looks on, need tugging at his stomach. A thought forms, as he hopelessly watches the scene before him, that Leo’s doing it on purpose—he’s putting on a show. And, oh, fuck, that sends a thrill straight through him.

Shouldering it off and letting it fall lazy onto the stained carpet, Leo’s hands fly up to the collar of Vincent’s leather bomber, and he finds the fact that it’s still on is a grave oversight. His jacket joins the pile on the floor, along with his reservations, as he gently slips his hand under the hem of Leo’s shirt.

He feels the muscles of his back go taut under his hand, and he gives himself a moment to explore. His fingers linger over every divot, every imperfection, every faded scar, committing it to memory. Maybe he doesn’t deserve this, knowing what he knows. But the world is giving it to him, however unworthy he may be of it, and he’ll be damned if he turns it down.

One of Leo’s hands snakes under his waistband, bringing Vincent’s thoughts back to the present. He doesn’t realize his shirt’s been untucked until the other hand skims up and down his bare side. He can’t help the shiver that comes in its wake.

Leo’s chest rumbles and he hums, chuckling against his mouth, “Someone’s sensitive,”

“Shut up,” He gives his hair a gentle tug, and hopes he sounds more confident than he feels. Past his assertive front—which is, admittedly, crumbling—he’s about ready to fall apart in Leo’s arms. He’s honestly glad the bed is there, because his knees might just give out if this progresses any further.

“You know you love to hear me talk,”

“I think that’s just you,”

Leo huffs, and the hands on Vincent’s side and in his hair disappear, finding the top of his paisley button-up and working it open, button by button. Breathlessly, Vincent goes to help him, starting with his cuffs. Within seconds, it’s off his shoulders, balled up in his hands as he throws it to the floor. He’s about to go for Leo’s when he feels a pair of hands on his chest, traveling down to his stomach and back up again, tracing the contours of fat and muscle beneath his fingers. Vincent suppresses what would be an embarrassing noise, but a low hum still manages to sound in his throat.

One of Leo’s hands settles on his chest and pushes him back, and Vincent frowns, opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong. But the other goes down between them, and it keeps going. He grazes the hand over his trousers, palming him gently—the beginning of a word morphs into a groan as his knees go weak and he grips Leo’s shoulders for dear life.

Vincent is fucked. Vincent is so, completely, abysmally fucked.

Before he can recover, Leo grabs his shoulders and flips them around, pinning Vincent between himself and the mattress. His hands continue to roam Vincent’s body like he’s the Goddamn statue of David, leaving him dazed every time they trail down his v-line, only to wander back to his chest.

Leo kisses him and kisses him, fervent and determined, and Vincent throws an arm around his neck, pulling him closer and breathing a feverish plea against his mouth. Leo, bless him, understands. He feels the tug at his belt, hears the promising clink of a buckle coming undone. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep quiet.

It’s on the floor in seconds flat. Leo’s lips leave his, kissing down his jaw and mouthing at his neck as he pops open his trouser buttons. Vincent lifts his head to make room, teeth clenched as staying silent becomes increasingly difficult.

Leo lays a heavy hand against his hardening dick through his boxers, and a quiet whine slips past his lips.

[ end. ]

#yeah sorry about the uh #unfortunate ending note #also linda's a barber and leo picked some of it up #because i said so #a way out #scrapped #velvet writes

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icylook · 3 years ago

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I will see you again

Pairing: Leon x Leri (MC)

Rating: Mature; Word count: 1655; Read on AO3

Tags: Spoilers for the AMR demo; Not canon compliant - Leon and Leri (MC) started their relationship half a year before the final battle; Established Relationship; Angst and Fluff; Hurt/Comfort; Feels; Implied Smut

A Mage Reborn demo 👑 ✨ @mage-parivir

The sound of his footsteps echoes in the hall, torches illuminating the space. All the guards he passes by either nod their heads at him or don’t react at all to his presence, avoiding eye contact. He pays them no mind, answering the subtle greetings with a small tilt of his chin now and then. There are two guards at the door Leri goes for. They shift slightly when he nears but don’t stop him when he knocks lightly, muted murmur of conversation behind wooden door disrupted with strong “Come in”.

He doesn’t hesitate stepping in, leaving the door open so the one talking with Leon would have a clear message of his intentions - your time with the Prince is over, now leave. Especially when the person is Ante, standing in the middle of the sitting room. Light armor on, all in black and the scowl on her face is like a lightning - there and gone - when she sees him.

“Your Highness, please reconsider-”

“No. And it’s final.” Leon’s stern expression clears when he turns to look at him. “Took you long enough. I thought you'd gone missing.”

Leri ignores Ante, as they agreed all this time ago in the clearing during the rebellion. She was doing her job, observing him closely from the shadows. He was doing his job, making sure they all came out of the mess alive. They had a mutual agreement of not stepping on each other's toes if possible. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t rile her up now and then with his behaviour.

“Saine got a tip about lemon muffins in kitchens. I had to check.”

Green eyes brighten in a hopeful spark. “Did you bring me some?”

“Should I?” Leri asks playfully, twisting his wrist in a lazy display of magic, summoning one of his pocket dimensions with a small crystal attached to his ring. The enchantment appears in wisps of purplish smoke, revealing a pastry in pristine condition sitting on his palm. When Leon reaches for it, he steps back with a tut.

“Where are your manners, Your Highness?” His smirk widens when Leon’s confusion slips with a flash of want when he purposely lowers his voice and adds, “Say please.”

Leon opens his mouth to response when someone clears their throat. Pointedly. Leri glances at Ante staring daggers at him, before her eyes meet Leon’s.

The tips of his ears redden a little. “Thank you, Ante. Dismissed.” Ante’s back straightens so impossibly fast when she salutes him, Leri is silently amazed it doesn’t crack.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Leri dips his head at her with one word goodbye. “Spymaster.”

“Royal retainer.”

The corners of his lips curl upward at the spite veiled in her carefully neutral tone. She looks at him for a few long seconds, her gaze piercing. Only when he doesn’t falter in his amusement she marches past him, mindful of leaving space so as not to touch him.

“Let me guess, she wanted you to approve sending people after me.” He says after the door closes with a click. Leon’s by him now, gentle fingers seizing the wrist with muffin holding hand. His other hand rests on the belt over Leri’s hip, steering him to lean on Leon’s side. He smiles at his not so sneaky attempt at getting the pastry via distraction. He humors Leon into thinking that it’s working, tilting his head closer to his neck to get a whiff of his clean scent. Rich and comforting.

Leon hums in affirmation.

“She’ll probably do it anyway.” Leri murmurs.

“No she won’t.” Leon prepares to take a bite of the pastry, hand carefully holding his own in place. Leri watches as Leon closes his eyes, savouring the cream with bits of sour fruit. Mesmerized by the up close view of pink tongue chasing the taste as he swallows a bite. Half a muffin is gone in a blink and he huffs a laugh.

“I guess some of them were right.” Leon’s brow goes up in silent question. “The Sun Prince is eating straight from my palm.”

He smiles widely before he leans in. “I guess he does.” Their lips meet, softly and slowly. Hints of sweetness sneak into the kiss, mingling with the taste of the pastry Leon just devoured. Leri closes his eyes, nuzzling into the palm that cups his cheek when they part. The roughness of Leon’s skin on his face is a reminder of what they went through. Every callous and scar on his hands is a memento he wants to cherish as long as Leon lets him. He tilts his head to the side until his mouth brushes the middle of Leon’s hand, golden eyes holding intense green.

“You really depart tomorrow.”

Leri nods.

“Anything I can do to convince you to postpone that until the coronation?” Leon’s smile is endearingly sheepish, like he clearly knows the answer but still tries anyway. His brave, stubborn man.

Guilt twists in his gut. He wants to tell him. Tried to, many times, testing the boundaries of the spell. Choking on words even before his thoughts formulated properly into them, the invisible collar tightening with unnatural force. Its ominous weight sitting at his throat, a reminder of the time wasting away like sand in an hourglass. Grain by grain, closer to their end.

Once, alone in his chambers, he took it too far when attempting to speak of what he knew, of the great danger hovering over the kingdom. The collar throttled him until he lost his breath, on the brink of consciousness. He fell to the floor, blinking through the tears, black spots dancing in his vision with whispers of blood frantically pounding in his head. Clawing at his neck, curled on the cold stone. Desperate for air as his lungs burned painfully without it. The spell is simply impervious and any knowledge about it is buried in the ruins of the place he hopes to find other answers to. He doesn’t want to, but he has to go. It’s the only way for salvation, for him and for his Sun. For the kingdom.

He can’t tell him that.

So he crushes their mouths together again, swallowing Leon’s surprised noise. Pushing and taking, until he answers him back with the same urgency. Just like the first time ages ago - the kiss as an answer to the question he couldn’t find the right words for. But as the first clumsy kiss felt like giddiness and relief, this one is full of desperation and need. Leri wants to get closer, needs to get closer and he clings to Leon when they blindly stumble through the door to the next room. Clothes thrown without much thought to the floor, marking their hurried way to the bed.

Leon lets himself be pushed onto his back, Leri crawling over him. He runs his hands through the long ashy strands of Leri’s hair, sighing when their lips meet.

They don’t leave the bed until much later.

/////

Leri’s standing near the high window overlooking palace gardens in Leon’s bedroom. Now barely seen because of the night’s darkness.

“I wish you’d stay.”

Leon is only a bit taller than Leri, loose trousers low on his hips. He can openly admire the expanse of his uncovered skin and the marks he left on his body because Leri stole his shirt. And it’s the only thing he’s wearing at the moment.

With arms wrapped around him, the height difference is nonexisting. It’s easy to meet his gaze when he leans back to peer at his face. His eyes meet emeralds, full of warmth and longing. Leri’s fingers gently trace the pale line of a small scar hidden with the hair at Leon’s temple. Evidence of one of too many close calls during the war.

“Leon.” I wish to stay too. I don’t want to let you go, not after everything.

“I will see you again.” The words taste like lies, spilling easily like ones. But they hold the truth, one he wants to believe in. Something hot pokes at the back of his eyes so suddenly, he quickly covers it with exaggerated sniff.

“Besides, I can’t let any of those stuffy nobles take away my rightful position, can I?” His smile feels a little bit too wide. A little bit too forced but he holds it on, just to see the sadness clear from Leon’s expression.

“So I should hold it open for you then?”

“Hold and defend it. Because I’ll be back for it.”

Leon snorts a laugh, hiding it in Leri’s hair. “I feel like it’ll be a battle worse than everything else so far.” He shifts his hands on him, resting them at the small of his back.

“I expect compensation.” Leon adds playfully, murmuring the words on the skin of Leri’s forehead. His lips feel like a brand when he presses a long kiss to it and Leri has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep his tears at bay. The tenderness of the gesture digs up the storm of emotions he desperately tries to shut down. A prick of sorrow grips at his throat unexpectedly and he can’t hide the shaky exhale in time before Leon notices.

Because Leon does notice, his body stiffening when Leri starts shaking in his arms.

“What’s wrong-” He doesn’t let him finish, doesn’t want Leon to see him like this. Not now, not when the dread starts to rear its ugly head again to cloud his mind. But he doesn’t hide, because it’s useless with Leon. Even if he wants to. So he leans back, his sight a little blurry. His smile’s wet around the corners but it’s more real.

“I will see you again.”

Leon’s lips part, any words stuck to his tongue. Then his face brightens with a smile of his own, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I know. I’ll be waiting.”

And Leri will do everything to keep his promise.

Everything.

#amr #a mage reborn #icy is writing #Valerian Virtanen #oc leri #writing with good music in the background gives the best effects #:D :D :D #especially for angst

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justaferal-bastard · 5 years ago

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ok but imagine the day after ladybug takes chat out to fly for the first time he gets a taste of the freedom and when he gets home he tries to learn how to take off from the ground in his room (he can’t, his wings are too weak and he doesn’t really know how)

and like gabriel comes into his room because he heard a bunch of things falling aka adrien failing to take off

and he gets super pissed because adrien you’re not supposed to fly you’re too special and rich look now your feathers are messed up what have you done

and then adrien snaps and goes off telling his father how all his other friends get to fly and be free and he’s stuck on the ground and he just wants to be normal

which to any other parent would be heartbreaking, but fuck gabriel. he fires back at adrien and tells him that he’s anything but normal, and he needs to keep his wings in pristine unused condition to display his status as above the rest of his classmates and friends

adrien who is baby and hates being placed on a pedestal above his friends would obviously be upset, and as the argument progresses he spreads out his wings much like a cornered animal

gabriel sees this and gets pissed as fuck because he’s garbage and a bad dad, and he grabs adrien by the wrist and takes him to the groomers in charge of his wings

adrien thinks shit, hes pissed i ruffled my feathers, but whatever

and when they get there he sees his father whisper to the lady who sat him in his chair and next thing he knows he’s feeling something sharp

after about an hour and a half he’s let back up and feels off balance

he turns around and sees that they fucking clipped his wings

when they get home he transforms and escapes his room and sprints across rooftops all the way to marinettes balcony. when she lets him in she sees that chat noirs wings are clipped, and she just gives him a big hug and he goes limp in her arms and they just slide down onto her bed and she holds him while he cries.

even as ladybug she had never seen him cry, and it broke her heart. she didn’t know what happened but she just lets him use her like a big pillow and runs her hands through his hair and through the feathers of his wings all the way down to the blunt tips

after he gains back a little self control he apologizes profusely, eyes still shiny with unshed tears that just. won’t. stop.

she tells him it’s nothing to be sorry for, and he starts rambling on about how now he’s a useless superhero and ladybug will hate him and she’s going to toss him out and oh god what will he do when the only person who he’s ever loved hates him because he’s flightless and horrible and disgusting and-

he stops when she hugs him again so tight that the wind gets knocked out of his lungs and he would wonder how such a tiny girl can squeeze so hard but he just can’t bring himself to care.

when he nuzzles into her neck and surrounds himself with her smell and warmth while she assures him over and over again that ladybug could never hate him and that he’s nothing like he said he is. he pulls back sadly and tucks her hair behind her ear asking how she could be so sure. she grips his raised hand and tells him she just is, and he looks at where she’s holding him as a subconscious thing because he’s nervous and she’s holding his hand????

and then he sees her earring, catching the light perfectly. a normal black stud shimmers in the perfect way to reveal an underlying color of red with black spots

#ok bye im going to die now this made me sad BYE #hes just a baby i love him so much im in copious amounts of pain #im jsust tryna sleep #and then my brain said no fuck yku be sad #i hate gabriel agreste #please take away his custody #disgusting old man #he is vile and probably has scurvy #i had to give it a good ending because i wont be able to sleep without closure #miraculous ladybug #ml wing au #chat noir #malia shut the fuck up #adrien agreste #wing au

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fatefulfaerie · 4 years ago

Note

Thank you for your really nice content, it’s such a pleasant thing to see your name on my dash! And congrats on 500 followers!

I’d like to request a sickfic where Link is out with the flu (like, feverish, no energy, vertical problems, that sort of thing), and is very out of it and a tad touch-starved with Zelda watching out for him please! Just a sweet little hurt/comfort fic, as we crave in these trying times 🥲 Thank you!

A Tender Moment

“And then from there you meet with the lords and ladies of the court in the banquet hall for supper, but you’ll only have so much time until you are to go over with your father the particulars of the speech you are giving tomorrow night—”

Impa stopped herself.

“Princess, are you even listening to me?”

“Hm?” Zelda said, looking over to Impa, who had doubted very much that her highness was paying attention in the slightest, looking out at the portion of Hyrule she could see outside her tall window. Although she was leaning against the wall as she did so, in such a way that would have made for quite the dramatic portrait, she began to pace on her own feet as she walked toward her vanity.

“Yes, of course,” she said as she crossed past Impa. “Please continue.”

“Then after you meet with your father and he has approved the content of your speech, you are free as bird.”

Zelda swiveled around to face Impa.

“I thought I had a meeting with the champions.”

Impa shook her head.

“Cancelled,” Impa said. “Harsh weather conditions. The champions have each requested an extra day of travel because of the storm. Honestly I think Revali could make it, he just doesn’t want to mess up his pristine feathers.”

“Did he actually say that?”

“He may as well have.”

Zelda rolled her eyes

“What else is there?”

“Some papers for you to sign when you can find the time,” Impa said as she flipped through the stack of papers she held, “an inquiry from the kitchens, and your knight attendant is sick. He will not be accompanying you today.”

Zelda seemed to show more interest in that than anything else the royal advisor had briefed her on, stepping forward and taking the parchment from Impa’s hand, written in the messy handwriting of the castle doctor.

“Your Highness?” Impa asked as Zelda’s green eyes scanned the words before her.

Folding the paper up, Zelda walked straight out of her chambers, no concern at all for the obligations of her day that Impa had just taken an hour to relay.

“Your Highness!” Impa repeated just before Zelda latched the door closed behind her, Impa left alone in Zelda’s chambers. She gave a sigh.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Your Majesty, she just walked out,” she muttered to herself as she stood up to follow Zelda, as if practicing explaining what happened to the King. “You gave me the job of wrangling a teenager, what can I say?”

——————————————————————————————————

“It’s really nothing to concern yourself over, Your Highness,” Zelda heard the doctor continue as she stared at Link, the princess hugging her arms close, “he’s not contagious, he’s just running a high fever. Until his temperature goes down, it’s infirmary policy to keep patients for observation. We’ve already given him a chilly elixir. All we can do is let him rest like he is.”

Zelda nodded in understanding, and yet still did not glance at the doctor. Link slept so peacefully that she could only watch as she thought about how sick he must have felt to actually come forward and say he couldn’t perform his duties.

“Zelda,” he murmured in his sleep.

Zelda’s face fell and so did her arms.

“He’s been saying that every once in a while, Your Highness,” the doctor added. “But there’s no need to accuse him of losing his decorum, he is definitely asleep. I wager with his work ethic, he’s protecting you even in his dreams.”

Zelda heard the doctors footsteps pace away.

She honestly wasn’t sure what to do, left alone with her knight attendant who had fallen ill, who she had never seen in such a state of vulnerability, who she had never even seen sleep.

Zelda stepped forward before sitting on the bed he lay, brushing the backs of her fingers along his warm cheek.

“Link,” she said, with the gentility of the mother she lost and the softness of the lover she yearned to be.

She reformed her hand to curve around the edge of his jawline.

“I don’t know if you can hear me but I want you to get rest, okay?”

Blue irises began to breach from closed eyelids.

“Don’t worry about—”

Zelda stopped herself, noticing that Link was awakening, his lips turning into a small and yet genuine smile. Zelda considered retreating her hand to subdue the embarrassment of such a tender touch until Link’s hand met hers where it sat on his cheek. The warmth of the connection between them radiated into the depths of her heart, and thus, couldn’t help but spread onto her cheeks as well. Her expression melted from one that anticipated embarrassment to one that absolutely oozed with love and care. Impa, who had decided after finding Zelda in the infirmary to simply watch by the doorway, couldn’t help a small smile at the sight.

“How are you feeling?” Zelda asked Link.

“I’ve been better,” Link said, in a coarsely rough voice that sounded like it hurt. Zelda immediately regretted asking the question, her green eyes filled with pity.

Zelda nodded with a slight chuckle.

“Yes, I believe you have,” she agreed. “Be sure to rest as long as you need, okay? You don’t have to worry about me. Besides, I’m going to need you rested and ready for whenever our next adventure is.”

“For the calamity, too,” Link said, in such a broken voice that Zelda wished he hadn’t.

Zelda moved her thumb ever-so-slightly so that it brushed his lips.

“More importantly,” Zelda said, a bit slower. “Be sure you are rested for you.”

It was foreign, the way they were interacting with each other, in ways that blurred the lines between platonic and romantic. Neither of them seemed to mind, especially as Link nodded with a smile, brushing his own thumb along the soft hand on his cheek, that belong to a princess he was truly beginning to love beyond his duty.

Instances I’ve done something similar to your prompt in case that didn’t meet your expectations:

Honesty part 6/7

Enraptured

#zelink #zelda #link #botw #breath of the wild

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likeawildthing · 4 years ago

Text

Happy birthday, Lily. Note as to why I’m publishing this and what it means to me under the cut. This is an unpublished portion of Summer of ‘81.

xxxxxx

Two days after she finishes Potter’s snitch, July crashes down on Lily with a screech, a bang, and her own blood-curdling scream.

She’s stopped at the corner, impatiently waiting for her signal. Just as she’s about to bloody risk it and make a dash across, light be damned, Potter and Black pull up, looking smug and smarmy while straddling the motorbike.

Potter winks at her. Ought to be difficult, looking suave while riding pillion, but he manages well enough.

Black revs the engine, in a bid for her attention. When he’s got it, he nods at the road.

Lily immediately shakes her head. She’s fast on her skates, better than anyone she knows, but against a motorbike? Against that motorbike? She’s not completely bloody barking.

But then Sirius teases the throttle again, teasing her, and Potter flaps his arms like a chicken.

Pricks.

She isn’t a chicken. She knows this.

She has nothing to prove to them.

Really.

But when Potter clucks, she flips him her own bird and crouches, calves tensing as if an invisible starting block were behind her.

Both boys lean forward in unison on the bike.

She cheats, tearing down the sidewalk before the light releases them. She laughs at their shouts of fury, skates faster, hair whipping ‘round her face.

Then the motorbike roars, a beast released, and with a squelch of tires on pavement they outstrip her in three seconds. Black pops a wheelie as they ride past; Potter nearly loses his seat, but doesn’t.

Even after they’ve turned the next corner, she doesn’t slow down.

The bike echoes deafeningly against the buildings as the boys loop around the block. As they pass her again, Potter waves jovially. She gives him the finger, but she’s grinning. She would gloat, too, were she in their trainers.

They’re waiting for her at the end of the block. Her legs are shaking, threatening to buckle, but she refuses to give them the satisfaction of doubling over and bracing her hands on her knees, no matter how sharp the stitch in the side pulls.

“Fancy a ride?” Potter asks.

Before she can answer, Black chimes in with, “Wouldn’t normally give filthy cheats a ride, but you’re a bloody mess, Evans.”

“I’m good.”

“You sure?”

She eyes them. “Where would I sit?”

“We’ll make room,” Potter says, grinning like an idiot.

“Your laps?”

“Handlebars.”

“Right. How could I have missed something so obvious?”

The sad thing is, she’s sorely tempted. But she’s got two potions to brew tonight, so—

“No, thanks,” she says, throwing them a two fingered salute.

“Evans,” Potter replies. “You’re skipping a chance to ride on the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.”

Sirius elbows his best mate in the gut. “Bike’s not bad, either.”

She hopes they write her flush off as exertion rather than embarrassment. When James punches him back, Lily laughs.

She shouldn’t do it.

But the engine revs again—a blood siren call—and Potter’s smirk sharpens, pulls one of her own. The familiar thrum in her veins, adrenaline mixed with recklessness and something else she can’t place.

Old Lily would jump.

“Dammit,” she says, dropping to her arse and tugging at her laces, “give me a ‘mo.”

It takes an embarrassingly long time to pull her skates off, then her socks, which she shoves awkwardly into her skates. When she looks up, Potter’s driving, and Black is standing on the sidewalk. This shouldn’t surprise her—they probably planned this. Still, hesitates for a fraction of a second. Only that, and then she straddles the bike before she changes her mind.

She’s fucking barefoot on a fucking motorbike with James-fucking-Potter.

Old Lily needs a healthy dose of common fucking sense.

She’s glad the still lingering smell of rubber on asphalt masks her stinky feet.

For her safety, Lily tucks her thighs against James Potter’s hips in a pitiful attempt to keep her toes from the scorching exhaust pipes. For her pleasure, she wraps her arms around his waist.

“You know what you’re doing, Potter?” she breathes in his ear.

He shudders. She doesn’t have to see his face to know he’s grinning widely.

“Not a chance in hell, Evans.”

With that vote of confidence, he revs the engine and shoots forward like an arrow down the street.

In hindsight, she’s amazed they lasted three and a half blocks. To Potter’s first credit, it’s not his driving but the cat that does them in.

Technically, it’s her seeing the cat, forgetting about the tattoo she’d just inked onto his bicep, and squeezing to warn him, the blinding pain of which causes him to lose control.

He’s apologetic as fuck. Embarrassed. Terrified, rightly so, that his mate’s going to kill him.

“I think we’re even again, Potter.”

“You grabbed my bicep.”

“You crashed the motorbike.”

“Creative stop with the aid of a few dustbins, Evans.”

“He’s going to kill you,” she says, inspecting the shattered mirror.

“Fuck,” he says, seeing her properly for the first time. “All right?”

She assesses. She’s not hurt. Well, not badly. She felt the pull of a Sticking Charm, so she kept her seat, and a Cushioning Charm prevented real injury. A scraped knee, a burnt ankle from the muffler.

Not bad.

Not great, either.

She can’t fix either of her injuries here, with him. She refuses to get back on the bike, and he won’t leave her there, barefoot, with shards of mirror on the sidewalk after James pulled the motorbike onto the sidewalk.

They settle on piggyback, with more glorious thigh squeezing, though less pleasurable than before, while cheerfully contemplate which method of murder Sirius will employ when he finds out about the bike.

The murderer-to-be meets up with them a block sooner than expected, her skates in hand and a dangerous look on his face.

She whispers “hot oil and feathers, I think” in Potter’s ear. He shudders, and she can’t tell if it’s from adrenaline or the deadly calm in Black’s voice as he says, “Prongs.”

“Padfoot.”

“Black,” she says.

Black ignores her, his eyes fixed on James. “Where is she, Prongs?”

Lily hops off, best not to be in firing range for this. James lets her go automatically, his eyes fixed on Sirius. If she weren’t here, Lily has the distinct impression James would already be tackled, hexed, or perhaps a mixture of the two.

“Prongs—where in the fuck is she.”

“I’m fine, Black,” Lily says, “thank you for asking.”

“Evans, you’re clearly fine or you would’ve killed my best mate here. And thank you for not, because I’ll have the pleasure of doing it unless my motorbike is in the pristine condition I left it in ten minutes ago.”

“Go easy on him, Black. He was trying to impress a girl.”

She picks up her skates by the laces.

“You going to be alright, Lily?” Potter asks.

“Nothing I can’t fix at home,” she says, stepping on the ball of her foot to keep from showing him the heel.

“Ta, boys. Thanks for the…er….thanks. I think.”

“’Night, Evans.”

“Good luck, Potter.”

She giggles, fucking giggles, as James goes in a flat run. Even limping, which she hadn’t noticed before, he’s faster than Black. Lily waits until they’re around the corner, then starts for home, skates in hand. Yes, it will take her hours to brew some salves for her burn, but perhaps old Lily wasn’t completely daft after all.

______________________________________

Today I naysayed the idea of taking a walk, and then I remembered that old Lindsey--healthy Lindsey--never let something like the weather stop her from a good hike. Even if I can’t hike because health, I can go immerse myself in nature because I know it fulfills me. So I put on jeans and a sweater and my rain coat, drove the 20 mins to my favorite park, walked the half mile to my favorite bench and listened to the rain for forty minutes. Half froze to death, but it was great. Now I’m sat drinking tea and trying to warm up when I remembered this unpublished bit of “Summer of ‘81.” I have loads of unpublished fic and I think, if I do share them in the future, it will be in instances like this. This little piece of Lily—traumatized, disconnected, at a low point—that I wrote three years ago reminded me of myself today. We can make choices that honor our past selves even if we can’t go back and be that person. And that’s how we move forward, one oddball choice at a time. And as I published this, I realized it was her fictional birthday. So! Here you go.

#jily #tw potter #lily evans #lily potter

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project-rosewood-476 · 3 years ago

Text

House of Gold

Okay, so this is strictly fluff. This is the fluffiest thing I have ever written for this AU and probably will be the most fluff you all will get for this.

This fic is based on the song House of Gold by Twentyone Pilots. I wanted to explore and explain the relationship between Tabby and her stepdad before everything went to shit. And I feel as though that song suits them.

"Kitty" is a nickname that she had for her stepdad when she was younger because her real dad and stepdad were both named Michael so to avoid confusion but she slowly dropped the nickname when she got older.

Summary: Tabby is six at the time and she is left home alone even though she's not supposed to be due to her mother's A+ parenting choices. When she's bored out of her mind she goes looking around for shit that she's not supposed to. But what happens when she takes a trip down memory lane and remembers all the good times she had before she was left all alone. Will it fill her with despair? or renew her sense of hope?

She asked me, Son when I grow old

Will you buy me a house of gold?

And when your father turns to stone

Will you take care of me?

She asked me, Son when I grow old

Will you buy me a house of gold?

And when your father turns to stone

Will you take care of me?

The lonely six-year-old paced around her small apartment relentlessly. Being left home alone yet again, she was pretty bored. She was looking for something to do. She was tired of TV, books, and she wasn’t hungry, so that she couldn’t eat her boredom away. Not that there was much to eat in the house anyways. She couldn’t go outside alone because she didn’t know where anything was, and the outside world scared her. Usually, the person she would consider her dad would be here by now. He would have taken her to the park, play pretend, play fight, or colored with her. It’s boring playing by yourself. But since he wasn’t here for reasons unbeknownst to her for a year now, she was left with her own devices.

What do you do as a child who’s left home alone and bored out of your mind? You snoop around. Tabby went through the drawers in the kitchen. Maybe she could concoct something to eat if she looked hard enough or find something new to play with. She found nothing interesting. Nothing but silverware, junk mail, and odds and ends of a miscellaneous drawer that didn’t hold her attention for very long.

She walked down the narrow hallway, altogether skipping over her room since she knew everything that she had in her room. She went straight into her mom’s room. She took in her surroundings. She saw a couple of unfinished jigsaw puzzles on the floor. Sometimes her mother and her would try to finish them when her mom had the time. She saw the miniature wolf sculptures and figurines that her mother adores on her dresser. She went through her drawers to see if she found anything interesting or to remind her mom to do laundry if she saw that she didn’t have clothes in there. The good news is that her mom didn’t need to do laundry. The bad news was that she found nothing to hold her interest. She took one of her mom’s green work shirts and just inhaled her scent. It calmed her down and took her mind off of her boredom. She missed her mom a lot. Tabby decided to stay buried in her mom’s scent for a few minutes later before moving on.

Tabby decided to raid her mom’s closet at least help her organize that godawful mess in there. Her mother’s closet was on the same length as most middle school and high school lockers. She began to separate the piles of clothes from clean to dirty based on smell until she came across an old blue folder. Finally, something to cure her boredom. Tabby opened it up to have a look and couldn’t believe what she saw.

“So this is where he’s been hiding the stuff that I make for him while he’s been here,” she realized in thought as a couple of pictures, a few short stories, and a couple of fathers days cards that were still all in pristine condition. Even a couple of years later.

That brought a smile to her face and brought back memories.

A little girl four years of age was sitting on the floor, focusing intently on a drawing that she was making on the coffee table. An older man in his late 20’s plopped down onto the couch lazily as he looked over to what the girl was drawing.

“Whatcha drawing?” he asked as he peered over.

“Remember the house by the candy shop that we always pass on our way to the park?” she asked, still not looking up from her drawing.

“The one that’s always on sale on hill street?”

“If that’s what it’s called, then yes.”

“Yeah, what about it?” he asked, still not getting the picture

“Well, someday when I’m all grown up, I’m going to buy that house, and I’m taking you with me. It will be our house!” she said proudly.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Really? What about your mother? Aren’t you going to bring her along too?” he asked, struggling to find the words to speak.

Tabby grew quiet and looked down.

“We all know with the lifestyle mommy is living, she won’t live very long. You’ll last longer,” she said quietly.

“Yeah…” he trailed off, a little disturbed at the child’s eeriness. But she wasn’t far off from the truth either. He was aware of the type of life and choices that her mother led and made. Some of them left him scratching his head, and a lot of the time, they made his blood boil. What kind of a mother would do that to her kid. Tabby was a lot more perceptive than what she’s given credit for. He knew that.

“Besides,” said Tabby bringing him out from his angry thoughts,” You’re my best friend. It would be weird to plan my future and not have you in it. It’s only natural that you would be a part of it.”

“You think that I’ll be around that long?” he asked, amused playing along with the girl’s plan.

“You’d said that you would be around forever, right?”

“Of course, kiddo I-I gave you my word,” he was taken aback by the fact that she took his promise so seriously.

“Okay then,” she went back to drawing.

“How do you think that you’ll pay for the house, huh?”

“I’ll get a job when I’m old enough to work, duh,” she said it like it was the most obvious thing ever.

“You’d have to be 15 to work legally.”

She stopped to look at him in horror.

“But that’s so old.”

He couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh at her concept of old age. It was so fascinating to listen to what the four-year-old thought of the world around her. Sometimes she had solid points and saw the world for what it is at its base. Simplistic and so full of good and hope. Other times her ideas were so bizarre that they showed just how innocent she was.

Tabby looked at him, confused. Had she said something funny?

“Oh, I’d hate to break it to ya, kid, but if you think 15 is old, then it would take even longer to save up money to buy the place.”

She looked at him even more confused.

“How hard can it be?”

He let out another hearty laugh.

“Oh, kiddo, you have no idea.”

I will make you

Queen of everything you see

I'll put you on the map

I'll cure you of disease

Tabby took out one of her short stories that she wrote starring him as the hero and god that she saw him as. She worshipped him. She was rereading her work, a masterpiece at the time; now, she cringed at how godawful it was. However, she remembered beaming with pride when she handed him her finished product that she worked on for a month. It was the first story she ever wrote.

“Kitty, look! Look at what I made for you!” Tabby ran to him as soon as he walked out the door.

“What is it?” he asked as he kneeled to be on her level.

“I made you a story,” she said shyly as she handed it to him.

He was a little shocked at the gift. This was the first thing she’s ever given him. It was one of the nicest things anyone has done for him in a long time.

“Will you read it?” she inquired excitedly.

“Sure, after I take my nap. Then I’m all yours, and we can talk about your story.”

“Awww,” she sounded dejected.

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll put it right beside me so that way it will be the first thing I’ll do when I wake up. Fair enough?”

“Okay,” she sighed. She wasn’t happy with the compromise, but she took what she could get. She went back to play with her stuffed animals to keep herself occupied in the meantime.

However, he did not nap that day like he said he would. He spent his allotted two hours reading her story and just taking it in. She showed a lot of talent and promise with writing. Even with her limited vocabulary, she put so much passion and emotion behind what she was saying and trying to express that it was easy to get what she was saying. What moved him to the point of a few stray tears streaming down his face was how evident she thought so highly of him. She viewed him as a hero and thought he was a good person that he was better. It was so moving when he didn’t even think of himself like that. Knowing that someone out there in the living room loved him enough to see past that and had so much to give left him speechless.

Let's say we up and left this town

And turned our future upside-down.

We'll make pretend that you and me

Lived ever after, happily

Tabby was grinning from ear to ear, sitting on the floor, looking through her old drawings and stories she wrote for him that he still kept in pristine condition. She had a few stray tears from happiness leaking out, but she didn’t care. This was the closest she felt to him in a long while. She took out another picture. It was of her and her dad running through trees on some sort of adventure. There’s a story behind that one.

Tabby was drawing furiously at the kitchen table while her dad made her some spaghetti to eat for dinner. Her dad peered over her shoulder.

“I see that you’re overflowing with creative juices again. What are you drawing this time?”

“You and me we’re going on an adventure, but I can’t decide what the rest of the picture should be,” she said, frustrated.

“What about trees?” he suggested

“Like the woods?” she asked

“Yeah, like we’re going on a hike and camping. That’s an adventure, and we’ll come back when we’re done,” he said as he turned away to finish making dinner.

“Oh, I don’t want to come back,” said Tabby quickly as she went back to drawing.

He almost dropped the hot pot of boiling spaghetti at her statement.

“Why wouldn’t you want to come back?” he asked slowly.

Tabby stayed quiet for a few minutes before slowly turning to face him.

“Is it bad that I don’t want to stay with mommy?” she said in a voice that was barely a whisper.

“I- Uh- W-what makes you say that? Don’t you love mommy?” he didn’t know how to answer that.

She shook her head furiously, sending her long strands of black hair all over the place while moving her little hands in a ‘no’ motion “, No no, no, that’s not it at all! I do love mommy, I do! It’s just- she never listens to me. I tell her that I don’t like it when she brings home strangers, and she still does it anyway. I tell her that I don’t like it when she sleeps all day, but she does it anyway. If you love someone, then you would listen to them. It’s like I’m not here! I am unwanted and unloved, and I don’t belong!” she looked down as her bottom lip quivered like she was going to cry.

Oh boy, he didn’t know what to say or do. He bit off more than what he could chew. He was aware of her mother’s questionable life choices, but he never knew just how badly they affected Tabby. He gathered that they made her sad and lonely and neglected, but he never knew how deep her hurt ran. His burning hatred and anger at her mother quickly turned into heartbreak for the child in front of him.

He went back to plating her spaghetti and set it down in front of the sulking child. He petted her hair in an attempt to comfort her. He continued to do so until he noticed that she was feeling a little better to turn around and eat. Satisfied, he went back to plating his meal.

“You know for what it’s worth; I can promise you that the bad things are only temporary even if they don’t feel like it at times. If anyone can get out of this town when you’re old enough to, I have absolute faith that it would be you.”

“You think so?” she asked excitedly and hopefully.

He ruffled her hair.

“I know so.”

She asked me, Son when I grow old

Will you buy me a house of gold?

And when your father turns to stone

Will you take care of me?

Tabby grew bored and put the pictures and clothes neatly back as best as she could and got up to explore the other rooms in the apartment. She went to the bathroom and opened up the cabinets to see what was in there. Her mother often told her not to look through the bathroom cabinets, but she wasn’t here to say no. Tabby concluded that if it were that bad, she would be given a sign that would tell her no. She found nothing of interest. Just chemicals that she knew better to play with and in the upper cabinet various cold medicines, band-aids, anti-bacterial ointment, nail clippers, the thermometer, her mother’s happy pills as she called them, and bandages. Tabby felt a twang of nostalgia that hurt her stomach when she looked at the bandages, and she knew why.

Tabby was sitting on the couch waiting for her dad to come back and babysit her. Where was he? Her mom said that he would be here in two hours. It’s been more than that. She jumped when she heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. Tabby turned around quickly only to be greeted with the horrific sight of her dad staggering in, out of breath, bruised and bloodied.

“Oh my god, what happened?” asked Tabby, horrified as she ran towards him, tripping over her own feet.

“It’s nothing, honey. I just got into a fight; that’s all” He made his way to the kitchen and sat down in the chair as he grimaced.

“Well, we have to get you cleaned up,” she fretted, struggling to figure out what to do.

“Good Idea. Do you know what to do?” he asked

Tabby slowly shook her head no.

He sighed “, That’s okay. I’ll walk you through it. First, get a cloth and wet it with warm soapy water. That will help clean off the blood and kill the bacteria.

“Got it,” she said as she ran into the bathroom to grab a dishcloth from the pile, put on some warm water and used hand soap, and rubbed it into the cloth to make it soapy. She came out waiting for further instructions.

“Good now, gently pat clean up all of the blood as best as you can, okay?” he sounded tired.

Tabby went slow and tried to be a gentle as she could with a few reminders. Laser focusing on the task at hand. His hands revealed minor cuts and shallow gashes.

“Is that good enough?”

“Yes, now go get the ointment. It should be in the upper cabinet in a blue and white packet in the bathroom.”

“On it,” she ran back to the back to the bathroom as fast as she could and grabbed her stepping stool that she uses to reach the sink to brush her teeth. She stood on her tiptoes on the chair to get the cabinet to open it. She looked for anything with blue and white packaging until she found the tiny ointment packets he was talking about. She grabbed a few and ran back out into the kitchen.

“Okay, now what?”

“Now open the packets and gently smear the ointment on just for extra precaution for infection.”

Tabby struggled to open it with her tiny hands, so she had help opening it. She spread the ointment all over his hands as gently as she could.

“Now what?”

“Now, I need you to go into the junk drawer and get two safety pins.”

“Okay,” she knew where the drawer was in the kitchen. She rummaged through to find what she thought were safety pins since she had no idea what they looked like. She pulled out a paper clip and showed it to him for confirmation.

“No, that’s a paper clip. Try again.”

She rummaged through the drawer again and pulled out a thumbtack.

“No, that’s a thumbtack try again,” he sounded exasperated.

Tabby whimpered and held her head down like a scolded puppy. She didn’t like how he sounded displeased with her. She rummaged deeper in the drawer and finally pulled out a safety pin,

“There we go!” he encouraged.

She pulled out another one and set them both on the table.

“Now go get those bandages in the upper cabinet. They are long and white.”

She nodded and went back into the bathroom once more to grab the bandages and ran back out.

“Good, now wrap them around my hands,” he walked her through the process of doing that, and he put on the safety pins to hold the bandages in place himself.

Tabby grabbed his hands and kissed both of them. He jerked back in surprise and was a little taken aback by her actions. She looked just as confused as he was.

“What are you doing?”

“I was just kissing your boo-boos to make them feel better. That’s what mommy does with me. I thought it would work for you.”

He hugged her tightly and tried to choke back his tears at how sincere and pure she was. It was only then, when she calmed down enough that she realized that he stunk. Specifically of cheap whiskey and liquor. Tabby tried to push away and scrunched up her nose.

“You stink,” she complained bluntly.

He burst out laughing. “I suppose I do. I’ll tell you what, let me take a shower, and we’ll have a movie night, and I’ll let you stay up an hour past your bedtime.”

“Okay!” Tabby said excitedly with a giggle.

“As long as you don’t tell your mom.”

“My lips are sealed” she made a zipper mouth motion.

I will make you

Queen of everything you see

I'll put you on the map

I'll cure you of disease (Ooh)

Tabby closed the bathroom cabinets and went back out to the living room. Right back to where she started. She stared out the window at the busy street down below. It became part of her daily routine to stare out the window and see if her dad was coming back. She didn’t know. It could be any day now. She hasn’t lost hope yet. She continued to stare, being lost in her thoughts.

“And the pirate kingdom of Aiwratha is saved from the mutant octopus by the rebel pirates!” she held her stick that she used as a sword up in the air in victory.

Tabby and her dad were currently at Maplehood park on the wooden play pirate ship in the middle of the playground section of the park. With Tabby as captain of the rebel pirate team and her dad as her first mate. Since no one else wanted to play with Tabby, they have played this multiple times with different storylines. Secretly they both never tired from it.

“We did it! We did it! We did it! We are the heroes!” he cheered as he picked her up and spun her around.

“Of course we are! Why wouldn’t we be? We are a team forever and always! Together nothing will get in our way! There’s nothing we can’t do!” she squirmed to be put down.

He took a minute to look at her eyes that were too big for her face. But they were so full of hope, adventure, optimism and had that bright lightning in her eyes. Ready to take on the world. He chuckled a little as he put her down and let her run free.

Maybe he didn’t do a bad job with her after all.

And since we know that dreams are dead

And life turns plans up on their head

I will plan to be a bum

So I just might become someone

Tabby sighed and rested her head on her thin arms on the window sill gloomily. She perked up when she saw somebody that looked like her dad. Only to sink back down when she realized that it was a false alarm. Here she was all alone. So much for his promise of sticking around forever. So much for a future with him in it. That dream is dead.

She slowly sat up with a confused realization.

What was she thinking?

Sure he wasn’t here now, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be here until later, right? She recently discovered that dreams do die, but maybe just maybe, dreams can come back to life. Perhaps he will come back, and those dreams can soar again. Yes, that’s right! This train of thought filled her with renewed hope, and she was bouncing in her seat in eagerness. Sure she and her mother aren’t in a good place right now, but that would be her responsibility to bring them both out of this dark place. She believed that she was strong enough to do so. All she knew was that she had to fight to survive for herself and her mother alive long enough so when he does come back, they will be a family again, and her dad would be proud to see just how far she’s come. She’ll be a hero once again.

She asked me, Son when I grow old

Will you buy me a house of gold?

And when your father turns to stone

Will you take care of me?

I will make you

Queen of everything you see

I'll put you on the map

I'll cure you of disease

She didn’t have an exact plan to go about this, but she decided it would be best to start small with stuff she could do. First, she could clean up the apartment as best as she could. After all, she can’t have him come back to a dirty apartment. She was leaving the heavy-duty cleaning to her mom, such as chemical cleaning, laundry, and dishes since she didn’t know how to do any of that. However, she could pick up a little and sweep. She knows how to pick up after herself and has seen her mom sweep multiple times, so she has an idea of what she’s doing. She was too small for the real broom, so she would just use her pink kid one. She got to work right away.

She will do everything in her power to help him come home to her.

All for him.

#every rose has its thorn #erhit au #fanfic #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta #tabbyanderson #tabby #house of gold #twenty øne piløts #send me requests #please flood my inbox #please and thank you

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sideblogformindtrash · 4 years ago

Text

CW: Deshumanization; pet/slave whump; conditioning; bruising; some self-hatred; swearing; the inevitability of our death :’)

Prev it was supposed to just be a fun lil thing but I ruined it with deep rooted insecurities about life the universe and everything else and monologues

He could have kicked that door down easily. But he wanted Haru to learn. He sat crossed legged on the floor, watching him try to open the door. The house loomed over them, casting a shadow. Orfeu couldn’t help but feel it would look good if it was on fire… At least right now, with the pretty oranges and reds of the twilight.

Haru, however, was nervous. He kept glancing at him all the time, as if trying to see if he was doing something wrong. It must have felt like a very unnatural thing for him, to try and pick a lock. It would be something worthy of punishment on the past, he figured. And now, against all odds, it was his ‘Master’ that was coaching him to do it.

It had been months now. Yet he kept waiting for it. For a blow that would never come. At least… At least not from him. He absently mindedly touched the bruise on his eye, pressing… Making it hurt. Life is a bitch. Life is a fucking bitch.

Your fault, your fault, your fault – the darkness echoes, from the woods around them. He ignores. He doesn’t want to deal with their shit right now.

At this moment, the important thing is teaching Haru and making sure he doesn’t panic. Calm, but firm voice. Reassuring words. He is getting better at it… But not much. He still sucks at dealing with people.

Click. Then a small gasp from Haru. He looks back at Orfeu, not wanting to move his shaky hands.

“Yes, that’s it, don’t need to be scared. This is good. You found the little lever. Turn the other one a bit… Yeah, like this. Now see if you can find another one, a bit further down the lock.”

Because one day he might just need this… Orfeu wanted to be there for him. For the first time in his life, he felt… Like he had someone. A someone who was warming up to him a little bit every day. And yeah, Haru was scared of him too, sure, but not because he was a monster. Haru wasn’t scared because he saw him as a fucking freak… He was scared because he had been hurt in the past, and living in fear was all he ever knew. It was only natural.

So… Orfeu was willingly to do anything to keep him safe. And for as long as he was around he would make sure nothing could happen to the boy. Except… What if he wasn’t around anymore? What would happen to him? He pulled the bruised skin around his eye, pinching and twisting it between his fingernails.

Life is fragile.

Fragile, fragile, fragile – echoes the darkness yet again.

If things were good, he would always be there to offer safety for Haru. If they weren’t… Haru would be able to unlock some of the doors they would put to stop him. And it would hopefully be enough of them for him to escape. There was still anger on Haru. He was still willing to fight against all that bullshit he had been forced to take. And Orfeu wanted to see that spark turn into a fire.

Click.

One more anxious glance.

“You are doing very good, Haru. Now, you just need to feel one more of these little levers and turn the other one around and…”

…The door opened.

He smiled.

“Good. Very good.” He got up to his feet and messed with the boy’s hair. He smiled back, shy and a bit relieved. Orfeu knew that must have been one scary, stressful task for him. It wasn’t exactly easy. He entered the house first, and let the cobwebs stick to his face and hair “Watch where you step okay? It’s quite an old place.”

Old, and dusty and empty. Just the entrance hallway was bigger than his entire home, it seemed. There were no ghosts that he could see. That was disappointing, he had been promised ghosts. Although Haru did kind of look like one, pale, white curls of hair falling past his waist, dressed on clothes far too big for his thin form. If he were to walk on the side of a road at night, it would give some poor driver’s a heart attack.

The boy walked slowly, very carefully, a bit mesmerized by the view. Had he ever seen a place like this? Had he ever known anything other than far too pristine houses and white-tiled rooms?

Probably not. Orfeu had it bad. He had it bad since the beginning of his life. And even then, he knew it was nothing compared to what Haru had gone through. Him and all the others like him… To a point where they refused to believe they were just as human as their ‘Masters’. To a point where the first time Haru stepped on grass… He cried, because he had never really been allowed outside.

…To a point where he looked like part of an old, decrepit house. He was a ghost, on the center of the empty hall, too oppressed by the weight of that ambiance to look up from his feet. And yet… There was fight on him.

“It’s okay. You can look around, okay? Nothing bad will happen” Slowly, the boy lifts his head again. And he fights to breathe. “I know it doesn’t look like a friendly place… But it’s not bad either. It has just been here for far too long.”

He opens his mouth. Tries to speak. No sound. Not even a whimper. But he is trying and that is good.

Scribbled notes on the pink notebook.

‘Is this house yours master?’

He smiles again, laughing a bit.

“No. Not really.”

‘Who does it belong to? Why is it *unreadable* Like this?’

“No one. It was ab-“ He shut his stupid mouth. Abandoned. That was a trigger word. He had learned that one already “It doesn’t belong to anyone.”

He looks and mouths… ‘Why’.

“It has survived longer than any of them, I guess.” And yet not a single ghost.

He nods, and let’s himself explore a little bit, touching the old furniture carefully, as if at any point something would jump from the shadows and attack him. Orfeu walks towards the curtains. The. Longest. Fucking. Curtains. He has ever seen. He yanks one out of the windowsill, throws it around his body like a dress.

One, two, three steps of some waltz he doesn’t really know how to dance, hands holding an imaginary partner. Haru stares at him with curiosity.

“You know that scene from Beauty and the Beast?” He looks confused. He doesn’t know because why would he? Happiness is not allowed on the world he came from “We could re-enact that. Pretty sure you are the Beauty part of the deal… And I’m not really the Beast, I hope. Probably just the talking chandelier. Or the curtain-boy, that works too.”

He stops his silly little dance. Haru is smiling at him. But now, now he sees the ghost. Two of them, an old man and a Labrador, on the hallway upstairs. He walked after them, forgetting his own advice of watching his steps.

Haru followed him, much more carefully. The smell of tobacco hit him in once he was upstairs, from the pipe of the old man. Haru watched him carefully… He couldn’t really see the ghosts, could he? So in his eye it was just his Master acting like a lunatic yet again. Oh well.

Freak. Freak. Freak. – The darkness taunt. The ghost of the dog barks, and the darkness shuts the fuck up. For once. The old man lets out a trail of smoke. He talks to an invisible someone, inside one of the bedrooms. A memory. Pets the ears of the Labrador.

He is about to speak with them but…

“M-Ma” Haru chokes. His breathing is now audible. His eyes are closed, as if just making those sounds is a huge effort. He is holding a little paper… So Orfeu must have been focusing on the ghost for longer than he thought. Enough to maybe ignore Haru for a bit. “Mas.. Ma..T..” It’s okay. He smiles, patiently. Let him speak. This is good. Is good that he is trying right? It’s good “Mas..T…Te…r”.

He gasps as he finishes, a long sigh and his eyes are open again. An immense effort… and hell, Orfeu is proud of him. He pets the boy’s head once again, before accepting the note he is being offered.

‘Do Hous…

May

Can I ; Can your pet make a question?’

Orfeu nods. Something hard is coming now… Or he wouldn’t bother asking if he was allowed to ask.

“Always. Is good that you are asking questions, okay?”

Blue eyes look at him, sad, not really believing. Alright. Scribble, scribble, scribble.

‘Will the house of Haru’s this slave’s *unreadable* previous owners *unreadable* be like this someday?’

“Yeah. It will.”

He nods…. His anxiety seems to be pilling up. Scribbles.

‘This place had a Master? Did they have pets like me?

“I’m not sure. They had dogs, the… Hm, canine type?” Which reminds him… The ghosts are gone. Lost interest, probably. More scribbling sounds… and Haru looks distressed.

‘Master’s homes can’t *unredable* like this, they are perfect, clean, and *unreadable* pet’s job to keep organized and good and *unreadable* houses are bad without owners and pets are useless *scribbles* need be good *unreadable* I’m use pet is useless”

He is too distressed to finish this one. He is about to yank the page off and start again, but Orfeu stops him, gently touching his hand.

“Do you want to hear a secret?” Haru stops… Breaths in. Open his mouth, closes it again. He nods, eyes widen with fear and expectancy “…Time goes on, no matter who you are. To Master’s and their ‘pets’… To animals and trees. Even houses like this one and like the one you lived before and the one we live in together. Eventually… Everything succumbs to time. And on the end… We are all the same.”

…Haru lowers his head, wanting to hide the frown. A storm behind his icy-blue eyes. Did that scare him more? He hoped not. It was something that he found to be weirdly comforting, even if pessimistic. And… And it was true. He pulled Haru’s chin up. He shivered a bit when they made eye contact.

“We are here now. We are alive. And you know what? It kind of sucks. But it can be nice, too. You don’t need anyone’s permission to be alive. You don’t need to be owned. You are not useless. Hell, you don’t need to be useful because you are not a thing. You don’t exist for that… I don’t know why you exist but then again, I don’t know why I exist either. We are just stuck on this together, and one day, we will be gone. But then again, everything will.” Pulls a lock of white hair from his face. Sad blue eyes, lost in thought. “Look… I’m happy we can spend time together. And I hate that so much of your time was taken from you. So… If you want to, we could go and get ice cream. It’s cold and sweet and honestly, I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Leave this place to its ghosts.

Scribbles.

‘Ice cream sounds nice’

#oc whump #whump writing #pet whump #orfeu and haru

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sol-korolevas · 4 years ago

Text

—𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐨 𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭

pairing: rk900 x gn!reader

words: 8.2k+

summary: “there you are, the wound. the warning. what am i, then? the breach?”

warning: super mild violence (for now)

note: gosh writing dbh brings me back to the days where i habitually upload at least one fic to the tag. it’s been several months since my last fic so i’m gonna need to rectify that :3c this work is inspired by a previous fic, but i added more meat into this one. rk900 is such a bastard in my book and i hope i do his bastardness some justice so enjoy!

Never show weakness.

Weakness can be controlled and manipulated. It leaves you vulnerable to the mercy of the enemy; it’ll kill you. But weakness is also a human facet that’s ingrained into the mind. And it’s a remembrance to humanity’s mistakes and proof of the existence of humanity.

Someone told you weakness cannot be shed, but you can tether it and guard it with your ferocity.

And, they said, ferocity is precious.

Wear it like a crown of fangs.

Hold it as a gun, heavy and warm on the flesh of your hand.

“What did you do?”

All of a sudden, you feel the oppressive stare of RK900 pushing down on you. When once you can easily respond in kind, you now feel at a loss.

Control everything, even your weakest emotions.

And yet, you still lost control. You pulled the trigger too early, believing that you had won. After the explosion comes reality, the world shatters, bending forward until it's weight pushes you down onto your knees. The gun in your hand slips out and clatters onto the ground beside you - now just a deadweight. The ringing is loud and you’re not sure if it's from the aftermath of the shooting or from your own mind. You cannot block out the noise no matter how close you press your palm to your ears. Suddenly, you have no idea where everything is anymore. All you can think about is the ‘why’s ‘and the ‘how’s’.

“[Name]!” a familiar voice calls to you and you turn your gaze towards it, eyes watching with a pathetic plea for help. RK900’s icy stare run chills down your spine, even more so when he’s standing tall and looking down upon you like the wraith he is.

He crouches then, setting his gun beside him, his body blocking away the sight behind him as he takes your chin and tilts it up. The gesture is tender, if not for the blankness of his stare.

You sometimes forget he’s incapable of the fundamental kindness humans have. Within his barren heart is just the life force that keeps him moving.

The void in his eyes stare back and you panic, reaching towards his wrist with both of your hands so you can wrap them around it.

He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you shoot the hostage, [Name]?” he murmurs, but the venom in his words is clear. “You were supposed to save it and you failed.” When you don’t respond, he squeezes your chin and, out of instinct, you attempt to stand, almost falling to the ground before RK900 grabs your shoulders and pushes you down.

“Don’t move,” he says. “Just answer my question.”

The flicker of emotion in his words terrifies you and it further reminds you of the catastrophe laid out in front.

“I-I lost control of myself—” you choke out, eyes following RK900’s movement as he stands and walks toward the fallen android.

Time becomes still. The ocean doesn’t smell like an ocean anymore as the scent of red and blue blood bloats the air. Even the gull birds’ cries have been swept away by the chill of the aftermath. Shadow drapes over the cargos; the area you are in is illuminated by dim lights - the strongest of which is cast over the pile of bodies.

The only sound left is the click of his pristine shoes and your heart beating through your ear.

Your body falls forward, elbows keeping you from fully meeting the ground, as you watch him crouch down and take out the thirium pump. There are black wires still connecting it to the android before RK900 rips the pump away. You see the red LED light on the fallen android’s temple blink rapidly until it goes blank.

“What are you doing?” you ask in horror.

“Cleaning up the mess you made, [Name],” Rk900 says, throwing you a brief glance over his shoulder. His words quickly silence you, the brevity of it all coming back after the initial shock of seeing RK900 doing this.

He then takes the kidnapper’s gun and shoots the android in the forehead, before replacing the gun back into the kidnapper’s hand and once more into its chest. The skin on his arm is dissolved - a safety precaution.

The light of his LED circulates yellow and orange as his skin eventually returns. You watch as RK900 begins to search for something, before finding it - a bullet - and picks it up.

He’s feeling the weight of it, moving it around in his hold as if studying the shape. “I’ve wiped the cameras and cleared the android’s memory cache, now no one will know what happened.”

“No, this is wrong,” you quickly say, scrambling up. But before you can move properly, your body tips forward from the fatigue. And RK900 is there to catch you, gripping your waist with one arm. Immediately you rip your gaze away, not wanting him to see you at your most vulnerable anymore.

But in the end, RK900 wins - he always wins - as you turn your gaze to him. You notice the corner of his mouth twitch as if he’s going to smile. Instead, he says,“ ‘This is wrong’? Would it be better if I tell the command what you did then?”

The numbness in your mind stops.

Some sense finally floods in as you disassemble his words. There’s nothing but a grim reality for you if word gets out. If he speaks - if any of you speaks - then the years behind you will truly be lost, forever. And you’ll be marked by the sin you just committed.

But this is no less criminal than what you just did.

And despite it all, the naively moral person in you still wouldn’t relent. “Unfix all of this, RK900.”

“You can’t tell me what to do, [Name],” he says, pressing the hand containing the bullet against yours., “Not when I am saving both of us.”

There’s no ‘but’s’ and ‘if’s’; no hesitations either. It’s either a shaky road ahead or punishment.

You must accept this and with acceptance, you slump your shoulders. But the grip on your waist tightens and you squeak, feeling soreness everywhere on your body.

“So now it’s a secret, and we lie,” you manage to say, forcing yourself to look into RK900’s eyes. But it’s not easy with RK900, despite having a hand in this. The look of superiority so natural to him diminishes all hope of sympathy for your plight. Although you’re not looking for that; you’re now looking for a semblance of peace, more than ever. “Unless—”

Your breath hitches as he tugs you closer, his pale lips brushing too close to the shell of your ear.

“Unless you are not doing what we all agreed to,” he tells you, voice calm and collected. This is now personal to RK900, you can hear it by the hush of his words. He sees some kind of chance, some kind of reason to do what he did.

Except, he has no sense of monetary or material value. You know because he always plays by the book - he’s a military and police assistance designed to assist human officers.

He wants one thing and one thing only.

“You want me to continue to work as a police detective.”

You watch as he chuckles, eyes creasing with a hint of pleasure glimmering underneath his stormy gaze. But the brief look of human emotion feels foreign; it’s a mask he wears. Underneath the light, he looks far more like a fiend.

The thick blocky letters of his name fizzle in and out as you mindlessly cling onto the fabric of his shoulder.

“Absolutely, but you’ll listen to me without question. No more rebellion, no more excuses- you’ll learn from me and build your profession with my assistance.”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing manages to come out. In the past, he had always made it hard for you. You came in late, he scolds you; you forget a deadline, he scolds you; you talk too much with a coworker, he tells Fowler and then returns to mock you. To RK900, you’re too careless and naive - vastly different from the perfection that he is.

To anyone else, RK900’s condition can be easy - normal even. But you know, underneath his request, is another demand.

Absolute obedience.

But now, everything is better than being fired.

“Think of this as a punishment for you, [Name],” comes RK900’s voice. He still doesn’t release you, knowing that you hate unnecessary contact between himself and you more than anything in this world. You sense a certain kind of twisted pleasure forming in him, from the smugness in his tone to the way he looks at you. “And think of this as a lesson too, on why you should think before you act,” he adds.

If you have a clearance of mind and of a stronger character, you would’ve argued back and taken control of the situation. Especially since you are his superior in both name and title. And under normal circumstances, you will absolutely rebel against him.

He’s supposed to be underneath you, not the other way around.

Sucking in a deep breath, you say, “Okay, I’ll work harder and accept your input.”

It’s hard to keep sarcasm away usually, but this time you’re serious.

A part of you still doesn’t feel right. It feels like you’re closer to corruption - the opposite of what you want to be. Your cheeks are heating up and there’s a tremble to your limbs. The ringing in your ears is still present.

“Very good, I know we can somehow come to a mutual agreement one day.” RK900 finally lets you go before passing a thumb across your cheek. You flinch and move away as far as you can. He knows you hate the agreement as much as he enjoys it.

When you see him turn his back on you in the distance, you open your hand. The bullet is deformed. There’s a chance that no one will even know this bullet is shot by a different gun. You still have your gun with you.

RK900 could’ve easily mentioned this and gave you peace of mind.

And he must’ve transferred the memory cache into himself before wiping it away from the android.

You’ve always thought he’s trying to work his way above you.

Now you think he succeeded

“Detroit’s first android ambassador.” Fowler’s words are heavy and thick as he paces around his office. You and RK900 both watch in silence, standing side-by-side in front. The screen behind him flashes the news of what happened two days before. Every once in a while you see the frozen features of the android you shot, looking back at you. There’s no life in those empty-looking eyes.

Nothing that gives a hint of it being once alive.

Immediately, you look away.

In one corner, you notice a small video screen with the leftover remnants of Markus’s rebellion speaking at a podium. It cuts off to Fowler speaking at a press conference, but the words are muted.

You fucked up, you fucked up so bad and they don’t even know the other half of it.

“Do you know the name of this android you’re saving, [Last]?” Fowler asks, nodding towards the screen where the android’s face appears. You want to look away, but you know it’ll only force you to dig a deeper grave. Fowler isn’t stupid; he knows all the tics in you from the moment you joined. There’s a reason why he’s here in this position. But Fowler doesn’t wait for an answer, because he says, “RK900, tell [Name] the name of the hostage that was supposed to be saved.”

“Victor, sir,” RK900 says without hesitation. He doesn’t look at Fowler, instead, he keeps his gaze to the floor with an emotionless look on his face. He seems so passive and subservient; you couldn’t even hear the coldness in his voice. You’re not sure whether you like him like this or if you’re envious of Fowler because of RK900’s difference in demeanor.

“Victor—” Fowler sits down on his office chair and brings his fingers together, his elbows resting on the desk— “Android-kind’s hope to rectify a long, long period of scorn and hate from the society that built them.”

He sighs, huffing out a breath. “At least there are still other ambassadors willing to meet us.”

You look up from your gaze on the floor, noticing the way Fowler’s shoulders sag as he picks up a picture frame. There’s a brief flash of tenderness in his eyes before he sets down the frame and looks back at you.

“I’ve asked Hank to make sure the other android ambassadors are all safe - put them in witness protection if need be.”

“That’s a very good plan, sir,” RK900 replies.

Fowler is still looking pointedly at you, his face unwavering in the seriousness of the situation. You know your face is cracked, splitting between guilt and remorse. To the unknowledgeable outsider, they would think it’s from the failed hostage extraction.

Silence slowly brews and Fowler is awaiting a response from you. RK900’s knuckles brush against yours in an effort to make you talk without verbalizing his intentions.

You know you need to speak - you want to speak - but all the words catch in your throat. Even your mind is in chaos; it wants to justify what you did while putting in caution to not let slip of what really happened; it wants to come up with ways to make some kind of amendment, some kind of solution to all this.

But, none of this can rewind time and bring Victor back.

“Why did you allow the kidnapper to shoot the hostage?”

You tense, suddenly hearing the gunshot ring inside your ear again and the painful feeling of your knees hitting the ground. But amidst the chaos, RK900’s footsteps going towards the pile of bodies echoes with clarity. You still remember all the words he said, the promise he made to you, and the promise you made to him. And then, when you finally find yourself coming up with an explanation, you realize you couldn’t.

Years before you promised yourself not to fall into the depths of corruption - as both a civilian and as police.

But, oh, how the tables turned.

“I-I won’t lie, we did fail, and—” you pause just as you feel RK900’s hand bump into the back of yours. It’s a deliberate act; it’s him warning you not to tell. And you look at him - at his face - and see the faint furrow of his dark brows and the set of his jaw. He doesn’t look back, but you can already feel his voice playing against your mind.

Keep quiet.

RK900’s hands are now folded behind his back as he takes one step forward. “We tried initiating contact with the kidnapper as diplomatically as possible, but when he saw us, he struck. I believe he meant to kill the hostage anyway; it was merely a game for him.” He spoke with such calmness that Fowler must believe it.

And Fowler does - you watch him shake his head, his eyes looking to a spot beside your leg. “So it seems as if he’s playing with you - only to end up killing Victor and then himself.” He inhales sharply, before breathing out as he gazes back at you. “And I suppose you were the one who shot the kidnapper?”

“Yessir,” you say, words slurring a little - a lack of eloquence and professionalism as RK900 would put it. You briefly look away, fingers picking at the fabric of your dress shirt.

“Captain, [Name]’s safety was also important - especially when they’re still new to all of this.”

The words sting more than they should. Most because you know in some way RK900 is hiding his own opinion of you underneath a fake tone of sympathy and concern for you. In the end, he’s still the dominant voice and the dominant mind.

You can tell Fowler right now about the degree to which RK900 made you obey him and work until he is satisfied. You once thought about lying to Fowler that you suspect RK900’s a deviant - despite being assured he cannot deviate. But you’re neck-deep in a lie right now and you don’t suppose RK900 will let you off this easily.

And Fowler may not trust androids completely yet but he seems to have full faith in RK900’s responsibilities to assist you as both partner and mentor. Regardless of how many boundaries crossed, Fowler will not be able to regulate that because RK900 isn’t human.

“For now I can look past your rookie mistake, but if the higher-ups question it, I’ll be forced to bring you back into this office for a thorough investigation. Mark my words, [Name], count your blessings now because I damn hope nothing comes out of it.”

This is the kindest Fowler has ever said to you in your work environment.

“Thank you for your words, Captain,” you say, straightening your back.

He nods his head, saying, “I expect a report from you by the end of your shift tonight, [Name].” He then reaches for something, a picture frame, before pausing. “You know, I sense a change in you. You’re not like who you were when you were younger.”

You understand Fowler is expecting an answer from you, but you feel trapped by what he said. A part of you feels confused, wanting him to explain.

You then take a look at RK900, briefly wondering if he’ll say something. He’s looking at you instead, icy eyes watching you back, that telltale sign of condescension glimmering in his gaze. You immediately look back, staring at the group of picture frames on Fowler’s desk.

“Yes, I understand,” is your only response, but you know it’s not the answer you nor Fowler wanted.

You thank Fowler again and leave his office, the burdening feeling of something amiss follows you.

“I work better without someone hovering over me.”

You don’t feel the movement behind you or the heavyweight of RK900’s gaze sliding away. The intensity of his presence continues focusing on you, eventually forcing you to stop typing and push your chair away from your desk.

“I believe right now would be a perfect time for you to work,” comes his smooth response. He’s standing beside you, stiff and straight. He’s a thoughtless being who’s realistically programmed to act and do a certain way. But now he looks as if he’s hiding away his thoughts as you look at him. You try not to glare at RK900; it’s unprofessional. But your annoyance isn’t well-hidden either as you return your focus back onto the screen.

The DPD is empty except for you, Fowler, and RK900. Everyone else has their usual schedule of nine-to-five. It’s been such a common occurrence for you personally to be here earlier that you’re now used to it.

“And within ten minutes the others will arrive,” you say, picking up a pen, “You can’t expect me to finish this report by then, won’t you?” Your attempt to sound less biting fails; if it is any other person speaking you would’ve been kinder.

At least, you want to believe it so.

“Do you even know how to write a status report?” His words are sharp and blunt as ever. Much to your abject horror, he’s reading the document. He doesn’t need to physically control it to do so; he can hack. You watch him narrow his gaze, eyes scrutinizing every word you typed.

Silence folds over you as you pick at your thumb, now childishly put into a corner and unable to speak. You know you hold yourself accountable for your lack of attention to the finer aspects of reporting, but as RK900 begins deleting and re-editing your current progress, you know he’s trying to get underneath your skin.

“Use what I wrote as a guide,” he finally says, stepping back for you to read, “I assume the police academy never taught you how to write.” There’s a teasing lilt in the last of his words, but it means so much more than that to you.

Leaning in, you begin to type, using what he wrote as guidance, just as he directed. You’ve written reports before, for your high school classes and some of college. And it’s not that which is hard; it’s him, all him.

“I understand you loathe my being here, but we agreed to it, [Name].”

You stop typing once more, feeling the familiar ring pulsing in your ear. “I don’t need to be reminded.”

He never said you have to be formal to him. And in some way, you still want to show him his true place.

RK900 raises his chin, his arms clasped behind him. He’s really looking down on you in the most literal sense. “I’m also doing what I’m programmed to do.” RK900’s tone is surprisingly soft this time as if his response is intimately between you and him. “And if you can’t write something simple as a report, then I would suggest you take remedial classes somewhere so you can.”

“I thought you’re going to assist me, RK900.”

“With police work, not writing,” comes his terse response.

“No more rebellion, no more excuses- you’ll learn from me and build your profession with my assistance.”

He takes his duty of being your partner and guide to a much higher level than you had anticipated. And you fully understand that RK900 was built like this.

Except—

The need to hide and destroy evidence wasn’t - no, shouldn’t be - programmed into him.

Many times you’re not even sure you know what RK900 is. Time and time again something tells you he’s a deviant, but the high collar of his uniform and the promise by Cyberlife attests to something else entirely. And his strict adherence to serving humans far exceeded his capabilities of free-thinking.

Just the simple thought of his role in that makes you shiver.

But as you start typing again, you feel the tip of RK900’s fingers settle on the back of your hand and you turn your face towards him, silently asking for a reason.

“Except for that little bit of rebellion back there, you’re doing wonderful,” he tells you, voice soft. The smugness returns as a vague smirk plays on his lips. You furrow your brows and ignore him, steadily keeping your eyes on the monitor as your fingers resume the typing.

“Would you like me to tell the rest not to bother you?”

Before you can respond, you hear footsteps coming into the precinct.

Swiveling your chair around, you see Gavin first, his hands slipped inside his jeans, followed by Chris in his uniform, and Hank walking behind. And Connor, much to your disappointment, must have finally made his decision to leave the DPD.

“Why you gotta upstage us again, Rookie?” Gavin says, holding his hands out.

You are then greeted by Chris and Hank as they take their seats. Except for Gavin, who is still waiting for you to respond. A side of you is relieved he’s here; as annoying as he is, he brightens the place. But, on the other hand, RK900’s still here too.

And before you can react, RK900 is standing firm beside you. A look of displeasure is on his face, lips thin and eyes pointedly looking at Gavin. “Detective Reed, my partner has a name you should use.”

You reach for the cuff of RK900’s sleeve and grip it, pulling it against his wrist. “Don’t meddle, please.”

Despite your attempt to keep your words between you and him, Gavin hears and reacts with a smirk.

“Yeah, ‘don’t meddle’ you stone-faced robot,” he says, sneering. The look of ill-disguised contempt washes over his face as he crosses his arm. “This conversation is between me and Rookie, yeah?” His last words are directed at you, brown eyes flickering over to you, silently asking for input.

“It’s—” you look back up to RK900, figuring that in the end, it’s better to placate him than Gavin— “I shouldn’t talk while at work.” Your words suddenly feel foreign and you want to sink into your chair.

Meanwhile, Gavin stares at you, one eyebrow raising as he places his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Huh, you sound odd today.” He then waves his hand out and scratches the back of his neck. “Well, whatever, you do what you gotta, I guess.”

You and RK900 both watch as Gavin takes his seat near the entrance.

Then, RK900 moves until he’s blocking Gavin’s entire desk and figure, a motion that doesn’t go unnoticed by your eyes.

“Unrefined wretch - his immaturity will cost him his reputation as the face of Detroit.”

“You have no business judging him,” is your response. You lean back into your chair and cross your legs, partially relieved that the tension has subsided for now between Gavin and RK900. Yet still, another remains, hovering in-between RK900 and you now. Your lips press together, heel rubbing against the tile floors, attempting to strike down the budding irritation in you.

“RK900—” you turn your chair until you can fully face him— “Why do you hate everyone so much? You respect Captain Fowler but only because of his status, right?”

Strategically, it’s uncouth of you to ask such a question, especially during work-hours. You aren’t privy to the notion that anyone can hear you discuss this, or that RK900 himself might be displeased with the question. And true to your thought, he is, as his mouth curls into a frown.

“They are all nobodies to me,” he says, words cool and even. But his eyes are an unbridled storm of hard edges. He lowers himself, bending at one knee as he looks you straight in your eyes. “You may have a good standing with them, but not me - I’m only programmed to work with them.” He presses three fingers on your knee and stands up.

“Do with it as you will, [Name], but I am your partner.”

You blink, but silently you acknowledge his response.

RK900 is right, however. He cannot develop relations with others aside from a strict work code. And there is a contrasting clash between him and people like Gavin, whose casual and carefree manner doesn’t adhere to the serious business professionalism of Rk900. Thus, easy enmity flourishes and that in itself surrounds every other individual RK900 meets.

Hank and Chris now only ever talk to you outside of work.

You feel just a bit more out of touch with everyone, but it’s not your place to argue when you should be putting those extra time to do your duties.

RK900 left for maintenance after you finished your report.

With his absence comes a peace that feels surreal, almost fake. His access to your phone and personal computer means he can send you case files and even message you if he finds it necessary. But knowing he’s going for maintenance means he won’t be able to do any of that for a few hours.

And hopefully, nothing changes during that time.

The last thing you need is someone finding the stored memory cache of that night.

“Don’t think about it,” you tell yourself as you slip on your messenger bag.

Before you can leave, Chris stops you. “Hey [Name].”

He looks around, then says, “I was going to tell you this, but RK900 was there and I don’t want to end up like Gavin.” You see a nervous look on his face when he mentions RK900, which you wouldn’t fault him at all for.

“Don’t worry, RK900’s in CyberLife headquarter now,” you tell him, adjusting the strap of your bag.

“Oh, that’s a relief!” Chris answers, sighing. “Connor wants to meet you, Hank’s supposed to be the messenger but he got work to do. You can find Conner at the old playground - you’ll know which one.”

There’s a beat in-between, before he adds, “Best not to mention it to RK900.”

“—and I cannot believe the process of finding an apartment,” Connor says, leaning against the black railing with a smile on his face. “But it’s liberating, there’s so much detail that I can decide for myself. Hank helped too; he argued with the agent and he must’ve worked something out because the next thing I know, he’s handing me the key.”

He smiles and rubs his hands together.

“It sounds like you really liked the experience,” you tell him. You watch as his shoulders shake, but he’s not laughing. Smile pulling into a frown, you touch his shoulder and say, “Are you cold?”

“Yeah, my internal system sometimes gets sensitive during cold weather - I’ve replaced it with older parts.” He doesn’t look at you, instead, he keeps his focus onto the view ahead, where the ocean stretches until it hits the coast. Dark clouds curl from the factory chimneys in the distance, reminding you of the days spent bicycling through the empty streets, wanting to go inside one of those factories where your parents worked.

And you don’t miss the way Connor’s tone changes when he utters those last words. It’s been a year since he left CyberLife and ever since then, both good and bad changes have come for him. Freedom for the exchange of degradation and a life of half-scorn and half-hope.

You gleaned some of Connor’s experience from Hank. But you never had the chance to fully understand.

A part of you doesn’t want to; comforting words isn’t something you can effortlessly gift to someone.

“You think I can make it through this year?” Connor asks, clasping his hands tightly. He’s looking down, face full of solemnity and a vague sense of defeat. He doesn’t speak much about this kind of worry to anyone, so you are left struck with the realization that he trusts you enough to say this to you.

You suddenly feel burdened and undeserving of that trust.

You shake your head, silently gazing at the space between the two chimneys in the distance. The material of your scarf’s able to hide your mouth, but it cannot hide the frown from your face. “Of course you will,” you tell him, placing your hands on the railing, “You won’t break - I promise.”

The phone in your pocket vibrates and you place a hand over the pocket and hesitates.

Connor turns to face you and tilts his head. “[Name], is something wrong?”

The voice in you wants to answer him that yes, something’s wrong. It’s RK900 calling, because it’s always him that cares too much to call you when you’re off work. No matter how much the deafening voice is telling you now to answer and yell at him, you can’t. Connor is here and this moment is for him.

“Yes, but it’s there’s always a little wrong if you’re me,” you say, chuckling.

His gaze softens and you don’t miss the way he smiles fondly at you. And despite the problems he’s facing, it’s always easy to see him do that. You’re not certain if he’s just like that or if there’s something you don’t know about it. But this is the Connor you’re most familiar with and you terribly miss having him in the DPD.

And since he’s here—

“Would you ever think of coming back to the DPD?”

Surprise appears on his face, taken aback by your abrupt question. He doesn’t respond but the LED blinks rapidly in orange. You don’t want to make it too serious of a question to worry him so you look away and pretend he said no. Connor deserves a break - a long one anyway - and it’s not like there are no androids like him out there who can fill in his space.

Once upon a time, you thought he would be a good replacement.

“If you don’t want to, I understand, but—” you stop yourself, taking in a shuddering breath as you attempt to collect your nerves. It’s unsavory - perhaps even pathetic - of you to want Connor back. But it’s the wishful knowledge that you can see his warm smile in the DPD rather than just the cold gray eyes of RK900 is a thought of comfort.

You feel uneasy and you begin to adjust the strap on your messenger bag. The weight beside you is a welcoming right now.

“No, I would like that,” Connor says, smiling. And you can see it, the flicker of hope in his honey-brown eyes. “I would love to work with Hank again, and I would love to work with you on a case together,” he adds, placing his arm behind his back. Then the grin on his face settles back as he looks to the ground.

“But—”

“But you can’t,” you finish for him, trying to sound as gentle as possible. Both you and Connor know this, that it’s an unspoken rule in DPD that Connor cannot work anymore. He’s ineffective, old, and useless according to his makers and the numerous flaws on his body has rendered him incapable to be on most cases anyway.

But there’s another truth that overshadows everything else.

“My presence isn’t particularly well-liked there.” He laughs, but it’s forced and absent of his usual light humor. You know he’s upset about this - it pains him to not be able to do something he truly loves to do.

“It’s RK900, isn’t it?”

Connor looks back up at you and he frowns. He’s still for a moment, the wind brushing through his dark brown hair. Stray strands linger across his forehead, hiding the LED behind them. “My successor will be the first to have objections. I don’t think Detective Reed would like me back either, considering our last meeting involved my fist to his face.”

“Fuck RK900,” you say, voice louder. You feel the sole of your boots digging into the thin trace of snow as you step forward. “He doesn’t own you and even I have more jurisdiction than him. Gavin’s long forgotten about that incident and I’m damn sure even he would rather it’s you in there than him.”

The fierceness in your words doesn’t betray the way your hands shake. You know it’s wrong to force Connor to come back. But your own selfishness far outcries the sensibility within you at this moment.

Connor blinks, taken aback by your sudden response. You feel the creep of warmth through your cheeks the more time passes, especially when you realize he’s assessing you. That is something Connor will never part with, that instinct-like need to observe first.

But before you can talk more, a pair of footsteps, heavy and deliberate, breaks the silence between you.

Immediately, you feel the warmth that had risen a moment before ebb back into a cold void. In the same moment you attempt to step forth, you decide to step back instead. Cold eyes stare at you, but you couldn’t find the previous energy you had to even look properly.

“RK900.” And it’s Connor who said the first word, calling to his successor in the same clinical manner Rk900 would speak in towards everyone around him. All of a sudden, the [person] who spoke with tenderness is gone, his entire facade now hardwired into that of a near-emotionless being.

And RK900, who up until now has been looking at you, turns his gaze toward him. He’s not in the Cyberlife issued white and black uniform but in a black turtleneck sweater and dark fitted jeans and polished black oxfords. Even so, the entirety of his form recalls the usual coldness of his existence.

You’re aware that the same situation as this morning will happen again. But that was different; the one in front of him had been Gavin.

This time, it’s Connor and he’s—

“A deviated failure, how quaint,” comes RK900’s venomous words, but it’s only concealing the darker intentions underneath. You’re not sure who to push back or who to tell to stand down.

But you know who is more likely to act first.

“RK900, that’s enough; we’re leaving.” In your attempt to break the dangerous tension, you wedge yourself between him and Connor, before pushing yourself against RK900. The uncomfortable closeness only makes you nervous, but the need to separate them far outweighs your own distress. “This is an order!” you add, realizing that RK900’s not moving.

Neither Connor nor RK900 has said anything about your involvement, although they may be too focused on each other to care. This is dangerous, you know, because if they clash then no one - not even a military-trained soldier - can break them apart.

The last time someone tried, it broke their arm.

And that someone was you.

You’re not certain you want to mentally live another day if something like this happens again.

Suddenly, you feel a palm on the back of your shoulder. RK900’s glancing down at you and you look up, desperately trying to plead to him to go.

Don’t make the same mistake, don’t harm him.

“Is this why [Name] wants me back? Because of you?”

You freeze, realizing this will never end unless one of them relents. You can still remember the first time, but now is not the time to relish in the past. And now that Connor has spoken, you know RK900 will make sure he gives him an answer.

Turning your gaze, you see his jaws tense and the glimmer of hunger in RK900’s eyes. A tightness forms in your chest as you change your position and attempt to pull him by his arm. It’s useless; RK900 is as much a stone as he is a war machine.

“Oh, worry not, we don’t miss you—” he breaks, eyes flitting back to you with a look of heavy disapproval on his face— “And certainly not [Name].” The last of his words are also for you, but well-hidden enough that only you know.

Connor’s hand curls into a tight fist and no doubt is he thinking of using it like he did with Gavin. You can see it in the tenseness of his jaws, the wrinkle of flesh between his brows, and the narrowing of his eyes. The potent hostility between them only builds and builds despite the time in-between their previous meeting.

And RK900 sees this, it makes him sneer in a show of dominance.

“Are you really sure you want to fight me here? In a discarded playground?” The mocking tone in his voice is strong enough that you know it’s meant to enrage Connor.

It’s working too. The red on Connor’s LED is flashing dangerously underneath the strands of hair covering it.

As much as you want to see RK900 defeated, you know you cannot let Connor pull the punch first.

“We’re leaving now, RK900, or I promise you I’ll tell Fowler about this,” you whisper, uncaring now of what happens in the future between you and him.

“And what then? Don’t make me remind you of your position right now,” is his response.

You see Connor looking at you, concern written across his face. “What does he mean by that?”

For a moment, all eyes are on you as you attempt to come up with an answer. Once again you feel like a prey underneath the oppressive eyes of RK900. Still, you stand your ground and keep your hands on his arms. “Nothing, there’s nothing really.” A fake calmness is in your voice, one that you know Connor must’ve seen through. You tug once more at RK900’s arm, uncaring whether or not it’s too harsh of a gesture.

“[Name]—” But before he can finish his sentence, RK900 has turned, finally allowing you to pull him away. “[Name] wait!” You hear Connor walking forward, attempting to stop you. But you throw him a look, a silent plea for him to not come.

Not long after, the playground’s out of your line of sight.

You’re going home, the waning frustration having worn away any semblance of peace in you. But the budding anger feels like fangs gnawing at the back of your mind. You don’t think you’ll get any sleep tonight and be able to wake up tomorrow either.

But you also cannot go home, because RK900 is following you even though you’ve walked and walked. The feeling of his cold stare is like a knife stabbing at your back. So you stop, having walked into an alleyway that’s a detour to your apartment, and you turn to face him.

He also stops, standing just a few feet away, eyes settling upon your own. The longer the seconds tick by, the more irate you become and the more nervous you feel. So many times you feel like you’ve been cornered by him. Now that you’re physically cornered, the hair on the back of your neck is slowly standing stiff and a sharp coldness runs down your back.

“I’m off work.” The calmness in your tone surprises you, but you know that calmness will quickly subside the moment something snaps. The glance you give him is only a warning; hell, it’s a learned reaction from him. But, you’re not finished and the flame within you is blazing stronger and stronger still.“And don’t you think it’s unprofessional of you to try to antagonize an ex-coworker?”

“I never regretted my decision,” RK900 says, clasping his arms together behind his back.

“And the first time it happened?”

“That was a mistake.”

You almost laugh, knowing all too well the pain that coursed through your arm when it got broken. Everything was so muddled back then, your memory, that is. So you’re not sure who was the one that broke your arm. You want to blame RK900, but you don’t want to bend that low.

“We all make mistakes, [Name],” RK900 says, sharp gaze stubbornly holding yours, neve letting you go.

We all make mistakes.

Right.

“It’s a bit late now, isn’t it?” you say, words harsh but, in your mind, appropriate. And it’s not like it has a singular meaning. Your own bitterness towards yourself is still there, etched into the very words. Whether or not RK900 notices this is his problem.

And you’ve run out of patience to wait for him to respond.

You turn and continue making your way out of the alley and into the street, where fluorescent lights decorate each shop. There are only a few civilians out, the distinction between whether or not any of them is an android or not now blurred by their lack of uniforms and LEDs.

This time, you remain en route to your apartment, wanting nothing but the comfort of your bed. And when the familiar off-white color of the building appears in your line of vision, you walk faster.

But before you can fish out your keys and unlock the double doors, a hand on your shoulder stops you.

“Why are you following me?” It’s easy now for you to tell apart his hand from others - there’s always a strength to it. You also don’t miss the intrusive warmth behind your back.

This time, you turn out of your own will. The sun hasn’t set yet and you can see RK900 staring back at you, face blank - almost serene.

“I have a question for you, and I hope you may answer it,” he says, voice low.

“A question for me,” you say, sounding out each word slowly. Again, the nagging feeling of wanting to laugh, to scream at him, gnaws at the edge of your brain. You just want to go home and he’s not even giving you that luxury.

RK900 seems to sense it too because for a moment you notice the way he frowns before he reigns his expression back. “If you had answered my call, I wouldn’t have to chase you down like this.”

“Thought you were in maintenance.”

“I can still access the phone application installed in me - you should already know that.”

You press a hand to your face and slide it down hard. You do, you do know he can call you whenever he pleases. It’s not like that was the first time he attempted to do so.

But sometimes it’s easier to lie.

“Okay,” you say, fully giving up now. “I’m all ears.”

You think he’s going to talk about Connor, again. But, no, he doesn’t because you notice there’s no trace of displeasure on his face, yet. Instead, he says, “No matter what, I want to remind you all that I did and am doing is for you, [Name].” He closes in, his body now just inches before you. Thankfully no one’s walking the street right now except for a few passing cars.

Your hands are up, ready to push him away, but you stop, letting them linger in the air. “You could change, you know. Be nicer, be better.” It’s hesitant, the way you say those words, and perhaps naive in the way you told it.

“And why should I?” he asks, leaning closer. “Would kindness protect you from the world? Wasn’t it your own kindness that left you injured?” He’s glaring down at you, attempting to trap you in a corner again. You cannot take a step back, the door is right behind you.

“I know you wanted Connor to replace me, I’ve known since you first met him,” he adds, sensing that you wouldn’t be responding any time sooner.

He’s right. And although you question how he knew, you realize it’s too late to find out. But do you even care if he knows? It may be better for him to know he’s not all that superior if he’s second at best.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t honor our agreement,” is your response. “And I only wanted Connor back in the DPD and not as my partner.” You take in a deep breath, mind now burning with the need to stray away from this, all of this.

Your attempt to sound confident in front of his presence only makes you seem like a trapped animal even more. Yet still, you place your hands on his chest, holding him at a distance. RK900 reacts with a chuckle, much to your relief, as he stays.

“Even if the broken one comes back, he will never make you a better version of yourself. Remember [Name], your dream? You told me about it when we first met; you said you wanted to become a police lieutenant at least. You want to earn it through hard and honest work. You have a powerful dream, [Name], and I fully intend to see it happen.”

The conviction in his words shatters you. You know RK900 is incapable of lying, maybe hide facts and manipulate it, but never outright lie. At least, not to you. And you do remember what you told him before. That wide-eyed new member of the DPD, staring at their future android partner and telling it their wish. That was all you.

But to know he knows of your dream baffles you. He’s efficient, merciless, and stoic - a well-built machine. And to think he remembers something as insignificant as your dream makes you want to believe he’s something more.

RK900’s hand suddenly drapes over your own, causing your shoulder to stiffen.

“Kindness is a choice [Name]. ”

He’s slowly pushing your arms down.

RK900 then steps back, his focus still lingering on you. “I see it, from time-to-time, but it should be directed elsewhere. If you can use something more efficient, I believe you’ll make it.”

And he puts his hand up and waves briefly at you. Wordlessly, you wave back.

“And [Name]–” he stops himself, eyes searching for something on you— “I forgot to mention this, but if you don’t need me anymore, I will be forced to deactivate and taken apart. They will see into my memory cache if it happens; remember that.”

RK900 doesn’t wait for your response.

Seconds pass and you feel yourself slumping against the door.

This is all a ploy, one could even admit to saying it was a selfish act of benevolence.

But it’s still not right. You want to believe RK900 is still an android, too crude and unrefined to be anything more than what he already is.

He’s only doing this because that’s what he’s programmed to believe in.

Unconsciously, your fingers touched the back of your hand.

You can feel the phantom warmth of his hand, urging you to comply.

Your phone vibrates with an incoming call. It’s Saturday and you’re off, but the chance to be called on-duty is enough for you to rouse yourself. Sluggishly, you lean over and grab your phone. Several empty cups of ramen fall down before you find it.

Looking at the screen, you notice that it’s not a number in your contacts.

Surely it belongs to a telemarketer.

But right after you slide it close, the same number calls you again.

This time, you answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, [Name].”

You feel your heart drop. “Markus?”

note: YIKES i hope you guys like this. i’ve never experimented with long chaptered fics before and as a writer in general i’ve been rusty. i don’t fully intend to make this story any longer than 2-part unless i get some neat ideas going. plus, if you haven’t known, i suck at updating multi-chapters ^^;

#rk900 x reader #connor rk900 x reader #rk900 #detroit become human #dbh rk900 #rk900 connor

164 notes · View notes

goldencuffs · 5 years ago

Note

I'M HORRIBLE AT PROMPTS. laurent trying to do something really nice for damen&it kind of goes to hell but damen loves him so much&can't quit loving on him for it all? or laurent goes to some university&everyone thinks he's gorgeous but he's kind of a bitch&when he tells them he has a boyfriend everyone is like yeah right then damen comes to pick him up, looking hotter than anyone has any right to be&laurent melts with him? i'll read literally anything you write, it could be a n y t h i n g

@marrieddorkss im so so so sorry this took so fucking long lmao my god. im a mess. hopefully you still like it?? and it isnt such a fucking disaster lol??

Summary: Laurent decides to do something nice for Damen – and then immediately regrets it.

When Laurent comes back from his last class of the day, it’s to find Damen standing outside his dorm room, wearing a nice, oversized tank top and fraying shorts. The duffle bag by his feet is packed full; Laurent can see the sides of it are lumpy.

“Hey.” Damen’s smile is pleasant. It transforms his face and makes him look younger, despite the stubble growing across his face.

Laurent smiles too. “Hello,” he says, and when he’s close enough, he rests his hands on Damen’s hips and goes on his tiptoes to kiss his nose.

Damen’s smile widens, the creases by his eyes deepening. He scans Laurent’s face intently. “I’m guessing that your presentation went well?”

“It went well,” Laurent says. He pauses. “Actually, it went very well. I managed to answer every single question at the end.”

Damen wraps his arms around Laurent’s shoulders in a tight squeeze. “Fuck yeah!” He cheers. His enthusiasm is genuine, and it makes Laurent’s face heat.

“It’s not that big of a deal – I’m sure there are other people who did way better.”

“Stop that,” says Damen. He kisses Laurent’s forehead. “You killed it; I know you did.”

Laurent doesn’t answer. He just tips his head up in a silent request. Damen’s smile softens around the edges, and then he leans down to kiss Laurent fully on his mouth.

The kiss heats up quickly, as usual. Damen licks inside his mouth with vigour, his hand moving down Laurent’s back to grip his ass. Laurent moans into it, tugging on the front of Damen’s shirt to pull him closer.

Damen’s cock is already hard; it presses up against the inside of Laurent’s thigh in a slow, teasing drag. Laurent shifts his own hips forward, his body tight with anticipation.

A door slams shut at the end of the corridor and Damen detaches himself from Laurent in a measured pace, realising at the same moment Laurent does, that they’re in a very open, public setting.

“Come inside,” Laurent tells him.

Damen squeezes his ass again. “Here?” His smirk is sharp and arrogant.

Laurent hates how much he likes it.

He doesn’t let Damen know that though; instead, he rolls his eyes and drags Damen inside to his dorm room. It’s far from its usual pristine condition; Laurent hasn’t made his bed in a week, his dirty clothes are in a pile by the door and his desk is overflowing with papers, textbooks and plastic wrappers from food he’s bought lately.

Laurent grimaces at the mess. Damen doesn’t seem to mind, or even acknowledge it; he flings himself onto the single bed with as much ease as he can, hauling his duffle bag up with him.

“What’s in there?” Laurent asks.

The duffle bag is an expensive, leather one. For years, it had sat alone and dusty in the Revere’s garage, until Laurent had gifted it to Damen over the summer. Now, it’s used constantly; Damen takes it with him to classes and football practice and is rarely seen without it. He takes good care of it too: he diligently cleans it once a week and keeps it stored in his closet, away from sunlight.

Damen waggles his eyebrows in response to Laurent’s question. He sits up again and opens it with an exaggerated amount of fanfare, slowly inching the zipper in small tugs.

It’s amusing; it shouldn’t be, but almost everything Damen does makes Laurent laugh. He likes that.

Inside the lining of the bag, the tag is visible. It used to simply read ‘Revere’, but someone – probably Nikandros – has added, with marker, an apostrophe and the word ‘bitch’, so the entire thing says: ‘Revere’s bitch’.

Laurent also likes that.

Laurent doesn’t focus too long on the tag. The contents of the bag are much more appealing: there’s an assortment of treats packed haphazardly inside. Laurent can see chip packets, chocolate, tubs of ice cream and a four pack of Krispy Kreme donuts.

Laurent taps the lid of one of the ice cream containers; it’s sea salt, his favourite. “Did you rob a grocery store? Is this your first step into the tantalising world of crime?”

Damen’s shrug is uncharacteristically shy. His fingers are still toying with the zipper, but he still manages to look Laurent in the eye as he says, “They’re for you. I figured – depending on how your presentation goes – they’d either be celebratory snacks or conciliatory ones.”

Laurent smiles. There’s a sudden, pressing warmth in his chest. “Really,” he says, touched.

Damen is still shy; it’s a strange yet endearing look on him.

Laurent’s smile doesn’t waver. He pushes the duffle bag a little, so it ends up against the wall, rather than between them. He crosses the now empty space, shifting closer to Damen until Laurent manages to straddle his lap, knees digging into the hard mattress below.

He presses a soft kiss to the corner of Damen’s mouth. He keeps his mouth there, against the stubble across Damen’s jaw, and says: “Thank you. I love how thoughtful you are.”

Damen swallows, eyes darkening. His hands rest on Laurent’s hips. His touch is deceptively light.

This time, Laurent initiates the kiss. He keeps it slow, the way he favours, and Damen lets him. His hands begin to wander over Laurent’s body; even when they’re not fucking, Laurent has come to learn that Damen likes to touch him constantly.

When Damen’s hands settle on Laurent’s ass once more, Laurent shifts his hips a little. Damen’s other hand drops to cup Laurent’s ass cheek.

Laurent’s gasp is a quiet sound; most of it is swallowed by Damen’s mouth.

They begin a slow, steady rut. It reminds Laurent of the first time they did this, a few months ago in a secluded booth in Route, the small club down the road from their campus.

Laurent didn’t know Damen too well at the time, but he was always petering around the Student Life office, where Laurent had been volunteering on and off throughout the semester. He wasn’t sure what Damen did there: sometimes he volunteered to help with administrative tasks, but mostly, from what Laurent saw, Damen seemed to just want to hang around him.

They formed a tentative, shallow relationship that consisted of very poor flirting on Laurent’s part and a lot of unprecedented confidence on Damen’s.

It was obvious to everyone how much Damen wanted to fuck Laurent; he always looked half crazed every time Laurent so much as looked at him. Laurent found that he didn’t exactly mind it; Damen was attractive, receiving his attention was heady, and it wasn’t as though Laurent was swimming in proposals.

So, when Damen had asked him to hang out at Route with him on a Saturday night, Laurent had said yes, fully expecting the outcome of the evening.

Still, Damen had seemed surprised when, after two drinks, Laurent climbed into his lap. Their first kiss had been relatively innocent: just a short, chaste peck. Then Laurent, spurred on by the alcohol, deepened it. Damen responded eagerly, pulling closer Laurent and licking into his mouth with a shocking amount of indecency.

After a while, he’d pulled back. His eyes had been so dark, and he’d gazed at Laurent with awe.

Laurent had said: “If you’re going to keep looking at me like that, you might as well just fuck me here.”

Damen had inhaled sharply; even with all the noise around them, Laurent still managed to hear it.

Twenty minutes later, Laurent had been pressed down into his mattress as Damen licked him open for his cock.

As he’d pushed into him for the first time, Damen panted into his ear, “Fuck, I don’t usually do this on a first date.”

Laurent had laughed.

Afterwards, Laurent had thought he wouldn’t see much of Damen anymore. He knew how one night stands worked. He suspected that now that Damen had been inside him – more than once, actually – he would stop loitering around the Student Life office.

That didn’t happen. Instead, Damen seemed more persistent to hang around Laurent. Laurent let it happen. By this point, he’d grown fond of Damen, the way someone might feel fond over a stray puppy that constantly showed up at their door.

Besides, as the weeks wore on, Laurent discovered that as well as being extremely sexually compatible, Damen and he were also compatible outside of bed; they became fast friends, much to the bemusement of everyone else.

It’s amazing how far they’ve come, Laurent thinks. He doesn’t think he’s been so comfortable with anyone in his entire life.

Now, in the silence of his bedroom, Damen’s lips drag across Laurent’s neck. Laurent shivers, fingers running over Damen’s shoulders. He’s careful as he tugs off Damen’s shirt. Damen’s chest is marvellous – it’s all sculpted pecs and hard planes. There’s a tattoo of a lion roaring on his right pec. It’s the most obnoxious thing Laurent has ever seen, and the first time Laurent had seen it, he’d licked it. He might’ve felt stupid about it at the time, but that feeling quickly evaporated when Damen’s hips stuttered, and he’d spilled his release inside Laurent.

Once Damen’s shirt comes off, the need to get naked becomes a priority for both of them. Damen rolls Laurent onto his back after Laurent takes off his own shirt, mouthing over his collarbone, his nipples, his bellybutton, and then his hipbone.

Laurent is quick to unbuckle his belt when Damen kisses the waistband of his jeans.

Damen is always meticulous in preparing him. It doesn’t matter if it’s been five minutes or five days since they last fucked, Damen never rushes. Laurent’s given up on trying to coax him to be faster.

Laurent’s knee jerks a little when Damen’s fingers, covered in cold lube, circle around his rim in sure strokes. Damen kisses the inside of his thigh, then the crease of his groin as Laurent pants. When his finger breaches Laurent, Laurent turns his head into the pillow, moaning against the silk fabric.

“Please,” he says quietly, and Damen groans, long and loud. He likes it when Laurent begs, a fact that makes Laurent flush.

Damen continues fingering him. The sounds are disgusting, wet and sloppy. Laurent doesn’t understand why he likes it so much.

Finally, finally, Damen pulls away. Laurent’s fingers twist the bedsheets in anticipation. He knows he’s flushed all over; he can feel the colour vining across the bridge of his nose and down his chest.

Damen’s cockhead drags down his crease. It makes Laurent delirious.

“Yeah?” says Damen. His hand grips the base of his cock and his eyes are fixed on Laurent, like he can’t bear to look away. Laurent knows the feeling; Damen looks so good like this.

“Yes,” says Laurent, in Veretian.

That makes Damen groan again. He only gets louder as he pushes into Laurent. Laurent’s eyes go cross eyed at the initial stretch. He loves this: the initial pain of Damen’s cock entering him.

“God, Laurent.” Damen grunts as he starts thrusting, biting down on the column of Laurent’s neck.

“Yeah, fuck me,” Laurent says. His hands slide down Damen’s sweaty back. “Harder – please, I need it.”

“Fuck,” Damen gasps as he complies. He lifts his head from the crook of Laurent’s shoulder and kisses him.

Laurent keens into it. He wraps his legs around Damen’s waist, murmuring encouragements in Veretian against Damen’s mouth.

Damen’s thrusts start to get shallow; his rhythm isn’t synced, but it still makes Laurent’s toes curl.

“Good?” Damen says. His biceps are straining with effort.

“You know it is,” Laurent says.

“I like the confirmation,” Damen says with that terrible smirk, and Laurent closes his eyes and lets himself take it.

Damen comes first. He’s loud when it happens; Laurent is sure his neighbours hate him.

His cock is straining against his stomach when Damen pulls out. Laurent flushes when he feels the wetness inside him, and he darkens further when Damen pulls his ass cheeks apart, watching in awe as his come dribbles out of Laurent’s hole.

“Don’t touch your cock,” says Damen.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Laurent arches his back when Damen’s mouth seals over his hole.

Damen slips his tongue in easily, licking into Laurent with enthusiasm. Laurent shakes under his grip. Damen’s stubble rubs against his skin, and Laurent knows it’s steadily pinkening.

He feels on edge. His cock is so hard it hurts. He pulls on Damen’s curls desperately, and Damen buries into him deeper.

Laurent’s mouth falls open. His quiet panting fills the room, joining the cacophony of sounds Damen’s mouth produces as he eats him out.

Laurent feels like crying. He almost asks Damen to stop because it’s too much, too much, too much.

Then Damen slows down to short, tiny licks. When he resurfaces, he gives Laurent a filthy wink. His chin is wet.

Laurent comes.

Every Thursday, Laurent and Damen have lunch at a small brunch place just outside campus. It’s usually packed, but Damen always manages to secure them a table. Laurent suspects this is because Damen has slept with one of the baristas. Damen has never explicitly denied this detail.

Today, their table is outside, along the gravel path leading to the campus gardens. The weather is nice; a rarity in Marlas, and Laurent enjoys the sunshine on his face.

Initially their weekly lunch meetings had been a habit borne out of practicality: last semester, one of the only days they could meet up was on Thursday mornings. After a good, thorough fuck, Damen always needed a cigarette, and Laurent always got hungry, so their solution was to head out to this particular brunch place.

Now, though, it’s become a fixed tradition between them. Damen also refers to it as their place – which Laurent still doesn’t quite understand.

Damen orders his usual – the everything breakfast – and Laurent, pleasantly reminded of this morning’s activities when he moves in his seat, decides to order the same thing.

Halfway through their meal, they’re interrupted by Nikandros, one of Damen’s teammates. Nikandros is wearing his letterman jacket, but he shrugs it off as he pulls up a seat at their table. He steals a chorizo sausage off of Laurent’s plate, despite Laurent’s protests.

Nikandros starts talking to Damen about the statistics of their latest game while Laurent finishes up his food. Once he’s done, he pulls out his pack of cigarettes. He manages to finish half of it; he offers Nikandros the rest. Nikandros eyes fall on the cigarette, then Laurent’s mouth, before he forcibly tears his eyes away and shakes his head.

He addresses Damen again, his voice slightly hoarse, “Hey! I just remembered – guess who I saw coming out the law library today?”

“Who?” Damen takes Laurent’s cigarette.

Nikandros pauses for dramatic effect. His smirk is not as attractive as Damen’s. “Lykaios.”

Damen drops his cigarette. He doesn’t pay it much mind; instead, he leans forward in his seat, eyes alight. “Wait – seriously? You’re not messing with me?”

“Nah,” Nikandros shakes his head, looking pleased. “Asked her what she’s doing here, apparently she’s starting postgrad law this semester.” Nikandros pauses again. “Like you.”

“Wow.” Damen’s expression is brittle with disbelief. “What are the chances?”

“Seems like fate.”

“Who’s Lykaios?” Laurent asks.

“Oh,” says Damen. “She’s an old friend from when I still lived in Ios.”

“A friend,” says Nikandros. His expression is amused. “Oh, come on, you two were practically together.”

“That’s not true,” Damen says quickly. He casts Laurent a reassuring look. “It honestly isn’t.”

Laurent doesn’t understand why Damen is being so defensive; it’s not news to him that Damen has been with other people.

“You were pretty much in love with her, dude.” Nikandros picks a sausage off Damen’s plate this time.

“Oh,” Laurent says before he can help it. The statement takes him by surprise. One of the first things Damen had told him when they’d first started hooking up was: I don’t know what it’s like to be in love. In the stillness of the night, Damen had been vulnerable and open; it was the first time Laurent realised the person in his bed might be more multifaceted than he let on.

“No,” Damen gives Laurent another reassuring look. His foot presses against Laurent’s underneath the table. “I wasn’t.” His voice is firm. “There was a time I thought I was, but I was wrong.”

Nikandros clearly doesn’t believe him. He rolls his eyes and utters a small, “Whatever.”

Laurent pulls out another cigarette, thinking.

Later that night, Laurent is contemplative. It’s late: almost two in the morning and the rain outside is a welcome, soothing noise.

Laurent is so sore, he almost regrets the last round, as short as it was. It doesn’t keep him from draping himself over Damen’s chest, fingers lazily tracing over the tattoo on his pec.

Damen keeps running his fingers through Laurent’s sweat soaked hair, his fingernails gently scratching against his scalp. It’s so relaxing, Laurent feels like he could fall asleep like this. Practically, he knows he shouldn’t: there’s dry come on his stomach and between his thighs. He’s also sweaty, and Damen is too.

But instead of getting up, Laurent asks into the stillness of the night: “What is she like?”

Damen jerks a little; his eyes have been closed for a while now.

“Hm?”

“Lykaios,” Laurent says. “I want to know what she’s like.”

There’s a small pause. Damen shifts again. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It seemed like she means a lot to you – and I’m interested.”

“She meant a lot to me. As in, past tense.”

“It didn’t seem that way during lunch,” Laurent points out. He doesn’t know why Damen is being so evasive and why it’s bothering him so much. “You seemed excited to hear about her.”

“Well yeah,” Damen says. In the darkness, it’s hard to read his usually expressive face, but Laurent can still sense a growing tightness in Damen’s body. “But that’s only because it’s been a while since any of us have heard from her. She sort of disappeared after first year.”

Laurent pinches Damen’s bicep. “Tell me.”

Damen sighs. He rolls over, so Laurent is unfairly jostled aside. He turns on the lamp on the bedside table. As the room is washed in a dull yellow light, Laurent can see how matted Damen’s hair has become, as well as the fingernail indentations along his shoulders.

“There’s honestly not much to say,” Damen says. His voice is very quiet, mindful of the neighbouring dorm rooms. “We were family friends for years, and in my senior year I realised I liked her a lot – more than I thought I did. But she had a boyfriend, so I never did anything about it. And then she dumped him because she liked me, but this time I was seeing someone. So, in the end, nothing happened.”

“That’s it?” Laurent frowns. In his mind, he keeps replaying Damen’s reaction at lunch; surely, there must be more to the story. Damen huffs. It almost seems like he’s pouting. He pokes Laurent’s stomach, hard. “You’re being very annoying.”

Laurent swats his hand away. “Are you still in love with her?”

“I already told you I never was. I just thought I could be because I was a horny eighteen year old.”

That makes Laurent laugh. It’s an unintentional sound, but it makes Damen smile.

“I’m not interested in anyone but you,” Damen says, too sincerely. The words hang heavy in the air.

Laurent doesn’t know what to make of it – not just the words, but Damen’s tone as well. It makes his stomach clamp up. He thinks Damen is making a point about how attractive he finds Laurent; in bed, the subject of Laurent’s body is always a welcoming topic.

So, Laurent says, a little awkwardly, “Thank you.”

Damen snorts. He looks fond. He kisses Laurent, and Laurent gladly welcomes it.

It’s a slow, sensual kiss. Damen keeps mapping out Laurent’s body with his hands, fingertips tracing over the veins across Laurent’s wrist, his chest.

“Think you can go again?” Damen says against his mouth. Pressed to each other like this, Laurent can feel Damen’s erection. It’s hot, he thinks to himself, how Damen physically reacts to him, even when Laurent hasn’t done anything to particularly excite him.

He’s still sore, sweaty and gross, but Laurent says: “Yes.”

Laurent is late to his study session with Damen on Wednesday. They normally don’t study together; tonight is an exception. Damen is apparently tired of being cooped in his room alone as he pours over his essays.

Outside the study room, Laurent pauses. Through the clear glass, he can see Damen is already seated, textbooks placed carelessly over the wooden tabletop. But he’s not alone. There’s someone seated on the edge of the table, in the one corner free of Damen’s things.

It’s Lykaios. Laurent knows it must be; Damen’s face is exuberant, creased with warmth. His smile is filled with teeth, white and straight, and there’s a lingering softness there. Laurent’s chest clenches with a foreign feeling. He’s unsure what it is, but then deduces it must be relief at seeing Damen so happy.

Laurent almost turns back. He wants to give Damen and his not-quite ex-girlfriend time to catch up. The thought of intruding on them with his presence fills him with anxiety. But he remains rooted on the spot because, for some strange reason, the thought of leaving them alone also fills him with anxiety.

Luckily – or perhaps, unluckily; Laurent still hasn’t made up his mind – Damen spots him through the glass. His smile, now directed at Laurent, changes instantly; it dissolves into a steady kind of fondness. His eyes seem to shine brighter.

It completely baffles Laurent.

His chest tightens again; this time, it’s much more pleasant.

Laurent supposes he should enter now. Damen seems to have forgotten about Lykaios; his eyes remain on Laurent as Laurent fumbles with the doorknob and steps into the room.

“Hey,” he says. His smile – and voice – wobble. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Damen’s smile, impossibly, widens even more. Laurent’s gaze is helplessly drawn to it.

They stare at each other for a few moments longer than necessary until Damen seems to remember they’re not alone. He fumbles over the introductions, face flushed.

Lykaios is unbelievably gorgeous. Like most Akielons, she’s very tall; even wearing flats she’s a few inches taller than Laurent. Laurent tries not to be bitter about it. Her hair isn’t as blonde as Laurent’s, but it’s long and shiny. Her eyes are amazing; long lashed and an intriguing colour, somewhere between green and blue.

Standing next to Damen, the two of them look like a regal painting. They look good together. They complement each other.

Laurent – unexpectedly, painfully – feels inadequate.

Lykaios rounds the table and shakes Laurent’s hand with vigour. Her smile is kind and open; her enthusiasm is genuine. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! Damen has managed to mention your name about a hundred times in the last half an hour.”

Damen flushes at that, suddenly busying himself with rearranging his textbooks.

Laurent smiles. He can feel the heat travel across his face. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

“I’m sorry for interrupting your study session.” Her voice is so sweet, Laurent thinks he could listen to her talk all day. “I was literally just walking past and saw Damen in here. I almost couldn’t believe it.” She turns to Damen and gives him in an assessing look. “It’s been what – six years?”

“Fuck off,” Damen says, with little heat. “I don’t want to be reminded of how old I am.”

Lykaios laughs at that. Her laugh is sweet too.

Laurent says, “You guys will probably see more of each other now. You’re in the same course, right?”

Lykaios beams. “Yep! Another weird coincidence.”

“Or fate,” Laurent points out.

Damen gives him a strange look. “Definitely just a coincidence.”

“Ah, who knows the mysterious ways of the universe,” says Lykaios. She gives Laurent a wink.

Laurent decides he likes her, despite the twisting in his gut.

It’s why he says: “Did you want to stay and study with us? We were also going to grab some dinner afterwards. You could join us for that too.”

Damen gives him another strange look; this one is brittle with disbelief.

Laurent ignores it. He keeps his eyes on Lykaios, who smiles at him.

“Thank you for the very kind offer, but I’ve already got plans tonight, I’m afraid.” She seems genuinely sorry, and it makes Laurent like her even more.

“Maybe next time,” Laurent says.

Damen frowns.

Lykaios doesn’t stay too long after that; she claims she needs to start getting ready for her night out. When she leaves, she kisses Damen’s cheek. Laurent bristles a little at that.

But his annoyance morphs into pleasantness when she hugs him goodbye – like Damen, she is very touchy, Laurent notices.

As soon as the door closes behind her, Damen kisses Laurent, hard and open mouthed. It’s a terrible kiss; Laurent isn’t expecting it, and he almost topples backwards with the force of it. Then he starts laughing, so Damen’s mouth mostly meets his teeth.

The second one is much, much better.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for the past ten minutes,” says Damen. “Next time, kissing first, and then we move on to having a conversation.”

“Shut up,” says Laurent. He pulls out his textbooks, trying not to laugh. After a few moments, he says, “She seems really nice. I can see why you liked her so much.”

He imagines Damen at eighteen, maybe a little naïve and cocky, completely enamoured by Lykaios’ sweetness.

Damen rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” He squints at Laurent. “You’re not still hung up on that are you?” His mouth deepens into a smirk. He waggles his eyebrows. “Need me to prove my loyalty, baby?”

Laurent flushes. It’s not the first time Damen has used that endearment – he mostly says it in bed – but it still catches Laurent off guard every time.

His mouth is suddenly very dry. The only thing he can manage to say is: “Shut up.” And then he gets to work, smiling into his shoulder when Damen’s foot wraps around his underneath the table.

Lykaios’ Instagram is an explosion of colour: she likes wearing a lot of red and green and purple. Her entire profile is filled with her travels, charity work, her friends, and some shots of her eyelids coated in glitter. The more Laurent scrolls, the more careful he is not to like anything.

There are plenty of pictures of her from high school; Damen is in most of them, fresh faced and youthful. It’s strange to look at: nothing about Damen is boyish, but these pictures prove otherwise.

Laurent comes across a photo of Lykaios and Damen from six years ago. In it, Damen has his arm around her waist while Lykaios rests her head on his shoulder.

The caption is: hbd to this guy aka my soulmate #finally18

Soulmate, Laurent thinks. His mouth purses.

Damen’s comment is the first comment. It reads: love u ly!

Laurent puts his phone down.

His thoughts come too fast: he starts to think of all the ways Damen and Lykaios fit together, how connected they seemed even after so much time apart. He thinks of how nice they looked together.

Then, Laurent starts thinking of all the nice things Damen has done for him over the last few months. The duffel bag full of his favourite snacks comes to mind, as does the time Damen took him to a fancy restaurant when Laurent had averaged a high distinction last semester. Damen had even driven him almost forty minutes to the dentist once, even though he had an assessment due in the afternoon.

Damen is always doing nice things for him, and Laurent realises, guiltily, that he’s never quite returned the favour. His own gestures have often been small and unnoteworthy; they’ve never possessed the grandeur of Damen’s actions.

Laurent knows exactly how to change that.

Laurent isn’t the most forthcoming person. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to gather enough courage to message Lykaios on Instagram. But once he makes it past his awkward introduction – hey this is laurent in case you don’t remember me – to which Lykaios had responded ofc i do silly!, their conversations are light and easy.

The more Laurent talks to her over the week, the more he’s convinced of his plan. Lykaios is everything Damen needs and vice versa. It’s crazy how similar their personalities are: they’re both incredibly sweet, intelligent and interested in almost all the same things, from okton to hiking.

The next week, Laurent invites Lykaios to his and Damen’s weekly lunch outing.

Damen smiles when he sees him. He doesn’t lose the smile on his face when he sees Lykaios, but his eyes snap to Laurent’s in confusion.

“This is a nice surprise,” he says, although his tone is dry.

Laurent pretends not to notice it. Lykaios kisses Damen’s cheek in greeting and Laurent scratches at his chest as he sits down.

Damen leans over the table to kiss him, but Laurent quickly picks out the menu and starts to read it, even though he’s practically memorised it by now. He doesn’t want Damen to kiss him now – especially in front of Lykaios – and ruin his plan before it’s had the chance to even formulate.

When he puts the menu back, Damen is openly frowning.

It disappears as Lykaios begins talking. The transformation is amazing; Damen is instantly captivated by her. Laurent swallows. This is good, he reminds himself.

Laurent waits about ten minutes. He’s started to notice that even though Damen is laughing along to all of Lykaios’ jokes, he’s still shooting Laurent glances every few seconds.

The question on his face is clear: why is she here?

Laurent plays with his phone for a while. He tries to make it look like he’s texting something important; he keeps his brows furrowed in concentration.

Laurent isn’t the best actor, but even he’s proud of himself as he lets out a small gasp.

“What is it?” says Damen, instantly alert.

“Nothing,” Laurent waves him off. “It’s just that I completely forgot I had a study session right now.” He stands up, grabs his bag. “I should go.”

“Wait –” Damen’s face pinches. “You’re leaving?”

“I’m sorry, but this is really important.” Laurent turns to Lykaios and smiles. “You two stay and have fun.”

“But –”

“Bye!” Laurent says it too enthusiastically, cutting Damen off. He walks out of the brunch place with hurried steps. He turns back at the end of the gravel path just to check if –

His chest tightens with pleasure – yes, pleasure, although he’s not sure why it doesn’t feel like it – when he sees his absence has made little disturbance. Damen and Lykaios are laughing together, mouths open in delight.

Over the next few days, Laurent organises more and more outings with Damen and Lykaios. Damen never seems to stop looking confused whenever Laurent invites Lykaios, but he also seems happy to see her, so Laurent counts it as a win. During each outing, Laurent manages to come up with a different excuse each time as to why he needed to leave early. Damen always looks disappointed. Laurent is weak for it; he can’t count how many times that look has almost made him stay, but he doesn’t, because it would be detrimental to his plan.

Laurent makes sure to text Damen whether or not he enjoyed his time with Lykaios. Damen’s responses are pretty much the same every time: Yes, but it would’ve been better if you were there too.

It frustrates Laurent. Damen isn’t supposed to still be thinking of him while he’s hanging out with his potential soulmate.

Lykaios is the first to grow suspicious. She confronts him at the next outing. They’re in an idyllic little bar in the city, with a cosy atmosphere. It’s a perfect date venue.

Damen heads to the bathroom, and Laurent stands up, ready to leave, when Lykaios stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Laurent,” she says. “Is there a reason you keep depriving us of your company?”

Laurent manages a sheepish smile. He wonders if he should say anything at all. Then, he decides he should: he feels like Lykaios would appreciate his directive.

Laurent plays with the little sugar packets on the table. “I’ve been trying to get you and Damen to spend more time together. Alone,” he adds, when he sees her confusion.

“Why?”

“Well…” Laurent hesitates; he’s just now beginning to realise how awkward this is. “I think you two would be good together…romantically.”

Lykaios raises her eyebrows.

Laurent continues, fingers still fidgeting. “It’s just…Damen mentioned how much you two liked each other a few years ago. And I think Damen still regards you very highly. Plus, you two are so alike – I just think it makes sense.”

Lykaios’ eyebrows don’t lower, but she casts a backward glance towards where Damen has disappeared to.

“I can’t say I haven’t thought about Damen and I…” she begins, and Laurent’s gut twists with…relief? Yes, he’s sure it’s relief. It’s a good – great – thing that Lykaios is interested in Damen. “But I thought –” Lykaios pauses for a few seconds. “I mean, I was under the impression that you and Damen were together.”

Laurent laughs, and then he realises she’s being serious. “You – no. We’re not. We’re friends.” Friends who spent a lot of time sleeping together, sure, but Laurent doesn’t think mentioning that now will do him any favours.

Lykaios’ face instantly changes. Her smile takes up her entire face; it’s stunning. She’s stunning.

Laurent shifts in his seat. He clears his throat. “So – you…you want to date him?”

She flushes, and it only makes her look more beautiful. “Like I said…I’ve definitely thought about it.”

“Oh – good. That’s awesome. Damen will be so happy.” He stands up. “So, I’ll leave you two alone?”

Lykaios nods. “Thank you, Laurent.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He turns around to leave. Everything in his body is screaming not to.

He keeps reminding himself that he’s doing something nice for Damen: that Damen will appreciate the fact that Laurent set him up with someone like Lykaios, a brilliant woman he has a past with. His mouth is dry, and Laurent’s palms are suddenly sweaty. Briefly, he wonders if this is always what happens when people do nice things for another. If it is…he might have to limit his niceness.

Laurent doesn’t mean to start ignoring Damen’s calls or texts. It just happens. He isn’t in the mood to listen to Damen go on about Lykaios; Laurent already knows she’s amazing.

He’s also confident that they’re dating now – or at least getting there. Lykaios posted a lot of snaps from the last night Laurent left them alone, and all of them had been of Damen smiling, drinking, smirking at the camera. They’d been there until three in the morning; Laurent knows because he’d stayed up until then, refreshing his Instagram feed to see any updates on Lykaios’ story.

What had they even been doing for so long anyway? Damen had called him until eleven, before he presumably gave up. Had Lykaios pulled a move on him? Had they gone back to Damen’s room, fucked on his bed? Had Damen thought of how he’d fucked Laurent on that same bed just last week? Or had he been so consumed by Lykaios and her pleasantness that Damen hadn’t even thought of Laurent?

Laurent had had the worst night of sleep.

And then a few nights ago, Nikandros had posted an image of the football team hanging around at his dorm room. (Laurent vaguely remembers being invited to that). In the photo, Laurent’s eyes had immediately been drawn to Damen in the corner, his head bent down as he said something to Lykaios, who had been smiling widely. It had looked very intimate. Laurent had turned his phone off when he saw it.

Alone in his room, Laurent lies on his bed, heart constricting. He should be happy for Damen. It’s frustrating him that he isn’t. And worst of all, he doesn’t know why.

He thinks it might be because he’s gotten so used to having Damen around all the time. If Damen starts seeing someone, then he’d obviously start spending less time with Laurent.

Laurent doesn’t want Damen to spend less time with him. If anything, they should be spending more time together. He only sees Damen about four times a week! That’s too little. Laurent should talk to Damen about that. He should tell him, Damen, even though you have a girlfriend now, I still want you to spend all your time with me, and I still want you to take me to fancy restaurants and then fuck me hard when we get home.

Horrified, Laurent rolls over and screams into his pillow.

A few hours later, while Laurent is trying to clean out his desk drawers, there’s a knock on the door. It’s a rapid set of knocks, loud and urgent.

Laurent frowns. He opens the door and his heart jumps when he sees Damen there, wearing a shirt Laurent had gifted him in the summer. Damen’s face is annoyed; it’s not an expression Laurent has seen often on Damen - and even rarely directed towards him.

Damen pushes past Laurent into the room. He takes up most of the space in it. Laurent’s heart still hasn’t calmed down.

“Tell me,” says Damen.

“What?”

“Tell me what I did wrong. I don’t like this passive aggressive bullshit.”

“What?” Laurent says again.

Damen crosses his arms in front of his chest. “You haven’t returned a single one of my calls or texts. You don’t want to hang out with me anymore. And I waited all night for you to show up to Nikandros’ and you didn’t.” When Laurent doesn’t say anything, he presses on. “Well? What did I do to piss you off?”

“I – nothing,” Laurent shakes his head, shocked. “I’m not mad at you.“

"Please,” Damen scoffs. “You -”

"I’m not,“ Laurent says. “I was just giving you some space.”

”Space. Why?“

"Well…” Laurent finds himself hesitating. “So you and Lykaios can spend more time together.”

“Why the fuck would I want to do that?”

“Um. She didn’t tell you?”

Damen’s eyes harden. His mouth presses into a tight line. “Can you please just give me a straight answer?”

“I’m – I’ve been trying to set you and Lykaios up.” Damen’s mouth drops open. Laurent quickly adds, “I talked to her about it and she said she’s been thinking of dating you too! So you know…” He trails off weakly.

There’s a sudden, pressing silence. It engulfs the small space of Laurent’s room.

In a very quiet, measured voice, Damen says, “What makes you think I would want to date Lykaios?”

“She really likes you Damen. And I think you two would be a good match. I mean – you’re so compatible.”

“No.” Damen’s voice is hard. “I meant: why the fuck do you think I would want to date Lykaios when I’m already dating you?”

Laurent’s eyes widen. His breath stutters in his chest. There’s a strange ringing in his ears. “We’re not dating.” His voice is too quiet; he can’t bring himself to repeat himself any louder.

Damen’s eyes bulge. It would be a comical expression if the atmosphere in the room wasn’t so deadly.

“Not. Dating.” Damen repeats between his teeth. “You – You really believe that?”

Damen’s mouth loosens around the edges. He looks like he’s received the worst news of his life.

“I –” Laurent fumbles with his words. The back of his neck prickles with discomfort. “We’re friends.”

“Is that what we are?” Damen scoffs. “My mistake, then.”

Laurent still feels wrongfooted. It’s almost like he’s not even experiencing this conversation, just watching himself have it.

“I don’t understand,” says Laurent. “I was just trying to do something nice for you. I thought it’d be good for you if you had a girlfriend like Lykaios.”

“For fuck’s sake, Laurent.” All of Damen’s anger melts away. His tone now is sullen. “I’ve literally been obsessed with you for the last six months – are you seriously just realising this now?”

“I’m –” Laurent swallows. “But you’ve never asked me out or called me your…boyfriend.” His tongue dries up around the world.

“I asked you out to Route all those months ago!” Damen says.

“No. You said: ‘do you want to go out with me to –’” Laurent cuts himself off. Now that he thinks about it, he’s sure that Damen did ask him out on a date. He’d also said, I don’t usually do this on a first date while they’d been in bed together, hadn’t he?

The realisation stumps Laurent.

“Oh,” he says.

Damen sits down on the edge of the bed, groaning. He buries his head in his hands. “Oh my god, Laurent. How can someone so smart be so stupid?”

Laurent supposes he should feel offended by that. He isn’t, though, because he genuinely feels stupid.

“You still didn’t make anything official.” Laurent says after a while.

Damen looks up. “Fuck you.” His eyebrows furrow. “What was stopping you from asking me?”

“Why would I say anything?! I thought you were only interested in fucking me!”

Damen groans again. He sounds like he’s dying. “If that were true, then why would I –” He gestures around the room. Laurent knows what he means. He thinks of all the…dates Damen has taken him on, all the gifts he’s been given, the fact that Damen doesn’t leave his side when they go to parties together.

Laurent closes his eyes. This is too much. He’s shocked by the anger that overtakes him – anger at himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.”

Damen looks at him steadily. He gathers his thoughts. “Do you still think I should date Lykaios? Because you seem pretty invested in the idea and I –” Damen sighs. “I don’t want to – I don’t think I can be with you if you don’t feel the same as I do.”

“How do you feel about me?” Laurent asks softly.

Damen’s gaze is burning. Laurent is pinned beneath it. “Laurent, I love you.”

Laurent gasps. It’s a soft sound, but in the stillness of the room it rattles against the walls. His throat closes.

When a few silent moments pass, Damen sighs. He stands up, mouth drooping and fingers tense by his thighs. “Alright…That’s.” He stops. He gives Laurent a small nod. “I’ll just go then.”

Laurent blocks his path with a shrill, “Wait!”

Damen stops.

Laurent’s fingers twitch. He wants to touch Damen. But he knows he should – “I don’t want you to date Lykaios. I don’t even know what the fuck I was thinking, alright? You just – you seemed so into her Damen, and I thought it would be nice if I did you a favour and set you up with her because you’re always doing nice things for me but then I got so sad and angry and confused every time you were together and then I felt guilty for feeling those things and I just –”

“Okay, slow down,” Damen’s hands grip his shoulders.

Laurent shakes his head. His chest is bubbling with all these emotions he’s refused to acknowledge. “I don’t want you to date Lykaios,” he repeats. “I want you to date me.” He pauses. “Only me.”

Damen snorts. “Easy. I’ve already been doing that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t know,” Laurent says. His throat is still tight with emotion.

“We’ll work on communicating better,” Damen says. He peers down at Laurent until their eyes meet. “I only want you, Laurent.”

Laurent collapses into Damen. He buries his head against Damen’s chest, weak in his relief. He even sniffles a little, something Damen thankfully ignores. “I only want you, too.”

Damen’s body loosens; he exhales and squeezes Laurent in his embrace. He kisses Laurent’s temple. “That makes me so happy.”

“Me too,” Laurent says.

Guiltily, he thinks of Lykaios. He remembers her excitement at the thought of being with Damen. Laurent needs to make it up to her, somehow, if she’ll let him. Maybe he could buy her flowers? Laurent has never bought flowers for anyone in his life, but he thinks Lykaios might like roses – unless that’s too romantic? Or maybe he could –

“Hey,” Damen says, interrupting his thought process.

Laurent looks up at him. Damen’s smile is radiant; it’s all white teeth and creased eyes. “Yeah?”

“Do me a favour.”

“Anything.”

Damen kisses him. Laurent smiles into it as his entire body fills with an unparalleled warmth. He’s not sure if he loves Damen back…but he’s confident he’s getting there.

Damen pulls back. He assesses Laurent with a stern frown. “Don’t ever do anything nice for me.”

Laurent huffs. He hides his face in Damen’s chest again. “Shut up.”

#captive prince #this is 7.5k lol i dont understand the concept of a drabble clearly #please lmk if read more doesnt work i dont want ppl to scroll through such a long post #@marrieddorks im very sorry for this lol #my fic #my writing

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sleepychai-fics · 4 years ago

Text

Road to Salvation ~ Chapter 4 - The Proposition

Inform me if I need to put in any warnings for this chapter. ALSO I'd like to apologise for the long break between chapters, life has been hectic and things got out of hand for a bit. Hopefully it wont happen a second time.

Word count: 5,472

Pronouns - Female

ALSO SHOUTOUT TO @doughnuts-5ever FOR BETA READING THIS ENTIRE SERIES. I KEEP FORGETTING TO ADD THIS SHOUTOUT CAUSE I POST THESE CHAPTERS AT 1 AM LIKE THE NIGHT OWL I AM. SO BIIIIIIG THANK YOU TO YOU BB, YOU MAKE THIS STORY MAKE SENSE WHEN MY BRAIN DONT

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters in BNHA. However, there are many OC’s in this fic that I’ve created. These OC’s belong to me and are specifically created for this fic.

However, Hajime Shinsou is NOT my oc. He is an oc created by Keiid, who used to have tumblr but now uses twitter. Please keep that in mind.

Feedback is appreciated!

Want to be part of the taglist? DM me or reply to this chapter!

“What do we know about this girl?” Tsukauchi flips open the folder full of papers in front of him, eyes darting across the pages briefly taking in the information.

Aizawa sighs, lifting up one of the papers and reading off of it. “She’s been seen as a vigilante on the streets for a little over two years now. How long she’s been on the streets in general is unknown. Her quirk involves moving objects through shadows. It’s believed she has other accomplices, however we don’t know for sure.” He ends by tossing the paper back in the folder.

Tsukauchi hums. “Is she the one we’re looking for?”

“I hope so.”

“What about her suspected accomplices?”

Aizawa takes out another piece of paper from a different folder. “Our informant tells us she lives with many other people on the streets. Rumors say that the group is the line between villains and heroes.” His tired eyes look over to the police officer. “We’re not sure how to interpret that.”

A groan leaves the officers lips as he leans back in his chair. “We’ll interview her once she wakes up. We can negotiate living conditions with her. Offer her the placement and training in exchange for her compliance and any requests she may ask.”

With a yawn, Aizawa nods. “What do you suspect she’ll ask for?”

“Not too sure. Despite what we have on her, she’s still unknown to us. Our data banks have nothing on her. It’d be your job to get to know her.”

Aizawa groans. “I know that. But I think Hisashi is more up to that task.”

Tsukauchi smiles. “I appreciate you doing this.”

“It was part of the deal. Whisper held up her end, now I need to hold up mine.”

“It’s a big task to hold up.”

Aizawa hums in agreeance. “That’s why I offered a trial period. If she proves worthy to be a hero, then I’ll make it a permanent deal.”

“Whisper has offered to ensure a steady supply of information on other underground personnel if you were to make it a full time deal.” Tsukauchi reminds him.

Aizawa nods. “Are you sure-”

An alarm blares loudly through the speakers, interrupting the two men and instantly raising them on high alert. The conference room doors slam open, a security guard standing at the entrance.

“I apologise for the interruption but she’s escaped her room!”

Aizawa stands up from his chair, almost knocking it over. “Do you know where she’s headed?”

“They report she’s just entering the cafeteria, possibly towards Ward E.”

The two men race out the door, following the guard as he races towards your direction.

~*~

Your senses come back slowly. First, it’s touch. Whatever room you’re in, it’s got a cold atmosphere to it. If you were conscious enough, you’d be clutching to your thin jacket. As the thought crosses your mind, you take note of the feeling of the fabric, definitely not the same kind of material as your jacket. But despite its foreignness, it holds you in strange comfort. However, the feeling doesn’t last long as your hearing starts to kick in.

Two voices - one feminine and the other masculine, speaking in a soft tone. Along with the voices, you hear a steady beeping sound. A heart monitor? You hear it pick up as the rest of your senses come to life. The pungent smell of sanitising chemicals invades your nostrils and has you scrunching your nose in response. One of the voices gasps and speaks to the other. Your eyes are heavy and your body urges you to return to the land of peaceful slumber, but with a strong will, you open your eyelids.

Everything is blurry. Patches of colours hover over your vision before flicking to a mixture of white shades. You hear things shuffle around and clang against metal, only making you work harder at your vision. In an attempt to clear your vision, you rapidly blink your eyes. However, a bright light shines into your eye and forces you to squint. In a burst of panicked adrenaline, you lash out.

From what you can comprehend, you throw out your fist, hitting the figure above you. Ignoring the scream of pain, you jump up out of what you suspect to be a bed and scamper across the floor. You trip into a wall and turn your body around to face the mess you seemed to have caused.

You shake your head and rub at your eyes in another attempt to clear your vision. As it begins to clear, the masculine voice speaks.

“Hey! Let’s calm down. There’s no need to be scared.” You focus on the person closest to you. His hair is a terrible mess of purple. A white coat lays over a blue shirt and brown pants. As your vision clears by the second, you recognise more of his facial features and you can’t help but feel a sense of familiarity. His dark eyes stare at you earnestly, but it’s his eyebags that strike you with an eerie recognition.

You notice his hand cast behind him and you follow it to a woman in similar attire to him, laying on the ground. She has one hand propping her upper body up off the floor, while her other hand covers her lower face, blood seeping in between her fingers.

You return your sight to the man and attempt to speak, however it comes out raspy. After clearing your throat, you try again. “Who are you?”

The doctor responds calmly, making slow movements with his hands as he speaks. “My name is Hajime Shinsou. I know that this seems scary at the moment, but you need to trust that I won’t hurt you.” Shinsou attempts to take a step closer but retracts it as you push your body further against the wall. “You might recognise me, more so my son but let's face it, he’s practically a carbon copy of me.”

Your vision finally starts to clear, enough for you to make out specific features that you’ve definitely seen before. But he’s way too tall from what you can remember. “Why would I recognise you? Your son?”

The slight upturn of his lips doesn’t go unnoticed by you. “A couple days ago, you saved my son from a group of gang members. It was by a karaoke restaurant. He has purple hair, just like me. He even has the same eyebags as me.” As Shinsou goes through his explanation, your memory begins to jog.

“The… the gang. They uhm... they attacked a restaurant and took a kid hostage.” Shinsou nods. “I stopped them and saved the kid.”

“Yes. My son appreciates you. I do too.”

Alarming questions begin to spew in your mind. “How did you know it was me? Where am I? Why am I here?!” Each question grows more desperate as your (e/c) scan the entirety of the room. Thankfully you chose the wall close to the door.

“It’s okay. No one intends to harm you here.”

“Bullshit. Where am I?!” You argue back, glaring at him with irritation.

Shinsou continues to remain calm, despite the growing panic radiating off of you. “You’re in a hospital in northeast Tokyo.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as your eyes widen in shock. “Northeast?!”

With a nod, he responds carefully. “Yes. I understand you may be in shock. But I promise you that I don’t mean you any harm-”

“I want to leave.”

He sighs heavily. “I know, but I’m sorry to say I can’t allow-”

“I want to leave. NOW!” You scream this time, eyes brimming with tears you fight to extinguish. “I can’t be here, I have to leave this place.”

“Why don’t we just sit down and have a calm cha-”

“No! I can’t stay here! I have to leave!” You throw your hands out, intent on using your quirk to push back the doctor. But when that doesn’t work, you falter. “Wha… Why? What happened to my quirk?” A few stray tears slither down your face despite your best efforts. “What did you do to my quirk?!”

“We’ve injected you with quirk suppressants. It was protocol. I’m sorry.” You can hear his genuine apology, but you ignore it through your own raging emotions.

“I’m leaving.”

Hajime nods, knowing there’s nothing else he can do. “I understand. But you have to know I can’t let you go without calling it in.”

You shake your head. “I don’t care.” You leave him no breath to reply, walking towards the door. Before you leave, you snatch a spare white coat from a nearby hook and throw it over yourself.

As the door clicks behind you, you take a moment to assess your surroundings. A window down the hall shows an orange hued sky, although it's difficult to determine whether it’s dusk or dawn. A couple of doctors scatter the large hall, but they’re too busy looking down at clipboards to notice you. You waste no second more before walking down the hall, head tilted down to avoid arousal of your presence.

It’s so foreign, so clean and pristine. Tears are prepared to fall at any moment, but you fight against them. It’s exhausting and horrifying, it’s taking all of you not to bolt out the nearest window.

Every turn you take, every corridor you look down leads you to the belief that you're stuck in a labyrinth. It all looks the same. The room placements, the nurses, the machines littered here and there. Everything is almost the exact same and it scares the living shit out of you.

Finally, after what seems like hours of endless wandering, you come across two double doors. They appear to lead to another part of the hospital. You take a second to glance around you. There’s no other way to go besides through these doors, at least no other way you’ve been able to discover anyway. Without another second to hesitate, you go through the doors.

It’s similar to the place you just came from, except there are fewer private rooms and more public beds. They’re all aligned against the wall and separated by at least a couple of meters. Curtains hang between them, offering visual privacy. More nurses and doctors operate within the space, working with patients and running to various desks.

As you take in the scenery from the doors, you hear a voice call out from your left.

“Hey, are you-?”

You turn to look at the voice, and your heart drops. Realisation dawns on your face the second you notice the security badge. Unfortunately, the guard comes to his own realisation.

The guard opens his mouth wide, probably to yell out, but you don’t give him the chance to. With adrenaline behind your muscles, you push at his chest, forcing him to back into a moving cart. The noise alerts the entire area and within seconds it turns to chaos.

You take off in a sprint down the hall, leaving the sounds of screams and yells behind you. Each turn you come upon, you run to the wall and push yourself off of it, maintaining momentum in your run. As you take another turn, you throw a glance behind you. Security guards are close behind you, as well as a few men dressed in white coats, seemingly doctors aiding in the chase.

An alarm blares loudly throughout the hospital, red lights blinking slowly at every corner. You ignore them all, focused on improvising an escape plan.

As you turn another corner, you're faced with a set of double doors. With no other choice, apart from the army of men behind you, you barge through the doors.

You thank the high being that it's an open spaced cafeteria. More space to run, more visualisation, more shit to throw, and most importantly, fewer hallways to get lost in.

People scream and scatter out of their chairs as you vault over tables. Every chance you get, you flick trays and food behind you in an attempt to slow down those behind you. You make the quick and random decisions to leap over tables to either side of you, making it even harder for the chasers to predict your direction.

However, more men come from the opposite direction and appear a few tables before you. Without thinking, you pick up a tray of food and throw it at them. They throw their arms up to deflect the tray and in turn lose sight of you for just a second.

You take the opportunity to take a sharp turn in the other direction. Unfortunately for you, the only direction left for you to go is through another set of doors that no doubt leads to another maze of hallways.

The second you go through the doors, you duck down, avoiding the few crackling electricity sticks that jab towards you. You slip underneath one, tripping the guy in the process and creating a roadblock of a few seconds.

You bolt to the left, tossing things nearby onto the ground, leaving a maze of objects behind you. Every cart you pass by gets toppled onto the ground and earns you the precious seconds you desire.

You’re so focused on the people around you that you don’t notice thin white cloth wrapping around you. It snaps tight around you before you can even think. Your arms are pinned to your side and your legs are immobilised, causing you to fall flat to the ground.

As soon as you land on the ground, grunting from impact, electricity violently courses throughout you as multiple electrical batons prod at you. You blackout in seconds.

~*~

Your senses return much quicker the second time around. As soon as the bright light enters your eye, you jolt up, scrambling off of the cold metal table.

Pain is the only thing you feel. Pain pumping through your veins and making you shiver from movement. You back yourself against a wall, your hand instinctively curling around your stomach as nausea arises.

Before you are the purple haired Doctor Shinsou and the recognisable dark dressed man with a large scarf hiding his neck. He has a hand on his scarf and knees bent whilst Shinsou has his hands up in a surrendering manner.

“It’s okay. We’re not gonna hurt you.” He says.

You glare at him in disbelief. “Oh really now?” You grimace as you speak, sharp pain erupts from the side of your neck, just below your jaw. When you touch it, you can feel raised, jarred skin.

“You were shocked by 4 electrical batons. That one on your neck is the most severe one because of the skin contact.” Shinsou informs as he watches your hand shake above the wound.

“So much for not harming me.” You scoff.

“Those guys were from a different department.” The unknown man speaks up. “They run on different protocols.”

You spend a few seconds staring at him, watching as he lowers his hands by his side. Recognition prods your mind. “You were the one to capture me.”

The guy breathes in. “For now call me Eraserhead. We’d like for you to join us in the conference room down the hall. We’ll discuss everything there.”

“Why do I get the feeling there’s more than the three of us here?”

Shinsou, having put his hands down to his sides, answers you. “There’s only one more person and he’s waiting at the conference room. No more harm will come to you. Promise.”

You scrutinise his expression. The genuineness of his statement. Despite the short time you’ve talked with him, he seems genuine and reliable. So, on the little info you have, and with the foreign situation you are in, you decide your best bet for now is to trust him.

Shinsou walks out first, gesturing to you with a soft smile. Slowly, you stand up straight and start walking. You suppress the grimace as your leg shudders beneath you, most likely another wound area. With a deep breath, you push through the pain and limp out of the room. Eraserhead follows you closely.

The hallway is quiet, save for a few people here and there whispering to each other. Their eyes drift to you as you walk past them. You can feel their anger towards you and their disgust, you’re thankful the walk through the hallway is a short one.

Shinsou pushes open a door and steps aside to let you in. As soon as you set foot in the room, you analyse the room. It’s completely bare, save for the large oval table and the dozen-plus chairs surrounding it. Seated on one end of the table is a police officer. He has a brown coat thrown over his uniform. A matching brown hat sits on the table in front of him. His black hair is practically melded with his scalp, barely any strands sticking out. Your first impression of him isn’t the greatest and you decide to remain overly cautious.

“Hello.” He greets you as you walk in, almost like he was expecting you at that very second. It unnerves you. He gestures to the chair beside him. “Take a seat.”

You carefully step towards him. “I’d rather stand.” The scratchiness of your voice is still present, but you opt to ignore it.

He nods in understanding. “You can call me Tsukauchi.” You nod once, eyes glaring into his. “I’m sure you have questions.”

“I’m sure you have answers.” You fire back at him with a monotonous voice.

“I do. First I’d like to clear up the situation you're in at the moment. You are in a hospital north-”

“I already know that.” You nod towards Shinsou. “He explained that to me. I’m in northeast Tokyo. I wanna know why I’m here. And how I got here.”

Tsukauchi nods. “We’ve been keeping a close eye on you for a few weeks now. You’re known as the vigilante Shadow, aren't you? You’ve been in and out of activity for years.” Every word that he speaks increases your concern, but you fight to keep your expression neutral. “You’ve taken down thugs and criminals, but you’ve also stolen from civilians off the street.”

“Ok, imma stop you right there. I didn’t just steal from civilians, I also stole from those criminals.”

“You still stole from them.”

“Because I had to.” Your voice grows louder.

“Why?”

“Because-!” You stop yourself. You almost told him about the mall. Taking a deep breath, you start again. “I had to survive.”

It aggravates you the way he nods, as if he understands. “Like I said, we’ve been watching you. We apprehended you because we decided it would be best to approach you.”

“And you didn't try talking first?”

“We tried that. But as you can tell, that didn’t go well.”

Your mouth opens to speak, but you close it, realising he’s right. But another question surges through you. “Ok, then why were an army of police on standby in the area if you just wanted to talk?”

“We predicted your behaviour.” Throughout the entire chat, he’s remained calm and it irritates you to no end.

You scoff and shake your head. “Is there a point to this talk?”

Tsukauchi bends down to pull out a folder. “We believe you have potential.”

Worry sets in. “Potential for what?”

He slides the folder over to you. “Potential to become a hero.”

The room is silent. You stare at him in disbelief, despite your best efforts to keep a neutral face. The silence only lasts a couple of seconds however, as you burst into laughter.

“I’m sorry? Potential to become a hero?! What the actual fuck?! Haha! Weren’t you berating me as a vigilante fucking two minutes ago?” You double both in pain and laughter wheezing and gasping between breaths.

“Yes. Amongst everyone else, I see potential in you.” Tsukauchi waits a few seconds for you to catch your breath. “You’ve shown initiative in criminal activity. You are quick to rush in and protect civilians.”

“That’s because no one else is willing to, and there’s no police around to help them so I choose to step in.”

“Exactly.”

For a few seconds, you’re in deep thought about his words. He’s right. You have shown initiative, but does that really categorise you as a hero? If that's the case, then can’t everyone be a hero?

You look down at the folder on the table. Tentatively, you take a seat next to Tsukauchi, and open the folder.

Concealed inside is a small stack of papers. A small paragraph is printed on each page, addressing you and claiming that you agree to the terms and conditions that follow. On the bottom is a line with your name underneath. As you skin through each page, you come across to a highly detailed table chart.

“By signing these forms, you agree to a temporary deal in which you will live with Eraserhead and follow his rules.” You snap your attention to Tsukauchi, eyes bulging from distress. With a glance towards Eraserhead, who confirms with a nod, you sink further into the seat.

Tsukauchi continues. “You must agree to no vigilante activity whilst in his care. You’ll be monitored every minute of every day as long as you're in his care.”

“That chart in your hands,” Eraserhead speaks up, gesturing to the detailed chart in your hands. You take another look at it, noticing the times lined against each row and the days lined above each column. “It’s a timetable which I’ve set out for you to follow. You do exactly what it says to, and you won’t get charged for any of your vigilante crimes.”

“I’m getting charged?!” You stand up with shock and rage. Tsukauchi and Eraserhead jump to a stand as well. “So you’re saying that I either take up this so-called ‘opportunity’, or I get sent to prison for however long you deem fit? Sounds like a fucking threat if you ask me!”

“Hey, it’s alright. I pro-”

“It’s not alright!” You turn to Shinsou, fighting to keep back the tears building up behind your eyes. “None of this is okay! I’m being stripped of my freedom, all for what? To keep an eye on my behaviour?!” You turn to Tsukauchi, staring him down with a firm expression. “I have responsibilities to uphold.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure they can be put on hold for a while.” He says.

“They can’t!”

Minutes pass by, the tension in the air running thick. You run your hand through your hair, sighing with frustration and surrender before fixing your posture. “What I’m about to say, does not leave this room.”

“If you agree to the contract-”

You snap your gaze to Eraserhead. “If I agree to this contract I will keep up my end. But you have to keep up yours.”

He stares at you for a few seconds before nodding, allowing you to continue.

Your heart thunders in your chest with nerves and irritation. Tears threaten to fall but you remain stubborn as ever. With a deep breath, you let it out. “There is an abandoned mall on the outskirts of Tokyo. It’s where I and a ton of other homeless people stay. We're like a family. We protect each other and help where necessary. There are some people like me who’ve rescued kids from all sorts of situations, and those kids form a bond with us. A bond that acts like a lifeline. It’s their emotional lifeline.” Without noticing, a tear falls from your eye. After furiously rubbing at your eyes, you continue. “It’s impossible for me to leave them. Not while their emotional stability is still fragile. I’m sure you know enough of psychology to understand that.”

The room is silent as the three males ponder your revelation. They look between each other, wondering what to say, what to do with the new information. Sure, there were rumors of more people like you, but to hear the information come from you was different; it was no longer a rumor.

“This timetable isn’t possible for me to follow. I need some time with the mall. I need to let the kids know that I’m still there for them.”

Tsukauchi looks to Eraserhead. “It’s your call.”

Eraserhead sighs deeply as all eyes turn on him expectantly. “I’ll allow a one hour visit two days a week.”

“Three days.” You interject.

Dark eyes glare at you, but you remain stubborn and strong against his eyes. The sigh he lets go of borders on a growl. “One hour visits, three days a week. With supervision.” He enunciated the last sentence, indicating there would be no objections.

Despite your desire to argue, you know it’ll be useless. So, putting on a tough persona, you pick up the contract folder and practically shove it under his nose. “I want that in writing.”

The man remains still, half-lidded eyes staring at you for what seems like hours. It feels as if he’s stabbing you with just his gaze alone. Finally, he snatches the folder out of your hands and slaps it down on the table. He then takes a nearby pen and begins to furiously write on one of the papers. Once scribbling his signature, he steps back, allowing you to inspect his writing.

You do so, ensuring each word says as it's supposed to. Eraserhead holds out the pen to you. After some hesitance, you take the pen and lean down. The pen hovers over the paper. Your heart beats hard, you can feel it in your throat as if it's ready to spew out at any moment. You take a few steady breaths, your hand shaking the pen slightly. One more deep breath, and you put the pen to the paper.

Each letter written feels wrong, incriminating and abandoning. It feels exactly how you expected it; like your freedom was slipping away with each pen stroke.

As soon as you write the last letter, you stand up, the pen falling from your limp fingers.

Tsukauchi takes the folder and pockets it into his briefcase below the table. “I believe Dr. Shinsou wanted to do a last check-up. He’ll also be the one that will be attaching the ankle monitor. We’ll be using that to monitor you.”

You simply nod, the will to argue no longer there. You follow Shinsou out the room, head tilted down in both shame and surrender.

Your mind is numb, barely registering anything said to you. As Shinsou gestures for you to sit atop the examination table, you take notice of the nurse. The same nurse as before, this time with a bandage across her nose.

She appears reluctant to be near you, you can see her hands shake as they reach out to apply the blood pressure strap.

“I’m sorry.” Your apology is quiet but startles the woman. However, a smile eases on her face.

“It’s ok.” She replies, voice slightly hitched due to the bandage. “I would’ve done the same thing.”

The conversation is left at that. Shinsou and the nurse, who said her name was Sakura, do the basics, heart, lungs, eyes, ears. After completing them, Shinsou appears with a steel bracelet with a small box attached to it.

He doesn't get the chance to speak as you lift up your ankle. He peers into your eyes, taking note of the dread-filled gaze that appears to stare at nothing. With a sigh, he carefully clips the bracelet into place.

“Is it too tight?” His only response is a light shrug. He can’t help but feel bad for you. He proceeds to press and hold a button. The device turns on at the action, a small light on the box flicks on as two small beeps sound. As soon as that's done, Shinsou guides you out of the room.

When you step out, you are approached by a long blonde haired male, a gloved hand sticking out towards you.

“Hello listener!” His voice is loud and overly excited, but you barely pay any mind to him. He observes your mute behaviour and turns to his husband. Eraserhead simply shakes his head.

“This is my husband Yamada. You can call me Aizawa.” He says as he walks away.

You follow him without delay, mindlessly pocketing the info.

The drive is silent and tense. You stare out the window the entire trip, watching as the environment passes by. There’s no thoughts running through your mind, nothing to think about but the dread and disappointment of letting the mall down.

You barely register you’ve stopped, so induced in your negativity that you don’t notice that Aizawa is before you, waiting for you to step out.

The house is two stories tall, a small wood fence outlining the property. It’s a fairly modern-looking house, a front porch stretching a metre out the front yard. It’s decently sized, looking to fit a modern family of five.

Entering the house, you register a lounge room and kitchen across from each other from the front house, then straight ahead are stairs leading up to the second floor. Beside that is a hallway which you are told leads to a bathroom and laundry.

Your gaze wanders to the kitchen, where you find a black cat sitting on the bench, staring at you with yellow eyes.

“Oh, that’s Jelly. We have another cat named Muffin, she’s nicer than Jelly, he likes to scratch.” The Yamada explains. His smile drops however as your gaze falls to the floor. “How about I show you to your room?” He gestures upstairs.

You shrug, allowing him to lead you upstairs. He turns down the hall to a room at the end. “Here it is!” He opens the door, his green eyes shining with delight.

You peer into the room, gazing at the layout. A double bed is pressed up against a wall, a small table on each side. A desk lays opposite the bed, small and bare. Sliding doors in the wall indicate a wardrobe. It’s bare of anything and feels completely unnatural to you.

“It used to be a spare room, but now that you’re here it’s all yours! Don’t worry we have another.”

You ignore him and walk into the room, taking a seat on the bed.

“Hey,” His voice is significantly dialled down in both tone and volume as he approaches you. “I know this may seem scary, but we’re here to help you. Aizawa may seem like a blunt and harsh guy, but he’ll come around. Eventually.” He then kneels down before you, a soft smile on his face, his glasses on the tip of his nose. “Technically my name is Aizawa-Yamada but that’s for legal purposes. We’re teachers and figured it’d be easier for the students to separate us. That and Aizawa doesn’t like our relationship to be public information. If you’d like, you can call me by my first name, Hisashi.”

You nod, numbly tucking away the information. You jolt slightly as Hisashi places a hand on your knee.

“Why don’t you get some rest? The drugs from the hospital are probably still in effect.”

With a gentle squeeze, he stands up and exits the room, closing the door behind him. In the end, he was right. You take the time to realise how foggy your mind is and how exhausted your limbs feel.

Having no choice in the matter, you lay down on the bed.

You stare at the ceiling, the silence of the room overcoming your senses. It’s then that everything seems to properly set in your mind. Tears cascade down the side of your face, and you do what you can to silence your sobs.

You told them everything you didn’t want to. Although it gave you something, you still risked the safety of everyone. You may have just caused their demise. All for what? What was the purpose of all this? To become a hero?

Did you want to be a hero? Is it worth all this?

What would everyone think when you visited them? Aizawa would no doubt be supervising you. And if he wasn’t, the device on your ankle would surely broadcast your position.

What else was the device for? Could it hear you? Could it see what you were doing? Could it harm you?

Your mind whirls with unanswered questions, each question that rises allows another tear to fall from your eyes. Sleep comes quickly, haunting you with all of the day's events.

When you wake with a jolt, you wish for it all to be just that. A simple nightmare, something that Dabi could soothe away. But that wish shatters as you look around. The room was too spacious, the view was too pretty, the walls were too new, and the device around your ankle was still annoyingly present.

#rts #road to salvation #shinsou x reader #shinsou hitoshi #bnha shinsou #hitoshi shinsou #shinsou hitoshi x reader #bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader

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inviouswriting · 4 years ago

Text

Cruore

It literally means “flowing blood”

Half original. Half going on the recent story I wrote.

Mentioned characters -

Meeps/Fae - @meepsthemiqo

Shuri - @maiden-born-in-snow

Yume @earthlystar

Some warnings in here for touching on Kivera’s descent in Hell.

Kivera is use to the smell of blood, the world she is from is full of it. The underworld, the realm of the dead. Her world she has known after her death from the hands of Bathory. She knows the realm inside and out, from the deepest pits in Tartarus and Hell itself. To the highest peak in Purgatory where she watches those who come before her. Seeking passage to Paradise.

Her punishment as much as bestowment. Punishment for her sin, bestowment for her servitude. She is under Thanatos and Hades. She does their work without question, and never asks the Fates of their reasons.

Kivera is capable of seeing the world up to the earliest of her memories she remembers. In other times she has witnessed how civilization takes hold and grows over periods. Other worlds, she sees how far behind, or how they destroy themselves.

The smell she is use to is that of flowing blood. She is use to it so much it doesn’t phase her like her fledgling days. So Kivera stands over a sight she is accustomed to people pleading her for a difference. To be let into Paradise, on behalf of some good merit they did.

“You have not learned yet, and I cannot let you through.” Her voice echoed in the hall, softer as she addressed the face before her, another of many. One she’ll forget after a few days. She sees so many. Her mind constantly drifting back to her interactions in The Source.

She had let a few dozen through, and encountered only a few people who need to humble their hearts more. Still full of resentment.

“Why do you get to play as judgement here?” The words echo in her mind.

“That is just the way things are.. I just do.” She says automatically. Practiced words, ones she has said countless times. The faces change, her words remain the same as she gives these people their tasks and trials to complete. Till she grows tired of doing this, letting the realm do their part.

She retreats to her personal space, and replays the events that she had done. Her own hands burn from when she used her hell flames on Ardbert. She still feels their heat. She had marked three people to keep an eye on. Cid, G’raha, and Ardbert. She had tied their lives into her own spirit. She had to do something to keep them from meddling.

Kivera recalls her encounter with Cid. He was busy with something he had worked on, barely even noticed her slipping in through a mirror. Before he had known, he felt something graze through his back and touch his very soul before searing heat engulfed him internally. When he had turned around, he was met with the blunt end of a scythe raising him up and pinning him to the wall nearby.

“You’re Shuri and Estinien’s lover?”

“That saves me time. I know you, and have watched you for a while now.” Kivera’s eyes were a bright green behind her mask, and he sees black surrounding them. He felt his limbs as if they were freezing in place.

“What is this about? Surely you are not?”

“Just be quiet and listen to me. You of all people should heed me. You are very much alive, and I am very much capable of ending that now. Right here. So I have a warning for you.”

“I don’t have much of a choice do I?”

“No you do not. Either you heed it or you rather not know what will happen. You have stepped into a world and realm you have no business in. One that WILL kill you. If you have any sort of devotion to your beloved, Yume. You will stay out of the time temporals. I let the events of The First slide, because I was meant to stay out. But I won’t have you setting foot where you shouldn’t now. Be with your lover.” Cid feels his arms returned to normal but his legs felt heavy as stone.

“I can’t just abandoned my work.” He tries to bargain with her.

“I never said you didn’t have to stop. Just not mess with time. It does not lead to anything good.” She warns him. Her voice softer than he remembered, but in the empty room it was haunting as she is the border between two realms. He notes how with ease she lifts him, not even shaking in her hold bearing his weight at the end of her scythe.

“I’ll try not to.” He is met with a glare behind the mask, irises flashing orange in her annoyance. He feels his body returned to normal in the way he doesn’t feel his body stone and the blood rushing back through him. Kivera turns and tosses him with her scythe across the room.

Kivera wanders to the door to the workshop and exits it, scaring Wedge with the sudden slam of the door. She stalks out and goes to stand in the center of Revenant’s Toll, she still had one more person to see within this place..

Kivera’s memories of what happened after replay, she had only intended to scare the miqo.

“Maledetto! Ardbert! Why did you have to....“ She throws a fireball across the floor letting it race and fizzle out before it reaches her scrolls. She had lingered in a mirror when she spied on the meeting at Rising Stones. She saw the way her loved ones defended her name. How Shuri didn’t reveal everything about her, Divinity had to disclose, she doesn’t blame her for talking about her so much. Explaining her reason and resolve.

She sees how haunted G’raha Tia looks at how the Scions seem to just accept it, not wanting to make a further mess by targeting her as an enemy. They are wise in that choice. They know her power already with Amaurot. How she can raze a world, how she can destroy something without a thought. They see keeping her on their side more vital than a dispute.

Kivera felt guilty for how she treated G’raha, but she did not feel sorry for the way she went about her methods. He had to know the gravity of his meddling. That the lives he altered permanently, they have to deal with the repercussions. Meeps and Fae both have to come to terms with their feelings. How to raise a child without their parent they had spent.

“A parent is a god in the eyes of a child.” Her voice comes out in a whisper, she would never have that opportunity. Her life had been snuffed out decades ago. She regrets attacking Ardbert, he had just gained her trust. Then shattered it with careless words.

Antares’ orb reflects her eyes in a deep blue at that feeling. She cared, she knows their interaction is unavoidable. She feels the familiar pricks in her mind from Divinity searching for her. She quickly shuts her out, unable to really show the Libra spirit the sorrow she feels.

Ardbert used it as a means to provoke her, and she let loose on him. To draw her attention off G’raha, and onto him full force. It worked, she had attacked him in pain, they had exchanged blows to the point she had invoked Pluto into her own body. A deity of destruction. If Divinity hadn’t intervened. She is certain Ardbert might not be around due to the magnitude of what she was about to unleash on him.

Kivera feels another prick into her link, and sighs as she curls into one of the beds she keeps to lounge on.

“Te amo.. You and Shuri.” She gives Divinity what she seeks. Her response to ensure she would come back to them.

Her mind drifts to the time she spent in Hell. Wandering as a broken soul, stumbling blinded, and torn apart almost from the many who saw a pristine being and set about ruining her in every which way. She feels the hands still when they gouged skin or her eyes.

She resigns her thoughts to another thing, she needed to see Chiron. He helped her through the days following Damien’s death, then after when the conditions of his revival were placed on her. When she was asked when she would return. She answered after she visits the Sagittarius spirit. She needed tempering in her abilities, how to redirect her anger, her alignment had shifted in that fight to a little more chaotic than her neutral state.

She’d have to summon G’raha when she returned. Any explanation she should give him, is best from herself. She didn’t need her loved ones apologizing on her behalf for losing herself.

Kivera ruffles the hair of Silvara, the sphinx raises her head to eye her.

“Tell me of a riddle.” Kivera asks her, and Silvara thinks about it.

“You are planning to see him?” A nod and she stretches herself across the reaper’s body.

“No.” Kivera snaps her attention to her.

“Why?” She was being denied entry.

“You know what must be done. A riddle nor Chiron will give you more answer than what you already know.” Silvara feels Kivera stir underneath her, and only presses down, grateful for her lion like body having some weight to pin the angel down.

“And what is that answer?!” She is met with a smirk.

“That would give away the answer.” Kivera tries to slip out from her grasp. Silvara keeps her there. Not inclined to move off and lets her frustrated curses be sound in her ears.

“Maledetto!!!!!”

“Silenzio!” Silvara chirps back taunting her. Kivera blinks, and resigns herself.

She did know what needed to be done.

Apologies to those involved. She had let her own wrath speak for her.

“Forgiveness right?” She says quietly.

“Bingo. Head scratches.” Silvara demands. Kivera sighs and gives the sphinx pets on her head. She won’t be allowed up unless she does.

“Don’t eat my books again in my absence.” Kivera reminds her.

“They were ones that you wouldn’t miss!”

“Silvara! Don’t eat my books! Eat Chirons! He has more than me.” Silvara gets off of her finally, and lets the reaper up.

“You’re going back right?” Silvara takes over Kivera’s spot.

“I need to. I did some things I shouldn’t have, and there is a few who miss me already.”

“Divinity always did worry when you up and leave. Even in Paradise.”

“I have a role to do, and I must see it through.” Kivera starts towards a mirror, to head back to the world she ran away from in pain.

“Don’t burn people too much again.”

“Aww... that is my specialty.” Kivera sees the grin on the sphinx, then promptly curls her wings around herself.

Kivera enters through her mirror, she had some atonements to make.

~~~~~

Translation note -

“Damn you!”

“Silence.”

#Kivera Siverstein #some original characters in here #meepsthemiqo #shuri fontaye #G'raha Tia #ardbert #ff14 ardbert #polyship mentioned #ffxiv cid #Cid Garlond #earthlystar #silvara is my sphinx she eats books #divinity libra

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hartigays · 5 years ago

Note

Harringrove sleepover where they are high and play truth or dare... maybe some truths or secrets slip.. maybe some first kisses happen..

(i’m gonna do this one first because high boys give me LIFE)

steve takes the joint billy has handed to him, taking a long hit before passing it back.

“we should do something,” he comments. he’s laying on the floor, staring up at billy’s ceiling. billy sits on the couch in front of his fireplace, puffing on the joint.

it’s neil and susan’s wedding anniversary, so they’re both out of town for the weekend. this is actually the first time steve’s ever been allowed to see the inside of billy’s house. he was surprised when billy had called at all, asking if he was down to come smoke.

kind of a stupid question, really. steve is always down smoke.

“well. what do you suggest, stevie boy?” billy asks. he’s sprawled out on the couch, one arm slung over the side.

steve plucks the joint from his fingertips, bringing it to his lips and breathing in deep. “hm. we could play a game?”

billy laughs a little, sitting up to peer at him over the side of the couch. “are we fuckin’ six years old, harrington?”

“truth or dare is always fun. it’s a game for all ages.”

the look billy gives him is a mixture of judgmental, and considering. he finally shrugs, taking the joint from steve’s outstretched hand.

it’s starting to get late, and neil hadn’t felt the need to keep the heat up very high while they’re gone, even if it’s the dead of winter. so billy shuffles around, moving the couch and getting a fire going. by the time they make themselves comfortable at opposite ends of the couch, the joint is finished.

steve is comfortably warm and high. he burrows deeper into the couch cushions, shooting billy an appreciative smile.

“you go first, i guess,” billy says after a moment.

he’s lounging casually at the other end of the couch. the fire casts a soft orange glow over billy’s skin, making him look even more warm and inviting. steve clears his throat, looking away quickly.

“okay. truth or dare?” steve starts, still staring at the fire.

“hm. i’ll go with truth.”

steve pauses, thinking for a moment, trying to work his way through the high, fuzzy state of his brain for a reasonable question. there’s a lot of things steve wants to ask, but none of them would be appropriate, exactly. so he settles on something safe.

“what’s your biggest pet peeve?” he asks, finally pulling his eyes back to billy. he finds the other boy staring right back, unbothered.

“loud breathers,” billy says easily. “my turn. truth or dare?”

“loud breathers?” steve repeats, huffing out a laugh. “interesting. okay, i guess i’ll go with truth, too.”

“do you currently have a crush on anyone?” billy asks, almost immediately. he has an unreadable look on his face. steve feels himself flush.

“um. yes?” he answers after a beat, his gaze flickering back over to the fire. “okay, back to you. truth or dare.”

billy disregards his question, simply asking, “who?”

“that’s not how it works,” steve argues, rolling his eyes. deflecting hard. “truth. or dare?”

“fine,” billy complains, making a face. “i’ll go with truth again.”

“what’s your guilty pleasure?”

again, billy answers without missing a beat. “strawberry ice cream. you again, pretty boy. truth or dare.”

“well,” steve says, giving billy a knowing look. “since i know you’re going to ask me who my crush is, i’m going with dare.”

“fine by me. i dare you to tell me who your crush is.”

and okay, steve hadn’t been expecting that. “that is so not fair.”

“rules are rules. gotta take the dare, or change your choice to truth,” billy tells him, one brow arched. challenging.

steve is starting to wish, just a little bit, that he hadn’t suggested this at all. he’s just stupid and stoned, too relaxed and comfortable to think about the fact that he has way too many secrets to play a game that depends primarily on revealing them.

“why are you so interested in who i like?” steve asks, a challenge of his own.

“why are you avoiding the question?”

and okay, he can’t exactly argue with that. but he will anyway. “because it’s not like you’d even know him. i mean - her. jesus, the hell kind of weed did you get this time?”

“same as always,” billy tells him. his head is cocked to the side, curious. steve wishes he could use his hand and wipe the smirk right off of his face. “but fine. different dare. i dare you to tell me one of your deepest secrets.”

there’s a lot of options that come to mind. the primary ones being i sometimes fight monsters and i think boys are just as cute as girls and sometimes i think no one is ever going to love me.

instead, steve goes with, “okay. okay, when i was eight, i melted my neighbor’s barbie dolls. i was trying to see if they would melt faster than those little plastic soldiers. the little green ones, you know?”

“and how is this a deep secret?”

“because,” steve insists, “her family came around asking if i’d seen them. i lied and told them i’d seen one of the other neighbor kids messing around in their yard. they went over there and started a big commotion when the kid denied ever being over there in the first place. those families still have beef to this day.”

billy stares at him for a moment, then tosses his head back, his whole body shaking as he laughs. when he sobers, he gives steve a crooked smile. “you’re evil, harrington. you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“i’m headed straight for hell,” steve agrees, grinning a little himself. they’re quiet for a moment, before steve speaks again. “back to you, hargrove. truth or dare?”

“i guess i’ll mix it up this time,” billy says. “dare.”

steve hums thoughtfully, then settles on something he’s been curious about for a while. “i dare you to let me see your necklace.”

billy blinks. “my necklace?”

“yeah. the one you always wear.”

another beat of silence. and then billy shrugs, pushing himself up and shifting closer. steve does the same, moving until their knees knock. billy reaches into he collar of his hoodie, pulling out the necklace and moving to take it off.

steve stops him. “you don’t have to. i just wanted to look at it for a second.”

he takes the pendant from between billy’s fingers. it’s in pristine condition; it practically shines in the light from the fire. steve takes in all the details, running his thumb over the face of it before tucking it safely back into billy’s sweatshirt. he’s always been curious about it. it’s a pretty design, and he’s never seen billy without it on. he figures there’s some sort of story there, and wonders if billy would let him hear it.

when he looks up, his breath catches a little. he’d forgotten they’d moved so close, and billy’s face is dangerously close to steve’s. so close that steve can see every freckle on billy’s nose. it makes his heart flutter, just a little bit.

“truth or dare?” billy asks. his voice is a low rumble, and steve thinks he might be staring at his mouth.

but that’s crazy. steve shakes his head a little, trying to snap himself out of it. he’s still high off his ass, so he can’t be sure he’s not just imagining things. in fact, he’s pretty sure he is. his mind is still cloudy and billy’s so close, he’s clearly just seeing things that aren’t there.

“truth.”

“does your crush go to school with us?” billy asks, a small smile playing on his lips.

steve groans. “this again? seriously?” billy just looks at him expectantly. “fine, christ. yes. your turn.”

“truth. ask me something good.”

“i’ve got something good,” steve says after taking a pause to think. “do you currently have a crush?”

“i do,” billy answers. his voice is easy and cool. and he’s definitely staring at steve’s mouth now, his eyes still glassy and heavily lidded. “‘s all you again, stevie.”

steve has no idea what to make of that. but his heart rate kicks up a bit, his palms starting to sweat.

“you want to keep playing?” he asks finally. he’s desperately hoping the answer will be no, but something inside of him is screaming to keep going.

“absolutely.”

it’s the finality of it that throws steve off. his head is spinning a bit, his high mind trying to catch up with the current situation.

“i’ll do another dare,” steve answers. “gotta keep it consistent, i guess.”

“let me think,” billy says, looking a little thoughtful. then he gets a mischievous look on his face. “i dare you to describe what your crush looks like.”

steve chokes on his own spit, spluttering a bit. he has no idea what to say to that. he could always just lie, pick some random girl from one of his classes and use her description. but he has a feeling billy would see right through that.

“i, um,” steve stammers, his cheeks heating up. “h-she. she has um. curly, uh - curly hair. blue eyes.”

billy keeps looking at him, his expression still open. playful. he raises his brows. “and? gotta give me more than that, harrington.”

steve is starting to wonder what billy’s playing at, when it hits him. billy is toying with him. why? steve isn’t sure, but he sighs and continues on anyway, kind of wanting to see where this leads.

“um, okay. she’s a little shorter than me. feistier, too. she’s uh, she’s got freckles in cute places, you know? and she just got this tattoo recently. really cool design.”

and now steve knows he’s said way too much. his mouth snaps shut so quickly that his teeth crack together. but with the look billy is giving him - something heated and intense - it barely even registers.

“she sounds cute,” billy decides after a moment.

“uh. yeah, she is. yup.” steve’s flush spreads from his cheeks all the way down his neck. “back, um. back to you. truth or dare?”

“dare. c’mon, do your worst.”

steve is still trying to wrap his head around everything. so he doesn’t have it in him to think too hard, and just blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “same as my dare. describe your crush.”

“well,” billy starts, staring directly into steve’s eyes. “he’s tall. taller than me. dumber, though. but that’s okay. it’s cute. he’s got these big brown eyes, all doe-eyed and shit. drives me nuts. and his hair? fuckin’ hell. never seen someone with so much hair in my life. but it’s perfect, all the time. i dunno how he does it. and his mouth, fuck. i would look at it all goddamn day if i could.”

his brain short circuits. that’s the best way steve can describe it. all he manages to squeak out is a pathetic, “he?”

“that’s not how it works,” billy says, imitating steve from earlier. but his eyes are sparkling and he’s practically fucking beaming. “truth or dare?”

“i - it just - you just -” steve stutters, tripping over his words.

“c’mon steve. you gotta pick one.” this time, when billy speaks, he’s a little breathless. his eyes are zeroed in on steve’s mouth again. he sounds a little wrecked, like he’s hanging on the precipice of something.

“i...dare?”

“i dare you to kiss me,” billy blurts, immediately.

steve freezes, his eyes now locked with billy’s. in his peripheral, he can see the rapid rise and fall of billy’s chest. and then he’s leaning in, because, as his stoned brain reminds him, it is a dare, and he’s not about to pussy out now.

he’ll worry about the real reason he’s following through with the dare later.

for now, steve just shifts foward, closing the distance between them. the first touch of his lips to billy’s is like an electric shock, but pleasant. billy gasps a little, seemingly involuntarily, one hand coming up to tangle in steve’s hair.

the movement makes steve feel a little bolder. he presses his lips to billy’s firmly, insistently. kisses billy slow at first, soft and tender. he feels the warmth of his high still rolling through him in waves, and combined with the feeling of billy’s lips against his, he feels like he’s floating.

when steve moves one of his hands, bringing it up to cup billy’s jaw, billy lets out what sounds like a soft whimper. and that has steve deepening the kiss, his other hand threading through billy’s curls and pulling him closer. he licks into billy’s mouth, trying to memorize every square inch of him. in case he never gets to do this again.

steve breaks away from billy’s lips. trails a line of gentle kisses along the stubble of billy’s jaw, up to his ear. he presses a sweet kiss to billy’s earlobe, delighting in the shiver it elicits. he pulls the sensitive skin between his teeth, biting gently. smiles when he hears that familiar sharp intake of breath, billy’s hands moving to grab steve’s shoulders, clinging to him tightly.

“god,” billy sighs when steve releases his skin from between his teeth, tucking himself into billy’s neck. “i thought you were never going to do that.”

steve pulls back and gapes at him. “wait. you knew the whole time?”

“duh. you’re shit at keeping secrets, steve,” billy says, huffing out an endearing laugh. “i knew you would never tell. not without, you know. a little push.”

“you could’ve just said something.”

billy gives him a coy smile. “but where’s the fun in that?”

steve huffs out a small noise of exasperation, but before he can say anything, billy’s lips are on his again. all the fight drains out of him and steve melts at the touch, sighing happily.

he can whine at billy any other time. right now, all he wants to do is kiss the boy beneath him until he’s dizzy.

so that’s exactly what he does.

#HERE U GO BBY THANK U FOR SENDING ME THIS ♥️#i love writing high adventures w these goobers #harringrove #my fics #ask #uncle-keery

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