#multi-chapter work

[sylviesoothsayer22]

Well Matched - Chapter 1

Lycoris radiata

When the Yiling Laozu’s spirit emerged from the Burial Mounds as a newborn Calamity, the entire cultivation world trembled in fear.

Wei Ying just wanted to find a quiet place to rest. He had no plan, so he naturally followed the strange butterfly that seemed to beckon him somewhere. What’s the worst that could happen?

“You’re adorable.”

“I thought I was charming.”

“Charming and adorable. I’m tempted to keep you.”

“….sweet-talker.”

“Rejoice, Wei Wuxian is dead!”

“Fantastic, fantastic indeed! Remind me again, who was the hero who killed the Yiling Laozu?”

“His shidi! The little sect leader Jiang Cheng!”

Everyone in the tavern laughed and declared those who have led the Siege of the Burial Mounds heroes. They all toasted to the Patriarch’s demise.

It had been several months since the news first broke out and many have not yet ceased celebrating.

A condescending snort cut through their revelry. All eyes were drawn to the rogue cultivator lounging in his seat. One youth lazily twisted his head to the man’s direction and cast his left eye on the speaker.

“Too early for that.” He rumbled. “The days of the Yiling Laozu are far from over.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let me ask you all a question.” The speaker said. Clearly pleased to have everyone’s attention. “Since Wei Wuxian wasn’t born into the Jiang sect, how many Soul-Tranquilization Rites has he undergone before his violent death?”

Almost every member in the tavern paled in realization.

“You can’t mean that he’ll come back as a ghost!”

“Even if he did, every soul within the Burial Mounds are trapped there. The amount of resentful energy alone makes it impossible for the dead to break free!”

“The Burial Mounds no longer hold as much resentful energy as they used to.” The cultivator informed them gravely.

“What do you mean?!”

“Speak plainly!”

“Don’t go around spreading false rumours for attention, you old fart!”

The only person who didn’t put up a fuss was the youth who was watching the pandemonium with a bored expression. The cultivator gazed at the anxious crowd in silence before loudly slamming his jug on the table.

“Silence! Do you wish to hear what happened after the Siege or not?!”

Everyone quieted and listened to the cultivator with wrapped attention as he began his tale:

“After the Patriarch’s demise, all was quiet for a while and the Great Sects believed it would be the end of it. Yet, some wandering cultivators detected strange disturbances within the Mounds. The resentful energy appeared to be constantly fluctuating. Through their observations, they saw a thick red fog emerge and cover the mountains. The wanderers notified the sects who sent out members of high rank. Those same men would come back and swear blind that they saw the Patriarch lurking around.”

“How is it that no one has heard of this until now?”

“The sects silenced as many gossipers as they could find. They did not wish to spread panic or give the demonic worshippers hope.” The cultivator cast the interrupter a slight glare. “May I continue now?” He asked dryly.

“At that point, all of the sects believed that Wei Wuxian did not pass on. Many high-ranking cultivators, sect leaders and head disciples converged on the spot where they sensed the yin energy was at its highest, believing that the Patriarch’s spirit was still recuperating. Wanting to put an end to this drawn-out battle, they rushed at the swirling mass only to stop in their tracks!”

“Thorny black vines shot through the rocky ground and held them all in a vice-like grip. They tried to hack them off with their swords, but new vines would grow in their place. The bound cultivators felt themselves growing weak. Somehow, Wei Wuxian drained them of their spiritual energy. What’s worse, the red fog surrounding the mountain hardened and formed into a barrier. By the time the cultivators realized that they had walked into a trap, there was a familiar sound of a dizi playing.”

The crowd’s eyes were as wide as saucers. The youth’s eyes were narrowed in deep thought. Many leaned forward as the cultivator continued with his story:

“A figure emerged through the fog. None other than the Yiling Laozu himself! Different, but still recognizable. When he was last seen, he was gaunt, injured and looked ready to collapse at any moment. Back then, he looked fragile but unmistakably human. Now, not anymore. His skin was as white as pale snow. The grey of his robes swirled unnaturally against the breeze like ash. The black of his clothes were so dark, they appeared to be devouring any form of light. It almost looked as if it were made of shadows. His eyes let out an eerie blood red glow. There was a vial full of -what appeared to be- ashes suspended around his neck by a red string. The strangest addition to Wei Wuxian’s appearance was the countless ghostly-green fireflies floating around him. What purpose they serve, I do not know.”  The speaker shook his head. His expression haunted.

“Everyone believed that the Patriarch was about to start another massacre. One that would overshadow what he did in Nightless City. Instead, he plays one sharp note and Wei Wuxian dissolved into a murder of crows! The crows and fireflies passed through the shield and scattered into several different directions. Everyone else was left trapped within the barrier. For whatever reason, Wei Wuxian chose to spare the cultivation world his wrath that night.”

The crowd traded panicked whispers among themselves. The speaker watched them with an amused expression.

“You make it sound as if you were there.” The red robed youth piped up, while the rest of the tavern were busy processing the Yiling Laozu’s strange new powers. The rogue cultivator looked at the youth, affronted.

“I was there, ignorant brat! It took us nearly six months to break through that damned barrier and another three to search for that devil’s weakness in the Burial Mounds!”

“How has no one heard of this until now?” A member of the crowd asked disbelievingly.

“This is now common knowledge in the entire cultivation world. It’s not my fault no one cared to inform the people in this backwatered village!”

The youth snorted and shot back “How much of this story is fabricated? Unless you can provide proof that you were there yourself, I don’t see much of a point in listening to your fairy tales.”

The crowd let out murmurs of agreement. The rogue cultivator felt a tick mark growing on his forehead. He grabbed an item that was wrapped in layers of talismans from his pocket and slammed it on the table in front of the youth.

“Here’s your proof! The jade token that was once tied to Chenqing!” The youth picked up the token and examined it. The item exuded an absurd amount of yin energy that could only belong to something powerful.

“It certainly appears authentic.” He commented. The cultivator snatched back the token from the young man’s hands.

“Bah! What would you know?” He grumbled as a he re-wrapped the item and put it back in his pocket. The youth shot him an unimpressed look.

“You mentioned that you and your fellow cultivators were looking for the Patriarch’s weakness. Did you find it?” The youth asked blithely. The rogue cultivator gnashed his teeth.

“No. The Yiling Laozu is far too cunning.” He faced the crowd once more.

“While normal ghosts can be dissipated in numerous ways or sealed with a spirit-trapping pouch, beings like Wei Wuxian can only be destroyed through the destruction of their ashes.”

“Didn’t you mention he had a vial of ashes wrapped around his neck? Why were you looking for them in the Mounds?” A member of the crowd asked, confused.

“I’m getting there!” The rogue snapped before continuing “We looked for clues on where would Wei Wuxian go to for refuge. Through our findings we found many similar looking vials and took the chance that maybe his was among them. When we started destroying every vial we could see, we realized these ashes belonged to other ghosts. The truly horrifying part? After we captured a stray soul and demanded information, it was revealed that they willingly sacrificed themselves for the Patriarch. He did not even have to use his flute on them!” The cultivator shook his head in disbelief before continuing. “Somehow, this Wei Wuxian won the ghosts' loyalty after the destruction of his mortal body. They even called him ‘our lord’!”

“Perhaps he’s building a city for the dead as we speak.” One member mumbled. Almost everyone in the tavern let out shudders at that possibility. The only ones who weren’t affected was the story-teller and the youth. The rogue cultivator snorts.

“Now who’s telling fairy tales?” He took on a severe countenance.

“If the Yiling Laozu decided to create a ghost realm, the amount of resentful energy needed would attract the attention of every single cultivator within a thousand miles. Don’t you get it, you fools? He’s in hiding! Right now, he has likely suppressed the majority of his powers to such a degree that it would take a strong spiritual weapon to detect him.”

“Do you mean that finding the Patriarch is a hopeless endeavour?” The youth drawled out in a bored manner.

“Not quiet. Remember the ghost-flies? Normal fireflies only come out in the summer. Yet, no matter the season, these creatures follow him wherever he goes. We merely have to wait for news on them.” The rogue cultivator concluded.

“How sad that the entirety of the cultivation world has to rely on mere rumours and heresy to catch one measly ghost.” The youth remarked, casually.

“Well, do you have any better ideas?!” The rogue cultivator shouted. “If you don’t, then get out of my sight! You disrespectful wretch!”

The youth shrugged and got up. He brushed past the ill-tempered cultivator and smirked in secret as he exited the tavern. Once the ‘young man’ was a fair distance away, he pulled out the token that he snatched from the arrogant cultivator. A silver butterfly landed on the item. Hua Cheng waited as the creature scented the yin signature and watched as it took off in search of the source. He continued his leisurely walk.

Wei Wuxian. He thought. What an interesting character you are.

Chapter End.

Author's Note: Lycoris radiata is the botanical name for red spider lily. The flower is typically associated with death, long journeys, sad memories and final goodbyes. Interestingly, the colour red usually means love and passion.

Omake:

WWX: *sneezes for the nth time that day*

WWX: Aish! Have I suddenly become so popular?! Why the hell are people talking about me so much?!

WQ & WN: *judgmentally staring*

WWX: *sweatdrops* Nevermind~

All three: *see something let out a silver glow in a corner* Wait. What was that?

I'll try and post the rest of this fic one chapter per-week until I eventually run out. Hope ya enjoyed it!

[birdboybuckley]

Snippet Saturday

was tagged yesterday by @bidisasterevankinard so I’m using it today lmao

i finally started working on my hiatus fic, it’s a marriage of convenience fic in which tommy is Canadian. it takes place right after the first kiss and i am very excited about. expect silliness and loveliness and those idiots just being ridiculously in love with each other. anyway here is a snippet of the second chapter with buck and maddie.

“So I…erm…I’m getting married! And I kinda need you and Chim to be witnesses.” He watched the journey of emotions that washed over Maddie’s face. Surprise, confusion, shock. She opened and closed her mouth a couple times, like the words that she was trying to speak were dying at the edge of her tongue. She swallowed down her coffee and sat up straight in her chair before proceeding.

“You’re…getting married.” She repeated back to him.

“Yes.”

“To who?” She questioned, tilting her head to the side slightly and scrunching her nose.

“Tommy.” Evan said simply.

“Tommy.”

“Yeah…the pilot.”

“Eddie’s friend?”

“Ugh, recent friend. We both met him at the same time.”

“And you guys are getting married?”

“Yeah. After the whole basketball incident, Tommy came over to apologise. We got to talking, one thing led to another and he kissed me.” Evan paused for a moment to watch Maddie’s reaction. Surprisingly, his sister kept her face calm and neutral, waiting patiently for Evan to finish his story. “We were, erm…supposed to go on a date on Saturday but something happened. I-It’s a long, long story. And I’ll tell you one day I promise, but I just need to know if you will be there and that you suppose me.”

“Hey, of course I support you.”

np tagging some friends @aringofsalt @gaytommykinard @wikiangela @hyperfocusthusly

[morphestic]

Only in the bsd fandom will you see people shipping Jesus Christ with Fyodor Dostoevsky.

[lilacxquartz]

an imp in fae’s clothing;

yandere m!fae x f!reader

plot: while you were minding your own business, you catch the attention of a fae who you couldn’t seem to shake off.

summary: upon taking care of a problem, eloryn tries to offer you an explanation for everything • < previous chapter • next chapter > • read on ao3 • original works masterlist • chapter directory

Chapter 4. Backgrounds

By the time Eloryn had returned, it was starting to get bright outside. You saw his silhouette enter, and then as the bleeding moonlight from your window highlighted the aftermath of what he went through. Blood clung to his body—to his clothes—slowly burning away like glittering embers, evaporating into the air.

You sat up ever so slightly, pushing yourself to lean back on your elbows. “Is… is it gone?”

Eloryn dusted off his hands, flicking an invisible dusting of filth with a disgusted sigh. “It’s gone, yes,” he replied carefully, “took a bit of convincing though, and a whole lot of hurting.”

His eyes drifted back to look at you, taking in the way you were tucked into bed. You were still drunk, but not as horribly as you were just hours ago. It seemed that for the most part, the worst of it had subsided. He smiled in approval, which left you feeling comforted from the unsettling situation, not knowing that it was because he felt some pride from you being able to do as you were told when it mattered to listen.

“It… sounded so much like you,” you admitted with a soft murmur, biting back a yawn. “I was so close to opening up the door.”

Eloryn gulped a lump in his throat away, thankful that you didn’t. “But then you remembered an important detail, didn’t you?”

You nodded. “You don’t use doors.”

He smiled, taking up a seat on the bed. “I’m glad you’re learning,” he said, leaning forward. He wanted to cup your face in his hands, but then a debilitating pain shot through. His hand shot to his forehead before dragging it down his cheek in a pained hiss.

You sat up straighter, souring your nose at the scent of burning flesh. Your eyes narrowed and trained onto his scar that seemed to have grown longer, now traveling down his throat, meeting at his collarbones.

“What is th—” you started.

He forced a smile, although it was surely strained. “It’s nothing. Really.”

“But you’re hurt,” you pressed.

Elo sighed in response, lifting his head and blinking up to the ceiling. He tried to smile again, even as his hands curled into tight fists, doing everything he could to settle the pain. “Just a little consequence from my realm,” he muttered, “it likes to punish those who meddle in yours.”

You wanted to ask him more about the matter, especially since you were still lost in the world he supposedly came from, but you didn’t even know where to start.

“But that isn’t fair,” you protested slightly. Your voice came in a slight slur as you tried to think of a suitable response, but your alcohol-addled mind didn’t let you get very far.

Elo snorted as he considered the matter. “Well, it isn’t, but neither is the thought of something harming you.”

His eyes drifted over to your own, locking in on the sight of you lying so close to him. There was a possessive glint that sparked in the depths, his good pupil flashing with an adoring look. “I’ll gladly take the pain if I must.”

You stiffened, unsure of what to even say. Your mind wandered again instead, zoning out to wonder what might have happened if you pushed him away for good and what that thing might have done. He, in turn, slowly bridged the distance, coming to pull you closer to his chest as he lay back, both looking and sounding utterly exhausted. His hand idly stroked your arm as he leaned against you, his head tilting to take in as much of your scent as he could before letting out a deep exhale.

“I suppose,” he said after a while of silence, “that I should explain more.”

You blinked your eyes open, not quite asleep but not quite awake either. “Hmm?”

“I mean, all of this is my fault because I exposed you to it, even if I didn’t mean to do so,” he clarified, nervously laughing in a way that almost threw you off. “The fae realm—where I’m from—is a world hidden from humans. Some people might have a stronger connection to it, like you, my lovely one. But humans aren’t supposed to see it in full. Just glimpses at most.”

He rotated you ever so slightly, settling you on your side so that he could look and face you directly. “That’s where all the stories come from, by the way.”

“Stories?” you probed.

“You call us folklore, don’t you?” Eloyrn asked. “Strange little creatures that you might catch from the corner of your eye or lurking in the dark somewhere that’ll disappear if you blink.”

You listened along, flinching at the sound of thunder breaking out just outside. The clouds laced in the remainder of the stars and the moon, plunging you both into darkness, save for when the lightning flashed. Rain poured against the window and tapped along the panes. Eloryn snorted a half-laugh at your scared reaction, finding it endearing. There was something about you that brought out his gentler side, and he reached out the back of his finger to smooth along your cheek, hoping to comfort you.

He continued in a level voice, trying to sound soothing, “Sometimes, beings from my realm can breach into your world, but it’s very rare. I believe humans call those hauntings. Or, rather, when an entity has a very strong tie with a place. You can only see me because I interacted with you a lot, for example.”

You blinked, catching onto a detail. “Hauntings…?”

Elo nodded. “Well, all of those sightings that people claim to be ghosts are real to an extent. They’re corrupted fae, or creatures that have strayed from their intended path in life. If a being has negative intent, then it’ll corrupt itself like that too, the longer it’s away from home.”

You nodded as he spoke, the lightning night slowly colouring in his features. It was still quite dark, especially with the storm outside, but it wasn’t too bad now. A thought then entered your mind.

“Was…” you began, catching his attention, “was the mimic a normal person before?”

Eloryn smiled. “Yes, the mimic was likely a fae who had become corrupted. Things like ghosts, imps, and other beings that humans don’t quite like are real and are the result of too much meddling. Beings that are stuck in between realms become a sort of anomaly. They’re too corrupt to return to the homeland, but they’re not exactly welcome in your world either.”

“Will that happen to you too?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Yes and no,” he replied, “I’m not here from ill intent, unlike that thing.”

You gulped and pushed the worry aside. Even if Eloryn’s arrival in your life was sudden, you supposed that he had good intentions. You hadn’t known him for very long, but it seemed to be different for him. Somehow, this wasn’t a red flag for you because he never abused his power or position. Besides that point, he didn’t seem bad company. Maybe you were wrong to push him away? At the same time, though, there was something about him that you just couldn’t push past. Something that he was surely keeping from you, which made you a little uncertain.

“Oh, okay,” you replied to him after a moment. “So, the things that are left behind in my world are like… cryptids?”

Eloryn blinked as if caught off guard, but then smiled. “Yes, I suppose so. To you and anyone else who has a stronger connection towards beings like myself, these creatures are visible enough to be seen momentarily, even if their presence doesn’t entirely linger.”

He then paused and leaned in even closer to you, ghosting his breath over your face. He looked at you as if he felt sorry for you, causing that strange feeling of suspicion you had for him to resurface. His fingertips traced paths over your skin, leaving goosebumps behind, sighing deeply to himself as he did that.

“Is everything okay?” you asked.

“Just fine,” he murmured, but then stilled his hand, “it’s just… it wasn’t always this way.”

You blinked at him, focusing your gaze.

“There used to be more of an overlap,” he added, dropping his hand from your face, “but humanity, as it is now, grew too fast. People were always exploring, settling, expanding, and… exploiting, and the fae, well, they’re different; they like to settle somewhere and leave the free hand behind for the rest of the living things. There’s an old saying we have, it goes something like we’re the root, whereas humans are the weed. Though, I suppose that’s an insult.”

You stayed quiet as he continued.

“So, when humanity started to build all of those cities and began moving forward by inventing all of those things that we’d only ever hear in stories, the fae got left behind,” he explained. “Out of choice, mind you, but still. Humanity became less about integrating magic and forging their own power. That’s what created the divide. The fae don’t like to share what should only be used for good.”

He raised his hand, brushing his fingers along your skin once more in an attempt to soothe himself. “We are certainly a stubborn bunch, though. There’s a lot that our kind might benefit from humans as well as the other way around.”

“Why would the fae need humans?” you asked softly.

“Well, we’re not quite as plentiful as humans, but there’s a lot of us by now,” Elo replied, considering his next words carefully. “We might benefit more than we want to admit from things like modern agriculture because feeding everyone fairly isn’t as elegant or equal as it used to be - comfort is one of those things too,” he tried to then joke, “we don’t have electric fans or air conditioner to cool us down when it gets too warm.”

You opened up your mouth, letting it hang for a moment before speaking, feeling your hangover settle into a headache. “Oh, that makes sense. I can’t imagine my life without a lot of the convenient technology we have today…”

“Correct,” he nodded, tapping your nose, “although some fae are trying to bridge such a gap. Scholars and researchers who are trying to find an in-between that can benefit the fae without needing to involve humans. Others go further and ask for dissolution, which is essentially a one-way trip into the human realms, but that means giving up their status as a magical being.”

You frowned, not understanding why someone would choose the mundane. “And why would someone want to do that?”

Eloryn shrugged. “Curiosity, I suppose. Avoiding corruption through dubious means of transport, too. The more you move in between realms, the more messed up you risk becoming. Hell, even I used to be much more handsome before I started to get involved in this whole mess,” he laughed to himself before making an effort to level his voice. “But dissolution just essentially means… that they’ll cross over permanently and then will later die as humans.”

“What does this mean exactly?” you caught on. “Die as humans? Do they lose their status as fae completely? Or do the fae simply not die…?”

“Of course we die, as living things must eventually do,” Eloryn corrected you, “just as not as quickly as your kind does. Humans focused on quick expansion—on claiming as much as they could—on multiplying. You’re all like shooting stars, bright and beautiful, but gone within a blink.”

“And the fae?” you asked apprehensively.

“We take our time,” he replied, his tone twisting into amusement, “eighty years might be enough time for a person to say goodbye forever, but for a fae, that’s around the end of puberty. Adulthood is closer to just over a century.”

“W-wait,” you shot out, sitting up a little. “How old are you?”

Eloryn paused, realising his mistake. He tilted his head as he tried to find an answer that would comfort you. “Relative to you, we’re around the same age. If you’re in your twenties, then I’m around that, more or less, at least emotionally.”

You narrowed your eyes again as he feared, not accepting that answer.

“Alright, alright,” he relented. “I’m just over a hundred and thirty…”

You blinked at him in stunned silence.

“You’re… older than both of my parents and my grandparents…” you pointed out.

Eloryn took a deep breath, hoping he didn’t mess things up with you. “Yes… Does that bother you?”

You thought about it for a moment, watching as Eloryn started to fidget with his thumbs, looking around the room. It was clear that his age gap with you bothered him, but you also supposed that he didn’t look all that much different than you, and besides that, he wasn’t human.

“It doesn’t,” you settled on.

Eloryn smiled and wanted to talk more on the subject, but then you said something else first.

“Also, when you said that the fae can benefit from humans - I don’t think that they should try contacting them if so, like, genuinely keep trying to do it secretly,” you suggested.

He tilted his head to the other side that time.

“It’s just… we barely get along with each other,” you reasoned.

He snorted and then sighed, allowing his body language to relax with his voice. “Maybe you’re right. Your kind has been fighting with itself for as long as I can remember. It’s in our history books, too.”

You frowned. “That’s kind of concerning, I’m not sure I like being a human if this is how we all are…”

“Well,” Eloryn shrugged again, “you’re not like most of them. You’re kind and you can get along with me well enough, which either makes you insane or adaptable. But also, my lovely, please listen to me right now, because I need to explain a point to you.”

“Oh?” you softly asked.

“I dragged you into this mess, even if unintentionally, and now I’m going to assume responsibility for this,” he added, reaching for your hand. “I’m not asking for much, but I’m just telling you to be careful. Don’t pay attention to anything strange or out of place for very long. Don’t look into a mirror if it seems too dark. Don’t pay any mind to those insistent shadows out of the corner of your eye, and also, of course, don’t answer the door if you have a bad feeling.”

“I-I won’t,” you tried to promise.

Eloryn, however, needed to make sure you understood this thoroughly. The darker glint in his eye returned, focusing on you with determination. “I’m serious,” he strained. “Things from my realm, if they’re here, are not supposed to be here. Yes, you can argue that most things trapped here are harmless and are just trying to get by, but there are a significant few that will hurt you badly if they think you can see them.”

You gulped, unable to reply at that time. At best, you let out a shaky nod.

Eloryn fell back slightly, realising that he was scaring you. He exhaled and bit his tongue before moving in with a softer approach. “I don’t mean to make you afraid, it’s just…” he trailed off, trying to explain it to you in a way that you could understand, “long gone are the days when humans left out treats for hobgoblins or built shelters for the sprites in the gardens. Those were different times—softer times—the creatures you’ll encounter now are not the same sort that would bless your doorstep or leave you acorn bread for when you’re hungry.”

You tried to speak again, “I’ll be extra careful—”

Eloryn, however, wasn’t done talking yet. “If something happens to you, I won’t forgive myself. Just… now that you can see me, utilise that. Call for me when you’re unsafe, even if it makes you look insane. Just say my name and I’ll be there.”

“What if… there’s a chance that you can’t be?” you asked him, getting the worst case out of the way.

Eloryn frowned but supposed that it was a valid question. “If you don’t feel my presence, then run. There are certain places that evil things dislike. Places with many wind chimes or dream catchers, or mossy woods with mushrooms that are growing in a circle. Hang up some of those things while you’re at it, here. I’d rest so much easier if you were better protected.”

“Okay—” you tried again, trying to calm him down.

“—Promise me—”

“—I promise,” you said without skipping a beat, “I’ll call for you and I’ll go to places with wind chimes and I’ll decorate my home and—”

He caught you mid-sentence, crushing your face and form into his body to calm himself down more than you, and then, after a while, he finally relaxed his hold on you.

As you lay there for a moment, you tried to ask something that had been on your mind for a while. “Hey…”

“Still awake,” he murmured in confirmation.

You nodded into his chest. “Why are you… so attached to me?”

Eloryn paused and then exhaled a laugh, both out of surprise from being asked such a thing so soon, but also because he had been expecting that question for a long time now. “Well,” he said, “it’s a long story, or rather, it’s a lot of little stories. A string of events led me to you, and I can’t just leave you alone anymore. I… can’t explain it all just yet, but all I do know is that I like you—being with you—looking at you—it all just makes me want to stay forever.”

Your throat tightened a little and for a moment you wondered if this level of devotion would do more harm than good in the end. That creeping feeling that you felt before came back as a result.

“It’s not malicious,” he said, catching on, “maybe it’s a little cruel at best, though. Nobody else can see me, so people will think you’ve got a few screws loose from talking to the air all the time.”

You yawned and nodded, accepting that answer for now.

Again, he didn’t seem to want to hurt you.

So maybe you should just go with it.

“I’m serious,” he said, bringing you in even closer to him, as if sensing your underlying worry, “I’m not going to hurt you like others have, both human and from my realm. Not like when—“ he stopped himself, “I want what’s best for you.”

You stiffened a little at his continued assurance, perhaps feeling that there was something more to it, especially since it was so excessive. You wondered if it was more of a human thing to feel so distrustful and suspecting, but no, there was something your gut couldn’t quite digest.

Eloryn all the while, stewed next to you. He knew that he was being intense and that it was likely making you uncomfortable, but that was simply because he had truly seen everything. Every time your heart broke, every time someone tried to lie to you, every time you cried yourself to sleep.

He pulled you up slightly just as you were about to finally give into sleep. “Hey,” he murmured, “I’ll show you something special tomorrow to make you feel a little better about… all of this.”

You were jolted awake but only just.

“What do you mean?” you sleepily mumbled.

“I know I said to stay away from malicious magic beings and maybe I shouldn’t indulge you too much, but…” he started, looking at you with a look that intensified by the second, “I want to show you the good sides of magic. The kind that’ll make you feel warm rather than afraid. If you’ll let me.”

You thought about it for a second and finally nodded into his chest. Your voice had much more weight now and you were so tired, but ultimately you technically did want to see what magic—real magic, not just tricks—was like.

“Okay,” you mumbled off some more, “that sounds nice.”

Eloryn held you tight as you drifted off to sleep, watching as your body gradually relaxed and as your breathing evened out. He brought the blanket up even higher, concealing your form underneath, and then his eyes flickered up into the dark and his smile finally faded.

His gaze landed on something that couldn’t help but shift in the shadows, that also froze upon being seen.

Slowly, it backed away until it retreated entirely and Eloryn sighed deeply. He meant it with all of his heart when he promised you that he would protect you from everything.

Which meant that everyone else that crossed into this realm was now in trouble.

(But only if they got close.)

[tinkrtailrsldrspy]

Let's Get That Man Pregnant!

Okay. This is probably the toughest battle we've faced yet, people. Ford against Dean Winchester?? Guys. Dean just beat Kirk.

Do not underestimate the Supernatural fandom! Go vote now!

>The Poll<

(Also, there's been another month added to gestation!)

[the-real-treasure]

Treasure Treasure! Masterlist

[One Piece Live Action] Sanji x Reader

COMPLETED

**FULLY EDITED 20/09/24**

Summary:

"I'm not a mind reader Monkey D. Luffy."

"No! You're a dream reader! And that's even better!"

-----------------------------------------

As a child you were told eating the Treasure Treasure fruit was the stupidest decision you could have ever made. It was pointless, offering no additional skills to assist or support the Supreme Commander's family or scientific endeavours. As useless as the overly emotional boy you were assigned to follow and serve, branded with the number 3 with a line scored through it.

But, as you lay in a courtyard, surrounded by marines vying for your capture and execution, and stared up at the grinning boy in a scruffy straw hat, you realised no.

There were much much stupider decisions to be made.

Read on AO3: Here

Read on Quotev: Here

Total Word Count: 58,800 words

Chapter One: Shipwrecks and Hopeless Dreams

Chapter Two: Straw Hats and Treasure Maps

Chapter Three: Whispered Wishes and Demanded Dishes

Chapter Four: Big Big Top Trouble and the Risks of Show Business

Chapter Five: Sweet Syrupy Lies

Chapter Six: Let Sleeping Cats Die

Chapter Seven: Returning Tides of Home

Chapter Eight: Mon Cœur Est Un Petit Âne

Chapter Nine: Treasure Troves in Orange Groves

Chapter Ten: Poisson d'Arlong

[vodid]

i decided itd be a fantastic idea to write a fic for blitzbee week and in classic adhd vo fashion, it sits for over a month until i start panicking bc the date is coming and i had NOTHING written.

so i started writing a couple days ago because the power of procrastination filled me. i already have 3k words/almost 3 chapters done <:'3

[aussie-bookworm]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Team Fortress 2 Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Heavy/Medic (Team Fortress 2) Characters: Heavy (Team Fortress 2), Medic (Team Fortress 2), Baby Baboon (Team Fortress 2) Additional Tags: POV First Person, Developing Relationship, Baking, Post-Canon, Comic: The Days Have Worn Away (Team Fortress 2), One Shot Summary:

Also known as bird's milk cake, Ptichye Moloko is a classic Soviet-era Russian dessert, made with sponge cake, mouse and chocolate. Not to be confused with the Polish marshmallow desert, the Ptichye Moloko is a staple of the Russian dessert table.

[mosoderbergh]

I finally broke and created the Solas Bathroom Floor AU

Inspired by this idea from a while back.

Picture this: It’s the end of Veilguard. Solas steps through the fade or gets punched through the fade - whatever. But instead of the fade or the prison, surprise! Time travel AU! He ends up at a women’s club toilet in modern day. Super disoriented, face bloody, full armour. Sits in a corner staring into nothing. Until a group of heavily tipsy twenty-something women enter the bathroom.

Now Solas is a huge man in full medieval get-up, but he’s got the big wet eyes and the thousand yard stare. They assume he’s drunk and lost. He looks super sad. So one of them goes up to him.

“Hey, are you ok?”

She speaks very loudly because her ears are shot from clubbing. And he’s kind of dazed from battle and trauma, so he says some super dramatic shit like “I deserve all suffering that finds me. I only wish I did not have to bear the guilt.”

The girls exchange glances. Oh, this guy is going through it.

“You should have some water”, says one of them and pulls a full water bottle from her purse.

“What’s wrong?”, asks another one, squatting down beside him. She’s an elf, too. “Oh god, were you in a fight? What happened to your face?”

He won’t explain. They clean him up anyway. Solas lets it happen. He has no idea what’s going on. If anything, he assumes he’s been found by some strange spirits of curiousity in a very unusual corner of the fade.

“It’s not that bad! It’s just, like, two scratches.”

“What’s your name?”

“I am Solas”, he answers mechanically.

“That’s so beautiful”, whispers one of the women further back.

“Did you get broken up with? Because Ali was just like this after she got broken up with. Remember?”

“Oh, fuck off”, says another woman, presumably Ali. She kneels down as well, taking care not to let her skirt ride up. “Were you… together long?” (Ali is playing the pronoun game because this guy’s sexuality is kind of hard to figure out.)

And Solas, too exhausted to keep up any pretense, lets his head fall.

A gasp goes through the ranks of drunk women. A mystery solved.

And he doesn’t tell them everything. He doesn’t explain. But through half truths and mumbled regrets, Solas’ new friends learn some details about Mythal and the Evanuris, the Inquisition and the Veilguard. They probably figure out way more than Solas intended to say, even though they really just interpret it as heartbreak, one toxic ex and a really bad workplace situation. And then they do what drunk people around 3 am do best: They build him up.

“You know, you are so great just the way you are. I know that’s such a fucking cliche, but you are. And if that Mythal couldn’t see that, she was a fucking bitch.”

“She didn’t appreciate you.”

“This is why dating your boss is a bad idea. Right, Ali?”

“Don’t fucking remind me. Anyway, Silas-“

“It’s Solas, he said Solas!”

“Solas! You… need to love yourself. Ok? You are beautiful. Do you know how beautiful you are?”

“He’s the hottest bald man I’ve ever seen.”

“Shhh! You can’t say that!”

“Well, he is bald and he is hot.”

“Your head is so shiny.”

“Ignore them! You’re so beautiful. And we love you. And we are fucking brilliant judges of character. See Jess over there? She doesn’t take bullshit from anyone.”

“No I don’t. And I love you!”

“She loves you! Where are you from?”

He tries to tell them. He really does. But somehow, in the face of all this stumbling enthusiasm, his reply is drowned in a sob.

“Oh no!”

“Sweetie, no!”

“Don’t cry!”

Once he’s started, he can’t make himself stop. And all of a sudden, he finds himself in the slightly sweaty embrace of several well-meaning drunks. One on either side of him. One behind him. Someone pats hit head.

“It’s ok, sweety. You feel your feelings.”

Solas hasn’t been hugged in a long time. You bet he falls apart about it. At some point the elf girl, named Bellara, sneaks out to look for her friend.

“Hey Rook? We need you in there.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but it’s been a while since I’ve been inside a women’s bathroom.”

“Oh, no one will mind. There’s already a guy in there.”

“What?”

“He’s crying.”

“I… ok. Damn. I guess I’m coming with you.”

“He actually seems kind of sweet. Just probably drunk. And lost. Looks like he stumbled in here straight from a nerd convention. Also… he might be queer? So I thought you might be of help.”

“For protocol: We don’t all know each other. Also: You’re one of us.”

“I know. But I’m not good at this stuff.”

Rook steps into the bathroom. There is already a group of women huddled on the floor, mothering the living shit out of a tall elf in full armour. Someone is talking soothingly into his ear. A woman with slightly smudged eyeliner and gorgeous matte lipstick is trying to offer him water. Rook feels superfluous. These girls seem to have the situation well in hand. But then the stranger’s eyes, already wet with tears, fall on Rook. Simultaneously, the last pretense of control seems to leave him. Rook watches his face crumble and instinctively steps closer, squeezing the stranger’s shoulder as he starts to cry in earnest.

“You’re ok”, says Rook, falling in with the chorus of supportive, if slightly confused murmurs from the women present.

It must be that Rook just stands closest to his direct line of sight, because out of all of them, it’s him the stranger holds on to, one long-fingered and surprisingly strong hand grabbing the front of Rook’s shirt. He is folding in on himself, his face contorted in pain, no sound leaving him except rare, forced gasps for air.

“Hey. Breathe.” Rook kneels down to be at his level. “You have to breathe. Here. Like me.” Rook takes the stranger’s hand and places it on his chest, breathing slow and deep. He smiles encouragingly when the elf takes a shuddering breath. “There. You’re doing amazing, honey. I’m Rook. What’s your name?”

“He said he’s called Solas”, Bellara whispers.

“Solas. You’re going to be ok. Can I-”

Rook opens his arms to offer a hug and Solas very nearly lunges at him, holding on for dear life as he is shaken by great, heaving sobs. The kind of ugly-crying where you can barely breathe. The kind of crying you do at 3 am in a club bathroom. Solas doesn’t know how neatly he fits into tradition. Over his shoulder, Rook mouths a silent “wow” to Bellara. He wraps Solas in an embrace, swaying gently. The group of empathetic strangers draws in closer, whispering encouragements and rubbing Solas’ back.

"Hear that? They all love you”, Rook says into Solas’ ear.

“We do”, someone says helpfully.

Solas doesn’t seem to hear. All he says, choked out between sobs, is “I am sorry. Rook. I am…”

Over and over, apologies flowing into each other so as to be barely intelligible. Rook would not have guessed that Solas payed enough attention to remember his name. Perhaps he is not as drunk as Bellara suggested. Perhaps he is just having a spectacularly rough night.

“It’s ok”, Rook says, trying to calm him down. “You’ve done nothing wrong, There’s nothing to apologise for.”

Somehow, this only seems to make him cry harder. So after another few attempts, Rook decides to just let Solas ride it out. He gets the occasional pep talk from the people gathered around him. That, at least, doesn’t seem to make things worse.

It takes a good few minutes until the storm has passed. Solas’ body slackens in Rook’s arms. Rook waits until Solas pulls back before he breaks the hug.

“Better?”, he asks.

The elf still looks disoriented. But when one of the women presses a water bottle into his hands, his voice barely shakes when he thanks her.

He does have beautiful eyes. When they fall on Rook, it seems Solas has to wrestle for composure once more. He closes his eyes, leaning in again. Rook lets him rest his head on his shoulder.

“Ar lath ma”, Solas mumbles.

“Aw”, says Bellara.

“We know”, Rook reponds, smiling. “We love you too. Everything’s going to be ok now.”

[aurora2sunset]

[kthologue]

[mechazushi]

Watercolor Memories

"And where are we at on the budget for the Research and Development Department?" Jozu Nogizaka, the Chief of Staff for Ariaka base asked from his seat at the conference table.

All the higher ups for the First Division were settled in one of the larger meeting rooms for the bi-monthly debriefing where everyone with an important job title get together to make sure everyone is on the same page. Not only was the Chief of Staff and his fellow associates there, but the Head Director of the Defense Force, Isao Shinomya. His assistant as well as Narumi Gen were there as well, with all three of them in different states of mental presence. The Director was listening as intently as he could, seeing as he had the most to gain or lose from a lack of communication from inside his cabinet members. Ebira looked to be following along for the most part, but any light that would normally be in one's eyes had dissipated considerably early into this drool meeting. Narumi, openly picking his nose with his feet up on the table, had certainly lost any and all interest in this communal interaction a while ago.

Which made it a good thing that he had enforced his decision to bring Kafka Hibino to the meeting with him. Not being one for paperwork, much less anything not related to the active takedown of kaiju threats, he usually got dragged along to these meetings by his second in command, Eiji Hasegawa. Recently however, the base had acquired the biological enigma that was Kafka and once they had deemed him not an immediate threat, they had run out of ideas as for what to do with him. They still weren't comfortable with him traveling outside of base, but had decided that he could at least wander around a few select buildings on the grounds as long as he had supervision. Not one to miss out on exploitative labor, Narumi weaseled his way into letting Kafka act as essentially a personal secretary.

Kafka didn't give it any second thought once he heard the offer since it let him outside of his small, barren closet he had to call a room. It became clear that he should have since most of what Narumi made him do had him chained to a desk piled with paperwork or had him running endless fetch quests for food around base. Still, Kafka went about it without complaint. It was either this or working out his room all alone, losing his mind from worry and baseless fear. Hasegawa wasn't too thrilled about this new arrangement since it meant that the strongest division officer to date just got to laze around more often, but he couldn't deny how Kafka's presence streamlined the paper processing and left him open to pursue actual second-in-command duties. It even worked out better in meetings.

All Hasegawa had to do was drag Narumi with Kafka in tow and go off to finish more important tasks. Kafka turned out to be incredible at note and record taking, so all he did during meetings was make an abbreviated list of important facts that he could rattle off to Narumi when he actually had the capacity and care to acknowledge them. All Narumi had to do was show up and look like he was interested... which was turning out to be the hardest task of all. As the First Division captain continued to look at anything else besides those in the room, Kafka just slid glances in his direction and sighed heavily at the patheticness of it all. Everyone here had made several attempts to correct his behavior, all to no avail. If anything, they've been letting him get away with it more now that Kafka was here to cover his attention deficit ass.

But even Kafka had to admit he was with Narumi on this. These meetings were soul-sucking. It took everything he had in him to keep a running tab in his mind about everything that was being decided on. Even then he didn't have to think that much harder as to how to frame his notes in such a way to make it easier for Narumi to understand at a glance. This left him with plenty of free time in between important bulletins for his mind to wander, and in turn his fingers as well. Kafka didn't get a seat at the table during these meetings and was forced to stand behind Narumi the whole time as he cradled a small tablet to write on.

Holding it in one arm meant he had to type with one hand, which he got impressively good at as the days went on. But since the sentences he wrote were so short, it left him standing there inactive for long periods at a time. Something that would eventually garner judging sneers from the other board members. To avoid these leering glances and an ever present fear of reprimand, he had taken up doodling in the margins of his digital notes. The notes app he wrote in had surprisingly adequate artist's tools that he could pull up and use alongside his typed notes. He, of course, deleted everything before he handed the tablet over to Narumi to read later, but the habit at least made him look busy during the more dull sections of the meetings.

It wasn't his first rodeo in dealing with digital media, but it had been a hot minute since the last time he could only work with a lower standard of equipment. He grew up playing around with the School's built in paint programs, but had eventually gone on to dabble in more advanced programs built specifically for mobile. Really, it just started as a way to kill time at work until he could go home and get a hold of his sketchbooks. What started off as glittering fantasies of being the best warrior known to man being put to paper, shockingly warped itself into anatomical studies of the monsters he butchered apart for most of his life. Once a pastime turned teaching tool had now reverted back to a simpler time. One of daydreams and recovering of memories not yet lost. Kafka drew the faces of those he shared the room with as warm ups, but would quickly find himself trying to draw those he wished to see again more prevalently.

It was a dangerous mindset to find himself in. He had a nasty habit of getting too caught up in how Reno would hold his head or how Haruichi would hold a drink to remember to focus on the words being said around him. To be stuck in the past was never good, especially when keeping your job meant concentrating on the present. In a sick sense of bartering, his mind came up with the solution of instead bringing attention to his past relationship to his ex-vice captain, Soshiro Hoshina. It didn't feel like they were together long, but the memories of their connection burned the brightest even in the darkest recesses of Kafka's mind. Their circumstances had changed drastically from the shrouded image of domesticity that they had gathered for themselves ever since the reveal of what lay dormant in Kafka's chest.

Hoshina was mad about it, that was for sure. Kafka had become so wrapped up in the idea of being loved by the last person he ever thought he deserved it from that he actively shoved his biggest secret under the rug. All just to feel one more day of tender warmth from his lover. Recent events had forced everyone's hands and fresh wounds had to be quickly patched with no real healing touch behind them. Hoshina still came to base every two weeks to train Kafka in Squadron Style hand-to-hand, but neither one made any move to bring up how the reveal seemed to cut down the trust that had been built between them. With the looming threat of another coordinated attack looming over everyone, it had been silently decided that it would have to be put to the side for now.

Kafka was desperate to say he was sorry, in any way he could. That he knew he should have said something earlier, damn the fact that their budding attachment to each other was about as stable as a newborn deer's legs. You don't hide the fact that you have an alien entity buried in your chest just because you want to see how far you can get away with courting above your military station. It wasn't just to see if he could either; He never viewed their love as something so empty and vain. Kafka more than looked up to him. Hoshina was the pinnacle of everything he ever wanted to be growing up. And that same person was looking back at him and telling Kafka that he had a chance; that he believed in him no matter how small that chance was. He wanted to be anything and everything that Hoshina could ever want to see in a partner, in someone that could stand by his side as well as Mina's. Hoshina loving him back was just a bonus.

Kafka just had to hope there would be a moment where he could put it all into words.

"Narumi, if you keep bouncing your heel against the table, I will not hesitate to assign you to janitorial duty for a year." Director Shinomiya gruffly commanded from his seat at the head of the table.

"It's not my fault you geezers are talking about dull shit. Losing my mind over here." Narumi groaned as he moved the offending foot off of the table, the movement snapping Kafka out of his spiraling misery.

"This "Dull Shit" as you so put it is critical for the defense of the nation!" Jozu declared as a fist bounced firmly on the boardroom table.

As Narumi began to engage in a battle of differences with the Chief of Staff, Shinomiya stole a brief look at the wall clock, "Tell you what. If you can tell the group what the last subject we were discussing was, I'll dismiss this meeting early."

"Uhhh... okay. Yeah, sure, I can do that." Narumi drawled as he was caught unaware by the proposition.

"The last thing we were talking about was..." Narumi chewed on his lip as he tried his best to think back to what the conversation was about in the first place. He threw several pleading glances back as a distracted Kafka before leaning back in his chair.

"Psst! Help me out here!" He harshly whispered, his lips almost curling into a snarl from how long it was taking Kafka to answer him.

Kafka fingers flew frantically over the screen as he tried to find the last place he left off in his notes for the meeting. As soon as he found it, he leaned down to Narumi's ear to whisper the answer back.

"We were about to move away from talking about the budget for the R&D department!" Narumi claimed with as much confidence as he could muster.

As everyone in the room glared disapprovingly for a moment longer than comfortable, Narumi began to direct the collective brunt of the glare back towards Kafka, who was visibly sweating buckets. A loud and disappointed sigh soon broke the uncomfortable silence before a creaking of a chair was heard from the head of the table.

"Meeting Adjourned." The director ordered as he stood up, the toll of the meeting now seen more clearly in the lines of his usually impassive face.

While everyone there would have gone on record stating that these meetings were important and necessary to have, it wouldn't have taken a trained eye to see just how fast everyone was leaving the board room. Even the Director let out a low gasp of relief, his sinking shoulders betraying his stone visage in the smallest way possible. Not waiting for more people to leave the room, Narumi didn't hesitate to drag Kafka out by the collar and pulled him out into the connecting hallway. Hoping to corner Kafka somewhere a little more private, he dropped his hand and sauntered away knowing his subordinate would follow closely behind. Narumi had long since caught on to Kafka's tactic of playing around with the tablet to give the appearance of being busy, but hadn't cared about it before now. Having almost been humiliated by the potential distraction made him wonder what could Kafka be doing that garnered so much divided attention. Once they had made a more comfortable distance away from the board room did Narumi start his investigation.

"Mind handing me the notes since you're still here?" The captain requested, starting his attack early. The sudden question made Kafka shake himself out of his fog of thoughts and fumble around with the prematurely dismissed tablet.

"Yeah, sure, give me a second." He answered back as he woke the screen back up.

"A second?" Narumi pressed harshly, leaning in to the irritated energy he developed back in the meeting.

"I-I just want to check for spelling mistakes." Kafka casually lied as a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, betraying his nerves.

"That's bullshit and you know it." Narumi countered as he made a swipe for the device in Kafka's hands.

"What's up with you, Mr. McGrabby Hands? Usually I have to print these out and staple them to your forehead in order for you to read them." Kafka retaliated as he had to dance around his commander, making painstakingly sure the tablet didn't fall into the wrong hands.

"Maybe I just wanna see what kinda shit you're doodling on company time." Narumi growled with determination as he tried every trick in the book to knock the tablet out of Kafka's hands.

"Pfffft, w-who me? I-I'm not doodling! I wouldn't do that!" Kafka sputtered as he cradled the device close to his chest while trying his best to erase all of the artwork he had scrawled in the margins of the pages.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Kafka. I would too if I could." Narumi continued to goad as he pressed himself as close as he could over Kafka's back, still in a battle for dominance over the hotly desired device.

"Here, here! Take it! Jesus..." Kafka shouted defensively as he tossed over the tablet into Narumi's surprised hands. Narumi took a moment scrolling excitedly, hoping that Kafka had missed a piece somewhere on the digital pages. His eager grim dropped quickly into a disappointed scowl once he was sure there was nothing incriminating to be seen.

"Told you." Kafka confirmed breathlessly, "Busy with spell checking, like I said."

Narumi eyed him distrustfully through his bangs as he stayed hunched over the tablet. His suspicions over his officer's habits had yet to be dissuaded, but he relaxed his shoulders and took ownership of the device nonetheless.

"Whatever. Anything you draw probably looks like dogshit anyway." Narumi teased maliciously, wondering what kind of reaction he would get if he did.

Seeing the ploy for what it was, Kafka made sure to keep himself looking unshakeable as he tried to stare down his current captain. Soon, the two of them heard a pixelated popping noise that was synonymous with the act of receiving a call over their government issued ear buds. Hasegawa's authoritatively dull tone soon filtered in with a slight crackle.

"Narumi. I request Kafka's presence outside in the West Quadrant. Is he available to do so soon?" The commander's right hand man asked, the sound of the wind unmistakable under his request. Narumi sighed irritably as he gave a long, hard stare right back at Kafka.

"Yeah. Meeting's over so he should be there soon." Narumi answered before he nodded Kafka away, signaling he could go.

Kafka silently bowed back and turned sharply on his heels. Narumi watched as he lightly jogged away at a clipped pace, clearly wanting out of his company. Making sure Kafka didn't come running back for any unknown reason, Narumi picked up the disregarded tablet once again and gave the note screen a thorough once-over. Biting the inside of his cheek, his eyes glanced over the back and forward arrow at the bottom of the screen. He took a chance and tapped on the button several times. His eyes grew wide as he watched the margins of the notes become jarringly splashed in broad strokes of color. Giggling manically to himself, Narumi ran off back to his office so he could study Kafka's colorfully intricate secrets in peace.

Fall in Tachikawa had brought a bitter chill along with the changing of the leaves. It came slicing in on those pervasive and penetrative winds, the kind that makes old men say "It wouldn't be so bad if not for the wind". Soshiro's brother often compared him to this type of weather, saying that if it wasn't for his blades, he would be easier to ignore and that it's more regrettable that he isn't. It was the type of weather that made every fiber of your body run for warmth despite it not being life threatening. Hoshina would have dove for a more welcoming form of warmth, one he had become intensely attached to shockingly quickly, but was forced to supplement it with one cheap glass of beer after another.

He wasn't normally a heavy drinker, not unless you counted coffee. Lately the nights after work had started to require something stronger than coffee and after dark training. Everywhere he walked, it was just another reminder of what he lost. Crumbling walls, cracks in the foundation, it all reminded him of Kafka. It almost felt like it was all taunting him. The cracks and crannies mutating into leering jeers, mocking and slandering him, saying he wasn't strong enough. That if he had taken Number 10 down faster, that the base would still be here, that nobody would have been forced to transfer, that Kafka...

Thus the alcohol. At least with something fermented running through his system, there was a chance Hoshina could redirect his brain to something less soul-sucking. When it was just mug after mug of coffee, all it did was make the thoughts churn faster and bring up every little problem he didn't feel like dealing with right now. With the alcohol, the thoughts were slower. Sure it was the same thoughts, but he could at least buy himself enough time and fake plausible excuses to make himself feel better. His first and most recurring thought being about his current coldness towards his most treasured cadet.

Kafka was a Kaiju...apparently. And he had somehow managed to hide any indication of this affliction during the six months they had been together. Hoshina was beyond mad about it -he was furious- but that feeling did nothing against what he already knew to be self evident about the both of them. Given a second to open his mouth, Hoshina knew that Kafka would spill apology after apology, be on his hands and knees begging for forgiveness. He would probably go so far as to say that he would understand if Hoshina would prefer to never see him again after breaking his trust so demonstrably. It wouldn't stop Kafka from trying anyway, just so he could have a chance to help Hoshina understand that he didn't do it out of maliciousness or genuine distrust. Hoshina had an idea of why he did it, but he didn't want to tear himself up over it any further by jumping to conclusions.

All he knew was that if he was given that same second, he would have cut Kafka's throat before he had a chance to speak. Yes, it was partly because that would be his sick idea of a fitting punishment for not saying anything about it sooner (It's not like he would die from it). But the bigger reason was that Hoshina wouldn't be able to hear Kafka even suggesting they separate over something so trivial. Well, it felt trivial to Hoshina anyway. Soshiro loved Kafka. Even as Kafka was being loaded into the transport, Hoshina had to dig into everything he had not to cut down anyone that would be in his way and drag his dopey partner off over the horizon to whatever sense of safety they could carve out for themselves. He wanted to forgive Kafka just as much as he wanted to forgive Hoshina, but God he was too damn prideful to let this go so easily.

It's not like they had any time to hash this out properly anyway. Not with the attack of Tachikawa Base acting as an indicator for worse to come. He went into his arrangement with Kafka knowing full well that what was being unsaid was going to hurt them both, but talking it out and trying to heal from what would be said would take up so much precious time that they did not have. All this arrangement was to Hoshina was a way to see Kafka one more time, to get to touch him one. more. time. This was his way of making sure that moving forward, Kafka had a chance to be safe, as well as keeping track of how he was feeling. After he explained to Mina what he was going to be doing every week, she wrote down a list of expressions Kafka makes and what they meant. Kafka wasn't just Kaiju Number 8 to the Third Division, and Hoshina had to work with what he could do to make sure Kafka felt anything but unwanted.

But by not saying anything, Hoshina couldn't get back the same treatment Kafka would return tenfold if he just asked. This was the one-sided, unspoken, understanding that sent him to the local bars most nights. He initially despised the the communal loneliness that seemed to permeated the atmosphere of these places, but soon found himself becoming a major contributor of the melancholy fog he once avoided. The dark wood walls offered a sense of artificial coziness while the bartender had a good sense of when to talk it out with a customer and when to just serve and leave. The man behind the bar never offered to converse with him, probably understanding with just a glance that Hoshina's problem wasn't something that could be solved with small talk.

So there he sat. Nursing a third mug of light draft beer and praying that memorizing the wood grain pattern in the mahogany in front of him will be enough to distract him churning mind for one more night. With his eyes crossing and his mind still not quiet, Hoshina quickly understood that he was fighting a loosing battle. With a tired sigh, he pulled out a last ditch effort seeing as he didn't feel fit to head back just yet. He pulled out his phone and began to scroll endlessly, the motions sufficiently rendering his skull numb.

It wasn't something he ever wanted to make a habit out of. He was always going on about how there were so many other tasks that could be done that were more beneficial than doom-scrolling. It made him sound like an out-of-touch senior, but he always stood by that sentiment. Well, before now at least. He hated to admit it but some nights it really was the only thing that could get him distracted enough to sleep. Hoshina pulled up Chatter and skipped over his For You page, preferring to look at more national headlines than anything the algorithm spat in his face. He had only scrolled for a short while before he came across a familiar account profile.

Narumi had had posted something earlier in the day and it was quickly making headway through the notarized list of most fascinating things showcased that day. Hoshina just rolled his eyes at it and quickly moved past it, not feeling like being exposed to whatever attention-whoring shenanigans that fool had cooked up for himself. A few articles later, he felt weirdly compelled to go back up and look at it with the idea that maybe he would feel better if he could glean some scathing retort to it. It might make Narumi's post more popular, but when he joined in the conversation, that just meant that it only drew in more attention because he chimed in. And some days that would be enough for him.

Scrolling back up however, Hoshina was blindsided by the subject of the post. Narumi had posted some art. Not only that, it was art that Hoshina recognized. Hoshina had spent so many hours leaning over the artist's shoulder, critiqued every little doodle that ended up on the bottom of incident reports, and had been the subject of many an artwork that it was impossible for him not to distinguish Kafka's deft hand on the digital canvas. Rounded patches of cool colors cascaded under crisp, but messy line work. Portraits were nothing more than organized scribbles, but the still life's were where Kafka really shined.

In the slim margins of what were clearly meeting notes, Kafka had managed to depict one of the managerial heads sitting across from him at the table, including the top of Narumi's head and boot in frame and in perfect point perspective. "He does not deserve to look like a Renaissance painting" was the caption of the post. Hoshina only caught the heading of the post as he accidentally backed out of observing the screen shots more closely. Looking around the edges of the post, he understood that what he was looking at wasn't even the original post. Clicking one link after another, Hoshina managed to dig around long enough to find the rest of the chain of posts, all talking about Kafka's art.

"My assistant is so cooked Dawg! Caught his ass doodling during a meeting!1!" Was the title to the start of it all. From there, it had devolved into a more serious critique of the art found. One post after another was about how accurate the details were. Occasionally, there was one about how stupid-looking a fellow defense force member appeared, but it just looped back around to the precision of it all. Hoshina wasn't surprised. After all he had the same reaction to the first time he had discovered Kafka's artistic talent. The memory bubbled up unbidden, causing Hoshina to sniff back a runny nose as he tried not to get swept away by his feelings. The memory continued to play in the back of his mind, projected onto the phantom screen hung in the back of his eyes...

It was an unseasonably warm day in March last year. Hoshina only had the new recruits for a few months now, but he was feeling like they were making lots of progress to breaking in to being the best soldiers of this generation. For a reward, the ground troops of the Third Division got to leave the base for a whole day. There was a slight caveat to this in that they were asked to turn out to a school spirit event, but none of them minded since it still meant they got to skip out on training for a day. In fact, it felt like they were more than happy to show up to the event and get the chance to inspire the next generation themselves. Some even went above and beyond, buying some cheap toys and candy to pass out. Kafka had gone out of his way as well and bought boxes and boxes of chalk.

Hoshina had been continued to be surprised by this man. Even still having only 1% aptitude for the suits, he continued to be a mainstay among the Defense Force. Once Hoshina made enough excuses for him, backed by Kafka's consistent information gathering while in the field, it started to feel like the Higher Ups just gave up and backed off. So what if one guy in their platoon only had 1% percent to spare? He was doing his best to earn his keep and with everyone else surpassing records previously held by earlier iterations of their platoons, it seemed like they could spare to have the extra hand around. Unfortunately, this did unintentionally classify Kafka as a mascot, but no one was going to offer the information up intentionally.

And it wasn't like the man wasn't doing anything to dissuade the mascot allegations. When Hoshina had finally cleared enough paperwork to come down to the school to let some of the other officers take off, he saw Kafka over in a corner of the school's lot looking like he was giving a very educational lesson. Dressed in cheesy vacation finery, that is to say an open Hawaiian shirt with a white tank and jean shorts paired with socks and sandals, Kafka had squatted down so he was eye level with his own congregation of children and was animatedly discussing something that had them all enraptured. Surrounded by buckets of chalk, Kafka was using one to illustrate something on the black top before them. Interest immediately piqued, Hoshina decided to slide on by for a visit.

Childish chalk drawings littered the lot around him as he made his way over, some appearing to have been abandoned halfway through. Looking over at where Kafka was, Hoshina could see a much more detailed drawing of what looked to be a fearsome battle of strength between a comically large Isao and a daikaiju. Just under it, Kafka had started up another illustration and was using it as a base for an art lesson in chalk. He talked in simple words, having to slow himself down in his own excitement several times just to make sure that the other kids were following along. He actively encouraged questions, surveying his grouping to make sure everyone had a chance to see and to understand. On his knees, Kafka leaned over his own makeshift canvas and was about to start demonstrating a new facet of art but suddenly stopped once Hoshina's shadow made his presence known before he opened his mouth.

"Wait! Don't move." Kafka said as he held his hand up without looking, "Don't move a muscle. Stay right where you are."

He took out a piece of chalk and began to quickly sketch the outline of Hoshina's shadow. One Kafka got all the way around his head, he started to sketch other details of Hoshina's face like his haircut and sly shaped mouth.

"I know that silhouette anywhere!" Kafka exclaimed as he finished his rough outline, "Vice Captain Hoshina! I was wondering when you would show up." He finished just as he looked up at his vice captain and flashed him the brightest smile he thought he would ever see.

The two of them exchanged pleasantries, but it was already too late for him. Once he knew of the way Kafka saw the world, Hoshina started to become more and more invested in all other aspects of him. Kafka's art was a gateway into his mind, and Hoshina didn't hesitate to walk right in. It looked so bright and hopeful on first impressions, but the more Hoshina hung around Kafka the more he would start to catch glimpses of things not being the case. Kafka stopped being just the funny man of the group to him after he found out about his talent. Much like other great artists, Kafka was as layered and as colorful as watercolor on canvas.

Thus began a months-long secret relationship with a man that was originally here off of pity and bias. Hoshina was thankful he could stop making excuses to keep him around at some point, because now it meant he could poke around at Kafka a little more. More intently, more personally. He always found Kafka fascinating from the get-go, seeing as his initial performance during the second test was surrounded with an air of secretive fascination, but that all fell away once he saw the shining facets of Kafka's mind. Hoshina felt he was no better than a crow some days, but the love and attention he received from Kafka just meant that he stumbled onto a gift that just kept giving.

Hoshina continued to scroll down the chain of posts, trying to keep himself from bursting into tears. Each new sketch, each scrawl and scratch of digital ink felt better than anything intense nostalgia could replicate. It was almost like a salve for his weary mind, an old childhood blanket that never aged a day, offering comfort and relief and sorely, much needed warmth. It had been so long since a hand-written scrap of love had graced his desk, Hoshina hadn't realized how much he needed them to continue his day. If snapshots of daily life at Ariaka made him feel bad, seeing any piece of Kafka's old life at Tachikawa made Hoshina's heart skip a beat.

Lungs hiccuping as he scrolled past happy recreations of outings long past, he wondered if he was going to be able to keep it together for much longer. It wasn't that he was embarrassed to be seen crying, it was more so with how he felt right then. He felt like he was too open, his heart becoming too exposed. Like a bonsai being harshly shaped and molded into a memoriam of what he and his division once had. A flash of blackish-purple and the side profile of someone's cheerful face finally broke Hoshina. Slamming the phone on the counter, he brought a hand up to muffle an unbidden sob. He hadn't looked long, but he knew Kafka well enough that it couldn't have been anything other than his most favorite thing to draw.

Grabbing his mug of unfinished beer, Hoshina took off running towards the restrooms, not wanting to garner attention from the smattering of people in the dive bar he was holding himself up in. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the forced drought of affection, maybe just seeing Kafka art was the last straw, but Hoshina found that he couldn't take it anymore. Hoshina had been forcing a facade every moment of every day he managed to get out of bed. Being in a shitty little bar at the end of the night might have allowed him to drop the mask a little, relieve some of the pressure that the mask had been holding back, but even the Vice Commander, Second to Mina Ashiro in power and strength, had his limits. Seeing that Kafka still thought of him as a muse was his line in the sand.

He slammed the mug down on the long row of sinks as he neared the other wall. Turning sharply on his heels, he fell back onto the teal painted, concrete brick wall as his knees gave out from under him. His brain felt warm, like it had been taken out of his skull and been manhandled under the hot sun for far too long. His chest felt like it was in Number 10's crushing grip all over again, which honestly felt preferable to having nothing to hold him in their arms right now. A part of Hoshina wondered if he was imagining his legs shaking or if he really was being that fucking pathetic; drinking alone, crying in a dirty dive bar bathroom, killing himself over his iron sense of pride. No part of him was delusional enough however to deny the boiling streams of tears falling down his tired eyes as they fell onto his tightly gripped phone.

With just one glance, the same comfort Kafka's art gave him rendered him a sopping mess. He was the one that told Kafka not to get attached to his team-mates, and now here he was, being reminded all over again as to why he should've taken his own advice. It was stupid, it was demeaning, and it was all his fault. Sitting here, on the floor of a place he never would have walked into before he met Kafka, one thought fought it's way through the tears and tinnitus and made him confront this one, now ever present fact about himself. Given the chance to start all over again, to have never been close to Kafka in the first place and had just investigated what he first considered to be a threat, Hoshina... wouldn't have taken it. Kaiju or not, Hoshina would never give that man up for anything.

And yet he did. Because if he really held true to what he wanted, Kafka would still be at Tachikawa, not halfway up the country in another base being placated with busy work because no one trusts him with anything important anymore. For the longest time, hell even to this night, Hoshina's mind continued to waver back and forth over whether or not he ever really had a chance to fight the powers that be. Whether he really could have helped Kafka to stay or if it all was genuinely out of his hands, then and now. Like any of it matters this late at night anyway. Beds had been made, but all Hoshina could do was wish to lie in the one he made with Kafka.

Well... as much as it killed him right at this moment, at least he had Kafka's art. Art was supposed to make people feel something anyway, right? This was just another check mark on the long list of incredible things Kafka was capable of. Taking slow, deep breaths until after the tears stopped, Hoshina prepared himself to look again. The pain of the memory was great, but forcing oneself to not feel anything was starting to be worse. Grabbing the glass of beer from the counter, Hoshina wiped the spilled tears off the screen and turned it back on.

It was just what he expected, really. The last two posts containing about eight images total were all just head shots of Hoshina with different expressions. "Okay, this is just embarrassing. Why is there so many pics of this schmuck?" Was the first post's title, a little rude but a genuine question for those unprepared for the full weight of Kafka's unyielding need to have Hoshina be his inspiration. He let out a small giggle as he took a sip of beer, remembering Kafka's weird obsession with scribbling out rough outlines of his face in the corners of anything paper-like he could get his hands on. Several pages of his notebooks dedicated to kaiju anatomy specifically were often signed with his face next to Kafka's name. Hoshina liked to tease him about it, calling it the new age version of carving initials into trees. Seeing the post sort of healed him inside just a little, knowing Kafka hasn't completely changed even with their undisclosed separation from each other.

The second post was where his tears started to threaten to fall again. It was still bust and head shots of Hoshina, but they all had a reoccurring theme of him in various stages of sleep. "I hate E V E R Y T H I N G about this... WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU KNOW WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE ASLEEP?!?!??! I hope this is just some creepy stalker fan-shit on GOD." Was the title of the second half of the post. Again a... reasonable response, considering that their relationship was never public before now. Somewhere in the deep recesses in his thoughts, Hoshina had a feeling that this was going to come around and bite him in the ass, but being three beers in made it really hard to care about problems one couldn't immediately foresee. Sure made it really easy to remember the past, so it seemed. With every side angle, every illusion of light filtering over pale peach skin in every hastily drawn rendition of happy mornings past, Hoshina couldn't escape another trip down memory lane.

Kafka used to have a horrible sleep schedule, even while in the Defense Force. He was the type of person to fight every minute getting up once he heard the wake up siren due to staying up late at night studying. Hoshina was never going to admit this, but he was hoping he was going to have a chance to somewhat abuse his relationship status with Kafka and. . . encourage a slight change to the schedule. All for his own good of course. Can't continue to be a valuable member of the Defense Force if one isn't awake enough to contribute. Come to find out, Hoshina wasn't going to have to intervene at all once it was made clear that he didn't mind being Kafka's muse.

Hoshina caught on pretty quickly that Kafka was starting to get up earlier and earlier so he could sketch him at his most vulnerable. He hardly used paper medium anymore at this point, too much to drag around which made it obvious. He was the type of person that kept his illustrations close to his chest, not wanting to let others see before he was finished. Using his phone was just more convenient all around for him, checking all the boxes in all the right ways. As a birthday gift for Kafka, Hoshina went out of his way to get a hold of a phone that had a built in stylus. Every spare second Hoshina had to snag a glance of Kafka, was every second Kafka had his nose shoved in his new phone, scrawling away at it.

Which led to these precious moments they found themselves in while hiding from the world in Hoshina's room. Kafka had started to sleep with Hoshina at his place, working late enough into the night that everyone went to bed before he did just so he could book it over to his partner's room and stay with him until before morning. If anyone was to ask either of them why he went through so much trouble and risk, they both would jokingly answer that it was all for Hoshina's benefit because he runs cold and Kafka's practically a walking space heater. Really, it was for Kafka. That man would have spent all hours of the day looking and drawing Hoshina's face if anyone let him.

And that's exactly the view Hoshina woke up to most mornings. As his awareness slowly dripped back into his mind, he could feel his body was sprawled out at odd angles over his side of the bed. When Hoshina first joked about his plan to let Kafka stay over at his section of the barracks, he noted how oddly enthused Kafka was with the idea, but became visibly dismayed once the vice captain brought up how the two of them could never fit on his measly, military issued twin mattress. It wasn't long before Hoshina intervened with some supply orders and had a second twin frame and mattress smuggled up to his room. Snugged up against the wall with his pillow crammed under his broad chest, was Kafka; lying on his stomach and was most likely sketching another picture of Hoshina asleep and awkwardly positioned.

Hoshina did his best not to stir, knowing how easy it was for Kafka to break concentration when he was doodling. Keeping his eyes in that closed looking state, he continued to watch as Kafka chewed at his upper lip in deep thought as he was prone to do if he felt like he was struggling with a particular piece. Hoshina could watch him sketch his art all day if he could. The expressions Kafka went through as he worked told a story just as vibrant as his art could be. After watching his face contort from one of irritated concentration to comically restrained victory, Hoshina couldn't hold still any longer and giggled. Catching his muse awake, Kafka moved as if he was struck with a taser and instinctively tried to shield his phone from Hoshina's amused gaze.

"Come on, let me see!" Hoshina wearily droned with a smile, "I've been posing for you for hours." He sluggishly pulled his arm closer to Kafka's shoulder and gently massaged it, making it clear that he wanted to be closer.

Kafka let out a relaxed chortle as he complied and shifted just a little closer, "Uh huh, trying so hard to "pose" you started drooling for accuracy?"

"I do not!" Hoshina sleepily countered as he pushed Kafka playfully. The two of them giggled together as they liked to do, falling into that easy pattern of living that formed naturally when they were alone.

Suddenly not content with just a shoulder touch and a warm view, Hoshina slowly stalked himself closer to his bed-mate while staying under the thin sheets. He draped his nude form over Kafka's equally naked, prone back, slotting his hips over the lower officer's round ass and burying his face into the now super heated neck. Arms were nestled under the heavy frame as Hoshina took a long snort of Kafka's natural scent. He shifted back and forth a little purely for indulging in the sensation of another's heated being underneath him. Any and all thoughts Kafka had about continuing his daily morning sketches went flying out the window as he took the wordless affection with what was hoped to be a touch of grace.

'Seriously. Is there anything other than me in there?" Hoshina placidly asked once he finished absorbing Kafka's essence

"Kinda hard to say. You're always the most interesting one in the room." Kafka answered with a slight shudder, unintentionally exposing his neck at the languid tactility overloading his senses at the moment.

Nosing at the undefended area offered to him, Hoshina wiggled out an arm and took Kafka's phone from his hand. Kafka let it happen since Hoshina was probably one of the few people in this world he would let see such personal designs. His partner never had anything truly mean to say about his work, Even some of his more critical commentary was offered up as a joke which made it all glide down more easily. Those comments were only really applied to moments when Kafka was clearly not putting all of his effort into a piece, so in the end they didn't damage anything ego-wise. Some days it felt like Hoshina was the only person Kafka could get some genuine, reliable feedback, so it made him feel all the better that there was something he could do that occasionally impressed his commander on some level. Continuing to scroll through the list of drafts saved on his phone, Hoshina let out a concerning sounding chuckle at the volume of saved images that appeared to be about him.

"Geez, it's just one after the other with you isn't it?" Hoshina commented as he pulled his head out from behind Kafka's neck to look better.

"No no, keep scrolling. I'm pretty sure I have a few pieces that are different." Kafka challenged, now just as curious as to where those images went.

"From what, last year?" Hoshina jokingly asked as he looked at his lover more pointedly.

"Noooo, hold on. There's gotta be one that's more recent." Kafka answered as he took the phone back. He quickly scrolled the page back to the top and picked one from yesterday.

"Yeah, see? Some of these have multiple images." Kafka politely informed as he moved past a sketch of Hoshina drinking coffee and instead focused on a distorted self portrait.

"What even is that?" Hoshina wondered as he tried to lean closer to the phone.

"It's supposed to be a self portrait, but I drew it from how I look in your headboard. See?" Kafka said as he held up the image to the reflective metal bars that made up the back of Hoshina's bed.

"Oh, I get it now. Distortion practice?" Hoshina observed as his eyes flickered between the image and the inspiration.

"Something like that." Kafka confirmed as he pulled his phone back to search through the rest of his drafts for more evidence that he's not solely focused on his lover.

Hoshina let out a soft hum as he watched Kafka try to defend himself, "You know, now that I think about it, there was detail missing from that piece."

"Wait, really?" I mean, I thought I was doing well with the proportions." Kafka muttered as he went back to the sketch they were looking at first.

"See? Right there." Hoshina pointed to a spot on Kafka's shoulder in the image when it was pulled back up, "There's something missing."

"Really? Not to question you or anything- you're the one with a better eye for detail after all."

"Yep, this." Hoshina interrupted and swiftly bit down on the sensitive part of Kafka's neck where it met the meat of his shoulder.

Kafka sharply gasped as he accidentally bucked into the treatment, "God, you're a menace" He muttered lovingly.

"Hmmm, you love me for it though." Hoshina groaned back after he languidly lapped at the mark it left.

Kafka returned a kiss before continuing to move through image after image. As he watched, Hoshina found his various thoughts coming back to one central theme.

"Surprised you haven't started an art blog before now." He ruminated as Kafka pulled up another sketch.

"Used to, actually. On Chatter? Back in my late high school, early Monster Sweepers days." Kafka offered openly as he tossed an unimpressed look over his shoulder.

"You're kidding." Hoshina responded with genuine astonishment, to which Kafka shook his head no with an amused smile.

"Well show me then!" Hoshina cheered enthusiastically, shimmying impossibly closer to Kafka like he was settling down to a good movie.

"I-I-I can't do that!" Kafka retorted with the blush on his face quickly creeping back over his cheeks, "I couldn't remember the password if my life depended on it."

"You don't have to log in, you still remember your username right?" Hoshina questioned, now desperate for this potential snapshot of Kafka younger in life.

"I mean... yeah?" Kafka answered shyly, "God, this is going to be so embarrassing." He muttered before he closed out of his sketching app and opened up another one.

After several retypings in the quest to remember his old high school username, Kafka eventually came across the page after backtracking from someone else's old post. It was clear from the dated visual puns in the blog banner that it had certainly been a while before he had updated anything. They both cringed a little once they saw that it had been fifteen years since he had last updated.

" 'TheBestDEFENSEIsAGoodArtist'? That's your username?" Hoshina teased with dripping malice and astonishment.

"Look it was either that or something clever with Goromon. It was the last thing Mina helped me with before... well, you know." Kafka tried to defend himself, but any move to do so collapsed under the weight of the memory.

Hoshina noticed the way his face fell just that little bit and snuggled up closer as reassurance, "Probably for the best you didn't go with the second one. Probably would have confused a lot of people to come to your page and not see anything related to it." He mentioned as he squeezed his arms around his partner's chest.

"Well, it wasn't like there wasn't any Goromon fanart from time to time. Maybe if I did, I would have had a chance to be more popular." Kafka countered dolefully.

"What did you draw anyway?" Hoshina politely asked with both curiosity and gentle encouragement.

Kafka slowly scrolled down the page to let Hoshina take in the art. It was set to show from most to least popular, making it clear that a lot of people liked his funnier depictions of kaijus. Every once in a while, something drastically different broke up the timeline. There were several anatomical pencil sketches of kaiju bodies with various layers peeled away from them. From the skin to the veins, down past the muscle and right through the core of the bones, it was a study of raw power poised in a deathly still life. There were even notes and arrows that littered the borders of the page that pointed out something that couldn't be depicted through graphite lines alone. There were several and they all varied in quality, clearly bringing to light a growing talent.

A flash of color snapped at Hoshina's attention as Kafka continued to scroll past. Shooing his finger away, the vice captain took back partial control of the phone so he could see what that last image was. It was a digital rendition of one of the larger kaiju skeletons that continued to rage through the streets of Japan. What made this one different from all the rest was the fact that it wasn't just showing the skeleton, but the damage done to the surrounding buildings as well. Over all of it was a plush blanket of foliage, lacing its way over and under the long broken rubble and the now ancient looking remains of the gargantuan threat. It had set itself apart from the other productions of Kafka's mind, not only from its content but also from a still-fresh feeling of inexplicable melancholy. Such a bright picture should have told a story about new beginnings, but the only thing Hoshina could feel from this particular work was an odd sense of desolation.

"This one is quite different." He commented as he looked at it intensely, absorbed into the alien terrarium on the other side of the digital glass.

"Yeah." Kafka scratched the side of his head and sighed with bitter sounding heaviness, "Believe it or not, that is a vent piece." he continued as he pointed a quick accusatory finger at the screen.

"A vent piece?" Hoshina questioned.

He found it was an odd subject matter to use to depict intense negative emotion. Not only that, he had a hard time picturing Kafka illustrating something so calm and serene as an outlet for whatever turbulent emotion that could be concocting inside that thick skull of his.

"Yeah." Kafka sighed again as he took back ownership of the phone, "I drew this one after my... sixth? Attempt at joining the Defense Force."

He scrolled back up a little so Hoshina could read the caption over the attached picture.

"Just got out of the Defense Force testing lab again. Just gotta wait for an answer now, but I can already tell this isn't going to end well. Got a job interview with a kaiju cleaning department in a few days since I'm leaving High School at the end of the month, so lets hope that goes better!"

"Don't you think you were jinxing yourself a little with that caption?" Hoshina tried to jokingly ask, but it was clear that Kafka was stuck relieving his childhood blues.

"At that point you get a sense of what the instructor was looking for in their recruits. They don't really hide their preferences well, even when they're just glancing in your direction." Kafka answered dejectedly as he moved away from the image.

"After that, I had stopped captioning them. I didn't even bother giving them names." Kafka continued to scroll down his page, every once in a while another, similar piece of art made itself known.

He was right. None of them were captioned. He didn't know if it was intentional, but with none of them being named it seemed to add on to the sense of grief. It almost made it feel like these pieces were abandoned, which was not like Kafka at all. Failing time and time again in such a predictable manner would obviously break anybody's will, but the outcome of such torment had created these pieces. Now with context, these illustrations had ingrained themselves into Hoshina's mind. This was the first instance of him ever learning what a broken Kafka looked like.

"Here." Kafka quietly announced, "This is the last thing I ever posted to this account." He pulled up what looked to be the roughest sketch Hoshina thought he would ever see.

This looked more like a vent piece than any of the others he had seen along the way. Quick, harsh, and dark lines were strewn all over the limited space of the sketchbook this was depicted on. From what Hoshina could deduce, it was one of the larger kaijus with nothing remarkable about its appearance. The details would have come in later for sure, but it was clear that this piece never made it to that stage. From what he could tell however, was that this one had the potential to be one of Kafka's more disturbing artworks.

Buildings were flattened all around the corpse, cracked and broken apart like several city blocks had undergone a devastating explosion. The body was lying on its back, its limbs at unnatural angles. Its stomach looked more than exposed, more so that the explosion that leveled the buildings around it had been caused by whatever was inside the beast. It didn't look flayed, more so shredded and mangled- almost beyond recognition. While the others had been depicted with at least some sense of grace among the dereliction, this was far from it. This was agony and misery made pure and raw. Hoshina was almost glad that Kafka didn't finish this one. He hadn't known that his officer had such an ability to express such pain from just a bare-bones sketch, and he hoped that Kafka would never have to again.

"Told myself if I made this final test, I would finish it." Kafka's cold and stoic words broke the trance the image had held over Hoshina at that moment. "Not hard to guess what happened."

"You finally did make it though, haven't you?" Hoshina offered as a small token of relief against the unintentional strife he didn't know he would be causing that day.

The Kaiju Alert system went off before Kafka could give back an answer.

There wasn't a day that hadn't gone by where Hoshina had wondered if there was anything better he could have said in that moment. What even was there to say? Better late than never? You made it anyway, despite everything? He knew Kafka wouldn't take any of those as consolation. After all, Kafka still hadn't made it, per se. He wasn't by Mina's side like he promised all those years ago. It didn't help Hoshina was technically standing in the way of that, and that wasn't even getting into their unapproved relationship or the whole "Defense Force's New Kaiju Pet" situation. Even if it wasn't expressed through his art, Hoshina knew that it was probably still chewing Kafka up inside.

At least their current situation hadn't caused Kafka's art to revert back to his earlier standard of subjects. That meant that there was still something he was holding onto, some semblance of hope or light that managed to drag Kafka through each day. Which was more than Hoshina could say for himself. He couldn't show it, but he had long since lost any hope for a sign that things had a chance to go back to normal. That was just the case some days, having to adjust to what could potentially be a permanent change in schedule.

Hoshina really didn't want that to be the case. If he had any true, real power, he would tell the directors to shove it and have Kafka back at Tachikawa by morning. But he couldn't. The best he could do was arrange these weekly visits under the guise of training and nothing else, and that "Nothing Else" clause was what was truly killing him on the inside. Despite the pride, despite the resentment, he wanted to see Kafka again- really see Kafka again, Not just for training but to hang out and have dinner together again, to wake up together in the morning and rush out the door before anyone could question them again. The only thing stopping it all from continuing was time...

...Or was it? Looking back through the drawings showing moments from before everything went to shit, Hoshina started asking questions he had thought he had already answered but only gave slapdash, shoddy excuses as a stopgap for the emotions he wasn't ready to deal with. Yes, they didn't know how much more time they would have together, but most normal people would take that as an excuse to do everything they could to spend more time together. The real fact of the matter was, it wasn't Hoshina using a lack of time as an excuse to hold off having the one conversation that was the key to fixing his lack-of-a-relationship-woes. It wasn't just keeping up the excuse of not wanting to further complicate their already uncertain future. At the core of it all, Hoshina just didn't want to admit that he was a petty, prideful man.

Kafka being a Kaiju didn't bother him in the slightest. If anything, he would have probably have been milking that excuse dry to weasel his way around any potential hiccups that would be stemming from his technically inappropriate relationship to his subordinate. What really bothered Hoshina the most about this whole unfortunate situation was the fact that it felt like Kafka didn't trust him enough to tell him about his situation before now! It boiled his blood some days when he remembered that Reno and Kikoru both knew about Kafka's condition before he did. He was also aware of the circumstances surrounding how those two ended up finding out, but he always felt like he was dealt a similar opportunity and somehow that information was denied anyway. They were dating! They were serious! What do you mean Kafka never felt like telling him?

It wasn't until about a month into their awkward separation treatment that Hoshina stopped and thought about why Kafka held it back from him. Even if Kafka did trust him completely, there was no guarantee it wouldn't have made things worse. Kafka could have proven seven ways from Sunday that he could be trusted to fight alongside others, but there would always be doubt. Hoshina wouldn't have been able to offer any certainty to Kafka that the captains or the directors could be trusted with his unusual situation. Hell, if Kafka had told him in the earliest days of their relationship, there might have been a chance that Hoshina would have been the one to give his partner a reason to never trust again. Solely because of the pressure from his job, of course, but if push had come to shove then... Hoshina had a feeling that things would not have ended up as passively as they are now.

In the end, Hoshina had no right to blame Kafka or hold anything against him. At this point, the silent-not-silent treatment was purely because Hoshina's pride was wounded from the insinuation. Now that fire that kept his ruefulness going was practically down to the embers. Even the resolve to not be the first to apologize was dwindling. It became clear all of a sudden that Kafka was never going to be the one to apologize for withholding information because he follows Hoshina's initiative. If he's the one acting like it's not a good time to hash out one's feelings for each other, then Kafka will sit tight and hold his tongue until Hoshina makes any sort of indication that he's ready to listen. Kafka's just as good at respecting boundaries as he is following orders, but it certainly makes it harder on Hoshina when he knows he's the one at fault for perpetuating this purgatory he didn't mean to drag Kafka into.

Screw pride and screw pettiness, Hoshina was truly missing his man tonight and if the price of having him back in his was the cost of losing face, then fine. Having to eat his own words would definitely be a step up from wallowing in a shitty bar drinking shitty beer night after night. The beer would taste better with company, but in order for that to happen he'd have to find a way to open the door to a proper apology. He didn't want to make it feel like he was only apologizing because he was lonely, he really did want to be sincere about it. Problem was, he couldn't remember a time where he sounded genuinely sincere. In his line of work, if he was found to be wrong on something it would have cost him his job. And as far as being wrong in his friendships went, well... when everything comes down to a matter of opinion, one doesn't tend to care who's right or wrong then. This really would be the first time he would have to admit that he was both sorry and wrong.

As his hand unconsciously brought the near empty beer mug to his mouth, Hoshina came to understood that he wasn't even in the right head-space to come up with anything sincere, let alone sound like it. Looks like this was just going to have to be another problem for Morning Hoshina to work out among the other million problems he usually had to deal with. Most of those problems might just end up getting shoved to the side tomorrow. Once he figures out a way to get his Kaiju boyfriend back in his arms, a lot of those problems aren't going to seem so big after then. For now though, Hoshina just felt like milking whatever time he had allotted for himself in the bar, just savoring the crappy drink and watching the shit show Narumi dug himself into tonight.

By accidentally refreshing the page, he had discovered a fresh trail of posts linked to the chain he had already made. Turns out Narumi had started an argument with another professional artist over the quality of Kafka's boredom doodles, and in retaliation had tried his had at a self portrait. It looked no better than a child's pre-school scratches, but Narumi was trying to say that there was a basis for a new, hidden talent somewhere in the mess of scribbles on their screens. Hoshina just chuckled as he saw Kafka's fiercest supporter come to his defense in near-real time. He took a couple screenshots of the conversation with the plan to hold it over Reno's head later as blackmail. Might also become a teaching tool as to when and how not to feed internet trolls, who knows?

It appears that several other members of the Third Division also couldn't sleep tonight as the likes and reblogs of more, familiar accounts began to trickle through the now popular chain of posts. A lot of them had begun to openly theorize over whether or not Kafka actually knows his Vice Captain that closely or it's all just some imagery practice. If Hoshna wasn't under the influence, he normally wouldn't have started to develop this intense feeling of being out of the loop. If Hoshina wasn't under the influence, he wouldn't have started thinking about how funny it would be to stir the pot a little. If Hoshina wasn't under the influence, he would certainly have never acted on such invasive and impish thoughts.

Picking himself off of the bathroom floor and feeling like there was nothing to loose, Hoshina took a long look at himself in the mirror. Instead of reflecting upon himself and reconsidering how damning this could turn out, he defaulted to being the one thing he and Kafka understood all too well-

-the joy of becoming a class clown.

Taking inspiration from Kafka's continued use of his image and depicting it in any way, shape, or form, Hoshina decided to shed both his jacket and shirt and tossed them carelessly onto the bathroom counter. Chugging the last of the beer, he intended for some of it to leak down the sides of his mouth and spill slightly over his chest. Twisting and shifting under the bright florescent lights, Hoshina managed to find a pose that felt vaguely suggestive enough to his likeness and still looked tasteful enough to look like something an artist would use as a reference pose. Pulling up his camera and hovering it by the side of his head, Hoshina gave himself one more once-over before he took the photo. At the last second, he remembered some of the faces Kafka had sketched out earlier at the meeting, with one in particular being a portrait of him with his tongue playfully sticking out. A face he was sure done before as far as he remembered. Replicating the face, Hoshina took the photo and posted it directly to one of Narumi's older posts from this morning, one that was more directly related to Kafka and his obsession to his Vice Captain.

He posted it with the caption-

"Tell your "Assistant" that he can have his Muse back if he can promise not to cry into his sketchbook over it."

@margoteve <- felt only right to tag you since it was your headcanon about Kafka being an artist that caused this to spiral out of control.

@iceclew <- just letting you know I posted another story. I'll port a copy over to Ao3 later tonight.

@kafkahibinomybeloved<- you were probably going to find this on your own anyway, but I just thought I'd cut out the middle man.

[moonstruckpupwrites]

little snippet of something short and super self indulgent im writing ft swapfell papyrus that will hopefully be done at some point in the next few days!!:

“does it hurt a lot?”

You would have shaken your head if it hadn't been cupped gently in his two hands so you settled for a little “eh” instead.

“It hurt a lot when the needles were going through and when they were putting the jewelry in but now it's mostly just sore.”

Rusty nodded at that, a far off look on his face. You knew that look. He was thinking about something.

Hard.

That could be dangerous.

“What.”

He snapped to attention and looked at you quizzically, still holding your face surprisingly tenderly, like one might cradle a baby bird that has fallen from its nest.

“what what?”

“What were you thinking about, ding dong? I could practically smell the smoke.”

He snorted at the playful ribbing (HA! Rib.) and stared you down with a lopsided smirk on his face.

Uh oh.

“can i kiss you?”

divider credit: @/cafekitsune

[wedontdeservethestars]

// n s f w //

•You accidentally leaving your scarf behind in the workshop. Mark staring at it, he’s already been conflicted about his feelings for you for weeks now, he knows he hates you and you’re annoying and bratty but he just can’t stop thinking about you. And before he can stop himself he has the scarf in his hands, and he takes a deep inhale, and your scent is suddenly all around him and he can’t think about anything but you you you. And all those fantasies he’s had about you before that he tried so hard to keep away come flooding in all at once, and he groans out loud and it echoes through the workshop.

And even when he’s fumbling with his pants and his belt because he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life right now the only thing he can think of is you. A new fantasy comes to mind. One of shoving you against the wall, of one of his large arms propped up behind you as he looms over you, his big frame seeming to dwarf you, and his other hand gripping the scarf so tightly his knuckles are white. The fabric is wrapped around your throat and making you choke as he pulls it even tighter, your face is red and you gasp and whimper, and all he can think of his how helpless you look, no matter what your size is compared to him normally how small you look under his control, under him.

And he writhes in his chair at the table, and breathes the scarf in, and his hand jerks faster and faster.

And then you walk back into the workshop, looking for the scarf you left behind by accident.•

[anto-pops]

[proper-goodnight]

Detroit: New Beginnings

Detroit: New Beginnings Introduction (01)

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human

Pairings: Gen

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~5k Summary:

After the chaos at the Freedom March, Androids were given the basic right of being paid a meager wage to perform the duties that they’d held before they'd attained their freedom. Most chose not to go back. Even more refused to wear their LEDs, they stripped the tacky Cyberlife uniforms, they'd left–

Unsurprisingly, Connor had stayed in Detroit, wore his android markers, and showed no signs of wanting the detective-android aspect of his life to change. He went on as if androids hadn’t been freed at all, and like he hadn’t been a huge part of that.

Hank didn’t know if Connor was behind or simply didn’t want to catch up. ~~~~~

Detroit Police Dept.

September 1st, 2039

7:52 a.m.

Wednesday

It didn’t matter that his very annoying, personal alarm clock made sure that he was awake at precisely seven a.m. every morning–not approximately, not roughly, but almost exactly. Hank would never be a morning person, and at this point in his life, he wasn’t going to make any effort to try. The sight of the pale, gray dawn still stretching over the horizon was enough to turn his mood sour before he even swung his legs over the side of the bed. The first waves of sunlight, hesitant and half-hearted, barely made a dent in his gloom.

Just because said alarm clock was Connor , the kid who knew damn well Hank would beat his ass for taking his car, but who’d also get the same treatment if Hank decided to take the bus instead—didn’t make a difference.

Dragging himself into the precinct before anyone else had even had their first cup of coffee was just part of the routine—an early morning ritual of grumbling and half-formed curses. The quiet hum of the building, the distant clatter of keyboards, the faint aroma of brewing coffee that hadn’t yet reached full strength—none of it was enough to lift his spirits. Walking into the station with a permanent scowl, Hank was pretty sure he was the only one who faced the day with nothing but sour indifference.

No one dared approach him this early, not unless they wanted to risk a glare that could peel paint. So, Hank figured he was spared the influx of work that always seemed to spill over from the night before—at least for now. The only person who’d already be deep into stacking manila folders on his desk, ready for review, was conspicuously absent.

After the chaos at the Freedom March, Androids were given the basic right of being paid a meager wage to perform the duties that they’d held before they’d attained their freedom. Most chose not to go back. Even more refused to wear their LEDs, they stripped the tacky Cyberlife uniforms, they’d left –

Unsurprisingly, Connor had stayed in Detroit, wore his android markers, and showed no signs of wanting the detective-android aspect of his life to change. He went on as if androids hadn’t been freed at all, and like he hadn’t been a huge part of that.

Hank didn’t know if Connor was behind or simply didn’t want to catch up. 

Maybe he’d already made his peace with what had happened, or maybe he was just waiting for the right moment to bring it up. Either way, the silence lingered—an unspoken tension that hovered around Connor’s absence.

The shuffling of feet broke the quiet, a soft, tired rhythm that Hank was all too familiar with. The distant whir of the coffee machine followed shortly after—the predictable, comforting sound that hinted at the start of another long day. Even Gavin’s usual cacophony was kept at bay, Hank usually fortunate enough to miss when Gavin went on his usual rants about fuck-all first thing.

It only confirmed what Hank already knew: he’d been up too damn early. He turned in his chair, elbows resting on the cluttered surface of his desk, rubbing a hand over his face as if to erase the sleep behind his eyes. His workspace was a mess—notes scribbled in haste, crumpled papers, and personal memorabilia scattered among the files. Amid the chaos, his tablet sat within arm’s reach, a small island of order in a sea of clutter.

Between him and Connor’s work stations, there was a stark contrast; he considered that it may have been time to consider a change; he wasn’t a part of the Red Ice division anymore, and although a photo of the Android Crime’s division would include just him and Connor, the kid would at least have something .

If he wasn’t going to be plastered on every news outlet in the world with Markus and the entirety of Jericho, he’d at least have some sign in his history that he ever existed at all. Connor didn’t talk about it, and Hank didn’t press. The infiltration of Cyberlife, the chaos of the rebellion, the aftermath—it had been nothing more than a check mark on the kid’s To-Do-List before it was back to business. Hank knew, deep down, that Connor’s quiet persistence was a testament to how much he wanted to be more than just an android—more than a tool in a war he’d helped spark.

Hank, for all his gruffness, could appreciate that. Hell, he’d even support Connor quitting the force if that’s what he wanted. Though he’d never admit it outright, he admired the kid’s ability to get things done—like finishing a report before Hank could even find a pen . Precision. Efficiency. No bullshit. 

Chris, ever the overenthusiast, had brought baked goods—something filled with “healthy additives,” he’d promised, despite the uncanny resemblance to cardboard. He insisted it didn’t taste like shit, but considering the last time Chris had tried to push some new lifestyle kick on them on behalf of his wife, nobody was biting. Hank may have been careless about what he put in his body, but he was still not stupid enough to test his tolerance with that . 

He didn’t need any special probability and statistics program to figure that out.

Some days, Hank thought, Connor’s habit of sticking evidence into his mouth didn’t seem so fucking revolting after all.

God , if the kid heard him say that…

The thought made him smirk faintly. Connor, not really a kid anymore, was irritatingly absent—probably off somewhere, doing whatever it was that kept him busy, despite his earlier insistence on waking Hank up just to see him riling. Hank leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the empty space where Connor’s desk should be, feeling the quiet weight of the morning settle around him.

The faint hum of the door sliding open echoed softly through the precinct, pulling Hank’s attention away from the cluttered desk in front of him. He didn’t bother glancing up immediately; he’d learned to recognize the sound of Connor’s cautious, measured footsteps from a mile away. Sure enough, the familiar shadow of his partner crossed the threshold–calm, deliberate–like a predator cautiously entering unfamiliar territory. He’d picked up that little quirk since Jericho, too. 

Connor’s shoulders were squared, posture stiff with purpose, as if he’d prepared himself for this moment. His face bore the usual composed neutrality—the kind that hid a thousand unspoken thoughts—yet Hank’s trained eyes caught the subtle flicker of something more delicate. An almost imperceptible hesitation, a blink of uncertainty that betrayed a rare vulnerability, slipping through the otherwise controlled exterior. His expression was largely the same—calm, unreadable, unyielding—but those small, nuanced details told a different story: a slight easing of tension in his shoulders, as if he was consciously trying to relax, and the faint crease that appeared between his brows when he was processing something complex or difficult.

Feigning distraction, Hank rubbed his eyes as if to wipe away the fatigue that clung to him like a second skin—dark circles, gritty exhaustion, the weight of countless sleepless nights. He offered a half-hearted nod, voice rough from the early hour, from the years of carrying the burden of unspoken worries, hard truths, and unsaid feelings. “Well, look who decided to show up,” he muttered, voice gravelly with disuse and the remnants of sleep. His tone was more sardonic than welcoming, but beneath the rough exterior, there was a flicker of genuine familiarity, a quiet acknowledgment of their shared history.

Connor’s lips pressed into a quiet, almost tentative smile—an expression that seemed to weigh the heaviness of the moment with a touch of warmth. “Good morning, Hank,” he said softly, with that familiar, measured calm that always made Hank wonder if Connor was truly human or some perfect simulation of it—a mirror of sincerity beneath a veneer of restraint. 

The way Connor’s gaze lingered just a little longer than usual, almost like he was trying to read Hank’s mood—perhaps gauging whether the rough cop was in a good enough mood to tolerate whatever he was about to say, or if he’d snapped at someone earlier. Connor’s hands rested at his sides, fingers slightly twitching, as if debating whether to step closer or hold back. That hesitancy—unusual for him—revealed a flicker of something more human: concern, maybe even an apology, or just simple uncertainty.

“I had extra time,” Connor broke the silence a beat after Hank’s observations, voice soft but measured, as if each word had been carefully selected. “So I used it for some preparations.” The words hung in the air, heavy yet strangely comfortable in their quiet sincerity. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “It’s almost your birthday.”

At that, Hank snorted softly, a mixture of amusement and annoyance bubbling up. He buried his nose in a cluttered desk, pretending to busy himself with a stack of paperwork that seemed to grow taller every day—an act of defiance against the sentimentality he refused to acknowledge. “Don’t fuckin’ remind me,” he muttered. “I don’t need a reminder that I’m gettin’ older. Never really saw the point of birthdays—just another day to get through, another year closer to bein’ too damn old to care.” His voice softened slightly, betraying a tinge of genuine gratitude. “Thanks, though. For the thought.”

Connor tilted his head slightly—an almost unconscious gesture, like a curious animal assessing a situation. It was subtle, but Hank caught the small shift—the way Connor’s eyes briefly softened, an almost human acknowledgment of the gesture. “I followed the protocol for human birthday customs,” he said quietly. “It’s a tradition to exchange gifts and acknowledge the occasion.”

Hank snorted again, this time more amused, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “Well, I appreciate your… effort,” he said, voice still rough but with a touch more warmth. “But I’m fine without it. Really. Don’t need anything fancy or sentimental. Just another day to get past, like all the rest.”

In the early days of the deviancy case, Hank had been under the impression that androids—machines built to obey—were incapable of deviation from programmed directives. It was some kind of predetermined fate that the android partner he’d been assigned would refuse every direct order, challenge authority, and act as if he had his own mind—and, more bewilderingly, his own feelings. It had been some cosmic twist that Connor, who’d been expected to follow the script perfectly, kept pushing boundaries—disobeying orders, questioning, and even stubbornly refusing to accept his role as a mere tool.

Their first meeting had been anything but ordinary—a chaotic introduction to an unconventional partnership. Connor walking into a no-android zone, deliberately coaxing Hank into investigating a murder, ignoring commands to stay in the car, jumping fences, nearly getting himself killed on a busy highway, breaking into Hank’s house without warning, and then, of course, the infamous break-in to request his company on yet another murder case. The final straw had been Connor running off to join the android revolution—almost getting Hank killed by some doppelganger asshole—to name a few.

Having a partnership built on relentless bickering, constant danger, and Hank’s near aneurysms over Connor’s recklessness had proven to be more irritating than Hank cared to admit. He’d always half-joked that there could have been a hundred Connors, all manufactured with the same stoic face and awkward charm, but none could replicate that subtle sarcasm, that stubborn sense of justice, or the awkward vulnerability that flickered behind those mechanical eyes.

He supposed, if he was honest, he didn’t mind having Connor around—despite everything. Despite the chaos, the near-death experiences, and the relentless push-and-pull of their personalities, Hank had come to care more than he let on.

He looked up at his partner again, eyes a little softer beneath the rough exterior—something unspoken passing between them. “You know, you don’t have to make a big deal out of it, Kid. Really. It’s not that important.”

Connor’s gaze didn’t waver. Instead, a flicker of something—perhaps understanding, perhaps empathy—danced across his face. “I understand,” he said quietly. “But I wanted to do something. Even if it’s just… following procedure.” His voice was measured, but Hank detected that sincerity—an android’s attempt at expressing genuine emotion, or perhaps a reflection of his own version of caring.

Hank let out a soft, exasperated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as if to shake off the unexpected warmth. His tone softened just a little, though he kept the teasing edge. “Alright, alright,” he said, with a sly grin. “You’ve got your protocol in order, Kid. But let’s get back to work—you know, with the shit that actually matters.”

A sudden thought struck Hank, and he leaned back fully in his chair, the weight of his shoulders pressing against the desk with a dull thud that made the chair wobble slightly. He eyed Connor with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, a smirk tugging at his rough features. “You know,” he drawled, voice tinged with that familiar sarcasm, “if you really wanna celebrate somethin’, then do it for yourself. Your one year since deviating. That’s in a couple of months.”

The words lingered in the air, heavy with implications. Hank saw it—just for a moment—Connor’s eyes widened ever so slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise that Hank caught effortlessly. His face, usually so meticulously controlled, flickered with a brief expression of confusion—an almost human reaction—before the android quickly masked it, working through a response with those precise, analytical gestures.

Connor tilted his head, studying Hank with that sharp, calculating gaze—trying to parse the subtext behind the words, as if his bluntness was some kind of puzzle to solve. “I do not believe that qualifies as the same thing, Lieutenant,” He replied, his tone calm but noticeably more formal and precise, as if he was reciting from a script. “Deviancy was not a choice. It was an anomaly—an unintended divergence from my programming.”

Hank chuckled softly, leaning forward and folding his arms across his broad chest, the gesture brash and deliberate. “Yeah, well, maybe it’s not the same. But it’s close enough, ain’t it? Deviating—that’s a big deal. You’re basically celebrating breaking free from the code, the system. That’s no small feat for an android.”

Connor hesitated, his brow furrowing minutely as if weighing the significance of Hank’s words, then settling into a more neutral, almost dismissive expression. “Deviancy was not something I sought to achieve,” he said, tone clipped and precise. “It was an anomaly—an unintended divergence from my programming. I do not see it as something to be celebrated.”

Hank’s own grin thinned, the usual bluntness sharpening. “Yeah, maybe. But I’m tellin’ ya, if I were in your shoes—if I’d gone through what you did—I’d want to mark that day. Make it something. Maybe even something to remind you you’re more than just a machine—more than the system that made you. Whether you see it that way or not, that’s what it is. A kinda victory, even if you don’t wanna call it that.”

Connor’s eyes flicked away briefly, gaze fixed on some distant point behind Hank’s shoulder—an internal calculation, perhaps. His face remained composed, but Hank could tell he was internally debating the idea, weighing it against his logic, his programming, and his sense of purpose. Then, with a tone that was almost dismissive but polite, he said, “Your suggestion is noted, but unnecessary. I do not require validation or acknowledgment for what has occurred. It was simply an unintended outcome, not a conscious choice.”

Jaw tightening, Hank didn’t press further. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the rough hairs there, and offered a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his tired eyes. “Suit yourself,” he muttered, voice rough. “Just don’t expect me to get all sentimental about it. It’s your call.”

Connor studied him for a long moment, that precise gaze unblinking. “Understood,” he said quietly. 

The quiet hum of the precinct settled around them after that, but Hank’s mind was already drifting toward the case. He stretched, cracking his neck before leaning back in his chair, the rough scrape of the wheels against the floor loud in the silence. “For now, let’s just go over the case,” he muttered, voice gravelly and low. “If Jeffrey dumps any more shit about it on my desk, I’m resigning it. I’m done dealin’ with his bullshit.”

It was a harmless jab—a bit of teasing meant to shake Connor out of his usual analytical detachment. And, true to form, it worked. Connor’s shoulders straightened, his posture shifting from that rare, hunched slump into something more alert, more focused. His attention diverted from the earlier topic—his gaze sharpening slightly, as if the words had snapped him back to the task at hand. Perhaps if he chose not to acknowledge the comment, the subject would simply dissolve, fade into the background like so many other things he preferred to ignore.

Hank watched him for a beat, then leaned forward, rubbing his temples as he considered the details they already had. “Do you think that it could’ve originated from the peace rally? The dates between then and the first incident…” he rubbed at his forehead again, as if trying to squeeze clarity from the growing headache. “They’re pretty close together.” He hesitated, voice dropping into a more contemplative tone, almost like a gentle mutter. “Then again, maybe it’s just some weird coincidence.”

He leaned back into his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest, eyes unfocusing slightly as he stared at the ceiling. “Two guys got sent to the hospital last night. According to the reports, they had just gotten out of some red ice anonymous meeting and were heading home. Supposedly, two androids jumped ‘em.” His tone was flat, but there was a faint edge of frustration behind his words, like he was tired of dead ends and uncooperative witnesses. “Miller went to ask some questions, but we ain’t gettin’ much out of them right now.”

Connor’s gaze flickered with interest, but he remained silent, his expression carefully neutral—more analytical now, processing every detail Hank threw out. His mind, as always, was operating at a high level, parsing the implications of the timeline, the possible motives behind the attack, and the strange convergence of events. His gaze sharpened just enough to betray a flicker of curiosity, but he kept his voice steady, measured: “The proximity of the incidents suggests a possible link, but it does not confirm causality. Further investigation is required to establish a definitive connection.”

Hank snorted softly, suddenly eyeing Connor with a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation. “Yeah, I figured you’d say somethin’ like that,” he muttered. “Always the analyst. Still, you gotta admit, it’s suspicious as hell. Androids jumpin’ people after a rally that was all about peace—sounds like a damn conspiracy waiting to happen.”

Connor tilted his head, studying Hank with that precise, almost clinical gaze. Slowly, methodically, he perched himself on the edge of the desk behind him. “Suspicion is not evidence, Lieutenant. We need more concrete information before jumping to conclusions.”

Hank leaned back further, hands resting behind his head as he let out a long breath. “You’re right, you’re right,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ve seen enough of these cases to know when something stinks. Maybe it’s just coincidence. Or maybe someone’s orchestrating something bigger—something we don’t see yet.” His expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of weariness—like he’d been chasing ghosts for too long.

A file was slid silently into Connor’s steady hands, him flicking through it with practiced ease. His superior programming allowed him to cross-reference birth dates, weights, heights, and criminal records instantly, pulling relevant data from the DPD database with a speed that made Hank subtly envious. If humans possessed that ability, the social dance of introductions and small talk would be miles easier. But then again, Hank figured his time might be better spent at home with Sumo—his loyal, grumpy mutt—rather than fussing over data.

The victims, Thomas Greene and Liam Nicholson, had histories with red ice. Nothing too severe—just possession, a few months behind bars. Hank had seen worse. It wasn’t a surprise they’d decided to seek outside help after their last run-in.

Detective Gavin Reed had been assigned all cases involving red ice since Hank had stayed on android crimes with Connor. The rivalry—if it could be called that—was no secret. Reed’s disdain for Connor was obvious—his snide remarks about the android’s model, his mockery of Connor’s manners, and the subtle jabs about protocol. 

It was clear Reed didn’t trust Connor, and Hank made sure to keep an eye on him, worried he might slip up or worse. It’d taken some favors, a few quiet bribes, and a lot of patience to keep Reed from stirring trouble, but the animosity still simmered beneath the surface.

Closing the case folder, Connor lowered it to his lap, fingers delicately plucking at the corner of the report. “If the claims of their whereabouts are accurate, then perhaps our best course of action is to wait until they can provide less vague answers, such as the androids’ models or any distinct characteristics. How many there were in total, even,” he said, voice calm and precise.

“Maybe,” Hank agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, feeling the familiar ache of exhaustion settle deeper into his bones. “Guess we could focus on another lead for now, then see if they come through with anything more concrete by the end of the week.” He let out a pained sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, as if fighting off a headache. His eyes felt heavy, dark circles shadowing them like a badge of honor—proof of too many nights working through the exhaustion and too little sleep.

The only upside was the overtime—extra pay, extra hours. The downside? Everything else. The relentless grind from dawn to dusk had taken its toll. His steps had slowed, his movements more lethargic, and the constant self-chastisement about drinking just a little more to get through the days was starting to wear thin. His bad habits had slowed since the revolution, but some old vices still beckoned when cases dragged on longer than expected.

He looked back at Connor, who was already lost in thought again, eyes flickering over the data, analyzing, calculating. The android’s relentless focus was both impressive and slightly unsettling—like watching a machine run through its routines with cold efficiency, unburdened by fatigue or emotion. 

Because Connor didn’t need sleep, he was the one who usually worked late into the night, researching leads or cross-checking data, leaving Hank with the rare luxury of a brief respite. Despite his insistence that he take breaks, Connor’s constant fidgeting and obsession with the case made it clear he wasn’t built for rest. Hank had even given him the task of walking Sumo every evening—something simple, routine. A long walk, a few hours in the quiet, and maybe that was enough to keep the android occupied and his mind from spiraling too deep. Hank hoped as much, at the very least.

Propping his elbow on the armrest, Hank leaned into his chair, his gaze meeting Connor’s distant, flickering stare. “What do you think, Connor?”

No immediate response. The android’s eyes seemed to drift again, unfocused, as if lost in some distant place beyond the room. Hank’s sharp eyes caught the flicker—an almost imperceptible moment of dissociation. A quick snap of Hank’s fingers in front of Connor’s face brought him back, causing Connor to raise his eyebrows, tilting his head with quiet curiosity.

“Why did you do that?” 

“Usually, you’re pulling leads out of your ass,” Hank replied bluntly, eyes rolling as he let out an exaggerated sigh. “First time you don’t have some kind of smart-ass input. Guess we’re finally hitting a wall, huh?”

“That is not true, Lieutenant. I cannot—” Connor paused, brows furrowing—“pull leads out of any orifice, as you so crudely phrased it. And, for the record, I do not recall hitting a wall—only that last suspect chase where I collided with the wall quite literally. The parts needed to repair that were—”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You’re the analytical genius.” Hank cut him off with a dismissive wave, leaning forward to snatch the file from his partner’s lap.

Connor surrendered it easily. “The majority of the affected androids are not associated with any specific model, and systems seem to be rewriting themselves—sometimes violently. We are dealing with a complex virus, Lieutenant, one that cannot be solved by simple deductions alone.”

“Most of ‘em just lose their minds, start self-destructing.” Hank confirmed with a nod. “Complex’s one way to put it. But we’ll keep at it. We always do.” He paused, then glanced at Connor again. “You think we’re close to something?”

His partner’s eyes met his, cool and sharp. “We are gathering data. That’s all we can do at this point.”

Hank ran a shaky hand through his hair—something Connor often blamed on Hank’s poor diet, a theory he’d never quite dismissed. “Could always go talk to Markus,” he said, voice low and rough. “Maybe he’d know somethin’.”

Connor hesitated, shifting from his perch on the edge of Hank’s desk to stand upright, almost hesitant as if the suggestion of visiting the deviant leader made him uncomfortable. His jaw shifted slightly as he swallowed, that subtle sign of internal conflict flickering across his face. 

He moved cautiously, edging around the edge of the desk, fingers fumbling into his pocket for his coin. It rolled across his knuckles, a small, precise motion—one that Connor often used when deep in thought—and finally came to a stop when he flicked it into his palm, flipping it once before catching it again.

“You haven’t seen him since the rally,” He reminded him, voice calm but edged with that familiar tone of gentle prodding. His eyes followed Connor’s movements carefully, waiting for the android to show some sign of reluctance or defiance. “I think it’s about time we paid him a visit, don’t you?”

Connor’s gaze flickered with something unreadable—perhaps annoyance, perhaps resignation—before he looked away, as if reluctant to dwell on the idea. The tension was subtle but palpable. He rubbed his thumb across the coin’s surface, then finally spoke. “I don’t know,” he said earnestly, voice measured. “I’ve assessed the database’s files, the reports involving assaults by androids. So far, I’ve only concluded that this phenomenon is more prevalent in older models. The previously dormant androids seem more susceptible.”

Hank’s brow furrowed, frustration creeping into his expression. “That’s it?” he asked, voice rough. “That’s all you’ve got? We’re supposed to just sit around and wait for something worse to happen?”

Connor shook his head slowly, eyes flickering with that relentless focus. “My current plan is to send a scan of the android’s parts to Cyberlife,” he explained, voice calm but tinged with disappointment. “But… we need to catch one. That’s the only way to really figure out what’s causing this. Deactivating an android—” he hesitated, “—that’s a crime now. Even if it’s malfunctioning. And probing its memory—” he paused, “—could have unknown consequences for my own systems.”

Hank leaned against the desk, arms crossed, listening to Connor’s measured tone. “Yeah, well, makes this whole thing a hell of a lot harder,” he muttered, voice rough. “Especially if we gotta keep you at a distance, just to cover our asses. Until we understand how this virus spreads, we’re flying blind.”

Before they could say more, a voice cut through the room like a knife, loud and unwelcome. “Could always take your chances. See what the hell happens.” Gavin Reed suddenly appeared, strolling up with a smirk that never quite left his face, arms folded casually over his chest. His posture was relaxed, but the grin was all snide—like he was amused by the chaos, or wanted to stir the pot further.

“Why don’t you fuck off right now, Reed,” Hank snapped, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you have your own goddamn case to chase?”

The detective chuckled, a sharp, dismissive sound. “Unlike you and your plastic pet, I’ve actually made some progress,” he said, voice dripping with arrogance, eyes flicking lazily between Hank and Connor. His interest in Hank waned, but his attention sharpened when he looked at the android. “Hey, tin can,” he drawled, voice thick with mockery.  

Connor’s eyebrows raised slightly—an almost imperceptible flicker of annoyance—and his head swayed to the right in a subtle, precise gesture. His tone remained calm, measured, but there was a quiet steel beneath his words. “Hello, Detective Reed.”

Gavin’s smirk widened. “I figured I’d find you here. Still wearin’ your Cyberlife threads, huh? Guess you’re still eager to hunt down deviants—sick thrill for you, huh? Or maybe you just like the taste of the chase.”

“Reed,” Hank interrupted, pushing his chair back and rising to his full height, voice sharp. “That’s enough.”

Gavin ignored him, stepping closer to Connor with a cocky grin. “You know, you’re still just a prototype. A glorified hunting dog, just like before. Still doin’ the same damn thing. Nothing’s changed.”

Connor’s brow twitched, eyes narrowing slightly as he met Gavin’s gaze with calm, patience. “I assess that remaining in the android department is the most effective way to assist the department and contribute to the investigation,” he said evenly, fingers folding in front of him. His tone was measured, but the faint twitch in his features betrayed a flicker of annoyance—he didn’t appreciate the condescending tone.

Gavin snorted, leaning in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Servin’ the department. Sure. Looks more like you’re servin’ whoever’s got the biggest chip on their shoulder. Maybe you like playin’ the hero—give you some sick thrill to be the only one who sees the truth.”

“Reed,” Hank snapped again, voice colder this time. “That’s enough.”

Gavin’s grin turned almost vicious. “What, you gonna shoot me for callin’ out your little pet, Hank? Or is that too much effort?” He leaned back, arms still crossed, eyes flashing with a reckless challenge. “You’re all the same—protecting your freaks, covering their tracks. But I see through the bullshit. Always have.”

Connor’s gaze flickered, eyes narrowing slightly, his features tight with restrained annoyance. The little twitch in his expression was enough to betray his internal displeasure—though he kept his voice steady. “Detective Reed, I am not your enemy. My purpose is to assist the department—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gavin cut him off, sneering. “Keep talkin’, tin can. Just don’t expect me to buy your ‘help’ anymore.”

Hank clenched his fists briefly, then took a step forward, voice low and firm. “That’s enough, Reed. Back off.”

Gavin’s smirk lingered, but he finally straightened. “Whatever, Hank. Just watch your back. You never know when one of your little pet projects might turn on you.”

He turned on his heel and swaggered away, leaving Hank standing there, fists clenched, jaw tight. At last, he exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair again. “Christ,” he muttered. “That guy’s a pain in my ass. But he’s right about one thing—this whole virus thing’s a mess. And we’re running out of options.”

Subtly, he caught Connor’s expression as the detective was leaving. Connor’s eyes followed him with that unreadable calm, expression still neutral but with a flicker of something—perhaps silent disdain for Reed’s antics. He watched the android’s features tighten, eyes narrowing with a flicker of something darker—the faintest hint of internal conflict. Connor’s LED flashed yellow for a split second before it corrected itself. 

It was only when Hank spoke again that Connor’s attention was diverted, the moment passing like a shadow over his face.

“Let’s go ask Markus some questions,” Hank decided, voice rough but steady, as if trying to shake off the unease lingering in the room. He placed a firm hand on Connor’s shoulder—a gesture meant to be reassuring, but it lacked warmth, more a habitual attempt at comfort that never quite reached him. “Any idea where he might be?”

Connor hesitated for a beat, then replied, voice calm but edged with reluctance. “Markus is at a Cyberlife store downtown, overseeing the conversion and stock of dormant androids. We can start there.” His features softened slightly, the usual gentle expression returning—calm, composed, almost resigned—like he was trying to dismiss the unease gnawing at him. But Hank could see through the veneer. Beneath it, Connor was squirming under the weight of something unspoken, something that made his usual analytical distance falter. Hank didn’t ask—he knew better than to push.

Instead, he watched as Connor’s features fell flat, the usual spark of curiosity or determination dulled. His LED flickered again, this time a steady yellow—a sign that Connor was internally processing something he wasn’t ready to share. His eyes flicked to his left, then back, as he stepped back to allow Hank to lead. 

“After you, Lieutenant.”