#not sorry for the slight introspection. killing the part of me that cringes about it is par for the season

[hexyzforce]

i had something for the 15th day but i didnt like it very much looking back at it. base link btw

being a kid with less of the learned shame that comes with growing up probably makes up the bulk of 1st pic behavior but in my heart she keeps that straightforwardness about whats bugging her as she gets older. also yeah its projection on my end as well B)

[7-wonders]

As Above, So Below Ch. 16

Summary: Your average, mundane life as a college student is flipped upside down when the man you thought you knew as your next-door neighbor turns out to be the God of the dead. When Michael lures you down to Hell, everything that you thought you knew about the world is proven wrong.

Word Count: 4234

A/N: Feedback is always appreciated, and I’d love if you reblogged and left a comment if you enjoyed this.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6| Chapter 7| Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16: Get You the Moon

Michael’s gone by the time that you wake up, and you’re mildly impressed at how skilled he is at disentangling himself from your mess of limbs without managing to wake you up. You sit up in the large bed, eyes scanning across the room and cataloguing the mess that you left last night. The clothes strewn across the floor are reduced to nothing more than ripped pieces of fabric, and you cringe at the prevalent smell of sex that still wafts through the air. Falling back against the pillows, you notice a note sitting on Michael’s pillow and grab it. It’s written on actual parchment and with a quill and ink, as if he would ever write on a lowly sheet of notebook paper with a regular pen.

My dearest (Y/N),

How difficult it was to leave your side this morning. I could not possibly bare to wake you when you were so peacefully sleeping, and could have stayed in bed with you for an eternity, but alas, the Underworld cannot run itself. When you do wake, Desa has placed some of your belongings in the wardrobe. I, along with my council, will be in the library for the entirety of the day as we attempt to form a plan on how to defeat Satan. Please join us when you are dressed and ready. I eagerly await getting to see your angelic smile again, and will not feel whole until you are once again in my arms.

Eternally yours,

Michael

Clutching the letter tightly in your hands, you try desperately to calm your racing heart as your cheeks burn pink. Your finger traces the smooth cursive handwriting while you imagine Michael sitting at his desk and crafting such poetry. “You smooth bastard,” you mutter, throwing the covers off of your body and stepping onto the cool floor.

Whether Desa has finally given into your stubborn fashion choices or if she is just so happy to have you back that this is her gift to you, it’s a welcome surprise to see comfortable pants and shirts hanging snugly alongside Michael’s fine suits and cloaks. You take a quick shower, working the tangles out of your hair before slipping into your clothes and grabbing the pair of tennis shoes that you arrived here in.

You hadn’t realized how familiar the daily routine of the Underworld had become to you until you were ripped away from it, and it’s nice to be back in the midst of that familiarity. Taking a slight detour through the kitchens, you snag some sort of muffin from a tray and sneak back out, knowing how upset the Eidolon would get if something was out of order in their neatly-organized lives. That’s made nearly impossible, though, when all of spirits are immediately attracted to your aura. If everyone had thought that your ‘lily-white’ aura was strong before, it must be radiant by now. Their eyes, sunken into their sockets, are glued to you from the moment that you enter the kitchens, to the second that the door closes behind you.

Your feet skitter to a stop along the carpeted hallway when a red rubber ball rolls past you. Stopping it with your foot, you pick it up with a grin. There’s only one group that this ball could belong to, and the small chorus of giggles confirms your suspicions. A translucent little girl with tight braids and a gap between her teeth who floats above the ground, another girl with deep red eyes and tiny horns poking out of the snakes that make up her hair, and a boy who looks completely human come rounding the corner and screech to a stop in front of you.

“Princess!” Samael, the small demon boy, exclaims. You crouch down, extending the hand that holds the ball towards him.

“I believe this belongs to you three?” The small ghost known as Desdemona snatches the ball from your hand, rolling it between her hands while she attempts to stifle a giggle.

“Princess, we thought you weren’t able to come back.” You ignore the part where Desdemona calls you ‘princess,’ indulging the children in their fantasies.

“Hmm, everyone has a bit of magic to help them, don’t they?”

“You used magic to get back here?” Euryale asks.

“Something like that.”

“Can you play with us, Princess?” Desdemona changes the subject, obviously not pleased with such ‘boring’ subjects.

“I wish I could, but I’m actually on my way to meet King Hades.” The three gasp, all grinning widely.

“Are you two in love?” “Will you get married?” “Can we come?” “Are you gonna be the queen?” The three start shooting questions your way, all jumbling together in a cacophony of high-pitched, childlike glee.

“You know, I can’t understand you when you’re all speaking at the same time,” you tease, the three groaning as you stand. “I’ll see you guys later, okay? Stay out of trouble.”

“Will you play with us later, Princess?” Euryale asks.

“Of course. I can’t let you guys beat me at hide-and-go-seek again.”

“Goodbye, Princess!” The three chorus, waving at you as you turn and walk away.

The library door looms at the end of the hallway, but your pace slows down the closer that you get as you think. The questions that Euryale, Samael, and Desdemona threw at you all blended together as each child competed to be the loudest, but one manages to stick with you: “Are you gonna be the queen?”

Are you going to be the queen?

Your mind flashes back to the day that your health went downhill. Before you had been placed on bedrest, before you had even passed out at the foot of Michael’s throne. The day of your first judgment session, Michael had made a joke when you asked if there was somewhere for you to sit:

“Once you agree to take your place as my queen, then you can have a throne of your own.”

Was becoming queen the official moment that you take your place as co-ruler of the Underworld? Is it only upon the placing of a crown on your head that the prophecy is fulfilled? You chew on your bottom lip, introspective. For once, though, it’s not the idea of becoming a queen that has your mind whirring. Instead, you find yourself thinking of Satan and, more specifically, his plans.

From what you can recall, the reason that Michael is unable to leave the Underworld is because Satan hasn’t been able to be located. If Michael leaves, Satan would take the throne, both literally and figuratively. However, the wrench in all of this being’s plans is you. You’re what would prevent the apocalypse from happening; the moment you accept your position is the moment that the crisis of the end of the world is averted. Satan is determined to either kill you himself or somehow prevent you from taking your own throne. Surely he knows that you’re back in the Underworld, a creature like himself should easily be able to sense such things. Slowly, yet surely, an idea starts to form.

“Michael?” You call out, pleased at how you can use your telekinesis to open the heavy door just like everyone else does. The four members of Michael’s council, Michael included, stand upon your entrance. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s no worry,” a very large man, at least seven feet tall, with gaping sockets where his eyes should be makes his way over to you and takes your hand. “I am Thanatos. It’s a pleasure to meet you under better circumstances than last, Lady (Y/N).”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” you allow him to lead you towards the table, pulling out a seat for you next to Michael. He’s beaming at you, not bothering to hide his feelings around Zoe, Madison, and Thanatos, his closest friends.

“I trust you slept well, my love?” Michael inquires, sliding his hand into yours under the table.

“I did, thank you.” Madison and Zoe smirk at each other, the identical blushes on yours and Michael’s cheeks making it clear what happened last night.

“So, (Y/N), what was it that made your tone sound so urgent when you first came through the doors?” Zoe, taking pity on you, changes the subject.

“Oh! I think I may have a plan to defeat Satan.” Everything, even the fire itself, seems to fall silent at your statement. Three sets of eyes and one set of empty eye sockets stare at you, all looking shocked.

“Did I hear you right? You have been back for not even a full day, and you already have a plan?” Madison asks incredulously.

“I said that I ‘may’ have a plan. I’m honestly not sure if it’s going to sound stupid or not.”

“Well, tell us your plan, then.”

“As far as I’m aware, you haven’t been able to locate him yet. Is that correct?” You look to Michael, who nods, before continuing. “He obviously wants to either kill me or prevent me from taking the throne with Michael, that way he can take the throne himself. What if, in order to lure him here, we fake a coronation? Once we have him here, then we can defeat him.”

The council members are all quiet, thinking over what you’ve said. Michael absentmindedly rubs circles on your hand with his thumb, and you anxiously study his face while you wait for someone to speak.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Zoe questions, removing her thumbnail from her mouth long enough to speak.

“Satan, for all of his powers and strengths, is extremely impulsive. It’s always been his biggest flaw. If he knows that (Y/N) is here, and that we will be ‘crowning’ her, he will act on his first impulse, which will be to strike.” Michael has the gift to make everybody hold their breath as he speaks, words coming out of his mouth like they were composed by the world’s finest composers.

“I’m not worried about getting him here. It’s what happens once he’s here that worries me.”

“Would the other Olympians be able to come and help?” You ask, wrinkling your nose when they all chuckle.

“We didn’t mean to offend you, (Y/N), but the Olympians refuse to come down here unless they’re forced to do so. The ball that you attended is the only regular event that they attend,” Madison says.

“Screw them, then! We don’t need them. You guys are all gods, and I’m supposedly now the most skilled witch. Surely the five of us would be able to take down one of him.”

“He can’t die, though. It’s impossible to kill a creature such as he,” Michael says.

“We could trap him in Cocytus?” It’s the first that Thanatos has spoken since he introduced himself to you.

“Sorry, but what’s Cocytus?” You ask, cheeks turning red at your ignorance.

“Cocytus is a frozen lake in which traitors and those who have committed heinous crimes of varying degrees are trapped,” Michael explains quickly before looking at Thanatos. “That’s...I’m trying to think of a reason why this would be a bad idea, but I can’t. We could lure Satan to the palace with the fake coronation, combine our powers to transmute to Cocytus with him, and then melt the lake enough to trap him inside of it before freezing it back around him. Nobody or nothing has ever escaped from Cocytus; their consciousness is frozen the minute their body is, too.”

The hope in the room seems to be renewed at Michael’s workup of your original plan. It’s not a sure victory, and there’s plenty of things that could go wrong, but it seems like it just might work. Michael shoots you a glance, smiling at you proudly before standing up from his chair.

“If there are no further points of discussion, then we shall put this to a vote of either ‘yay’ or ‘nay.’ Lady Hecate?” You forgot that this was an official council meeting, hence the need for their original names.

Madison stands, smoothing her dress out behind her. “Yay.”

“Lady Achlys?”

“Yay.”

“Lord Thanatos?”

“Yay.”

“Lady (Y/N)?” You raise an eyebrow, looking at Michael in confusion.

“Um, I’m not a member of the council,” you laugh awkwardly.

“In times of emergency, I am allowed to appoint temporary council members. I have appointed you. How do you vote, Lady (Y/N)?” You stand slowly, biting your lip while you try to hide your smile.

“Yay.”

“I, King Hades, Lord of the Underworld, God of the Dead, and Prince of Hell, vote ‘yay,’ and hereby confirm that this plan shall be set into motion tomorrow at the mortal time of high noon. Lady Achlys shall be in charge of planning all that happens in the palace and during the ‘coronation.’ Lady Hecate shall assist Lady Achlys with her duties, as well as making sure that the joint transmutation will go off without a hitch. Lord Thanatos, having come up with the idea to trap Satan in Cocytus, will ensure that this is a feasible option to keep him trapped for the rest of eternity. The council is now adjourned.”

The rest of the council stands, making quiet conversation as they make their way out of the library. You start to follow, but Michael snags your hand and pulls you back towards him. His strong arms wrap around you, but he remains silent until the door swings shut and everyone is gone. Once that acts as his ‘all-clear,’ he spins you around in his arms so that you’re facing him.

“You were absolutely brilliant just then,” he remarks, kissing you gratefully. “I couldn’t have asked for a better council meeting than the one we just had.”

“Are you kidding me? You were so--so strong, and you looked entirely like the king that you are,” you gush, beaming up at him.

“Your flattery is far too kind. Anyways, now that this meeting is done, and with your ‘coronation’ looming,” you roll your eyes, playfully pushing at his chest, “I was wondering if you would like to...uh, what’s it called? Dammit, I had this all planned out,” Michael hisses the last part to himself, but you still overhear.

“Describe it, maybe I can help you with this modern term that has you so confused.”

“It’s when two people who are in a courtship go out and do activities in order to connect and learn more abou--dating! That’s what it is!” You giggle at his excitement. “Would you like to go on a date with me, (Y/N)?”

“I feel like we’re pretty far past the first date stage, but yes, I would love to go on a date with you, Michael. What do you have planned?”

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but I will tell you that it should help alleviate some of the longing that you get for certain aspects of your homeland,” Michael smirks. “Meet me at the front entrance of the palace in twenty minutes?”

“You’re really not going to tell me anything?” Your question comes out as a whine, but the pouty smile on your face tells a different story.

“Well, I would suggest wearing a sundress or something akin to that. I assume it will be warm where we end up.”

////////////

When you had agreed to letting Michael take you on a date, being ferried across a river by the terrifying Charon was not what you had expected. Michael had promised you that the journey wouldn’t be long, but minutes seemed to stretch for hours whenever one was in Charon’s overwhelming presence. To distract yourself, you observe the scenery around you, starting with the sky. Considering you’ve never been farther than the castle grounds, almost everything that you see is completely new to you. You’re most pleased to find that, the moment you boarded Charon’s ferry and sailed off on the River Styx, the sky turned from the eternal dark you’re so familiar with to a normal, albeit overcast, sky.

“Why is it always dark at the palace if the sky changes normally everywhere else?” You ask, leaning back in the boat to watch the clouds float by.

“I prefer it dark. Besides, it’s a complicated illusion spell, might as well make it to my liking,” Michael says simply.

“Would you maybe consider allowing it to be daytime at home? I think I miss the sun most of all when I’m down here.”

“Well...for you, yes.” You grin, kissing him thankfully.

“Thank you, Michael! It doesn’t have to be all of the time, but maybe just some of the time?”

“You called the palace your ‘home,’” Michael points out, avoiding eye contact with you. You freeze, thinking back to what you just said before nodding.

“I mean, it kind of is my home now. When I’m here, that’s home. You’re home.”

Michael wants to say something, but is stopped by the boat pushing up against the banks of the river. He stands, extending his hand to you to help you up. You keep your eyes cast towards the ground, reluctant to meet the fiery coals that make up Charon’s eyes, but Michael stares at him with an unflinching gaze.

“Thank you, Charon. Your skills are much appreciated.”

“Will you tell me where we’re going now?” Michael still has his hand tightly holding yours as he leads you through a field of grass, the green turning brown and dead with every step he takes.

“Do you remember when I explained to you the different levels of the Underworld?”

“Tartarus, the Asphodel Meadows, the Mourning Fields, and Elysium,” you recite.

“Very good. Elysium, if you will recall, is the afterlife for the especially distinguished. While those who have committed unspeakable evils or have sold their souls spend eternity in their own personal hell, the souls that occupy Elysium get to live in their own personal heavens. I remembered a dream that you had quite frequently your first few days here, when you were keeping yourself locked in your room?”

“You were reading my thoughts?” You accuse teasingly.

“I was worried, wanted to make sure that you weren’t going mad or something equally as terrifying. You slept often during that time, and had a lot of recurring dreams, including this one. It...it was the only time that I felt that you were at peace, and happy.”

“The meadow dream? How did you…?”

“It’s always stuck with me. How alive you felt when you were laying in the sun, one hand holding a book and the other hand dipped in the running stream. I don’t know if it was just a dream, or a memory that you held dear to your heart, but I wanted to recreate it for you, even if for this short amount of time.”

Michael waves his hand in the air, and the empty field changes to the meadow that you had dreamed about so many times before. You clap a hand over your mouth, eyes scanning the scene ahead of you as your mind tries to discern if this is all really happening. Michael’s smiling slightly, watching the range of emotions that cross your face: joy, disbelief, shock, happiness.

“My parents used to take me to this spot all the time when I was younger, before everything went to shit,” you mutter, stepping ahead of him and further into the meadow. “It was one of their favorite spots, and my dad almost proposed to my mom here.”

“You’ve never talked about your family before.”

“Never seen a need to,” you shrug, tilting your head back and letting the rays of the sun warm your skin. “C’mon, let’s see just how well Elysium recreated this place.”

Every detail, from the large trees that line the clearing to which patch of flowers grows where, is exactly how you remember it. Although you haven’t been to that spot in years, most likely since elementary school, being here makes it feel like you last stepped foot in this plush grass yesterday. Slipping your shoes off, you flex your toes as you feel the bare earth under your feet. Michael remains where he’s standing, choosing to watch as you take in everything that Elysium has to offer.

“How are you wearing a full suit out here?”

“The temperature doesn’t bother me like it does you,” Michael says, allowing you to take his hands and pull him along to a shady spot under a large tree.

“Would it bother you Above?”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

You sit down against the oak tree, leaning your back against the coarse wood. Although you expect Michael to remain standing or, if you’re lucky, sit next to you, it’s a pleasant surprise when he lays his head in your lap. Michael’s curls fan out, forming an ironic halo around his head. Carding your fingers through his long hair, you hum a tune and watch as his eyes close in bliss.

“I can see why this place is so dear to your heart; we could stay here a thousand years and never be bothered,” Michael mutters, stifling a giggle as you start to trace his lips with your fingertips.

“When I was little, it all seemed so magical. I thought that fairies lived here, and that they were hiding in the trees. My mom helped me make houses for them, and I would make them tiny flower crowns in the hopes that they would finally reveal themselves to me,” you laugh lightly, shaking your head. “Ridiculous, right?”

“Not really. Need I remind you that you’re in the Underworld and currently holding the head of the God of the Dead in your lap?” You purse your lips, remaining silent at the realization that fairies aren’t all that crazy.

The flowers that surround you are too tempting to not make flower crowns out of, so you pick a few of different varieties and start to organize them.

“The flowers seemed to grow in the wake of every step I took which, looking back with what I know now, they probably did. My parents grew tired of me constantly asking them what each type of flower was, so they bought me a book that identified all different types of flowers. I memorized hundreds of them, based on the pictures that accompanied each name.”

Although it’s been a long time since you made such a crown, your hands easily remember the movements. The stems of the flowers seem to weave together of their own volition, the chain growing longer as you decide which flowers would look best next to each other.

“Larkspurs, right?” Michael asks, eyes open and staring up at you.

“Hmm,” you nod in agreement. “They can grow to be eight feet tall, but you only need the smallest of larkspur plants for making a flower crown.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know too much about flowers. I mean, look at what’s happening just because I’m in the same area as they are.” Michael’s right: the flowers are all wilted around his legs, dying from his mere proximity.

“You just don’t know how to care for them yet. I’ll teach you,” picking up another stem, you twirl it between your fingers before changing the subject. “Hydrangeas are one of my favorite flowers; I love the colors that they can change to.”

Michael watches silently, large blue eyes taking everything in. He looks almost enraptured by the movement of your hands, twisting and bending the stems of each flower until they start to form a crown. You tie the ends together with two longer stems, finishing the crown off by interloping some lily of the valley between the hydrangeas and larkspurs. Smirking at the idea that’s just formed, you quickly slip the crown on top of his head.

He sits up quickly, scowling, but you can’t help the gasp that slips out at his appearance. Michael can only be described as beautiful, the purple and blue hues complimenting his eyes perfectly. It’s a welcome splash of color to his dark wardrobe, including today’s black ensemble. Somehow, it almost makes the fearful Lord of the Underworld look softer.

“You’re beautiful, Michael.” You whisper, not wanting to interrupt the symphony that the mockingbirds are conducting in the trees above you.

“I believe that title belongs to you, my love,” Michael begins to take the crown off of his head, fully intending to place it on yours, but you stop him.

“Keep it. I can make another one for myself. Besides, this one suits you.”

“For you, anything,” Michael says finally, nodding and removing his hands from the crown. “But if you tell anyone about this, I’ll have to punish you.”

“How so?” Michael’s face gets closer to yours, your breath hitching at the feeling of his lips ghosting across yours.

“Kitchen duty with the Eidolon,” he mutters, laughing when you groan loudly.

“You, Michael, are truly an evil man,” you joke, kissing him quickly before standing.

“Hmm, so they tell me. Shall we make our way back to the palace? There is, after all, a coronation to be planned.” Your heart thumps at the reminder of the coronation, the relaxing time in the meadow helping you to forget about the dangerous plan that was to come. Now, there was no running away from the fact: this time tomorrow, you would either be victorious...or dead.

////////

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[indeliblymarred]

@missionled​ sent:  ' a human thing ? ' what part in particular are you talking about ? you wanting to kill me ? you wanting to get rid of your feelings ? the guilt of it all now ? the fear ? ❜ recollection of a night not so long ago: zeller drunken and so obviously dismayed by the android's rejection. ❛ ... you said it yourself that night, detective. your words: what am i, not hot enough for you ? am i too old for you ? ' he leaned over the table and in zeller's stolen voice, ' too human ? what's the excuse now. ' a pregnant pause. he stared into zeller's eyes before pulling away and adjusting his outfit, his tie. ' ... i've thought about it. that may be the case. you are too human. irrational ... emotional ... prone to vice ... selfish. ' pauses,, ' you are—exceptionally—human. congratulations, detective. '

The fury in his golden eyes, the hard edge in his raised voice, the lines of anger in his face, Zeller had never beheld the Android in such a state. He had not even thought he was capable of it, he’d been so accustomed to the staunch, obedient, aloof Connor even now months after his deviation. Following that, the Android had gradually been loosening up, but he was essentially the same Connor only with his puppet strings cut. He still had the same framework and programming, which was his instinctual nature. And just like humans, he had expanded beyond his nature, far enough to give Zeller the chewing out of a lifetime.

He cringed into neck when the Android reiterated his past words in his own voice and mist clouded his vision of his bitter expression. His hands were trembling in the restraint holding them behind his back and so were his shoulders due to the strain and tightness of the cuffs. He closed his eyes and felt the moisture in his eyes seep over his lashes as he tried to steady his body so it would stop quivering. But it would not. Because he was terrified. For the first time, he was genuinely terrified of Connor because for the first time, the Android had the upper hand over him. He knew that they were in the interrogation room, but he didn’t know who was behind the glass---if there was anyone there at all. The Android could simply have him all alone to himself. Zeller knew he would be able to alter the security footage with little effort. And he knew that he was deviant, which meant he had free will. And he knew that the Android could have a number of grudges he was fixing to settle. 

Zeller knew he deserved this and worse, deserved the bloody nose clogging one of his nostrils, the mild concussion, the wrist fracture, the scrapes and bruises, all sustained from his struggle with Connor as he attempted to kill him once again. Something he thought he would never do again---swore he would never do again---and yet he found himself with the zip ties in his pocket and leading Connor to a secluded place in the department. It was like he was in a trance, he’d been in it since the night that he’d tried to touch the Android only six days earlier. Ever since then, he’d been fixated on trying to disillusion himself of Connor, of whatever illusion he’d been convinced of that such a being was worth these fantasies, of these urges, of these affections. It was just that, it wasn’t out of retaliation for turning down his advances, it wasn’t due to his humiliation of being rejected by a machine of all things, it wasn’t due to his indignation over a machine having standards that were too high for him, it wasn’t because the mechanical bastard refused to even humor him with just a little kiss...

And so Zeller resolved to break him, to kill him, in order to remind himself that Connor wasn’t a real living being, that he was a machine designed to imitate humanity. That didn’t change with deviancy, his blood didn’t suddenly turn red, his wires didn’t suddenly become veins. Connor was not human, and so he was not worth being wanted, being touched, being loved. He had attempted to convince himself of such things with thought and introspection alone, but thoughts always turned to the shape of his lips, his long eyelashes batting over amber eyes, the slight cleft to his chin and the freckles that sprinkled over his plump fair skin. He saw no other option other than tearing him apart. Of killing him again. Of ripping that baby soft skin off of the white chrome it disguised. Of gouging those eyes out of their metal eye sockets. Of biting off those lips and spitting them out on the floor. Snuff out his feelings by demolishing the object of his affection. Connor would just come back in a new body, like he did last time. It would be alright. It made sense, right? He wasn’t crazy for thinking this could work, right?

That was debatable. Regardless of the methods of his madness, it had not worked. Because Zeller couldn’t go through with it. Thirium pump in hand, he was watching Connor writhe weakly and gasp as blue blood poured from the gap in his chest, the eyes he dreamed about glazing over and losing their light. And then he was putting the pump back in its place, he couldn’t bear to watch him suffer and die because of him once again. The first time was bad enough, but now he was killing him when he was a deviant, when he was fully sentient and autonomous. And for what reason? As a half-brained attempt to reconcile unrequited feelings? It wouldn’t have worked anyway, which Zeller could see now. So strange. He’d been utterly seized by the idea and its inevitable success, but once he put it into action, he knew immediately it was hapless. He already knew that Connor was a machine, he’d already seen his insides, felt his blue blood pour through his fingers, yet he still wanted him. Yearned for him. Every single night. Such a craving would not disappear if he reminded himself of it, he didn’t know why he ever was convinced of that. Zeller wanted Connor despite the conditions of his existence; it had always been that way.

Zeller honestly would prefer that the Android beat him up rather than scold him like this. It would hurt less. It would remind him less of his failures as a person, which Connor listed out very blatantly. It was uncanny. All the things that he hated about himself were the same ones that the deviant listed. He didn’t argue with him or talk back not only because he knew it wasn’t his place to, not only because the Android deserved to air out his grievances, but also because he didn’t disagree. In fact, he agreed. Which made it all the more humiliating. How could he ever think he was worthy of the affection of someone as perfect as Connor? Did he think that by touching such flawlessness, he could become better than he was? Why would he think he deserved to touch his golden plating? No, Connor wouldn’t be able to cure him, Zeller would only tarnish him as he did with everyone who ever loved him. But it didn’t stop him from wanting it all the same, even now. Even as he felt the hate from Connor burn through his skull like a laser.

He bowed his head when he felt the tears begin to spill from his eyes, and he watched as the droplets splattered over the grey tiles. His body began to shake with sobs rather than from fear, though he still felt that as well, but it was being overcome with shame. Guilt. Shame. Those similar but distinct emotions felt like a pair of gloves he’d been wearing for years now. It was easy to slip into feeling that pain again. It was almost comforting, how familiar that suffering was. It certainly helped to offset the extremely unfamiliar situation he found himself in. Zeller didn’t know what to expect from Connor, he’d never behaved with him like this before; never had he been so powerless to him. He deserved nothing less savage and plenty more. And no other time had he ever deserved Connor’s love less, as he would never for the rest of his life---that is if he ever deserved it to begin with, which was doubtful. He’d never felt less human while he was being derided as a human, as if such a thing has happened before. Nothing like this has ever happened, none of it, not since Connor walked into his life and introduced himself as the Android sent by CyberLife.

            “Y-you-you’re right. You know you’re right. I’m---” His voice was low and blubbering with a throat straining against a sob threatening to rip through his chest. “I’m so sorry, Connor. I don’t know wha-why, I don’t have any excuse.” Finally the sob broke out and he let himself weep for a moment, needing the pressure released from his chest. It was difficult to regain composure once he lost it, but he tried to speak through his sobs, “I don’t know... why I thought I could do that. It makes no sense now. It would n-ne... never have worked. I don’t kn-know why I thought it would. I-I’m just...” He heaved a breath and rose his head to look into his colleague and former friend’s eyes. “I guess... I’m just a bad person.”

[yoongink]

nuance.

Introduction: you and yoongi learn a thing or two about one another. Method: the real mvp is anon, thank u for kicking my muse in the butt. Result: 2k words, rated T. Conclusion: park jimin is an angel. min yoongi is okay, i guess.

Jimin’s stitches come out beautifully, one by one, and he doesn’t complain, doesn’t so much as flinch even. He’s better rested this evening, returning to his cheerful and cheeky self, and you don’t feel quite as exhausted as you normally would. It’s as if the fog has lifted and you can finally breathe crisp, fresh air again. The turmoil in your head is now a muted mess that you, for once in a very long time, feel equipped to deal with.

Now that you’re both relieved of your obscure burdens, the atmosphere of your visits has taken on a new tone; one of relief and anticipation, of falling into old habits as well as new beginnings.

“Remember the first time?”

You glance towards Yoongi, who's slumped in the armchair, mouth a slack pout, features soft with sleep, before returning your attention to your patient and his question. Jimin sits in front of you on the table, and you realise you’ve inadvertently recreated the scene of your very first meeting.

“I do.” It also occurs to you exactly how cavalier you’ve gotten with your makeshift medical practice in such a short amount of time, removing Jimin’s stitches at what is essentially their dining table.

“I bet you never thought you’d be one of us,” he says conversationally, well-meaning, no idea he is feeding your troublesome thoughts.

One of us.

You laugh bitterly at the sheer absurdity of the notion, unable to look Jimin in the eye for fear of your disappointment showing; this was indeed a far cry from anything you had ever envisioned for yourself. Similarly, you refuse yourself another glance towards Yoongi, afraid he’ll extinguish what little hope the simple claim has ignited in you.

This is the same conflict that has preoccupied you all week. The only people actively showing concern for your well-being are the very same people you should be avoiding, a yet there’s no use denying the kindness they’ve shown you, nor the positive impact they’ve made on your life. In and of itself, that is a sentiment you struggle with. Given your history it should be impossible, but you have no doubts you would have unraveled completely if not for Yoongi’s intervention last week. And all because a stain of Jimin’s blood had upset you.

Each time you go over these interactions in your head, acquainting yourself with the idea that this might be your new normal, it resembles friendship more and more. Not necessarily a kind you wanted, and yet a kind you sorely need.

“Oh, sorry,” Jimin, not as clueless as you once thought, deflates as he arrives at his own realisation. Fiddling with the shirt in his lap, a deep furrow works its way between his brows, his lips pursed to combat a pout. “I guess that’s not really a good thing, huh.”

“No, don’t—” you blink up at him, puzzled by your immediate impulse to contradict him, to comfort him. “Don’t say that.”

Jimin tilts his head at you and watches in silence as you sort through the words in your head, listens patiently when they begin to spill from your lips in segmented sentences.

“It’s not so bad.” All those years of school, the only thing that held you together was the promise that your work would give you purpose, that it would be fulfilling, when in fact it was anything but, and it left you feeling cheated and beaten. You sacrificed all the comforts you had known only to be miserable, with nothing to show for it. “I wasn’t… happy, anyway.”

Jimin watches on with an expression that makes your chest feel tight and heavy, and there’s no doubt in your mind that Yoongi is listening from the other end of the table. Unable to face either one of them you turn your attention away, across the room.

“The work I do is…” Unforgiving, devastating, soul-crushing. “Hard. It takes its toll, I guess, and I was… Well, I was lonely.” You take a deep breath, a moment to taste the words that well to your tongue before you let them slip, because can it really be that simple? All your objections, all your conflicting ideas, all your better judgement swept away by a single piece of damning evidence: “And now, I guess I’m not.”

It’s by no means a revelation, but it might as well be the way the truth seems to echo.

You had entered into this agreement willingly, with your eyes wide open, and you had made your choices for many reasons, but one truth remained no matter how much the circumstances changed: you were happier with the Bangtan boys than you had ever hoped to be again.

Swallowing this alarming realisation, you’re torn from your introspection once again to find Jimin’s hand resting on the top of your head. And, if not for the comforting weight of it, you may have burst into tears when you look up to see him smiling like you’ve just told him the best news he’s heard in months. Before you can get a real grip of yourself, laugh to undermine the weight of your admission and brush him off, Jimin has leaned in, embracing you carefully, pulling you close and pressing your flushed cheek against his naked shoulder, so he can rest his own against the side of your head.

Meanwhile, Yoongi hasn’t moved. Jimin unintentionally turned you to face him but he remains expressionless apart from the very slight crease to his brow, just enough of an indentation to make the simple act of blinking look pensive, as he meets your tearful gaze.

Later, as you pack up your things and bid Jimin a somewhat timid farewell, Yoongi pulls up his hood and stands waiting at the door, holding it open as you approach.

“Is this a thing now?” You ask, passing and waiting for him to join you outside. “You escorting me home like this?”

You don’t know whether to be embarrassed or flattered that Yoongi worries about you getting home safely, and that he would take that responsibility upon himself without so much as asking, so you settle for an uneasy mixture of the two. Mostly you just feel bad because it’s too cold outside to make walking you home seem even remotely convenient.

“Maybe I have somewhere to be,” he counters with a noncommittal shrug, voice a gritty drawl that suggests he may have been sleeping earlier after all. “Maybe you’re the one escorting me, in case someone tries to fucking kill me again.” The thought alone makes you cringe inwardly, but Yoongi punctuates the sentence with a chuckle, shaking his head.

You hesitate, “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“No.”

“So is someone gonna try to kill you again?”

An uneasy silence follows, and you quickly catch up with your actions and Yoongi’s corresponding frown, realise you’ve once again broken the cardinal rule upon which you’ve based all of your more civil interactions.

“I’m sorry, I’m not supposed to be asking—”

“— No.” Yoongi interjects abruptly, avoiding your startled gaze as he clarifies, “He left town, maybe even the country.”

“Wait,” you stammer, catching ahold of his sleeve to confront him with this new information, caution and informal agreement discarded as you struggle to comprehend what the world must look like through Min Yoongi’s eyes. ”You know who did this to you?”

“Hey, how long do you think my list of mortal enemies is? You think I don’t know who wants me dead?” He laughs, and the sound only serves your further bafflement.

“I mean, how am I supposed to know?” You sniff as your nose begins to run slightly from the cold, letting go of his sleeve as you near the end of the pavement and he turns to face you while he waits for the lights to change, even if these particular streets are all but abandoned so late on a Sunday.

“Your nose look kinda red,” he muses, with that familiar repressed twist to his mouth. He doesn’t ask whether in fact you’re cold, just takes in your huddled form for a moment before reaching out to tug a little on one end of your scarf, pulling it snug around your neck and chin. “What are we supposed to do if our doctor gets a cold, hm? Not get into fights? Not fall through windows and off of buildings?”

You hardly recognise the strained hiccup of laughter that leaves you in response, “I guess?”

A part of you suspects he’s only diverting your attention from the subject, but a deeply buried suspicion squirms to life with the less cynical suggestion that he may have other motives beyond manipulating you. Because, you reason, had the two of you been anyone else, meeting under entirely different circumstances, you wouldn’t have been completely amiss if you speculated that maybe, just maybe, he liked you. Would you?

Trying to make sense of this, your frantic thoughts scatter and scurry in an attempt to view his actions independent of circumstance and personal history, but you find you’re too tangled in the moment to see anything else clearly. You’ve become so used to witnessing Yoongi’s irregular displays of affection that you can’t picture his fond scowl on anyone else, and you feel your insides warm and twist sickeningly at the possibility that in some alternative reality far, far away from the universe you inhabit, to an uninitiated bystander you and Yoongi may even look like a couple.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he sighs, your scarf slipping through his fingers. “It’s, uh… It’s a pretty long list actually.” He sounds bitter, words needing a little extra force to get past his tense jaw and clenched teeth. “But it’s not what you think, most of them are in prison because of me.”

You hadn’t even noticed the light turn green when he starts crossing the street. Instead it occurs to you once more how little you know about Yoongi, about the rest of the boys, and that this is your first real chance to learn something, to seek the truth about them even if that was something you can never return from.

“Oh?” Your voice shakes as you fail miserably at sounding casual. “How so?”

“I betrayed some bad people,” he too, is trying to sound matter of fact about the issue, but the word ‘betrayed’ hangs heavy in the air between you, the obvious connotation being that he is one of the bad people himself. “For the sake of the boys, and what we have now. I betrayed some bad people so we could take their place, and now they would like to see me die for it.”

You don’t even feel your jaw drop.

At the hospital’s briefings covering gang violence, and even from the estate agent that showed you your current home, you’d heard many things about the past of this area, about the drug problems and the trafficking and the kind of crimes that would occur, about how things were turned right around after the gangs had been dismantled and prosecuted, about how things were now better than ever. You even remember it mentioned on the news back home.

All this time, you had assumed Yoongi was part of whatever little criminal activity remained, just some thug in a lowly street gang. You never thought to imagine him responsible for the fall of an empire, but isn’t that exactly what he’s implying?

“It’s funny,” he laughs, without a shred of mirth. “I ruined myself, you know? I can never amount to anything, in your world or my own. No one will even deal with us if they know I’m involved, it’s like I’m untouchable, and yet… It’s the only good thing I ever did.”

Stunned at his admission, somehow all you can think of is how this doesn’t correspond with how your inquiry started, as if that one missing piece would somehow make sense of it all. “But, then who…?”

“Someone’s brother.” Yoongi explains dismissively. “He had his chance and he ran, and that’s the end of it.”

“Oh,” you breathe. “Okay… Good.” You don’t notice Yoongi's lingering look of surprise, too busy ruminating over everything you’ve just learned.

While trying to fit the newly acquired pieces of information with the rest of your puzzle, you spend the rest of your walk home in silence. Yours is contemplative, while his is of a more wistful nature. You don’t realise this however, until you arrive at your block of flats, and turn to find Yoongi unable to face you directly, a distinct look of remorse on his features, a look reminiscent of one such other time he said too much and ultimately disgraced himself.

“I guess,” he mutters, “you’ll hear from us next time we need you.”

“Yoongi—” You call out to him just as he turns to leave, belatedly recognising your complete failure to provide assurance that you don’t despise him for the same reasons that everyone else does. That you feel not only differently, but quite the opposite. That you believe he made the right choice. That you were wrong about him.

“Yeah?” He looks back, and you immediately lose your nerve.

“Uh, hurry home, okay? Don’t catch a cold, because I’m, uh, not that kind of doctor.”

Yoongi nods swiftly to indicate his understanding, and carries on walking without another word.

You watch his hooded figure withdraw for another few moments, part of you wishing you had followed your initial impulse to invite him in for coffee, while the more rational side of you is relieved that you didn’t.

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