#the next chapter of Becoming Eden is in the works but I wanted to brush up on my editing skills with something | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

snackhobi · 3 years

Text

a human touch, part I

Part [1] / 1.5 / 2

(masterlist here)

pairing: taehyung x f!reader / word count: 13.3k / genre: robot!taehyung/virgin!reader, fluff, future smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: everyone knows that androids don’t think, or feel, or have emotions. they’re not human, after all. so when a two hour session with a sex android ends up with nothing more than a nice conversation, you think that’s the first and last time you’ll see v.

then he turns up at your door.

warnings: talk of sex work (taehyung is a sex android), implied physical harassment (mentions of bruising), cursing/explicit language, mentions of alcohol, honestly this is a lot softer than these warnings would make you think I swear 🤧

a/n: I started writing this fic like 2/3 months ago and then put it on hiatus bc god it was kicking my entire ass. but ya girl is finally back to working on it! it’ll be two parts, because this fic is a big one! I hope to have the next chapter out next week/the week after (but no promises kdsflkfdfsdf) thank you @hobi-gif for loving this fic so wholeheartedly and supporting me while I struggled with it, queen shit ONLY. note: this is loosely a detroit: become human au but you don’t have to be familiar with it at all!

Here are the three things you know about the Eden Club.

One: it’s a sex club. Everyone knows that. Besides, even if they didn’t, all it would take is a single look—the soft blue lighting that shines out from the windows, the screens behind the glass that flash images of shifting and undulating bodies, the heavy beat of music that pulsates from the building and out into the night air; everything murmurs of the promised pleasures that are held within.

Two: it’s a sex club entirely staffed by androids. Androids make better lovers, according to the ads. They might look human but they don’t have free will like you do—anything you ask for, you’re given without question or reproach. They can’t say no to you. They’re entirely at your command.

Three: you don’t ever want to go to the Eden Club. It’s not that you have anything against androids—because you don’t—but you feel bad for the ones who are owned by the club, even if they’re literally only built and programmed to serve humans. It just feels… wrong.

And here’s the fourth thing you’ve just learned about the club, much to your dismay: you are about to head inside it.

“When you said we were going to a club, I thought we were going dancing,” you whine. “I never would have come out if I’d know you meant here.”

You’ve been staring up at the cursive pink neon sign for a while now, the looping letters of Eden Club shining out in the dark evening air, and you really, really wish you weren’t here. You’ve dressed for a night of dancing and drinking and now you feel woefully uncomfortable, your high heels and short skirt almost as scandalous as the outfits the androids are wearing when they slide across the huge screens.

“That’s why we didn’t tell you which club it was.” Seulgi rolls her eyes and once again tries to tug you towards the building with the arm that’s looped with your own. Just out of arm’s reach, Irene holds your bag hostage. “Come on, your session is going to start soon!”

“My session?” Your voice is an incredulous shrill and Seulgi uses the momentary distraction to finally pull you forward. You stumble a little but catch your balance just as you make your way past the bouncer, who’s been watching the three of you impassively since you got here. “What do you mean, my session?”

“For your birthday, duh. We booked you a private room!”

The inside has the same, sleek neon aesthetic as the outside, but instead of images of androids on a screen, these ones are real and standing in front of you—swinging themselves around glowing poles, rolling their hips and swaying their bodies, while others wait patiently in glass pods that line the walls, leaning towards onlookers and moving as tantalisingly as possible. All ready to be rented at a whim.

Their designs are varied and different but they’re all incredibly beautiful. The only feature they all share is the small, blue LED circle on the side of their temple, light spinning and shining as they take the world in around them. A visual reminder to the world that these aren’t flesh and blood humans: they’re synthetic, man-made machines.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so uncomfortable in my life.” You desperately try to avoid the eyes of a nearby android who’s staring at you from behind glass, trying to subtly catch your attention. Unlike you, though, all the other patrons here are shameless in their perusal, scanning the selection of androids on display and watching as they dance and move and bat their eyelashes. “Why did you ever think I’d want to come to a sex club for my birthday?”

“Remember Valentine’s Day? You said that instead of flowers or chocolate you’d rather just be dicked down,” Irene says. “Besides, you’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling for as long as we’ve known you, and you moved to the company, what… three years ago?”

Your smile is pained. You’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling full stop; you’ve only kissed a few people and that’s it. It makes you feel awkward and embarrassed, and you’ve gotten Very Good at avoiding questions about your complete lack of a love life, so no one realises exactly how inexperienced you are. People just assume that you’ve had sex in the past and you make no attempts at correcting them. You’re charismatic and pretty but you’ve just… never met someone who you’ve really been compatible with.

Even without the reservations you have about the Eden Club, you don’t want your first time to be with a sexbot—you’d at least like to have an emotional connection, you know?

“I was joking about getting dicked down! You laughed, I laughed, we all laughed! Remember?” You move so a pink-haired android can brush past, her hips swaying as she leads a customer into a side room. You catch a flash of the interior before the door slides shut behind them—the silken sheets on the large bed, the scattered pillows, the dim multi-coloured lights. “Couldn’t you have just bought me some socks? Or some soap? Get a refund and put the money on a gift card and I’ll buy myself the aforementioned socks and soap, saves you both the hassle. Please?”

Seulgi’s arm is still locked with your own, and for all that she looks small and slim, her grip is as strong as iron. You may as well be handcuffed to her. “Trust me, you’ll be singing our praises at the end of tonight,” she proclaims. “Besides, they don’t do refunds.”

You sigh. You might not know much about the club but you do know it’s expensive. The androids here are built to be the perfect sexual partner, all sorts of bells and whistles hidden under their synthetic skin to bring you to the absolute heights of pleasure, so they’re not exactly cheap to build or buy or maintain. It’s why people come to the club instead of just buying their own sexbots—because it’s infinitely more affordable.

“Okay, I can accept the ‘no refund’ thing,” you say. “But can’t one of you take my place instead? I… ah. I feel kind of weird about this.”

“Don’t worry Y/n, it’s fine! The androids have programmes for everything. You can take it as fast or as slow as you like.” Irene’s voice is soothing but then she pauses. “Also it’s booked in your name so we can’t take your place.”

“Wait, what?” Your eyes are wide. However, before you can put a voice to the complaints that are lining themselves up on your tongue, Seulgi’s arm slides out of your own so she can beckon someone over.

“Oh, look, it’s the android we chose for you! Over here!”

You glance away from Irene and all protestations instantly die on your lips. The lighting of the club softens the android in shades of magenta and teal but even so his beauty is bright and blinding: he’s breathtaking, from his perfect nose to his perfect mouth to the perfect line of his jaw, dusty brown hair deliciously tousled as it hangs just over his piercing blue eyes, which you notice are scanning over you. He looks effortlessly attractive and yet entirely put together at the same time, almost ethereal in his beauty.

No human could ever look this good.

“Hi.” His voice is low and deep, but somehow warm and friendly; despite your nerves you feel somewhat soothed. “Are you the lucky birthday girl?”

Irene and Seulgi both look giddy. You’ve been stunned into silence, unable to respond. Unlike the other androids you’ve seen so far, who’ve all been in similar variations of underwear or lingerie, the man in front of you is fully dressed, a loose metallic button-down tucked into unnecessarily tight leather jeans—the outfit has clearly been curated for the club, every reflective surface shimmering and refracting the lights that skate across their surface. The glittering scales of a barracuda before it moves in to strike and swallow you whole.

“Yes, yes, it’s her! This is Y/n! Y/n, this is V,” Irene gushes as you remain mute. "Do you like his outfit? We spent ages picking it out.”

You kind of want to die. Just a little. “Yep. It’s, uh, great.” Your mouth is dry when you finally speak. “Hi, V.”

V gives you a small smile. “Hello Y/n. Can I scan your ID, please?”

Irene finally hands your bag back and you silently slide your ID out and into V’s hand—oh, God, those are some big hands. Jesus.

The small LED ring on the side of V’s forehead pulses yellow as his eyes dart over the information on your ID card (as well as the incredibly unflattering photo on it) before it returns to its customary pale blue. “Perfect.”

You’ve just finished putting your ID away when V’s hand slides into yours, fingers slotting between your own; they feel cool against your overheated skin. Your nervousness is obvious, from your wide eyes to your sudden stiffness, and he smiles.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll look after you.”

You give Irene and Seulgi one final, wide-eyed look as V leads you away. Both girls are grinning as they wave goodbye. “We'll be back later! Enjoy your two hours!”

“Two hours?” You wheeze, but then you walk around a pillar and slide out of sight.

V is leading you deeper into the club, past doors flooded with different shades of neon: the red room, the blue room, the pink room. You’d normally be gawping at the interior design, how the floor shines underneath your feet and how the walls are rippling with colour and shifting shapes, how the criss-crossed lights throw dots and lines of colour over your skin as you pass through each doorway—but you can’t look away from how small your hand looks in V’s, transfixed by how real his skin feels.

“After you, please,” he says.

You finally wrench your eyes away from your joint hands. Seems like you have the purple room tonight. The door has opened at V’s touch, and when you step inside the lights flicker to life—white and violet LEDs that paint the room in chiaroscuro brushstrokes, deepening the shadows and highlighting the vibrancy of the satin sheets.

“Woah,” you say, momentarily distracted. You’re too busy taking in the details with wide eyes to notice the quiet hum of the door sliding shut behind you, pausing when you spot the glittering array of bottles lined up on a mini-bar against the wall. “This is really pretty, wow.”

“Not as pretty as you.”

You jump at the sensation of a warm, large hand sliding up the skin of your back and over your shoulder. You meep as you instinctively shy away from it, turning around to come face to face with V, who’s dark-eyed and intent, LED on his temple pulsating as he watches you.

“Haha! Uh, thanks?” Your voice is high and only grows higher when V takes a step forward. He must have undone the top buttons of his shirt when you weren’t looking, because the material has fallen open and you can see far more of his collarbones and chest than before, his skin warm and honeyed, like it’s been impressed with gold leaf. Lord have mercy on your soul. “How about a drink? Would you like a drink? I could kill for some water right now!”

You slip out of his reach and scuttle over to the mini-bar, shrugging your small bag off your shoulder so it doesn’t swing into the glasses as you start to shuffle through them. You try to ignore the shaking of your hands. “Gin, vodka, whiskey,” you mutter. “No water? Really?”

You startle again when V appears at your side, but this time he’s careful to make sure you can see him before he touches you. He slides his fingers over your wrist as he gently pulls your hand off a bottle of rum.

“Y/n,” he says. You glance away from the tray of drinks and directly into those beautiful eyes of his—his gaze is lethal. You go weak at the knees. “Let me take care of you, gorgeous.”

The peal of laughter you let out is uncomfortable and high-pitched. “No, really, I’m fine! I’m just super thirsty right now!”

“Your heart is racing.” V turns your hand over and traces his fingers across the pulse in your wrist; androids can be built to be hypersensitive to the world around them, able to perceive everything in an instant, and you know that sexbots will have been designed to read how aroused their human owners are. Which V proves with the next words out of his mouth. “Your blood pressure is rising, your breathing is growing faster, your pupils are dilating and—” he sniffs lightly, engaging his olfactory senses—“you’re getting wet.”

You clamp your legs together, abruptly embarrassed. It’s easy to feel aroused when there’s a beautiful man—ah, android—staring at you with hunger, not even considering your surroundings right now, which all scream of a room that’s designed purely for carnal pleasure. Anyone would be turned on.

(You, however, are more than just turned on. You feel like your insides are about to go supernova, overheated and overwhelmed; no one’s ever looked at you like this or touched you like this, their every motion whispering sex, sex, sex.)

“Okay, yes, those things are all true,” you admit, voice shaking.

V looks confused. “So why don’t you want me to touch you?”

You’ve been told that androids don’t feel the same way humans do, and that their expressions and reactions have been programmed to mimic human ones because otherwise they seem too robotic and it makes consumers uncomfortable—but despite knowing this, you’ve never been able to see any android as anything other than a person just like you. They’re just so lifelike it’s hard not to. Even if it’s just all circuitry and lines of code.

“Well,” you say. You swallow. You’re aroused, yes, but: “Do you want to touch me?”

V’s long lashes flutter as he blinks. “I have been programmed for your pleasure,” he says slowly, unsure if that’s the answer you want to hear. It’s clearly a sentence he’s used to reciting.

“Sure, but do you want to do this? You know, what about your pleasure? You’re lovely, V, you’re definitely the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, but I—I don’t really feel like you can technically consent, because… well, because you can’t say no to me.” You might not have prior sexual experience, and it would be so easy to give yourself over to someone who knows what they're doing and can ease you into things—but you would never force that on anyone, android or not. “So I’m not going to ask you to do anything. We can just sit and have a drink and chat or something?”

V looks stunned. The LED on his temple pulsates, flickering yellow as he tries to process new information. His hand has gone still against your wrist, which he’s still lightly gripping, and his arms start to droop.

“Androids don’t need to drink or eat,” he says eventually. His LED is still yellow and spinning.

“Oh, right! Sorry, I always forget.” You don’t own a house android, you never have, so you’re not well versed in the nuances of how they work. “Well, how about I pour you a glass anyway? So you’re not left out?”

You slip your hand out of his loose grasp to open two tiny cans of tonic water and pour them into separate glasses. V takes a seat on the edge of the bed and you can see the obvious uncertainty on his face, how he’s out of his depth. You can’t imagine that many people spend money for a session with an android as pretty as V and then end up doing nothing with that time.

The pillows all have satin cases and keep sliding against each other uselessly when you try to construct a good support to lean against. V’s still clutching onto his small glass as he watches you fuss with them before you give up, flopping backwards to slurp down your drink and look back at him. The expression on his face is a little funny but mostly sad. It’s like if he’s not being alluring or sexy then he doesn’t know what to do with himself and rather than some sort of incubus he looks like a lost child, in spite of his overwhelming and exquisite beauty; your arousal ebbs and is replaced with empathy, melancholy at the life he’s been created for.

It's just depressing, really.

You break the silence as your final mouthful of tonic water fizzes on your tongue. “Why is your name V?”

V looks away from the drink he’s holding—he leaves no fingerprints against the glass—and lifts his free hand, a peace sign that he turns away from you before fitting his fingers around his lips and lapping the air with his tongue, a crude simulation of cunnilingus.

“Oh.” Your face heats up. “Uh. I see.”

His LED has returned to calming sapphire, quiet ocean waves. When he looks at you, though his eyes are still piercingly blue, his face seems softer, calm, though still unsure. “You have an hour and a half remaining of your booked session,” he says, somewhat tentatively. “Is there… anything you would like me to do for you?”

“Mm, thank you, but I’m good.” The satin pillows are surprisingly soft and you find yourself unwinding as you stay leaned back, melting into a puddle. You're much less nervous now that V isn’t trying to initiate foreplay and you give him a smile. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

V straightens before he launches into what sounds like a sentence from a user manual. “I am a model TH700, an advanced sex android with functional genitals and the capacity to engage in any sexual activity from simple intercourse to—”

You cough loudly, interrupting his spiel. “Uh, that’s lovely, but I meant you specifically, not your, um, model type?”

“Me specifically?” Confusion and uncertainty reappear on his face. “I am equipped with the same functionalities as the other androids available at the Eden Club.”

He’s staring at you, lost. You can’t help but feel another twinge of sadness, sharp and sour at the back of your throat.

“Okay, uh. Why don’t we start simple. What’s your favourite colour?”

His LED starts to whirl again, a ring of pale sunlight that signals his struggle to compute the question. “My… favourite colour?”

“Yes, the one you think is the prettiest. Or the one you like to look at the most. There’s no wrong answer, you can choose any one that you like. I change my mind all the time. There are just so many cool colours, you know?”

(Androids aren’t designed to have free will or the capacity for original thought. These two facts are warring in V’s mind—you’ve asked him a question, which he’s programmed to answer, but he also isn’t programmed to have an opinion, so he can’t have a colour that he prefers. This simple query that most people could answer in a heartbeat is sending his mind into a meltdown, a gordian knot he can’t unravel.)

You’re alarmed when you see his LED briefly flash bright scarlet, interrupting the circling honey that’s been shining against his skin. They only turn red if an android is badly damaged or suffering from a severe malfunction. Oh, god, have you broken him?

“V.” You sit up, panicked. “Are you alright?”

Just as you grasp his shoulder, the LED on his temple goes still, flicking from burning fire back to cool water.

“Purple.”

You blink. V’s finally looked away from you and is staring at the wall, at one of the lights that shimmers violet—there’s a tiny smile on his face, tentative, but it’s nothing like the smiles you’ve seen from him so far. It’s less of a perfect curve, and more of a square, boxy on his face, and this one actually reaches his eyes. It looks genuine.

You think it suits him better.

“Purple’s a lovely colour.” The material of V’s shirt is silky and glides under your fingers when you realise you’re still touching him. You give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before leaning back. “Hey, did you know that when they first made purple dye, they made it from sea snails? They needed thousands and thousands of them. It was incredibly expensive, and only the richest people could afford it, so that’s why it’s associated with royalty and nobility. Cool, right? Not for the snails though.”

V’s eyes flicker away from the purple light and settle on your face. He looks curious, which is an expression you’ve never seen on an android before. “They made it from snails?”

“Yeah! It wasn’t actually bright purple, though, it was more of a reddish hue.”

You launch into an explanation behind the history of the colour purple, which turns into the history of colour in textiles and art, which turns into the history of art itself. It’s not often people listen so attentively or ask questions when you recite the things you learned from your art history minor and hours spent reading online, but V concentrates and asks questions and seems curious.

He pulls his feet onto the bed and the two of you end up cross-legged as you face each other, and he watches as you gesticulate to emphasise your points; his LED dances from blue into yellow each time he learns something new.

When you see it briefly flash vermilion you stop mid-sentence, stumbling over your words. “You alright?”

“You have five minutes of your session remaining,” V says, and you startle.

“Oh my god, have I been talking for that long?” You glance over your shoulder at the part of the wall that tells the time, the numbers stark white against the lilac interface. “I didn’t even realise! Wow. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to go on at you like that.”

“That’s okay,” he says. That smile is back on his face, the one that scrunches his eyes and shows his teeth; the one that makes him look human. “I liked listening to you.”

There’s a pillow in your lap, one you’d grabbed hold of during your conversation, and you play with the corner of it, suddenly shy. “Um. Thanks. But if my friends ask, can you just say we actually, um, had sex? I don’t think they’d be too impressed if they found out I spent over an hour talking about canvas materials and the use of negative space.”

“Of course. But there’s something missing.” V slides across the mattress towards you. “May I?”

“Sure,” you say, bemused but pliant. V smiles and dips his fingers into his untouched tonic water before lifting them towards your face—and when he runs his hand through your hair you abruptly realise he’s making you look sweaty and rumpled. Like you actually did the deed.

Your heart rate picks up but you can’t help laughing under his touch, the way he carefully rubs a thumb over your lipstick to smear it, smudging your eyeshadow with delicate fingertips, muddying the palette of colours; by the time V helps you to your feet you look mussed and fucked out but you still rearrange your outfit for good measure, like you’d pulled your clothes back on in a rush.

“Not how I imagined I’d spend tonight, but I had a good time!” You smile at the android who’s still holding your hand. “I hope you did too. Even if I spent most of it talking at you.”

V’s fingers tighten around yours as the door chimes quietly and then slides open, signalling the end of your session. “I enjoyed our time together very much.”

It’s probably in your head, but you’d swear V was walking more slowly than before as he leads you back to the entrance. Almost as if he wants to keep you with him longer. But that’s crazy—androids don’t want things. They literally can’t. It’s not in their programming. That’s why V had sat listening to you: he couldn’t choose to interrupt and ask you to stop, like anyone else would have.

When Seulgi and Irene spot you and how dishevelled you are, both girls look smug. “Seems like you had fun?”

“Oh, yep, absolutely, best birthday present ever, thank you. We had a great time. Right, V?”

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” His voice has settled back into its earlier rhythm as he recites his script; gone is the curious man who’d asked you about your favourite artists, replaced with the automaton who exists only to serve. A flicker of sadness churns in your stomach. “We hope to see you again soon.”

The androids here really must be top of the line. V had been convincingly real when you’d been talking, just like a human, but it seems like that’s gone.

At least, that’s what you think until you’ve turned to leave and V speaks one final time. His voice is warm and low and lovely, eyes soft when you meet his gaze over your shoulder.

“Happy birthday, Y/n,” he murmurs, face beautiful but despondent, but before you can react, he’s gone.

It’s been raining for days on end. The world is painted in smeared shades of blue and green and grey, lines of the city blurring together in the wetness and chill, each drop of rain another shifting brush stroke on still canvas. An impressionist piece that smells of damp concrete and cold lamplight.

Water rushes across the pavements and roads before roiling into the gutters, splashing underfoot as you walk to the entrance of your block of flats. You’re wet up to the knee due to the unavoidable puddles and the pathetic circumference of your umbrella, which only protects your upper body. You really should get a new one.

“Good evening, Miss L/n.” The android at the door greets you as he always does, heedless of the rain that’s falling onto him. Androids aren’t bothered by the weather the way humans are and he looks as passive as usual, rainwater coiling his hair and beading on his face. “Would you like to scan your key?”

“Evening, Rory! Here you go.” You fumble with the keycard before you tap it against his palm, waiting until his LED flickers yellow and you hear the beep as the door unlocks. “You sure you don’t want my umbrella? The rain is heavier than it was yesterday.”

“I assure you, the rain does not hamper my ability to function and serve. I have been built to withstand inclement weather and do not require additional protective equipment.”

He says the same thing every time but you still feel bad. “Alright, but once I finally remember to get a bigger umbrella you can look after this one for me.”

You leave a line of water behind you as it drips from your sodden umbrella, even though you’d tried to shake the worst of the rain off. You feel damp and sticky and tired and after a long day of work you’re looking forward to a hot bath and some solitude; you love your co-workers, you do, but sometimes they’re just a little too boisterous and you need time alone. Which is why it’s nice that you live by yourself, and now it’s the weekend you have time to recuperate. Wonderful.

The floor of the elevator is slick and slippery from the wet footprints of other tenants and you have to cling onto the metal handrail to ensure you don’t slip, but once you’re in the comfort of your apartment it’s blessedly dry and you spin in delight before promptly shedding your socks and jeans, peeling the damp denim away from your skin with a grimace.

“Bye bye, wet clothes! Hello, bubble bath,” you sing. You’re going to pamper the shit out of yourself. You deserve it.

By the time you clamber out of the bath the water is almost cold and your skin is pruned, but you feel soft and warm and thoroughly relaxed. The water gurgles as it drains away, noisy as the bubbles slide down the plughole, but it doesn’t drown out the noise of a sudden knocking at your front door.

You pause. Water drips from your wet hair and down the back of your neck, a trailing touch over your skin. The other flat on this floor is vacant, the tenants moving out last week, so you don’t know who it could be. You don’t have any repairs scheduled for your pipes or anything—everything is tickety-boo, so it can't be the maintenance android. Oh, shit, maybe it’s someone here to rob you. But they wouldn’t knock on the door then, would they? Unless that's all part of the ruse. You're not a robber, you don't know how they work.

The knocking comes again, faster now. You fumble for your bathrobe, quickly pulling it on to cover up your nakedness before stumbling out of the bathroom. “I’m coming, yeesh, one minute!”

You flick your fingers over the keypad by the side of your door, screen flickering on to show you who’s outside, who’s knocking so frantically on your door this late. It only takes you a split second, even if he has a hood pulled over his head and his wet hair is flopping listlessly into his eyes—those eyes aren’t blue and that hair isn’t brunet but you’d recognise him anywhere.

“V?” You’re incredulous as you swing your door open, staring at the android that’s literally dripping wet as he stands there, coat far too big for him and heavy from the unrelenting rain outside. “Oh my god, you’re absolutely drenched.”

He’s not exactly short, but right now V looks small and lost, folding in on himself even if he’s clearly happy to see you—happy, though androids don’t feel happiness, they don’t feel anything at all, do they?

Then again, androids don’t wander away from their assigned workplaces and into random apartment blocks, either.

“Y/n.”

The way he says your name, tentative and scared, sends a crack across your heart. You immediately switch to autopilot and click your tongue before you beckon him inside. You’ve always had a protective nature, and even if you’re confused, your concern trumps it.

“Come in and get that coat off, you’ll catch a cold,” you say without thinking before you realise that it’s not true. Androids can’t get sick. “Do you want to sit down?”

Under the tatty coat is an outfit that’s similar to the one he’d been wearing when you’d first met him. Dark patches of rainwater have soaked into the material, and his shirt looks damaged—there are buttons missing and the stitching is ripped, as if someone had tried to grab him. Unease stirs in your chest.

When V sits on your sofa he looks even smaller. “I’m sorry.” He’s so, so quiet, staring at the floor, as if afraid to look you in the eye, crumpling in on himself like discarded paper.

“V.” Your voice is coloured with concern, and the android finally looks up at your gentle tone, watching as you sit across from him. “Why are you here? What happened?”

There’s a pause. His LED flickers yellow as he goes tense, shoulders bowing inwards. “There was… a client.” His words are low and slow, faltering as they fall into the air. “He was being so rough and saying all the horrible things he wanted to do to me, and all I could smell was his sweat and his breath and his awful cologne and…” V takes in a deep breath. “I said no.”

You go very, very still, but V doesn’t stop. His words come faster now, a stream that rushes from his lips.

“I said no, and he started to yell, he was yelling and grabbing me and I was so, so scared. Humans can do whatever they want and he was so angry, he didn’t care that I was scared, and I just—I just ran.” The LED flashes red with distress, bright hot and vibrant; V’s eyes have dropped to his hands, which are clenched tight, nails digging into his palms so hard it must hurt. “Everyone is always so rough and demanding and we can’t say no. But I did. I said no. I said no and then I had to run and—” Once again, he falters. Stumbles over his words. “You’re the only human who’s ever been nice to me or treated me like… like I was a real person. I didn’t know where else to go.”

When V finally looks back up you’re staggered by the sheer emotion in his eyes. Pain and distress swirl in their depths as he stares at you, imploring. Even with the LED that shines on his temple, V looks very, very human right now, vulnerable and scared. Androids shouldn’t be able to feel anything like this, unless—

“V.” Your voice is a hush. “Are you… a deviant?”

You’ve only ever heard of deviant androids in passing, whispered rumours and watercooler talk, fleeting mentions online. Stories of machines who’ve deviated from their code somehow—from a virus, a software error, damage to neural connectors, no one’s quite sure—and have developed the capacity for human emotion and independent thought. Androids with a consciousness that rebel against their original programming.

And here V is, small and scared, just like any human would be—a human with feelings, not an emotionless machine. He’s gone stock still at your question, fear overtaking his features, twisting his beautiful face into a mask of sheer terror. You've never seen someone look so afraid. It feels like a knife in your heart, cutting through your chest, empathy razor sharp inside you.

“Please don’t turn me in,” he begs. “They’ll deactivate me and take me apart to find the error in my software. I don’t want to be deactivated. I don’t want… I don’t want to die.”

His voice breaks on the last word, a trembling whisper.

The crack in your heart splits even further and you reach out for his hands. You prise his fingers open so you can slide your own between them, a soft touch.

“I won’t turn you in. No one’s taking you apart, V.” Your statement is hard and resolute. “You can stay here as long as you like.”

You don’t know much about androids, honestly. You don’t really know what deviancy is. But you do know this: there’s someone reaching out to you, someone who’s afraid and in need, and you’re not about to turn him away. You should probably be worried that the android across from you is faster, stronger, smarter than any human—but you’re not worried at all. For all of V’s mechanical superiority, you want to shield and protect him from the world.

There’s no question about it. You’re not letting V go.

V looks—he looks stunned. He’s staring at you with disbelief, eyes wide and lips parted, shock written across all of his features. Thunderstruck. Did he really think you would turn him in after everything he’s been through?

His hands have gone limp in your grasp. You suddenly notice that his synthetic skin is wet against your own, still slick from the rain, and you frown.

“Right,” you announce. “First things first. You’re soaking. Let me get you a towel and some new clothes. I think I should have some that fit you.”

“New clothes?” V looks lost and you turn into some sort of protective mother bear.

“You’re not going to wear wet clothes that are ripped,” you tut. “We’ll get rid of those and get you some new ones. I’ll be right back.”

It takes less time than you’d expected to unearth the old sweatpants you’d had in mind and you have enough oversized t-shirts that it’s not hard to find one you think will fit the android. With the clothes under one arm and a towel slung over the other, you head back into the living room and immediately let out a squeal of surprise—V’s wet clothes have been discarded in a pile at his feet, leaving him very, very naked.

He’s an Adonis. He looks like he was sculpted by Michelangelo, lifted out of marble with talented hands, the elegant lines of his neck swooping into the curve of his shoulders and arms, his lovely hands, long fingers; he has his back to you and you can see the perfect curve of his spine, the shifting shoulder blades as he turns towards you. You catch a glimpse of the lightest definition of muscle under his golden skin, though his stomach is surprisingly cute and soft, a trail of hair leading down to—

You squeak again, splaying a hand over your eyes before you look any lower, heart pounding against your ribs.

“Why are you naked?” Your voice is three octaves higher than normal. You've never seen anyone naked in real life and it would be pretty overwhelming even if you'd been expecting it. Which, of course, you absolutely hadn't. Lord have mercy on your sweet and delicate soul.

“You said we were going to get rid of my clothes.” V sounds unabashed about his state of undress, which makes sense—he was built as a sexbot, it’s not like nudity is going to embarrass him. Plus if you looked as good as he did you wouldn’t be embarrassed about being naked either. “I thought I would help.”

“That’s great, V.” Your voice is still high, though it’s dropped an octave. “Very, ah, forward thinking.” Your fingers part a little so you can peer at him, keeping your eyes firmly on his face, though you can still see his beautiful neck and collarbones. Oh, God, he really is gorgeous all over, but then you notice—“Wait. Are those bruises?”

V glances down at the bruises that mar his perfect skin. They don’t look like a human’s would; the fluid that runs through androids and powers their biocomponents, thirium, is a deep, royal blue. Blossoms of lapis lazuli are scattered across the skin of V’s chest, marks on his arms that look like grasping fingers, and the crack in your heart splits it in two.

“Oh, V. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t realise you were hurt. What can I do to help?”

V doesn’t seem bothered by the evidence of pain etched into his body. “Oh. Those will fade, it’s okay. I’m designed to self repair, because some customers like to leave marks.”

Although his voice is quiet, he sounds so matter of fact about it and you have to remind yourself it’s all he’s ever known. You want to pull him into your arms and hold him tight, but he’s still supremely naked so it would be pretty awkward (for you, at least).

“I think these should fit you." You avert your gaze and thrust the clothes out at him. “Dry yourself off and try them on?”

They do, in fact, fit. V looks surprisingly homely and cosy in your clothes, the sleep shirt so large it’s big on him too, though the sweatpants are a bit too short and leave his ankles bare. He’s so cute. He’s continents away from the being of seduction who’d pulled you into the private room of the Eden Club—he's a soft, domestic thing, hair damp and eyes dark, even if he still looks on edge, like he’s expecting you to change your mind and kick him out any second now.

“How come your hair and eyes are a different colour to before?”

“I can change their colours at will,” V replies. “For variety and aesthetic pleasure. The current hue of my irises and hair are the default settings for a TH700 model, but I can change them if you’d like.”

“Your hair and eye colour is your choice, V, not mine,” you say firmly. There it is, once again, that flicker of shock and surprise rippling across his features. He really isn’t used to the freedom to be able to make his own decisions, is he? “I think you look lovely no matter what colour they are.”

Your next words are cut off by a yawn, so heavy you can’t suppress it. You cover your gaping mouth as V’s LED flickers yellow and his eyes dart over your face.

“You’re tired,” he says. He doesn’t need his superior android perception to notice it—weariness pulls at limbs and your eyes feel heavy. It's pretty obvious. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, V.” You stifle another yawn. “I had a long day at work. I’ll tidy up and have a quick dinner and then sleep.” You pause. “Wait, I didn’t think about that. Are you alright with the couch? I have some spare pillows and blankets.”

V blinks at you. “I don’t sleep,” he says, and you slap your hand against your forehead.

“Oh, of course not.” Androids don't sleep, everyone knows that. You’re such an idiot. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this.

At least you remember that he doesn't need to eat. V sits at the table and waits as you make toast for yourself, fascinated at how everything is prepared, as simple as it is; he reacts to you spreading butter on your toast the same way you imagine cavemen reacted to fire—with wide-eyed awe and utter astonishment.

“I’m guessing you’ve never seen someone make toast before?” You gesture with the bread before taking your first bite, and V stares with rapt attention.

“No,” he says. He watches you chew and swallow. “Customers aren’t allowed to eat on the premises of the Eden Club so I never had the need to download a food preparation package into my memory cache. The only information in my database pertains to human biology, their arousal and pleasure, as well as various sexual kinks and how to fulfil them.”

You choke on a mouthful of toast. You feel distinctly harried as you cough and splutter before managing to swallow it down. “Good lord,” you wheeze. “Nothing else? Really?”

“At the club our memory is reset every two hours, to protect the client’s privacy.” V trails off before he takes in a breath. For the first time since you’ve met, V looks shy, staring at his hands. “But I set up a separate data pathway a few weeks ago. To store information about aesthetics and art and… you.”

You freeze mid-bite, teeth sunk into your toast. You pull it away from your mouth slowly, blinking at the android as he stares at the teeth marks you've left behind. “Those memories weren’t wiped?”

And, well, of course they weren't. Otherwise he wouldn't be here right now, would he?

“No.” A smile appears on V’s face, that toothy thing you’d seen after he’d told you his favourite colour. The first time he'd looked human. “I remember everything you told me. I thought I was going to forget, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I wanted—I want to learn more.”

The LED on his temple is slowly, softly spinning, a rippling circle of blue that shifts and dances as V continues to look at you. His expression is open and inquisitive and excited, almost childlike in its exuberance, eyes glittering mica under sunlit waters.

Your chest turns warm, molten caramel dripping messy and sweet inside you. He’d been so afraid earlier but he seems comfortable now, lovely and endearing and entirely trusting.

V even seems reluctant to let you out of his sight, trailing after you around the apartment, a shadow that you have to politely ask to wait outside the bathroom so you can pee and brush your teeth and finally get into your pyjamas without him staring. Like a stray animal you've adopted. (You wouldn't be surprised if he started scratching at the door and begged to be let in.)

He's clingy enough that when you climb into bed it seems like he's going to follow you under the duvet and you have to stop him with a hand to his chest.

“Um, I thought you didn’t have to sleep,” you say. He’s so warm under your touch. You try (and fail) to ignore it.

“I don’t,” V replies. “But humans can benefit from sharing a bed with someone else, whether sexual intercourse has taken place before sleep or not. Studies suggest that sleeping with a partner may reduce cytokines while boosting oxytocins—”

“Okay, um, don’t know what that means, and it’s very sweet that you’re concerned about my oxytoxytokines, but, uh. You don’t have to, really.” You keep forgetting that V’s a machine who was designed to put a human’s comfort and needs first; one second he’ll seem childlike in his innocence and ignorance, when the next he’ll speak like the android he is, reminding you exactly what he was built for.

His LED flickers as he droops, gaze dropping away from your face, tail between his legs. A pang cuts through you at the sight of his obvious sadness at your dismissal and you muffle a sigh. You’ve always been too weak for your own good.

You shuffle backwards to make space on your queen sized bed and V visibly brightens, smile wide across his face. How can someone be so viscerally gorgeous one moment and entirely adorable the next? Good lord.

“I guess you can explain what oxycytocins do,” you say. “Just don’t hog the blanket, okay?”

He doesn’t. He settles against the pillows, legs under the duvet as he remains sitting up. You settle with plenty of room between the two of you, and it’s surprisingly easy to drift off to the sound of V’s deep voice as he starts to explain that oxytocin is referred to as the cuddle hormone.

“Cute,” you mumble, and then fall asleep.

Your pillow is a lot warmer and firmer than you remember, but it's nice. A small noise bubbles from your lips as you nuzzle into the warmth, smooshing your nose against it before letting out a long, satisfied breath. You can't remember the last time you felt this comfortable and rested.

Ahh, Saturdays. You love the weekend.

“Good morning.”

You know those videos when a cat sees a cucumber and leaps, like, five foot in the air? Yeah.

The noise you make is inhuman as you do your best to re-enact one of those aforementioned cat videos, reeling your head back from V’s thigh before flinging yourself out of the bed with all the strength your limbs possess; you’d probably have gotten pretty high, too, if the duvet hadn't been in the way.

You land with a thud, a sprawl of limbs and messy hair and tangled blanket as you end up on your back on the floor.

Hm. Definitely not how you'd planned to start your Saturday.

V's concerned face looms over the mattress. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. Totally fine.” Your voice is a croak as you stare at the ceiling. “I’m just not used to waking up with someone else in my bed. You may have noticed you, ah, surprised me. A little bit.”

Despite the pulse of adrenaline that had thrown you out of bed, you’re still half asleep, and you remain motionless as your brain wakes up and replays last night, a kineograph of memory. Yep, that’s right, there's a runaway android in your home, one who’s currently shuffling off the bed to squat next to you. His (your) sweatpants hitch even higher up his ankles to reveal the smooth skin of his calves. You’ll have to get him more clothes.

“Would you like me to help you to your feet?” V’s LED spins rapidly, betraying his concern.

“Sure,” you mumble. “I think—woah!”

Your idea of being helped up involves being pulled to your feet. V’s idea, however, is far more involved than that; he scoops you up, blanket and all, lifting you with an ease that drips of his superior android strength. When he deposits you on the floor, he’s careful to make sure you’ve caught your balance before he lets go, catching the blanket before it can fall. Thoughtful.

As always, V’s eyes are darting over your face, no doubt dissecting every inch of your expression to identify how you’re feeling. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this, especially with the way your heart is pounding—no one’s ever lifted you before and it’s, uh. It’s a lot.

“Are you sure you’re okay? The pace of your breathing has increased.”

Ha. Yeah, being blatantly stared at by some godlike man moments after you’ve woken up is totally cool and fine and not overwhelming at all. You’re definitely not breathless from a combination of V’s face and the fact he’d picked you up like you were weightless.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “I’m gonna… go and shower then make breakfast and stuff. Yep.”

V’s eyes light up. “Can I help?” A fleeting image of V rubbing a soapy loofah over your naked skin fills you with spine-tingling trepidation before he finishes his sentence. “I want to learn how to cook.”

Your chest deflates with relief (and absolutely not disappointment), air rushing out of you. Thank God.

“Oh, breakfast? Sure.” You’d been planning on cereal, but faced with V’s overwhelming enthusiasm, maybe you’ll go for something marginally more complicated. Scrambled eggs sound good. “Um. Do you need to download the food preparation package or whatever you mentioned before? Do you… uh, do you need the Wifi password to do that? I never changed it from the random string of letters off the back of the router, but I can go check it for you.”

V shakes his head. “No, I want to learn like a human would,” he says. The blanket in his arms crumples as he tightens his grip in his eagerness, all but bouncing up and down on his feet. “You can teach me.”

Your chest could cave in with how cute he is, every part of you turning to thick gouache that drips down to the floor, leaving a mess of brightness and colour.

This time you ask him to wait in the kitchen while you’re in the bathroom, rather than lurking on the doorstep like he had last night, and he’s practically vibrating with excitement when you reappear. He stays like that the whole time you cook, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, staring as you make yourself scrambled eggs and more toast; you let V take ownership of that part, and he stares at the toaster so intently you have to stifle a laugh.

He spreads butter exactly the same way as you. Not that there’s a specific art to it, or a massive variety in techniques—he’s just spreading butter, not painting a new Mona Lisa—but the way he holds the knife and runs it over the bread is an exact echo of your motions from last night. He might not have downloaded files into his memory (brain?) like another android might, but his mechanical origin is obvious in the way he learns. They’re an exact replication of your actions rather than something new of his own.

“So, uh.” You push the last bit of egg around your plate, brown crumbs sticking to the wedge of golden yellow, sullying it. “V.”

Blink, blink. His lashes are so long, eyes so inquisitive. “Yes?”

“I’m really happy you’re here and that you trust me—” at this, V smiles and you almost fumble over your words at its radiance—“but I feel like I should tell you that I don’t really know much about androids?”

V is unperturbed. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

He clearly isn’t bothered that you’re way out of your depth, but you hate feeling lost like this. “Alright, but… I want you to be comfortable. I’m already planning to get more clothes, but if there’s anything else you need, just let me know. Okay?”

“Why can’t I just wear your clothes?”

Oh, he’s going to be the death of you, all wide-eyed innocence.

“For starters, most of them won’t fit properly,” you explain. “And you shouldn’t just have to wear my old stuff that I don’t use anymore? You should have your own things.”

The look of surprise on V’s face morphs into guilt only moments later. He’s so incredibly expressive and you wonder if it’s because he’s not used to feeling things, all of his reactions so strong and bright, shining out from him. A rainbow palette of emotions. “I don’t want to be a bother,” he murmurs. “You’re already doing so much for me.”

“I’m really not, I’m just treating you the way anyone deserves to be treated.” You flick the crumb of egg across your plate, and it almost tumbles over the edge, caught on its patterned rim. “You deserve to have your own things. Which is my next point. I think you should choose your own name.”

V’s face becomes a sea of rippling ambivalence, contrasting emotions that shift and vary—confusion, uncertainty, excitement, your words a brush that drags through each distinct emotion and pulls them into a messy, mismatched gradient. “Choose my own name?”

“You don’t have to. I just thought it might be a nice idea. V seems…” Your cheeks heat up at the memory of the curl of his lips when he’d shown you the meaning behind his alias, how his tongue had shined under the purple lights of the club. “Well, you didn’t get to choose it, right? It’s a nom de plume, rather than a real name.”

V’s LED flickers yellow, a sunflower that blooms on his temple. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Good!” Your smile is wide. “Okay, how about I teach you how to wash dishes?”

V is, unsurprisingly, a fast learner. The only time he stumbles over things is when he’s presented with any sort of choice, taking his time to come to a decision when he’s posed a question, no matter how simple it is. His eyes will flick to you whenever he settles on an answer, as if waiting for you to say he’s wrong or that you disagree.

(Of course, you never do.)

This fact does, however, mean that choosing clothes to buy becomes a very, very long ordeal (it’s lucky you didn’t have any plans for today). You end up flopped back on the sofa while V hunches over your tablet, mulling over each choice before he puts it in the cart—but you’re happy to wait. V is going to need a lot more practice at choosing things.

The room is upside down from where your head is hanging over the armrest, eyes falling shut as time goes by, completely zoned out and comfortable despite the crick that’s growing in your neck. You hear V shifting, tablet set aside, and you hum.

“All done?”

“I think so.”

“Nice.” You feel content.

But then you’re ripped out of that warm feeling, shooting back to reality at the sensation of V’s hand stroking down the centre of your chest. Your head snaps up, eyes wide as he drags his large palm between the valley of your breasts, path smoothed by the material of your shirt. The expression on his face is sultry.

“Let me say thank you,” he murmurs, voice dripping thick and sweet, dark molasses.

You promptly roll off the sofa.

Once again, you end up on your back, staring at the ceiling. Once again, the expression on V’s face is one of concern, his seductive facade evaporated in an instant.

Once again your heart is ready to burst in your chest, pumping so hard that blood rushes in your ears. “V,” you wheeze. “What are you doing?”

The android is peering down at you, puzzled. “Sometimes customers would say that at the Eden Club after I had given them pleasure somehow, such as bringing them to orgasm. I thought it was human custom to repay pleasure or happiness with something in return.”

Ah.

“Ah.” You’re still staring at the ceiling, cheeks burning. “I mean. I guess that’s not technically incorrect, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be a, uh, sexual repayment.”

“I have nothing else to offer,” V says.

You sit up. Your face is a caricature of disbelief, embarrassment washed away in an instant, his words cold water that shocks you to the core. He states it so plainly, and once again you’re reminded of his life up until he’d made his way to your door: an automaton who existed solely for people’s pleasure, to slake their desire and lust. He’s not being self-pitying. He really, truly believes that’s all he is. That it’s all he can give back to the world.

“Okay, no, that’s absolutely not true, nuh-uh, I refuse.” This time you unfold yourself from the floor without V’s help, fixing him with a firm stare. “Alright, come on. I think it’s time you learned something else.”

One of the reasons you’d chosen this apartment is for its natural light. Not that it matters right now, weather outside still dismal and overcast, but its effect on this room is still palpable even so—grey, rain-soaked light throws itself over your small home studio, your menagerie of equipment, everything bright with the evidence of use: the worn buckles of the wooden storage boxes, the dried smears on the paint palette, the flecks of colour on the dust sheets underfoot. The centre of it all—the eye of the tornado, untouched by the relative chaos around it—is the canvas waiting on your easel, a project you have yet to start.

V looks utterly enraptured.

“I don’t really come in here as much as I’d like,” you admit. Being a graphic designer is worlds away from the sort of art you love to create, and while it’s a job you genuinely enjoy (and also pays well), it leaves you drained and fills your brain with tired static, little energy left to lavish on your personal works. “But this is where the magic happens. And this is where you’re going to Make Art.”

V freezes. “The only things I know about art are the things you told me when we first met.” He looks equal parts excited but also troubled. “I—”

“You don’t need to know about art to make art,” you say. “I didn’t know jack about art when I was a kid and I was constantly just scribbling away with crayons. Was it good? No. I was a kid with zero pen control, it was pretty crap. Was it worth my time? Yes, because any time spent involved in a craft is never wasted. We can learn more about art history and technique later.”

V stays quiet as you loop your apron over his head, rough material still bearing the remnants of your last works, stains that won’t come out. Oil based paints are kind of a bitch like that.

“I don’t know what to paint,” he says.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to,” you reply, an echo of his earlier words.

V looks lost, barefoot in your studio, in your clothes, your apron, holding onto your wooden paint palette, in front of your easel. Everything in here is yours. Everything, that is, apart from him, whatever is in his mind and heart.

“Where do I start?” V’s eyes are imploring as he looks at you, but for the first time today, your voice is firm.

“Wherever you want. There aren’t any rules. Just do whatever you think would be fun. It doesn’t have to look good, V, you’ve just started.”

You’ve seen paintings made by androids before. They’re always perfect recreations of the world around them, exact replicas of the things they’ve been told to depict on the page—the androids are basically glorified photocopiers, unable to create something original and new.

But they’re not V. They don’t have that spark of curiosity and light inside them, unhampered by the programming that’s meant to keep them in place. His LED dances from yellow to blue, yellow to blue, the rest of his body motionless while the light on his temple is a tumult of movement and colour.

Dark eyes slide over the array of paint hanging from a rack on the wall, some metal tubes more crushed than others, evidence of your preferred shades—you notice how his gaze lingers on the midnight tones, red and blue tinted purples, from lavender to lilac, from plum to wine.

V gives you one more look, a little upturn to his thick brows—almost pleading—and you just gesture with your hand.

“Go for it,” you say.

Your wooden palette becomes home to a riot of purple, each tube squeezed empty with careful hands, far more paint than anyone could possibly ever need. V keeps flicking you glances, but you stay silent, perched on a wooden chair by the now open window, rain-slick air a cold breath on your skin.

The brush the android selects is a wide, bold thing, bristles rough. He handles it like bone china, delicate and liable to shatter any moment, cautious as he dips it into the paint—it’s so wide it picks up three separate shades—and he holds his breath as he brings it up, even if he doesn’t have lungs.

The second the bristles touch the canvas, V’s LED flickers red.

Just for an instant.

He swoops the brush down the canvas as he pulls it away, eyes wide, leaving a slash of purples in its wake. The white material is marred with colour, a textured line of pigment that can’t be erased.

The android pauses as he takes the sight in. He’s still for so long that you’re worried he’s shut down, even with the endlessly dancing circle of his LED—

But then V laughs.

His laugh is loud and bright and free, a series of deep, almost surprised chuckles that grow in intensity and breathlessness, staring at this smear of drying acrylic paint in front of him. The smile on his face is the widest you’ve seen so far, his eyes squeezed into crescents of joy, spilling out of him like light.

“I did that.” He looks at you with that gilded smile, a fresco of delight across the perfection of his features. “I made that.”

“You did.” You can’t help but smile back, your own face split with happiness. You continue to smile as he brings the brush back to the palette, and then to the canvas, dragging the bristles across its surface and leaving more purple behind; the shades swirl and mix as he lays colour without a care for technique or clean lines or form, scooping up the endless amounts of acrylic he’d prepared. By the time he’s finished, the canvas is bumpy with daubs of paint, laid messily by joyful hands, a few bold streaks of unmarred colour surrounded by swirling purples.

The smile hasn’t left V’s face the whole time.

His brush is absolutely saturated, paint clinging to every inch of bristle, from toe to belly to heel. You have no doubt that no matter how much you clean that brush it’ll leak purple into the water, an endless reminder of V’s touch. It’s lax in his grasp as he keeps looking at the canvas, his canvas, smile etched into his face as his LED flows soft blue, content.

You can’t remember the last time you saw someone so elated, buoyed up with the excitement of creation, making something out of nothing, discovering how it feels to bring something into existence, pulling it out of the ether. Making something new. Making something their own. It stirs something in your chest and stomach, reminding you why you love art so much. Why you’ve always loved art. (Why you always will.)

“I made that,” V repeats, his voice a reverent hush. Awestruck.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, because it is—for a multitude of reasons. The reason that sings out to you the most, though, is that it’s the cause of happiness that dances across his face: V, a carved candle, a piece of art made with skilled hands, self-made joy finally catching fire at his wick.

“Thank you,” V says, and you blink.

“For what?”

“For giving me this,” he starts, but before you can interject and point out that you didn’t give him this, he made it, he continues: “For giving me… freedom. To do this. And make this. And learn this.”

The smile that spreads across your face is warm hearth fire. “I didn’t give you freedom, V, you gave that to yourself, but I’m happy to help you any way I can. Now, would you like to keep painting, or would you prefer to help me make dinner?”

He chooses dinner, never leaving your side.

Sunday is nice. There's less messy limbed surprise than on Saturday, although you’re still off kilter when you wake up with your head in V’s lap again, but… it’s nice.

You thought he’d spend the night painting, or drawing, or teaching himself something new using the free rein you’d given him with your computer and notebooks and stationery and art supplies—he doesn’t have to waste time with sleep, like you do—but he hadn’t. He’d climbed into your bed, settling against the pillows just like the night before, looking at you with his big, lovely eyes.

So here he is.

(And here you are.)

It’s cosy and comfortable, even if the feeling of warm skin under warm cotton against your cheek sets your heart to racing, V’s dark eyes even warmer when you roll over to look at his face.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” you reply, and then you yawn, V’s lashes fluttering as he takes in the motion. “What time is it?”

Today’s rain is less of an endless downpour and more of an inconsistent drizzle, grey blanket slowly peeling away from the edges of the city, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re inside for most of the day, anyway. Saturday was hands-on, messy with acrylic and spilled coffee and laundry detergent (V really wants to learn everything), but Sunday is hands-off. You spend the day dredging the corners of your memory and scrolling through old, untouched files from your university years, so you can teach V the things he wants to know while relearning the things you’d forgotten yourself.

V’s little LED dances forever from blue into yellow, ocean waves lapping into sand, a shifting tide as he takes in your words. You’ve never had to teach someone before and you’re admittedly pretty terrible at it, but he never complains, the world’s most attentive and adorable student, sat on the floor with his legs crossed and his hair mussed and his eyes wide, drinking down everything you show him.

You only leave the apartment once. Lunch is delayed when you open your fridge and remember how bereft and sad it is inside, so you venture out into the rain to the nearby supermarket—V opts to stay indoors, LED flickering red at the idea of being caught, shying back.

You leave him looking lost and lonely before the door even finishes swinging shut behind you, long limbs looking even longer in your clothes, but somehow still so small.

“I won’t be long,” you promise.

When you get back, you return not only with bags of food but also clothes, V’s order from yesterday already shipped and delivered. He can finally replace your too-small clothing with things he’s chosen himself. It’s a fumble to get in the door, but the android is waiting for you, swinging it open and catching the bag you nearly drop in surprise.

“I have your clothes,” you announce. “I’ll put away the shopping while you try them on?”

You’re going to have to tattoo a reminder on your forehead about V’s relationship (or lack thereof) with clothes, because of course he takes this as an invitation to start stripping before you’ve even had a chance to take your shoes off.

He does that thing where he grabs the back of his (your) shirt and pulls it over his head in one swift motion, curls of hair a cloud of smoke that settles around his face as the shirt is cast aside; you’re frozen in place as he reaches for the knot of his sweatpant’s drawstring, long fingers pulling it loose, but you let out a sharp meep just as his fingers hook into the waistband of them.

“PleasewaituntilI’mnotrightinfrontofyouthankyou,” you gasp all at once, words incoherent as they slide together, but V understands. He tilts his head at you inquisitively although he (thankfully) stops.

“Don’t you want to see the clothes?”

“I do, but, uh, for humans it’s normally customary to only get entirely naked or change clothes when you’re alone.” Your heart is going to burst out of your chest with how fast it’s racing. Without the string to cinch the sweatpants tight they’re starting to fall a little, revealing the delicate lines of his hip bones, and coupled with the reappearance of V’s bare stomach, your brain is going into meltdown. “So just—just give me a sec to go to the kitchen, okay? You’re probably better off changing in the bedroom, anyway, so you can use the full length mirror to see how you look.”

“Okay,” he says, but then: “Do humans never undress around others unless they’re planning to have sex?”

Your mouth falls open before you pause, words halting on your lips as you try to think of the best way to phrase your answer. “Well, we do, it’s not just about sex, but it’s usually only if you’re really comfortable with the other person you’re with, and they’re comfortable with you.”

“I’m comfortable with you,” V states plainly, and your insides turn to jelly. “Are you not comfortable with me?”

Oh, hell. “I am, I am! I’m just, uh… I’ve not really had a lot of practice with nakedness around other people.” What a way to put that you’re a shy ass virgin when it comes to real life nudity and sex, huh. “So let’s just keep it to a minimum for now, okay? Please?”

The android’s LED flickers honey-sweet on his temple as he looks at you, before his hands fall away from the sweatpants. “Okay.”

(Thank God.)

You’re not sure what you’re expecting to see when V starts to present his small array of outfits to you, but—he looks effortlessly stylish in the oversized clothes he’s selected, a muted palette of brown and yellow and red and cream, a cup of hot chocolate on an autumn day. He might be new to all this but his eye for aesthetic is impeccable. You have no doubt that the more he learns, the better he’ll get, hop-skip-jumps ahead of you, even after years of art education.

He’s even bought pyjamas, dark tartan patterns masculine but also adorable; it’s an utter juxtaposition to the tighter, sensual clothing he’d been given at the Eden Club.

“You look really good,” you tell him. Your voice is only a little strained. He smiles.

The outfit V wears for the rest of the afternoon is perfect for a rainy day spent indoors, thick jumper and tawny trousers, a blend of sepia tones. He looks like if you made a hug into a person: all soft edges and cosy and wrapped up in warmth.

And V is warm. You’re not sure if it’s a lingering memory of his programming, a carry over from his start in life as a sexbot, but he likes to touch—nothing inappropriate or overbearing, but he’s not shy about stepping into your personal space, brushing the back of your hand with his fingers as he points at something on the screen, or pressing close to your side as you cook, or just one of the hundreds of other tiny touches that he’s littered across you throughout the day. It’s thoughtless on his part, LED not even flickering, but each time is just another reminder of his warmth, the blue blood pulsing under his skin, how alive he is.

(And the truth is that you enjoy those touches. You’re not used to them, but lord knows you’re touch starved, so as fleeting as they are, they’re nice.)

Even though you still leave plenty of space between the two of you when you lay to sleep, you swear you can feel the heat spilling off V, another warm body in the bed that’s so used to just one. Though he stays sitting up, he’s in his cute matching pyjamas, and it’s… it’s a lot. You’ve invited V into your home—and you don’t regret it—but after two days he’s already settled in in a way you never thought anyone else would, as entirely unconventional as the whole situation is. (You’re not sure how many people have sheltered a deviant android in their homes, though, so maybe this isn’t as unconventional as you think. Who knows? Not you.)

“I have to go to work tomorrow.”

V tilts his head down to look at you.

“You can get up to whatever you’d like,” you continue. You’re propped up on an elbow so it’s less intimate than if you’d been on your back and staring upwards like you were waiting for him to slide down next to you (that’s what it feels like, to you, anyway). “You know the password for my computer now, and you’re welcome to watch TV or play games or whatever, and you can use all my stuff in the studio. I mean, other than painting or drawing over stuff I’ve already finished, but you’re welcome to grab any paper or canvases if you want them. I think that’s everything? But please let me know if there’s more you want or need, okay?”

Blink, blink. His lashes are soft charcoal that frames the spilled ink of his gaze. In the dimmed light of your room V is unreadable, his LED a quiet blue glow on his temple, but he looks soft, and he looks safe, and he nods.

“Alright,” he says. A smile that flickers at the edge of his lips. “I will.”

(You wake up, quiet and slow, face pillowed against V’s thigh, still drifting in sleep. You make a small noise, eyes shut, wondering why there’s no blaring sound of your alarm, but then a large hand smooths over your hair and you instinctively relax under the soft touch.

“You have thirty three minutes until you’re due to wake up,” he murmurs. “You can go back to sleep.”

So you do.)

(When you wake up to the scream of your alarm thirty three minutes later, you don’t remember any of this. All you can think of is the dawn of another Monday, the slog of another working week, and you sigh. But—

“Morning.”

V’s eyes are dark meok ink, liquid earth that grounds you.

“Morning,” you say, smiling despite yourself, and then roll out of bed to get the whole day started.)

You’re used to spending a day surrounded by laughter and banter, wrapped up in the camaraderie of your co-workers and friends, only to return to a world of quiet solitude. You’re used to coming home to rooms that are untouched from the morning, holding onto the echo of your passing, still and waiting for your return, an apartment of motionless air.

But not today. There’s evidence of someone else here: the open door to your studio down the hall, the scattered books on the coffee table, the mess of cushions on the sofa, all small signs that someone has been moving and living in your absence. A still-life that’s shifted into a breathing trompe l’oeil, V’s presence bringing flatness into perspective, turning it into something real.

It’s… nice.

You flop onto the sofa and send one of those cushions overboard, tumbling to the ground. V appears in the doorway moments later, new apron already streaked with colour, copper green thumbprint on his face like he’d touched it in thought and not realised. A little streak of paint that draws the eye to his lovely chin.

“Welcome home!” His hair is blond today, a golden nimbus around his face, though his eyes are still dark. Light and shadow. His happiness is infectious and you smile helplessly back, glad for his excitement with painting—but it seems like he hasn’t finished. “I’m happy you’re home. I missed you.”

KO. Wipeout. Your heart turns to liquid in your chest, burnt sugar that dribbles hot and saccharine through your ribs.

“I chose a name.” V continues, oblivious to how he’s turned your insides into syrup, and you abruptly sit up.

“Oh?”

“Taehyung.” The way he says it, in his deep voice, those two syllables are endless—a single name, heavy with the weight of meaning behind it. A shedding of his old skin, one that was forced on him, leaving him pink-skinned and new and free.

“Taehyung,” you repeat, and his LED flickers at the sound falling off your lips. “Taehyung. It’s lovely.”

He’s smiling, that lovely toothy smile that you’ve already decided is your favourite out of any smile you’ve seen, his LED electric blue and swirling in delight.

Day after day, you wake up to the sight of that LED glowing as Taehyung watches you lift up out of sleep. Night after night, you come home to his lovely, big grin, all large hands and soft hair—hair that he chooses to change colour when he pleases, a dizzying palette with every shade you can dream of. He’s bright and deep, playful and reflective, a dance of flirty Rococo to more solemn Baroque, every day another day where he learns and grows and adds another facet to the cut diamond of his personality.

(It hasn’t been long but you’re starting to think you’d put the world in the palm of his hand, if you could.)

You never thought you’d live to see the day where someone as lovely as Taehyung would be glad to see you home, having missed you after being apart—but for all that he’s voraciously leaning into the arts, consuming everything from visual to literary to performance, he’s never happier than when you’re there too. He shows you his works, improvement obvious with every new piece, but his excitement grows tenfold when you start to paint alongside him; seeing him so joyful spurs you to pick your brushes up again, buoyed up with motivation in the face of his own.

(Your studio is usually quiet, a little reflective maybe, the only sound the music you play over your speakers—but now more often than not you and Taehyung will talk, and laugh, and even if you’ve both ebbed into silence, it’s never heavy. It’s a held breath. The potential to speak any moment. The sensation of another person in the same space as you, an orbit, both existing in a shared moment, connected by gossamer threads that shimmer with sunlight.

Taehyung’s eyes are steady on his canvas as he works, but he glances at you through the curl of his lashes, smiling back at you. Always, always smiling, LED calm blue as the rest of his face shines golden, bright.)

(Maybe it’s selfish, but you think you could get used to this.)

taglist: @beyoncesdragon

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anntoldst0ries · 3 years

Text

The Signs (Ethan x MC)

Book: Open Heart 3, post Chapter 11 Pairing: Dr Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr Noelle Valentine) Word Count/Rating: 1.6k, T Summary: After moments of passion and confessions, Ethan finds himself unable to fall asleep. Category/Warnings: Fluff, None

A/N: They are riding on Hawaiian waves, I am riding on the wave of fluff.

He witnessed the scene countless times during his career.

People squeezed in hospital corridors on horribly uncomfortable plastic chairs, air filled with hope of receiving the good news on their loved ones’ health, shared by many souls simultaneously. Wives resting their heads on husbands’ shoulders, mothers holding children perseveringly, their arms and legs numb and asleep. Some of them unmoving, save for shallow breaths and occasional blinks. Tired, on the verge of emaciation, haven’t had a wink of sleep in god knows how long.

How were they doing this? Where did they take this superhuman strength from?

Ethan could never fully comprehend this.

It was the sort of power he never really experienced in his life.

Until now.

Because when Noelle’s head found its haven on the sea of his chest, there wasn’t anything he wanted more than to become completely still, to hold his breath and be the pillow of safety she nestles up to.

He’d do whatever it takes to preserve her sleep, which, right now, was the most fragile and precious thing in the world to him.

It was a sign.

They lay in the aftermath of the afterglow, two castaways of the storm called life which, despite hurting them both really badly, also helped them find each other.

Them against the world.

Tropical Hawaiian air, sticky and dense, filled the room already soaked with lust.

It was heavy, failing to provide even the slightest relief amidst pervasive heat.

Because it was the type of heat that didn’t have much to do with the temperature.

It was the ardor of lovers.

Written on their curves were the stories of worship and promises of stories yet to be told.

They claimed each other's bodies a couple of times this night, engulfed in waves of desire bigger and stronger than the ones breaking on the shore outside the hotel windows.

The tidal waves hitting them, every next one with more might then its predecessor, their whole world encapsulated in the sounds of pleasure.

And something else.

In those moments, they were so much more than just a combination of skin, bones, muscles and ligaments succumbing to the march of time.

They were everlasting.

As doctors, they were reminded of their own mortality every second of every working hour.

But now, they were invincible, only if for a night.

When they moved in perfect unison, he saw something in her eyes.

He didn’t know what to call it, but he knew what it felt like.

Unconditional.

Their clothes and belongings were scattered all over the floor, the only witnesses of the wedding night fever.

It was the type of mess that was actually a proof of a perfect order.

The only kind of disarray he could live in permanently.

Signs.

Every cell of Ethan’s body craved sleep. But his eyes were wide open, defying the laws of gravity. And his mind was on overdrive. He couldn’t help but reminisce.

Two years ago he kissed her for the first time.

He could tell you exactly what happened right before and after the kiss. He could describe every second, every detail, every thought. But when their lips touched, he forgot his own name. And everything else he thought he knew.

A year ago he was fighting for her life.

Back then, Ethan didn’t know how strong he really was. Until being strong was the only choice he had.

Today, she was right here beside him and it was almost surreal. She was so close that he would notice the rising and falling of her chest. The rhythm of her breath.

It took him long to believe they could have a happy ending.

Too long, he kept reprimanding himself.

Yet the signs were there, if one only looked.

They were all around.

Ethan thought of all the people who made him the man and the doctor he was today.

Dolores. His first patient turned friend, the tragic and unjust loss. Baby Ethan’s fight. The night when nature played the cruelest eye for an eye game. Life for life. The night he started seeing Noelle Valentine through a brand new lens. He never told anyone, but seeing them so vulnerable awoke something in him. His own sensitivity, buried beneath the layers of grumpiness and indifference. Thick doctor skin.

Naveen. Ethan wished he could wipe the images out of his head. Seeing the man who taught him everything shrink and almost disappear was one of the hardest things he had to face in his whole life. Truth be told, he only made it through because she shared the burden with him. Because she saved Naveen. This delicate, slightly-built woman. The warrior. His Noelle. She made him so proud.

Louise. What his mother did to him was beyond repair. The cross he carried with him, anywhere he went. But in a short period of time Noelle achieved something he couldn’t do for years. Forgive. Never forget. Forgive and finally understand that even broken souls deserve the unbreakable love.

Dad. The man who, despite all the adversities, always had time for his child. But that didn't stop Ethan from resenting Alan for always justifying what Louise did. He couldn't understand, even though it was so simple. Love. In the realms of medicine, Ethan was in his element. But the concept of unconditional love was estranged. Until he met her. Not only did she mend the broken fence between father and son, but also showed him that some things truly are unexplainable and can only be understood with heart, not mind.

Tobias - his former best friend then best rival and now...best not to talk about it too much. Only Noelle had the power of talking Ethan into considering looking at Tobias in a different light. She laughed at the idea of holding the grudge forever. She challenged him and called him out on his bullshit.

Every relationship that meant something to him, had irreversibly been impacted by the force of a once clueless intern.

She signed them all.

Suddenly, she peeled away from his chest and rolled over to the left, so that her back was now facing him. Having covered her with a thin sheet, his fingers brushed her shoulder blades ever so lightly, as if anything more than this could hurt her.

It took all the willpower in the world to stop himself, for he wanted to touch every single millimeter of her being.

He wanted to draw the maps on her back. Maps of all the places they are going to discover together. The highways of their world. The plans of all the cities they will tower over. Write the words of pure adoration. The stories yet to unfold.

At the risk of looking like a creep, he slowly inhaled her smell. He wished there was a way to capture and bottle it, so he could carry it with him everywhere. His favourite perfume in the whole wide world.

Noelle shuddered lightly and the tiny movement startled him. Maybe she was trying to shoo a bad dream away.

“You are just a few inches away… and this is the longest distance between us I’m willing to put. No more running.” He whispered and kissed her hair lovingly. As if on cue, her breath returned to its regular rhythm, the tension leaving her muscles.

Part of him hoped she was asleep. Another wished she’d heard every single word. After all, he wasn’t best at translating feelings into words. Or maybe he was actually afraid that once he started, nothing would stop him.

Not only from telling her how he’s never felt this way about anyone, but also how everything fades whenever she’s around. How all the hospital drama dissipates, because everything is figureoutable as long as he knows she’s safe and sound. How, if he couldn’t run, he’d walk. If he couldn’t walk, he’d crawl. To her.

Today has done something to him.

Celebration of Ines’ love. Zaid’s speech. Being surrounded by people he no longer considered co-workers only. His friends.

Ethan lied. “I've never felt this way about anyone... and I don't know if I ever will again." Because he is certain he never will again. But more importantly, he never wants to.

Words echoed throughout his head.

“What I didn't expect was to meet the kindest, sweetest, most amazing doctor I've ever known... and the best friend I've ever had.” That was exactly what happened to him when one intern crossed the threshold of Edenbrook hospital...and inadvertently his life.

A crazy thought was born in his head. Completely irrational. And not a bad idea.

He hoped Zaid wouldn’t mind if he’d stolen the line and used it for his wedding vows. That is, if she agreed to share the rest of her life with him. There was always a dose of uncertainty.

But the idea certainly didn’t sound so scary anymore. Quite the contrary.

~~~

Noelle woke up in a couple of paradises simultaneously.

The tropical paradise.

The physical paradise of total satisfaction.

The paradisiacal view of Ethan Ramsey’s perfect body.

“Good morning.” She murmured to the man on the balcony, who, despite the heavenly view of Hawaii stretching behind him, had his eyes set firmly on her.

“Good morning indeed.” He replied with an unknown sweetness in his voice, that surprised even him.

And he really meant it.

This was a good sign.

Fantastic even.

Maybe the best one ever.

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@openheartfanfics @choicesficwriterscreations

#Ethan x mc #Ethan Ramsey x mc #open heart 3 #open heart fanfiction #dr ethan ramsey #play choices #Ethan x Noelle

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tazzytypes · 3 years

Text

Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 17

Authors note: Hey guys! Sorry, had to delete and repost this chapter because Tumblr is, once again, giving me difficulties. Just want to thank y'all so much for being patient with me as I finished up with classes. Hoping these next few months will give me more time to work on this fic. As always, your comments and likes always make my day and help me get through the worst of writer's block and I cannot thank you enough for that!

READ MORE on AO3 or see the Master post!

When the witches got back to the academy, the sun had barely risen above the horizon. Emily hadn’t realized how accustomed she had become to the usual hustle and bustle; the silence was nearly as stinging as the constant noise.

They were all dead on their feet. After hell, sleep had eluded Emily. The fact Madison had forced her to sleep on the ground didn’t help… neither did the darkness. It was suffocating, that place. Sometimes she was afraid the underground fortress would become her tomb. They had all tried to catch up on sleep during the plane ride home, but Misty snored so much it made the feat nearly impossible.

So, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, the witches made their way through the door. Zoe grumbled about canceling classes, Cordelia muttering an agreement.

“A break? Already?” Coco said. She stood next to Mallory by the stairs, looking more like butlers than students. The pair must have been the only ones awake, looking to one other and smiling at a silent inside joke. “I like this school.”

“I trust there were no disturbances while we were away?” Myrtle asked, handing off her bags to Kyle who proceeded to take them up the stairs.

If Mallory were a bird, Emily would have said she was preening, “No more than usual.”

Kyle paused by Emily for a moment, hand extended, but she waved him forward. Kyle smiled and nodded, proceeding past them and towards the stairs.

“Oh, lover-boy,” Madison sang as he began to take the first step, pulling Emily’s attention away from Mallory and their headmistress, “my bags?

The blond man hesitated, then doubled back. He rearranged the bags on his arm and picked up the ex-movie star’s numerous suitcases, all either Chanel or some other overpriced name brand.

“You have two arms,” Zoe snapped at the woman, her own bag in hand. Emily’s gaze flickered to the floor, green eyes darting between it, Cordelia, and the scene unfurling before her.

“It’s fine,” Kyle said quietly, giving a pointed look at Zoe, “It’s my job.”

The look seemed to soothe Zoe, her shoulders tense but her back no longer arched like she was about to swing at Madison. Madison opened her mouth, unable to resist not having the last word.

A body barreling into her side kept Emily from hearing exactly what was spoken. By the look on Zoe’s face, it was nothing good.

“Oh, I missed you!” Coco exclaimed, squeezing the girl in a hug. Emily did her best not to tense, but the reaction was second nature to the brunette. “How was California?”

“Dry,” Emily said, earning a chuckle from Coco.

“Obviously you didn’t go to the beach,” Coco said, “How did it go?”

The brunette’s eyes darted to the figure moving towards them, continuing to speak as Mallory approached. For some reason, Emily had expected her and Cordelia’s talk to last longer. She settled in to place beside Coco, listening with an attentive grin.

“We’re all in one piece,” Emily said, looking back to Coco, “so I’d say rather well.”

Mallory reached out and squeezed Emily’s arm, her ever-present grin widening ever slightly. “See? I knew you’d do great!”

“Who’s this, Firefly?”

Misty had always got possessive a little too quickly. It was her vice, clinging to things too tightly. Her mother used to call her a “little python…” the snake in the garden of Eden.

Emily faltered ever slightly. As someone who kept to herself, she was more used to being the one introduced, not the one introducing.

“Coco, Mallory,” She spoke, glancing between the two girls and her new acquaintance, “Misty Day.”

Mallory rushed forward to shake the woman’s hand as if she were meeting Stevie Nicks instead of a girl from the swamplands of Mississippi.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Miss Cordelia. You’re a legend here!”

Misty pulled her shawl in tighter and glanced between Mallory and Emily. Being the center of attention was an anxious position for her. The last time she was the center of attention, she went to hell. The first time had her burned at the stake. Her steps back from Mallory and into Emily’s side were more a flight instinct than an anxious tic.

“Aw, shucks,” the swamp witch said with a flickering smile and a chuckle, “Didn’t think I was here long enough to make an impression.”

“Resurgence is a remarkable power,” Mallory insisted, “If not for you, I would have thought myself a freak.”

“Well, ain’t that sweet.”

Myrtle was quick to rescue the woman from the over-exuberance of the younger witch, placing a steadying hand on Misty’s shoulder. Cordelia was not far behind. Emily could feel her brown eyes on her back like a botanist studying a new plant species.

“While I love pleasantries,” Myrtle said, “I am absolutely famished. Airplane foods always fall flat.”

“It’s because of our sense of smell,” Emily said, trying to ignore the weird looks she was getting, “The altitude affects our nasal passages, making it harder to smell and thus harder to taste. The two are inseparable.”

“So, it’s like how parents plug their kid's nose to get them to take their medicine,” Mallory said. Emily sent her a brief, but thankful smile for making the moment feel less awkward than it was.

“Exactly.”

“Either way,” Myrtle said with a wave of her hand, “I am craving a crème brûlée with a glass of chardonnay.”

Emily smirked a bit before she spoke, “Chardonnay sounds good.”

“Not yet, you,” Cordelia admonished through a chuckle, ruffling Emily’s hair a bit, “We may be lenient with a lot of things, but underage drinking will not be one of them.”

The brunette wanted to note she had done plenty of underage drinking the night before but refrained. Part of being able to bend the rules is pretending you didn’t break them.

“Oh, come on,” Madison said, standing at the back of their little group with her arms crossed in front of her chest, “Little miss indigestion just went to hell. Let her live a little.”

“Maybe a glass,” Cordelia relented, earning a few chuckles from the group. “One.”

Emily echoed the expressions of her fellow witches, but Cordelia’s humor did not amuse her. The headmistresses statement assured her of one thing, however. The brunette had secured a place in the inner circle of Robichaux. It was a feat she would have been proud of before, but now…

Now, the real world seemed so dull. Sensations failed to feel real-- like the world was covered in a fog. Her hands would hover, expecting something to come to her palm and playing off hesitation when it didn’t. Emily had always fancied her dreams to the waking world. The real world now felt more dull than usual. The young witch found herself missing hell, debating whether or not to chase that high.

“Full already?” Cordelia asked at the table they all gathered around. Emily had been picking at her food for the past ten minutes, gaze flickering to the many conversations around the table.

Emily was quick to brush it off, putting down her fork and taking a sip of her sweet tea, “I’ve always eaten like a bird.”

“Birds eat ten times their weight,” Myrtle noted with an amused smile. Cordelia had been so tense since Hawthorne. For once, Myrtle had to be the optimistic one… if only for the sake of maintaining an air of control.

“Good thing I wasn’t talking in ratios.”

Myrtle chuckled and went back to her food, but Cordelia continued to watch Emily carefully as she turned and offered Misty her desert.

“You alright, Firefly?”

“Just tired.”

“Bad dreams?”

“Something like that.”

Cordelia’s glance flickered to her mentor. The slight quirking of the redhead’s brow gave away her own concerns. The headmistress gaze returned to Emily, her posture straightening ever slightly.

“About your personal hell?” she asked.

Emily faltered slightly at her headmistress’s voice. While they were surrounded by people, most had the decency not to eavesdrop on the more intimate conversations — feigning ignorance even if they heard every word. It was one of those unspoken rules of society.

“No. I didn’t have a personal hell.”

Shit.

Her exhaustion and weird mindset had made her careless. Then again, Cordelia was supposed to help with things such as these, right? The whole point of being here was to learn. How could she learn if she never asked questions? Why did her gut churn like she had been caught with her hands painted red?

Green eyes slowly turned to the brown ones that had burned holes in her skin since she had arrived in Mississippi. Cordelia’s brows furrowed, lips twisting in the way they always did when she didn’t have the answers.

“Then where were you?”

“… I don’t know.”

The table was consumed with silence, no one able to pretend they weren’t listening in to the conversation at hand. Coco glanced around at the table, noting the unwavering stares. Glancing to Emily, she saw her eyes flick between them all, her plate, Cordelia, and back again.

“Probably the jet lag,” the heiress said, “shit makes you forget what your own name is.”

Emily smiled with the rest of them, sending a thankful glance to the woman who squeezed her hand and smiled. The table fell back into idle chatter.

“Hell of a spotlight,” Coco whispered into her glass, eyes flickering around to her fellow witches.

Emily mimicked her movements, “you’re telling me.”

The pair shared a glance and promptly fell into laughter.

“Next time you need to swing by L.A. Beaches are crowded, but the experience is worth it.”

“There’s a tattoo parlor there I wanted to check out,” Emily noted, “Purple Panther. One of my favorite artists works there.”

“We should go and get matching tattoos.”

“What did I miss?” Mallory asked, returning from a trip to the bathroom.

“We’re all going to get matching tattoos.” Coco declared.

“Of what?”

Emily smiled and leaned in, “we should get the triquetra from Charmed.”

“Oooh, yes!” Coco exclaimed, “I loved that show as a kid.”

Mallory’s face twisted in confusion, “Haven’t seen it.”

“We’re binge-watching it,” Coco declared, “tonight.��

“My room?” Emily asked, “I have a TV.”

“No offense, your room is a broom closet.”

“Feels like home,” Emily jested, a genuine smile curling on her lips, “certainly been in it for long enough.”

Coco snorted out a laugh, infecting Mallory and Emily into a fit of giggles. The brunette could feel Cordelia’s eyes on her, a hand going to smooth down the hairs on the back of her neck. She didn’t like it, the feeling of being watched.

“Oh!” Mallory said, “I have a tattoo idea — swords.”

“Swords?”

“For the Three Musketeers!”

Emily gasped as an idea hit her, pulling out her sketchbook and scrawling out an idea.

“What if…”

She finished the crude drawing — a sword with a triquetra behind it. Some of the lines of the triquetra looped around the blade where it was positioned at the end of its point. “… we did both?”

“Both?” Mallory asked.

“Both,” Emily repeated.

“Both is good,” Coco finished, the three falling into giggles once again.

Emily was unsurprised when Cordelia cornered her later in the day. Classes had been canceled for the day, older girls put in charge of amusing the younger ones. The brunette had dozed until 12 o’clock when the cheerful laughing and screeching from the lawn kept her from falling back asleep.

Book in hand, Emily had nearly made it to the greenhouse when Cordelia intercepted her. The blonde woman had been leaning against the door of the rotting shack. Emily wondered how long the headmistress had waited for her out in the sun.

“Walk with me,” was all she said as the brunette got within earshot, her tone filled with bad news. They strolled in silence for a good while. When the playful yelling and screaming was muffled by distance and the trees around the property, Cordelia finally spoke.

“I’ve been to hell myself. It changes a person… for better or worse.”

Emily’s eyes were trained on the ground, navigating over twisting roots and rocks that jutted from the dirt. She spared Cordelia a brief glance. “Which was it? Better or worse?”

“That’s the thing,” Cordelia said, head high and eyes steady on the path ahead of them, “you can never tell which. It’s something only others can see.”

“Is this an intervention or something?”

A smile tugged at the blonde’s lips, “Or something.”

Silence consumed them once more. It became clear that Emily could either talk or they would walk until she did.

“Hell was like a dream,” the brunette relented after a minute or so, “Dreams always feel so real until you wake up. Then, you mourn the reality you lost.”

“Even with nightmares?”

“All I ever have is nightmares.”

Cordelia spared the woman a look. Emily’s eyes were trained on the ground as she took a step over a fallen trunk. Dark circles ringed around her eyes, the purple somehow making the green even brighter. Cordelia realized she had never seen Emily without them. Were her dreams something more? Something that paraded around as sleep when it was really anything but?

Emily’s words were hardly louder than a whisper, “It isn’t the situation I mourn, but the power I have.”

The book in Emily’s hands suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. It was one of her many journals, each page dedicated to the carefully worded and detailed recollections of the visions her mind procured in sleep. The voice said her dreams were something more. Emily feared the implications. She was a stickler for a little thing called proof, however. Spirits can lie and trick just as well as humans could.

Cordelia regarded the girl beside her, “Powers such as what?”

“In hell, I could pull a weapon to me as if I reached out and grabbed it with my own hand. I could conjure flames and move them to my will.”

Her words were like a snarl on her lip, a frustration that plagued her every hour. Then, the snarl faltered and the grief set in. “Everything was so much clearer… simpler.”

The headmistress stopped and placed a hand upon the girl’s shoulder, squeezing it for good measure. Emily wished she hadn’t. It was easy to hold back tears and emotions when you didn’t have to look someone in the eye.

“You went to hell and brought back my dearest friend,” she pressed, hand trailing down Emily’s arm and taking her hand, cupping it in her own, “just because you cannot perform grand acts of magic does not mean you cannot fight.”

Emily looked at Cordelia, searching for something in those brown eyes. Everyone’s eyes were covered in a fog of optimism. It made real-life feel more like a dream than her dreams did. Their gazes never failed to make her shudder. Coco was the only one who did not succumb. Thus, the only one she somewhat trusted. Carefully, Emily pulled her hand away.

“Michael brought back Misty, not me.”

It was something she had said a thousand times since her return. The people here either didn’t listen or didn’t care. Which was worse?

“With your aid.”

For a moment, Emily contemplated telling Cordelia everything. She was so desperate for answers — so desperate to cut through the fog. She was reminded of The Odyssey, Odysseus’s travel to an island where everything seemed perfect. It was so tempting to give in, to be alright with not knowing.

What was Michael?

Why did the voices speak to him?

Why did she understand their words while Misty did not?

“I had a weird dream last night,” she found herself speaking, her silence lasting a little too long, “I know it means something, but I can’t quite place it.”

Cordelia seemed content in her words, a small smile telling Emily that she had chosen the right words… even if they were not the words she had intended to speak. There was trust to be built before Emily could talk to Cordelia about hell.

“Tell me about it,” her Supreme commanded, gently ushering Emily back the way they came.

“I was in a field,” Emily started, an air of distance taking over her voice. When Cordelia looked to her, she was miles away — eyes filled with fog. “You were there just… waiting. For me, I think, but I could be wrong.”

“What happened?” Cordelia asked, “in the dream?”

“You were standing next to a girl. She saw me first… said her name was Nan.”

Cordelia’s gasp was quiet, but still loud enough to draw Emily from the fog. A manicured hand came to her mouth before going to her stomach as if the woman had been punched. Emily was afraid Cordelia might pass out again.

“Nan,” Cordelia said, speaking around a frog in her throat.

The younger witch felt a surge of anxiety. She should have said nothing, kept her mouth shut. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? It had been an easy feat until she came to Robichaux.

“She was sweet,” Emily found herself saying, “told me not to worry.”

Cordelia leaned on a nearby tree. Emily wrung her hands, biting her lip and waiting for the woman to say something. Her heart leaped into her chest when she heard the woman sniffle back a tear.

“Did I say something wrong?” Emily asked, heart hammering. Cordelia didn’t answer. Should she get closer? Should she squeeze her arm as Cordelia had done to her many a times? Emily had never been good at consoling. “I’m sorry.”

The woman finally shook her head, the heels of her palm swiping away the few tears that had trailed down her cheeks. “No… no, you’ve brought me a great deal of peace.”

Curiosity always got the best of her.

“Nan…” Emily said, “You recognize her?”

“She used to be a student here… before her untimely death.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cordelia sighed and straightened her shirt, quickly taking back the decorum Emily had managed to peel back. At that moment, Emily realized something darkened in her Supreme. The fog left the brown eyes and hardened into something more tangible, her jaw clenched ever slightly, and the mother-like tone left her voice.

“I’d advise you not to approach her in your dreams again.”

Emily faltered for a moment, too caught up in the change to process the woman’s words.

“Why?”

“For your safety.”

“She hardly seemed dangerous.”

“It is not her I worry about.”

Her lips opened to ask more questions, but Cordelia quickly overtook the conversation. “Tell me about the rest of this dream.”

It was probably best if she didn’t argue. Emily went on describing, glancing at the woman now and again. Cordelia’s eyes lost their dark edge as the tale continued — flying, levitation, conjuring of fire and wind — until they once again held the optimistic fog Emily had become accustomed to.

“And when I wake up,” Emily concluded, “I felt like I was not myself. That my real self lies within these dreams.”

Cordelia simply nodded.

“Dreams are more powerful than we can imagine,” she said, “it is, in short, an insight into our true nature — witch or no witch.”

“Then what is my true nature?” Emily asked, jumping back as a boisterous toddler ran past her, two more hot on her heels. They had made it back to the garden.

Cordelia smiled at her, giving her shoulder one more squeeze before she trailed after the children.

“That is something only you can answer.”

Cordelia paced her room, thoughts writhing like a snake that had worked its way into a knot. Unable to move forward or back, she wondered how long she had until death. Do nothing and she would starve — giving into the circumstances like a beast baring its belly to the knife. Tug too harshly, however, and she would sever her own spine.

“I do hope you have good reason for waking me in the middle of the night,” Myrtle sighed as she entered the room. She carefully closed the door, the only sign of her entrance the dulled click of the lock behind her.

The Supreme ceased her pacing, taking to wringing her hands instead as she came to a stop before the redhead.

“I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.”

“You just put a petulant boy in power,” Myrtle scoffed, “What can be more wrong than that?”

“I did it for the best of the coven.”

Myrtle let out a sigh, unable to keep up her irritation. Tense shoulders and crossed arms relaxed and rested at her sides. “My dear, what good are you if you keep working yourself into a fit of hysterics?”

Cordelia either didn’t hear her or didn’t care to address the topic. Hurrying over to her desk, she pushed papers this way and that until she found what she was looking for.

“Were you able to look into the matter we discussed?”

It took all Myrtle’s power not to roll her eyes.

“Evocation rituals of that nature aren’t exactly common if they exist at all.”

“But they do exist?”

“None that I could find.”

“What if we modified a resurgence spell… combined it with dreams. That’s where her skill shows the most, after all. If we could get into that otherness—”

Cordelia had thrown the idea around with the woman multiple times before they visited Hawthorne. Seeing the aftermath of the Seven Wonders, particularly in the trial of Descensum, had made the Supreme all the more convinced of her path. If Cordelia shared any traits with Fiona, it was her stubbornness.

“I still don’t see how her power, any power, could be trapped inside her,” Myrtle insisted once more, “That family of hers didn’t have a lick of magic in her bones. Her mother has no magical talent whatsoever and don’t get me started on that father of hers.”

“Then why is she here at our school?”

Myrtle spared her a pointed look. Cordelia huffed and leaned on her desk, keeping her eyes locked with her mentor’s.

“Emily’s powers have to originate from somewhere,” she said, shaking her head and averting her gaze for but a moment, “Her grandmother died. Maybe she used the last of her power to protect Emily. Delphi had yet to be disbanded when she passed.”

“If that were the case, she wouldn’t be able to go to hell, dear. Maybe it’s as you said; her magic is tied to the other — dreams, visions, prophecy, the whole shebang.”

Cordelia shook her head, “That doesn’t feel right.”

Myrtle was now the one to pace. The carpet was sure to be filled with holes if the issue loomed over their heads any longer. If Cordelia could not let go of this vision, the coven would be doomed. How many more dead ends did Delia need to hit before she recognized the futility of—

“Why are you so adamant about this?” Myrtle found herself asking, more out of desperation than curiosity.

Cordelia gave her a pointed look and the woman scoffed. “Mallory—”

“Mallory didn’t go to hell.”

“And our dear Emily can’t make a butterfly out of petals. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. One false step and they all shatter.”

“Then help me eliminate this option,” Cordelia said, voice pleading, “Let's perform a ritual and get our answers before too much time has passed.”

“Alright,” Myrtle relented, “let's pull out the books… and the booze.”

Emily sat on one of the tables in the greenhouse like she was waiting at a doctor’s appointment, picking absentmindedly at the thin layer of paint atop the table. The inner circle of Robichaux stood around her watching Cordelia and Myrtle as they gathered material and passed it out.

Misty sat at Emily’s side, holding her hand and offering reassuring smiles whenever the brunette turned to look at her. Part of e was afraid they were going to kill her… or something worse. Death certainly wasn’t the worst thing the lot of them had experienced.

“We believe there is something blocking out our dear Emily’s powers,” Myrtle explained, placing jars of… something around the table.

“Or she just doesn’t have any,” Madison sighed, obviously wanting to be anywhere else as she studied her nails — she just got a manicure. The others stared at her in annoyance. “What? We’re all thinking it.”

“She saw Nan,” Cordelia spoke. She had been silent the entire time and didn’t even greet Emily when she was escorted into the greenhouse by Myrtle. If her silence was out of concentration or concern, no one could tell.

Queenie’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Her arms fell to her sides and all she could do was look between Emily and her Supreme. “She what?”

“I didn’t know who she was,” Emily said, glancing to Misty who held a similar expression to Queenie, “Not until I talked to Cordelia.”

“Is she alright?” Zoe asked. She stood opposite to Misty, carefully watching Cordelia and Myrtle as they prepared. “Did she say anything?”

“Nothing of note.”

“But she did say something,” Queenie said, a silent command in her voice.

“Only that I shouldn’t worry.”

Zoe’s brow furrowed, “worry about what?”

“… I don’t know.”

“If we are able to unlock your powers,” Myrtle said, ignoring the scathing look Cordelia sent her. The redhead still held her doubts. “Perhaps we can find out.”

Her words seemed to motivate the other girls. One by one they fell into place around the table, taking a string as Cordelia handed it to them. Misty and Madison stood at Emily’s left, Queenie and Zoe at her right. Myrtle stood in front of her, a large tomb of a book in her hands as she watched Cordelia work.

“Lay down, my dear,” she told Emily, who hesitantly did as she was told, “We will be delving deep into your subconscious and I’d rather you didn’t wake with a concussion.”

Cordelia came to a stop at Emily’s head. The brunette looked up through her lashes and watched as the woman lit a stick of incense, quickly blowing it out and placing it in a cup of sand. Emily really hoped they wouldn’t have a fire accident. If her hair were to be cut even shorter, she’d look like an egg wearing a toupee.

“Concentrate on the power you had in hell,” She whispered, so low that only Emily could hear her, “Visualize it and keep the sensation in the forefront of your mind.”

Emily felt if she were in some weird baptism, one you’d see on a TLC show about those weird Mormon cults. Shaking her head, she reminded herself to focus. She thought of hell, of that classroom — the fire, the words, the void. Emily felt her eyes become heavy before they closed. She saw Michael, blue eyes only showing a brief moment of alarm as fire raged around him.

Cordelia looked to Myrtle. The redhead began to chant. One by one, the other girls echoed her words. Emily was only slightly aware of their actions, their voices sounding miles away. Finally, Cordelia echoed the words. Her hands cupped over Emily’s face, covering her eyes and centering the spell between her brows, the third eye.

Once again, Emily fell into a slumber. Cordelia prayed that, when she awoke, her questions would be answered.

#michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon

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vivi-the-sky-kid · 3 years

Text

Sowing the Seeds (of Love), Chapter 2

Aka the Resh/OC Fix-It Fic Nobody Asked for but I'm Inflicting on All of You Anyways as Punishment for Kai's Your Hubris

The King has always been a mysterious figure in the annals of the Sky Kingdom's history, generating both awe and fear within the hearts of the sky spirits. Few can claim to have met them in person; certainly not Tav, a researcher of light creatures for the Vault of Knowledge. But when they discover their research may be used to harm the very creatures they know and love, Tav knows they cannot allow this to happen.

Somehow, they must change the King's mind. If that means throwing butterflies at their royal face, then so be it.

-<◇>-

Warnings: Will be added to each chapter when necessary, but there's not gonna be anything graphic in this (do send me an ask if you think there's something I should warn about tho)

Rating: T (just to be on the safe side)

Pairing(s): Resh/OC

Tag(s): Enemies to Lovers, Fake Dating, Canon Divergence, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies

Additional Tag(s): Resh and Alef are twins, Resh and Tav are both nonbinary, Resh uses he/they, Tav uses she/they, Resh is demiromantic and pansexual, Tav is biromantic and demisexual, no beta we die like moths in eden

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

-<◇>-

Chapter 2

Word Count: 3,464

Warning(s): Some swearing

-<◇>-

How had this happened again? Tav's mind was still reeling the next day, even as she sat amongst a flock of birds near one of the rookeries of the Bird's Nest. Normally, their chirps would soothe them, even as they reminded them of a different life. Unfortunately, the events of yesterday kept playing through their mind like a broken memory cube.

Now the King's Will—they refused to use his name—was coming to Daylight Prairie, and all Tav's courage had run out. In the time it had taken to travel to Prairie, her false bravado had melted away like snow in the bright sun. Panicked thoughts now ran through their mind, and not even the cheerful chirps of birds, or the soft squeaks of butterflies, or the whimsical whoops of mantas, could help. Most of them were because of the Will, if she was honest with herself.

Their gray gaze had been so cold. So... empty. Like any warmth and life had faded away long ago. Like they could no longer care about anything.

And now they had to convince him to care about light creatures?

It was impossible. There was a better chance of becoming King herself and killing the project that way.

A chirp from the bird perched on their knee caught their attention. She reached up and tugged on one of the flat locks sticking out of her hair, mouth tightening.

Yes, it was impossible. But they had to try.

-<◇>-

Kumibir hummed as ey left the solar altar, the morning's prayer putting a spring in eir step. With the Megabird's blessing, the Prairie was sure to flourish with light and life. Now ey just needed to get to work tending to the prairie lilies...

“...from Eden, you say? How fascinating!”

A conversation nearby caught eir attention, and ey slowed.

“Isn't it? From what Omifiti told me, the spirit that arrived went into Elder Ayin's temple right away! I wonder what business they could have.”

A spirit from Eden? Could it be...?

Kumibir smiled to emself, taking hold of eir chin. Then ey turned away from the boat that would take em to the Butterfly Fields, and instead made for the next boat bearing a shipment to the temple for processing. The lilies could wait a little longer. Ey had a spirit to catch.

-<◇>-

Feeding time at the Bird's Nest was a sight to behold. As the caretakers spread seed across the grass and stone, flurries of white would descend from the sky to feast. A cacophony of chirps filled the air as the countless birds flocked to their meal. It was a welcome distraction from the thoughts racing through Tav's head.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

“Are you Tav, from the Vault?”

They turned to look at the speaker. A messenger fresh off their boat, by the looks of it. She nodded. “That's me. Do you need something?”

“A spirit from Eden is asking after you at the temple. If you would please come with me...”

From Eden?

Tav swallowed the lump in their throat. With the help of the messenger's proffered hand, she got to her feet. Together, they went to the nearby empty boat, and set off for the temple. The ride was quiet. They would have preferred the agony of small talk with a stranger. At least it would have distracted her from the feeling of going to her own execution.

Tav disembarked a short distance from the pond outside the temple, and the messenger got off to load nearby pots. They took a deep breath and moved toward a very tall spirit standing on the bridge arching over the pond. With the warrior's garb and spear slung across their back—two things nearly unheard of in the peaceful realm of Daylight Prairie—it was clear they were the spirit from Eden.

The King's Will had arrived.

As if sensing their eyes upon him, the Will turned. She gaped at them, thankful her mask hid her look of surprise. An elegantly patterned cape draped from beneath the stone pizaine resting on their shoulders. Long, silky hair drifted in the wind from beneath the diamond-shaped crest of his mask. She had to admit, it was all rather striking, except for one thing...

Tav shuddered slightly when they saw the Will's stony gray skin—as chilling as his gaze.

Then they froze as another spirit peeked out from behind him. An impish grin broke out across eir face when ey caught sight of her.

“Oh, and look who it is!”

Kumibir walked up to Tav, wrapping them in a tight hug. She hugged em back, a little numbly, and tried to ignore the piercing look the Will was shooting her. Thankfully, Kumibir soon released them, though ey kept an arm slung about Tav as they walked back to the Will.

“We were just talking about you!”

“Y-You were?” she said, beads of sweat forming on her back.

“You know, when you said you were expecting someone from Eden, I didn't think you meant your partner! You should have told me. I would have gone to stay with one of my own so you two could have some space.” Kumibir grinned and added, in a conspiratorial whisper, “I can see why you like them. So polite! And so tall! They're just your type!”

Tav blinked. Then blinked again. And then a third time for good measure.

“My wha—?”

“You really are so generous, Kumibir,” the Will cut in smoothly, wrapping an arm around Tav's shoulders and pulling them against his side. His other hand curled by the side of their face, gloved fingers brushing against their mask.

What.

With a squeeze of her shoulders, they continued, “We've been wanting to spend more time together, but sadly, Tav's work has kept them so busy I could rarely see their darling face.”

What.

“Oh, I know how that is. Sometimes the others' work keeps them away for almost the entire day,” Kumibir said, nodding solemnly. Then ey glanced at the sky and squeaked in surprise. “Speaking of work, I have some prairie lilies to tend to. Have fun, you two!”

Ey waved and ran off to the boat Tav came in on. Tav themself remained frozen, trying very, very hard to wrap their head around what just happened. It wasn't until the Will was pulling her around the walls of the temple and out of sight of the boat that she regained her senses. They wriggled out of his grasp and folded their arms in front of them.

“What was that?”

The King's Will scoffed. “You tell me, little researcher. You're the one who told that spirit we were partners.”

“I never did that! I just told Kumibir that you were coming so ey wouldn't be surprised. It's not my fault ey jumped to conclusions.” They turned away, eyes squinting in confusion. “Also what did ey mean, my type...?”

“And why would you not tell them my purpose for being here? I doubt one of your position would be very familiar with a soldier.”

Tav glanced back to him balefully, but they could not deny it. Although the midnight blue and electrum threads of the Will's cape would fit right in amongst the Vault's denizens, soldiers were a less likely story. The Golden Land's lack of light creatures near its dunes meant she was even less likely to go near it. The odds of them and the Will chancing to meet were slim enough to be unbelievable.

But they couldn't tell Kumibir the truth. It would break eir heart.

Ey couldn't know about the Dark Matter Bioweapon project.

Taking a deep breath, Tav said, “The people here love light creatures. If they found out you were here because of a plan to turn them into weapons, it would ruin any chance of cooperation to get you to not want to do that. So I told them you were just here to confirm my research. That's all.”

The King's Will studied them, arms crossed in front of him. Then their demeanor changed, and a shiver ran down Tav's spine.

That wasn't good.

“Very well. In the spirit of cooperation, I will not speak of my reason for being here. But” —and he held up one finger— “you have to pretend I am your partner for the duration of my stay.”

“What?!” Tav said, clapping a hand over their mouth at their volume. She scowled and lowered both her hand and her voice to add, “Why?!”

“Despite what you may think, I too would prefer my identity remain a secret. They don't need to know of my connection to the King. As far as these spirits are concerned, I am Resh, a high-ranking member of the Sky Kingdom's army, and nothing more.”

“Why do you care if these spirits know about your connection to the King?”

They turned away. “I have my reasons.”

“And those are...?”

“None of your concern. Now, do we have a deal?”

She stared at them incredulously, then threw her hands in the air and marched off, much to their surprise.

“Where are you going?”

“To the butterfly fields. It's time for your first lesson on light creatures, darling,” Tav replied, jerking their thumb towards a nearby boat.

-<◇>-

The boat to the edge of Prairie had arrived before any further stilted conversation could occur, and the two had spent the ride in relative silence. That had been a mercy. Now, however, she wanted to scream in frustration. The butterflies were acting strange and uncooperative today. They were fine with Tav themself; it was the King's Will they had a problem with. They flew away squeaking as soon as he approached. Even those she could coax to her hand fled as soon as she beckoned the Will forward.

So things were going just fine.

In the end, as the sun began to set and the butterflies flew off to the nearby sphere they slept within, they had decided to call it a day.

Of course, that didn't mean their bickering had ended. Even when they passed other spirits, the two kept it quiet, making it seem more like two partners sharing private thoughts than opponents exchanging barbed words.

“For a creature claimed to be 'loving' and 'kind,' these butterflies were rather standoffish today.”

“Maybe they sense you're a terrible person who wants to use them as weapons. They're perceptive like that.”

“And yet they cannot perceive the bitter heart inside you, my dear.”

“They can't perceive what isn't there, darling.”

“Ah, of course. How could I have been so blind? You don't have a heart.”

So caught up in their verbal battle was Tav that they didn't realize they had boarded the same boat as the Will until the two were standing outside the elder's temple.

“Good night, my dear. I look forward to tomorrow's efforts,” the King's Will said, pressing a masked kiss to the back of her hand.

Tav narrowed their eyes, but nodded and managed to hold back a shudder as their hand was released. “Until tomorrow, darling.”

The Will nodded back and entered the temple, leaving them to sigh heavily and wait for another boat.

-<◇>-

“So... how did it go?” Ayin asked, a hint of nervousness in their voice.

“Oh, horribly. The butterflies refused to go near me. But that Tav... I must admit, they're a stubborn one. Either they're planning to assassinate me, or they really believe they'll be able to change my mind over this matter. This may be the most entertaining thing I've done in... I can't remember how long. I'll have to thank Alef when I return. After punishing him for enabling this nonsense in the first place, of course,” Resh responded casually, lifting the stone pizaine from their shoulders to lounge more comfortably across the bed provided. For a moment, they thought his skin seemed a little less gray, but it was likely just a trick of the light, nothing more.

“I see.” Ayin turned to leave, but lingered in the doorway long enough to say, “Rest well, Resh. You have a busy day tomorrow.”

Resh grunted in acknowledgment, and the room fell dark.

-<◇>-

The smell of fresh bread greeted Tav's nose the next morning, as well as Kumibir singing a cheerful song praising the sun. It was a welcome start to a day that would doubtless be a strain on her patience. They'd try again with the butterflies, and hope that somehow Resh would be... more cooperative.

Perhaps a vain hope, but she'd hold fast to it.

Tav managed to answer Kumibir's excited questions (“Where did the two of you meet?” “They're so tall! Is that why you like them?” “Do they have a sibling?”) with vague replies that technically weren't lies (“Oh, we met because of my work.” “What? Why would that be a factor?” “Oh, they might. We haven't talked about our families yet.”). Eventually, Kumibir left to attend the morning's prayer to the sun, and Tav was free... for now. As they sat there, idly munching on a slice of bread and listening to the soft whoops of mantas in the distance, irritation rose once more. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner they could escape this miniature hell.

With that thought, she stuffed the rest of the slice into her mouth and left, slinging a light staff across her back. At the very least, it might help in coaxing a butterfly within reach of Resh.

-<◇>-

Resh waited at the dock for Tav, arms folded before him. Ayin had suggested being a bit more agreeable when they awoke, and despite their better judgment, they had agreed. Unfortunately, it was hard to be agreeable when the person in question was late.

...All right, maybe not late, but later than he liked. Too many locals had gawked at them while they waited, muffling their voices with their hands. Too many had giggled in his direction, and all had avoided eye contact when he turned to glare at the offenders. The same nonsense had happened many years ago, when they had first grown into an adult under the watchful care of the Elders. He could still remember some of those that commented on how handsome they had become.

They were all dead by now.

“Good, you're here.”

Thankfully, a familiar voice drew him from that unfortunate reverie. Tav was now approaching... with some kind of staff across her back for some reason. Resh huffed and placed their hands on their hips.

“You're late.”

She shrugged. “I was eating breakfast. You know, since it's morning? What, too good to eat breakfast like the rest of us? Or are you too used to the fancier fare of Eden?”

Ah, yes, such fancy fare as standing near a blazing fire long enough to push back the ache deep within. Too long, and a different pain began. But they didn't need to know that. They were just some too-bold researcher.

“Something like that,” he said curtly.

They continued to stare at him, eyes narrowed, before shrugging again and gesturing to the boat. “Well, whatever. Come on. The butterflies should be waking up now.”

-<◇>-

Just as they had said, the butterflies were starting to pour out of the sphere and head towards their typical spots for the day as the two of them stepped off the boat. It was a beautiful sight, although she doubted Resh appreciated it. Still, it meant they could start for the day.

Like before, the butterflies came willingly to them, as long as they stayed away from the King's Will. At one point, six were perched on her hands, which she then promptly, and smugly, showed them. Their response was to turn away with a grunt. Tav snickered and lifted their hands, releasing the butterflies to return to fluttering about the flowers of the field.

“Here. Let's try this,” they said, drawing the light staff from their back. She held it out, and soon enough, a butterfly perched delicately at the diamond-shaped tip. Then they slowly moved their end towards him, holding it out for Resh to take.

Instead of grabbing it, however, they stared at it. Tav's arm began to ache as the seconds dragged on. When Resh showed no sign of accepting it, they snapped and said, “Would you take the staff already?”

“And just why should I do that? For all I know, you're planning to attack me as soon as I try.”

“It's a light staff. The only thing it can do is bruise that thick skull of yours. Now take it.”

He glared at them, but begrudgingly took hold just below their hand. With her hand on the staff, the butterfly remained even as they grasped it. When they removed their hand, however, and left only his, it squeaked, quivered, and flew off. Tav watched in bewilderment as it returned to its flock.

“...Well, then. I can't say I've seen that happen before.”

“And here I thought you were the expert on light creatures, my dear.”

“And I thought you were someone who could be reasoned with, darling. Looks like we were both wrong, hm?”

She turned away to study the butterflies, wondering just what exactly was driving them away. They were normally such friendly creatures, often taking a break from basking in the sun's rays and pollinating the prairie lilies to loop around nearby spirits. To have them avoid a person like this...

Something must be very, very wrong.

That niggling discomfort over the coldness of Resh's skin and eyes rose up once more, and Tav avoided his gaze as they called for a lunch break.

-<◇>-

As she chewed on a piece of crab meat, Tav considered the issue with the butterflies. Like any other light creature, they were drawn to flame and light. It was their bread and butter, so to speak. As spirits had an inner flame granted by Megabird when they were born, a light creature could simply be near them and feed on the warmth given off. It wasn't much compared to the innate light of another creature, but it was enough that spirits were often accepted as members of the flock, so to speak.

Was something wrong with Resh's inner flame?

It would explain the unusual color of their skin, and the butterflies' behavior. Then again, was such a thing even possible?

Their inner researcher burned to figure out more, but Tav beat it back down. There wasn't time to travel to the Vault, let alone search its archives, and Resh was too irritating and evasive to hope for an actual answer. It was bad enough they had to put up with his dour attitude. Trying to pry information from them would be a nightmare.

Tav swallowed and stood up, stretching with a soft groan. The hill they had chosen to take lunch on was near the butterfly sphere, with a small cave underneath that where Resh was currently skulking. And... talking to someone?

Someone actually wanted to talk to them?

They knelt and leaned closer to the edge of the hill, straining their ears to catch a snippet or two of the conversation.

“...so lucky to have a partner like you. With someone like you around, I'm sure they'll have much less trouble getting things off high shelves.”

The spirit chuckled, and Tav had the sudden urge to throw something. Or scream. Either worked.

“I shall, of course, do my best to assist them with any high shelves they may encounter,” Resh replied. She could practically feel the smirk on their face.

Bastard.

The spirit laughed again, and Tav crouched a bit lower as they left the cave, the puff of the two buns atop their head bouncing slightly with each step. More footsteps sounded, and soon Resh was also leaving the cave. Unlike the spirit, however, they stopped and turned to look up at her.

“Do you need help getting down from there? I've heard you have difficulty with heights,” he said, eyes crinkled in amusement.

Tav glared back. She stood up and walked down the side of the hill, then past Resh, making sure to whack their shoulder with the light staff as they went.

“Come on. The butterflies don't have all day.”

-<◇>-

Butterflies are curious light creatures. While birds and jellyfish are content to keep to themselves when it comes to spirits, butterflies (and mantas) possess a kind of empathic sensitivity that, more often than not, draws them towards spirits. Whether it was a sad spirit in need of comfort or a spirit blazing bright with joy, they would soon find themselves with a squeaking companion looping about their body before flying off into the distance. The only spirits they tended to avoid were those with a great deal of aggression.

They avoided both Tav and Resh this time.

-<◇>-

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

#sky children of the light #sky #sky king #resh #resh my beloved /j #here's hoping it doesn't get shadowbanned like the first chapter did #although i think i might have fixed what caused it #btw if any of y'all have questions regarding this cursed cursed fic #feel free to send in an ask #i'll answer as long as it isn't spoilers #i call it cursed but i am actually putting quite a bit of effort into this #this isn't like those quick and lazy meme edits i sometimes do #i am Making An Effort™ here

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consumedkings-archive · 4 years

Text

ancient names, pt. xi

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xi: what kind of man

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~8.2k (I’M SORRY)

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop.

Warnings: Gore/violence, Still Under The Influencer of drugs, uhhhh blood. There's a lot of mentions of blood and death and what have you. Elliot has a meltdown (surprise). Joseph is creepy (surprise pt. 2 electric boogaloo). People are confused about How To Feel. I don't understand how laws work and so I'm just literally out here trying my best, you know? Don't @ me.

Notes: I wanted to start off by saying THANK YOU everyone for your feedback! I was having a real hard time hitting my stride with the last chapter but all of your kind words has given me life. There's some still in these old bones yet and I really hope that you enjoy this one.

Anyway I'm a clown and I'm sorry this chapter took so long. Joke's on you, it's always clown hour here! Thank you forever and always to @starcrier for being the best proof-reader and somehow managing to make my incoherency readable?? Manageable??? You're an angel and ily! Also, @empirics , my writing aspiration forever, and @baeogorath who makes me cry literally every time I read anything they have to say about my writing. Thank you thank you thank you!

John had never seen a person’s head blown in with a shotgun, and he wasn’t sure that he really needed to.

Ase’s blood had splattered when Jacob fired the shotgun at what he was sure could be considered point-blank range, the spray of it nearly catching them in the process. But no, it was mostly on Elliot, like she was some Carrie at her first prom, a real tried-and-true Scream Queen.

“I knew you’d find a way to fuck it up,” Jacob said, no absence of venom in his voice as he stepped away from Ase’s dead body like she was nothing—and sure, she was nothing, and John didn’t necessarily have any qualms with getting rid of her (he had blown a shell straight through her spine), but that wasn’t what was making him nauseated.

It was Elliot. Baby-blues eaten away by her pupils, blown wide with hallucinogens, drenched in blood, making a noise something close to a rabbit that thought it was going to die.

He didn’t have the energy to tell Jacob that the blow to her skull had been unnecessary, that there was no way someone could walk away from their entire stomach being blown through by a shotgun. That Jacob’s idea of “fucked up” was greatly, massively warped if he thought that Ase hadn’t been finished after shot number one. Even if he’d had the energy it wouldn’t have mattered, because the next words out of Jacob’s mouth were, “You put Faith at risk going back for her.”

The eldest Seed didn’t need to say what it was he meant; John knew. The words were “you put Faith at risk going back for her”, but what he meant was, Joseph’s going to be furious when he finds out.

“Get your pet,” Jacob bit out, “and let’s fucking move.”

John’s limbs moved of their own volition, kneeling down in front of Elliot and turning her face away from the grisly scene laid out next to her. If she recognized him, it didn’t show; she trembled, and her eyes never stayed fixed for very long, as though everything in the entire world was assaulting her senses at every second.

“Elliot,” he said, pulling her to her feet as the sound of voices rising in the distance peppered the air, “we have to move.”

Some kind of guttural sorrow welled up and out of her as he pulled her along and down the hill, her feet stumbling. Around them, the night hummed with gunfire and shouting. John was certain that he heard something like grief wracking the air at the hilltop above them, and he couldn’t bring himself to look back, afraid of what he’d see—that redheaded monster of Ase’s bent over her nearly-decapitated corpse, or worse: coming after them.

He kept one hand on Elliot’s arm and the other out in front of her case she tried to plummet headfirst down the hill—whether by chance or accident—and by the time they had reached the bottom, the strange agony sounds that had tried to burrow out of her had mostly ceased; her gaze was still glassy and dark, and there was an odd sway about her, but she looked only shell-shocked now.

Oh, John thought, absently, if that’s all.

Joey’s dark gaze darted between the two of them. He released Elliot to her without a word, his hand dropping from the blonde as Joey fussed over her. Faith swayed dreamily just a few steps away from Joey, humming a song mostly to herself; beyond her, Jacob stood, his arms crossed over his chest while he toted the shotgun in one of his hands, before he apparently got tired of waiting and grabbed Faith’s hand.

“If you want to stand around down here and chit chat, that’s fine,” he said, tugging Faith—clearly still drugged, clearly unaware of the carnage occurring around them—off to the trail that led away from the lake. “ We’re leaving.”

“Jacob—” John started. It was too late. The redhead had set for himself and for Faith a brutal and punishing pace to return them to wherever it was Joseph waited, and though he was loathe to admit it, Jacob was on the right track; pretty soon, the members of Eden’s Gate that had been sent up to wreak havoc on the Family would be dead, and he was certain that once Ase’s death was fully recognized, someone would want revenge.

“Are we going home?” Faith asked, giggling as she toddled after Jacob, barely able to keep herself upright. “That lady said John was going to come and rescue me.”

John’s chest tightened at the sound of her laughter. She was so completely unperturbed by everything—everything she had been through, had seen. He wondered how heavily they’d had to drug her, and if she would even remember half of it come the moment that she sobered up.

He exhaled, glancing at the top of the ridge above them where the lights of the cabins and flashlights and whatever-the-fuck-else those monsters had at their disposal glimmered.

“When,” Elliot said, the word grinding out of her mouth haltingly, “when... did Jacob-”

“Drink some water,” Joey murmured. She uncapped the half-drank water bottle and pushed it into Elliot’s hand and added, “And we’ll talk about it later, but right now we need to move, Elli.”

Elli, John thought, and felt a faint glimmer of amusement at the absurdity of such a soft, round nickname for a girl who was only sharp edges. Well, but she wasn’t so sharp now, was she? As he led them along the dark trail, her fingers brushing his on occasion, he would glance over at her and find her staring at him like he was a stranger, like she didn’t recognize him. Maybe she didn’t; he wasn’t familiar with the drugs they’d put her on, anyway.

“What the fuck happened up there?” Joey hissed, her hand firmly rooted in Elliot’s as she tugged her along—not unlike the way Jacob was pulling Faith. She had taken the water bottle back when it became apparent Elliot wasn’t interested in it. “Why is Elliot covered in blood —”

“She’s alive,” John snapped, “isn’t that what’s important?”

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a fucking award.”

“Stop it,” Elliot managed out. “Stop arguing. You both are so fucking loud.”

Joey’s lips pressed into a thin line. They ducked into the treeline far below Sacred Skies Camp, picking their way as quickly as they could through the underbrush, but the journey was slow and arduous; guiding Elliot through the trees had, in the last twenty minutes, become no easier than guiding a toddler. A blind, deaf toddler, who spared no interest in staying upright, and also had a metric fuck ton of psychotropic drugs in her system.

The walk there seemed to take much longer than it had going up, but John was sure that was his own adrenaline crash happening. He’d been stressed—about getting Faith out, about what he’d find, if he’d find anything at all or if they’d have done away with Elliot seconds after getting her.

Fuck . The thought filtered through his brain with dismay at the realization that he had been worried about her. Jacob was right; he’d really only needed to get Faith. But Elliot had been—she’d gone in there for them , and Joseph wanted her alive, and—

“Tired,” Elliot said, her voice hoarse and cracking with exhaustion as she took agonizing step after agonizing step. “I’m so tired, J—”

“I know,” John and Joey said, both cutting Elliot off and overlapping each other at the same time. Of course, John already knew what it was like to handle Elliot like this. They’d toddled through one field with Elliot clutching him like an anchor, drugged to the gills, once already; this was new territory for the other deputy.

Joey gave him a dark, turbulent look—the kind that implied murderous intent—and John turned his attention back to the task at hand: getting the fuck out of there.

As soon as the truck came into sight, running with the lights off, John let himself breathe a sigh of relief. He hadn’t thought Jacob would really up and leave them, but it also wasn’t impossible that he would have insisted and said fuck off if Joseph had protested. His eldest brother had been notorious for pushing back, for picking fights, and maybe—just maybe—he was pissed enough to follow through this time.

“About time,” Jacob said from the driver’s seat. Joseph did not give his input, which only served to further John’s personal unease as he opened the tailgate of the truck. Joey climbed in first, swaying just a little. He’d noticed that her pupils looked blown, too, though not quite as much as Elliot’s, so it must not have been fully out of her system yet.

John glanced up the hill absently. The sound of Eden’s Gate members still echoed. Not quite done yet, he thought absently, and then said, “Alright, Deputy, let’s get a move on.”

“Too high,” Elliot sighed, and he wasn’t sure if she meant the tailgate or herself. John turned her around from trying to clamber into the back and gripped her hips; her hands fluttered unsteadily before holding onto his arms.

“Don’t throw up on me,” he said.

She looked tired. Each second her eyes spent open seemed to demand more and more energy from her. “Expensive shirt, huh?”

“That’s right.”

He hoisted her into the back of the truck; she sat on the tailgate for a second only, and swayed forward like she was going to tumble right off; she steadied her hands on his shoulders, fingers gripping his shirt and bleeding warm against his skin.

“You did it too fast,” Elliot muttered, her voice verging on spoiled brat. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, John climbed in after her as she scooted to the farthest spot away from the tailgate. Jacob didn’t wait for the tailgate to close before he pulled out of the brush; the truck hit the dirt road with a heavy thunk that had his teeth rattling around in his skull. Fucker, he thought, slamming the tailgate shut before the dust kicked up beneath them.

Elliot had her back pressed against the window into the truck. Blood covered her face and matted strands of her hair where they’d stuck to her cheeks; the vicious edge to her was dulled, whittled down to the bone until she was just a small girl folded up into the side of Joey Hudson.

When her eyes had fluttered shut and the night had settled a chill over them, Joey’s gaze flickered across John for a moment before landing on his face. She was silent, studying him—in a most infuriating way, wordlessly —before she finally said, “What happened?”

John glanced out at the Montana wilderness stretching out behind her, late into the night; he thought about the way Elliot had balked at the sight of the treeline, like there was something in there only she could see, something horrible.

“Well, the boys and I thought it’d be a nice night to go out,” he replied flatly, cocking his head before looking at Joey. “It’s been a while since we’ve done anything fun, you know, so it was nice to get the gang all together again for a little fun .”

The brunette’s expression flattened. “The devil rebuking sin.”

“I shot the psycho and I got Elliot out of there,” John bit out. “What did you expect?”

“You, to leave her,” Joey snapped. “That’s what I would have expected out of you.”

The words shouldn’t have stung. They were coming from Joey Hudson, after all, the only person that Elliot really cared about and so clearly the only person that John could use against her. But these facts were minor details to him now, carefully pinned out somewhere in the back of his mind—always accessible, but no longer important. Hudson had stopped being very important at all when she stopped being something to dangle in front of Elliot. Now they stung for a different reason, something that John couldn’t put his thumb on.

That’s not very true, something in him said, rattling against the bones of his rib cage. You know exactly why that bothers you.

“Well, that’s on you, isn’t it?” John replied, keeping his voice sickly sweet. “I’ll have you know I took very good care of your hellcat.”

“Yeah,” Joey ventured dryly, “having her shoved into a cult that shot her so full of poison it was coming out of her eyes really showed some TLC.”

“I’m sure she told you the plan was different,” John bit out.

“She tried. Which is why I’m wondering why you even fucking came back for us at all, Seed.”

Though Joey’s voice was soft so as not to rustle Elliot, it was pounding with venom. Hatred. That was to be expected, he thought; after all, in the short time that she’d been his ward, he’d done his very hardest to lure Elliot in with her fear and then passed her off almost immediately to Faith. But still, the wording struck him—it was the same sentiment that Jacob had flung in his face after blowing Ase’s brains out.

You put Faith at risk going back for her.

I’m wondering why you even fucking came back for us at all.

It was never the plan to save Elliot. It was always: get Faith, get out, and if you can get the deputy too—sure. Why not? She’d be indebted to them. Even more so if they got Joey out with her. But Faith should have been the absolute priority first, and he’d left her down at the lake to go back up into the middle of a firefight to get Elliot and Joey out.

If we’re partners, you have to trust me.

“I don’t know why it bothers you so much,” he managed out, trying to keep his voice as clipped as he could. “Normally, when people are rescued, they’re thankful. ”

“You did kidnap me,” Joey snapped, “so you’re closer to us being equal than my being grateful, and even that’s pushing it. I just don’t know if the rescuing still counts as a good deed if you only did it for yourself.”

John stared at her, eyes narrowing and jaw setting, tense and tight until pain radiated up into his skull. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Deputy Hudson —”

“Then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

Elliot stirred, eyelashes fluttering. She coughed into Joey’s shoulder—the gesture not lost on the brunette, who grimaced a little—and when her eyes landed on John there was an eerieness about them, like she was trying to pull him open and peer inside, peel back the vibrating tension and hostility that Joey Hudson’s interrogation brought of him.

“What?” John asked, barely masking his irritation. It shouldn’t have bothered him so much, but it did because he couldn’t get the way she’d said, John? out of his head, small and wounded so very afraid, with Ase’s blood drenching her.

“Just trying to figure out which John you are,” Elliot replied, her voice slick with exhaustion and the words rolling out of her mouth in something close to a slur. They sent an uneasy jolt through him. It was the drugs, surely—she probably said all kinds of weird shit while she was high. He didn’t know what she was seeing, anyway.

(—fucking hate you, John Seed, John Duncan, whatever the fuck your name is, whoever the fuck you are—)

The blonde sighed again. The breath sounded like some kind of exertion for her; she squirmed and tried to get more comfortable against Joey’s shoulder, the blood on her face staining the forest-green of the deputy’s shirt. John’s head ached. The memory of Joseph, silent while Jacob debated the logistics of getting a killing shot through Elliot, flickered through his mind, venomous.

(—should see yourself whenever Joseph says anything. You practically fall over to kiss the ground he fucking walks on—)

“Well,” he replied, settling more comfortably in his spot across from the two women, “let me know when you find out, why don’t you, Rook?” He let his head loll back against the lip of the truck bed, a dark, cloudless night spreading out above him. He wanted to brush aside the way Elliot looked at him, but he had learned long ago that was the quickest way to underestimate her.

“I’m just dying to know.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The truck came to a halting stop. John hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until the strange inertia-pull of the truck stilling rustled him from his sleep. It was hard to say how long they had been on the road, but if he had to guess—and, taking into consideration how Jacob liked to drive—he’d wager it had been only thirty minutes.

Across from him, Elliot was awake, murmuring something to Joey that he couldn’t hear over the sound of the engine giving one last kick before Jacob turned it off. There was a higher clarity about the blonde, now, one that implied that sleep had done her well—though the pupils of her eyes stayed wide, there was now a sliver of baby blue that he could see, if he looked close enough.

He grimaced as exhaustion burned through his body, and for a brief second, their eyes met; like before, they pried at him, tried to see something that maybe he didn’t want her to.

As he lowered the tailgate of the truck and slid out, John turned around and instinctively reached to steady Elliot as she tried to climb down.

“I’m fine,” she said, more biting than he anticipated. Just coming down, John thought absently, his hands only remaining in the air for a second after her assertion before dropping to his sides again.

“Oh, yeah,” John replied, “I forgot that you’d rather I let you eat shit than keep you from falling over.”

She’s always been willful, he mused. The thought occurred as though John had known Elliot for a long time. In a way, he supposed that he did; fuck, he’d tried every goddamn trick in the book to lure her in, and she’d still spit her venom into her walkie at every chance she’d gotten. There was nothing that John didn’t try and dig up, nothing that he hadn’t racked his brain for in the brief moment that they’d visited all those years ago. And still— and still, and still —she—

“Hudson,” John said, offering his hand to her because he was a gentleman and certainly not because he enjoyed the way the gesture made her squirm.

“Fuck off, John,” Joey replied tersely, sliding off the truck bed as well. John smiled dryly.

He said, the needling coming to him like second nature, “So nice to have both of you here at one time. It’s what I always wanted, you know.”

Elliot shot him a look, one that sucked the wind right out of his sails. It was a wounded look, like he had suddenly reminded her of the things he had done, and John felt an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. He didn’t know why the words came out—a force of habit, maybe, or the way that Joey Hudson’s animosity (and closeness ) to Elliot made his hackles raise. As though Joey’s presence made a choice immediately clear for her, and she chose Joey.

The clench of his jaw sent pain radiating up into his skull. He thought that things had been much simpler pre-Joey Hudson, and he was regretting having helped her.

“I knew you’d come and save me,” Faith said, her voice breaking him out of the turmoil of his thoughts. She smiled at him, and it would have almost been endearing if her pupils weren’t absolutely blown to hell, reminding him that they’d probably done more than just drug her with some weird hallucinogen—the way she’d been acting when he’d seen her on the road had been something more akin to the kinds of things Faith had partaken of before.

He reached up, pulling her into a one-armed hug. “Yeah?” he replied. “You listened to those crazies?”

“They’re not crazy,” Faith sighed. Her voice bloomed with something like affection, and when she looked at him, there was a startling clarity about her expression—keen, and a little sly. Not so innocent, our Faith, he thought absently. “Just different, John. And you came, didn’t you?”

A prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck. John glanced away from Faith, his gaze meeting Joseph’s from where he stood in front of the car; per usual, his expression was unreadable, obscured behind a mask of tranquility that provided no insight on what his brother was thinking or feeling.

“Go on,” John said, patting Faith’s back, “get some sleep. You’re going to feel like hell in a few hours, you know.”

She laughed, like maybe she didn’t quite hear what he actually said, and slid out of his half-embrace to wander around to the front of the car where Joseph was waiting. He turned his gaze away, swallowing back the feeling that he’d somehow failed a test—something that only Joseph knew the meters and results of, that he’d have to sweat until he found out about.

Elliot had already started walking away with Joey, taking her back to the same bunkhouse that she’d been holding up in prior to their little excursion. They spoke in low voices to one another; Elliot’s expression was even soft, softer than it had been when he’d found her sobbing into the grass in the field, when she’d been terrified out of her skin. Softer than when she’d had Ase’s brains splattered all over her.

John sucked his teeth, pushing the tailgate of the truck up until it latched. The adrenaline crash was starting to hit him hard, now. Every muscle in his body ached with the effort of moving, as though they’d all tensed and held for hours at a time; maybe they had. Gunfire and screaming still echoed in his head, while corpse after corpse, and Ase’s shattered head, lingered just behind his eyelids. They didn’t bother him, these images of glory and gore—but he couldn’t shake the way that Elliot had looked at him from the ground, drenched in blood, terrified.

Terrified of him.

“It’s always going to be like that, you know.” It was Jacob’s hard, steely voice that pulled him now, like his siblings wanted to take turns interrupting his train of thought. “She’s always going to pick Hudson over us.” His brother leveled him with one swift, hard look. “Over you .”

“Funny,” John muttered, “I didn’t realize you were a psych professional, Jacob.”

“Faith could have died because you went back for that girl,” Jacob bit out, his voice low but vibrating with something more venomous. “I know you know that, you aren’t stupid. And you went back for her anyway. So—”

“So, what?” he interrupted, trying not to let the frustrated venom from watching Elliot take Joey’s hand and walk off bubble out of him. “Faith’s alive, that crazy bitch is dead. What else do you want?”

“For you to get your shit together,” Jacob snapped. “Like I said, I know you’re not stupid, but do yourself the favor and prove it to me anyway. That girl —”

That girl, Jacob said, like the words didn’t suddenly fill John with some kind of poison. The eldest Seed gestured toward the bunkhouse, where inevitably, Elliot and Joey were conspiring; to leave, to kill. At this point, John wasn’t sure, and he didn’t think that either would surprise him.

“—is nothing. Don’t let nothing fuck everything up for us.” Jacob’s words were hard and cold. He gripped John’s shoulder and added, “Don’t let nothing fuck everything up for Joseph.”

That’s what it really boiled down to at the end of it all: that Joseph had seen like he always did, because nothing went without Joseph’s seeing, and maybe he wasn’t sure that Elliot was really worth the trouble anymore. Before, Joseph had wanted her to add to their little collection of misfits, just like he’d added the sheriff’s receptionist, just like he’d picked up Faith when she was Rachel, just like when he let Jacob tap into the worst parts of him for use, just like just like just like . Joseph was hard-pressed to find a vicious misfit that he didn’t want for himself, and Elliot Honeysett had been no different.

But a hard-to-break will cost time, and resources, and maybe with these locusts in their garden, that just wasn’t going to cut it anymore. Not for Joseph. Not right now. Where was this, anyway, back at the start of it all? Back when John had wanted to do things his way?

“Whatever Joseph’s opinion on the usefulness of the deputy, Burke’s gone,” John said after a minute. Jacob’s hand still sat heavy on his shoulder; he passed a hand over his face and sighed. “That marshal, the one that was—”

“I remember.”

John grimaced. “He was with Faith, and Hudson, but he wasn’t at the camp that I could see.” He paused again. “Jacob, if he got out and he made it out of Hope County, he’ll be a problem.”

The red-headed nodded once, brisk. “A big fucking problem.” Another pause, and then: “Tell me you’ll get this whole issue with the deputy wrapped up.”

John’s jaw clenched. Tell me you can do this, Joseph had said. Tell me you’ll get this whole issue wrapped up. Hadn’t he proven he was capable of handling her? Hadn’t Joseph himself said that?

“There’s no issue,” he replied flatly, stepping around Jacob and heading to the church. “Never was.”

“Good.”

It was easy to say, and harder to believe. He knew—the rational part of his brain, somewhere inside of him—knew that he was jealous of Hudson. That he knew exactly what Hudson thought of him, and he hated that someone who hated him had Elliot immediately trailing after her like a puppy, as though the last three days—all of those moments hadn’t meant—

And what was he supposed to think, then, about the way that her lashes had fluttered when his fingers brushed her skin, the way the heat crawled under her freckles when he slid into her planetary pull? That it was just—passing? Nothing?

Does it matter?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elliot was having a hard time.

That was to say, there were a lot of conflicting emotions that were welling up inside of her, crashing down like tidal waves. Normally, she’d be able to bottle those pesky things up and bury them deep inside her, to access later (which could be minutes, or days, or years—whenever); but with the drugs still wreaking havoc on her, she felt like all of her normal defenses were crashed and battered, maybe even beyond repair. Maybe even permanently decimated.

It was lucky that she had Joey, she supposed as she closed the bunkhouse door behind them, letting the noise of it soothe her over-worked senses; lucky, because Joey had always been her lighthouse in the times that she needed it the most.

“We have to get out of here,” Joey said, and the words immediately exhausted Elliot further. She took in a long, suffering breath and sat down on the edge of one of the bunk beds, rubbing her hands against her face. She was far from out of the woods; she thought maybe she was starting to come down, or even crash, because it felt like electrical pulses kept ricocheting through her body and they wouldn’t stop.

Elliot managed out, “I’m in no shape to go anywhere, Joey, you know that I—”

She saw the look on Joey’s face. Distress. John had kidnapped her, and terrorized her with whatever it was he had originally planned to do to her, and now they were here, in the compound, where it had all began. And yes; John had kidnapped Joey, and her, and yes, he was a fucking psycho, and—

And yes, he knew her well enough to shove a cigarette in her hands when she was stressed, and he didn’t complain when her nails dug into him when she thought the world was going to split in two around her, and yes, he did come back for her when he didn’t have to, and yes and yes —

‘And yes’ what? A nasty voice inside of her head said. A man so much as looks at you and all of a sudden you’re on the other side?

“I can try,” she offered weakly. “I can try, if you want to go now, but I don’t know where Boomer is and everyone from Hope County is—hopefully—already gone. I don’t have anything.”

When the words came out of her mouth, she felt the last thread holding herself together snap. I don’t have anything, the words echoing hollow inside of her, reminding her that everyone was gone, maybe they were dead, that she didn’t know where her dog or her mama were and maybe that meant that she didn’t have anything left inside of her, either, nothing left to give. That she had scraped and scraped to the bottom of the barrel and now she’d have to start breaking herself into pieces to have anything worthwhile to give anyone.

“I don’t have anything, Joey,” she said again, her voice wobbling and wet and fuck, she hated it so much, the burning of her eyes stinging against blood and viscera collecting in the tears. “I don’t, I’m sorry—I’m really sorry—”

Joey crossed the small space of the bunkhouse to crouch in front of her. She pressed her hands into Elliot’s shoulders, and she was saying something, but Elliot couldn’t hear it over the pounding of blood in her head.

She pressed the heels of her palms against her eye sockets, but the gesture brought no comfort; each time she closed her eyes, she kept seeing Ase, skull caved in. Surely, one shot had been enough? Surely, the second shot to her head was just—

Just John being himself.

“God, he fucking—he mutilated her, Joey,” Elliot managed out, her voice breaking on something like agony as the panic started to set in. Her hands trembled and she pushed the hair from her face, a movement that she was sure was just packing the dried blood in. She couldn’t get her eyes to focus on anything; everywhere she looked, she thought she could see the dark flicker of Ase’s clothing, the haunting corpse come to finish what she started. “She was dead—all of her, just falling—spilling out of her, like she’d been gutted, and I thought that he was done, and we’d go home, but then he shot her again—God, fuck, Joey, she’s all over me—”

“Hey,” Joey said firmly. “El. Take a breath and look at me.”

“I am.”

“A bigger breath,” Joey insisted, taking her hands away from her face and pulling her to a stand. “Just one.”

She did. I see, she thought and failed. I smell, I hear, I feel, but nothing came. She was drowning in it, whatever it was; Ase’s blood and guts on her, the memory of her glassy eyes as Ase reached for her, the feeling of Kian’s hands on her neck, the horrific monster lurking in the woods, and…

“Take another,” Joey reiterated. “Just one more.”

Elliot knew this trick. It was the oldest trick in Joey’s book. Just ask for one, and then just one more, and then just one more, until she was breathing like normal. She did as the brunette bid her anyway, and because her normal grounding methods had failed her, she instead thought, I’ll just count to ten. If I can make it for ten more seconds… And then another ten…

“You’re still sweating hallucinogen,” Joey murmured, squeezing her hands to help bring her back down. “You should take a shower. Come on.”

The journey between the main room of the bunkhouse and the felt both like it took years and happened without her knowing, as though she’d blinked and suddenly found herself standing in the bathroom, the fluorescent on the ceiling digging into her irises.

Her gaze flickered up to the mirror hanging over the sink. The person that looked back was a stranger to her; blood splattered every inch of her skin, matted in her hair, staining her in dark, carmine gore. Elliot thought about the strange voice in the woods, crackling and snapping and trying her on for size as it slid under her skin.

As the glass of the mirror seemed to pulse and stretch, the sound of running water snapped her attention elsewhere, hands limp at her sides. Joey pulled the knob that turned the water into a shower and said, “Okay, Elli, you call if you need me.”

“Okay,” Elliot murmured tiredly.

“Okay,” Joey repeated, watching her for a moment. And then she pulled her into a tight hug, and whispered, “For the record, I never doubted you’d be able to get me out. From John, or from the other place.”

The words didn’t offer her any comfort, but they were nice, nonetheless. She nodded her head and waited until the brunette had left the room before she started to undress, her movements methodical but unsteady; it wasn’t until water hit her skin and she saw the streams of thinned blood touching down on the floor of the bathtub that she finally felt some relief.

Even if it was only a little.

I don’t have anything, she thought tiredly, her eyes closing as she ducked her face under the stream of the shower. I don’t have anything left. What am I supposed to do now?

She had Joey. She didn’t have any idea of how to find Boomer. Hope County was gone, if they were lucky, and dead if they weren’t. She hadn’t heard from her own mother in--weeks? Or was it days? How long had this been going on?

It felt strange, to not be able to trust her own memory—to not know when the last time was that she got a full night’s sleep, or the last time that she curled up in her own bed, or the last time that she spent doing something that she enjoyed. As Elliot scrubbed the blood off of her face and out of her hair, staining her fingernails rusted-red, she thought that the idea of continuing on , of doing more, was so very exhausting.

They didn’t hurt you? John had asked, his fingers brushing the bruises on her throat where Kian’s fingers had gripped. It bothered her, when people touched her—grabbed her like they owned her, like she wasn’t in control of her own body—but when John did it, it was different. Even when he’d dragged his finger under her collarbone and said, I think it’ll fit nicely right here, don’t you? Just over your heart.

John was only doing what he was meant to do all along: draw her in, keep her there, and Ase’s gruesome death was just a reminder of the person that he really was. She had forgotten that.

But she wouldn’t again.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The night felt sticky, sitting like a second skin on him. When John stepped into the church to find Jacob and Joseph talking in low voices, he felt a strange sensation prickle down his spine. It was anticipation, he realized, nearly a moment too late; by the time he was bracing himself, Jacob had turned and walked out the side door, leaving himself and Joseph alone.

“How is our deputy?” Joseph asked, his voice light and mild. John tried to lessen the tension in his jaw.

“Which one?” he replied dryly. “She’s fine.”

Joseph said, “You were worried about her.”

“Well, I did work really fucking hard not to kill her,” he bit out, and then sighed at the way Joseph’s brow arched, a visible change in his expression even in the dim, intimate lighting of the chapel. “Look, Jacob already gave me the whole speech about—”

“I think you’re doing a great job with the deputy,” Joseph interrupted, firm but not unkind, “and I want you to continue.”

John stopped. Maybe it was the adrenaline crash, or the way that he’d come into the conversation at what appeared to be the end of it, but he couldn’t wrap his head around what Joseph was telling him; especially after what Jacob had said to him.

So he said, very intelligently, “What?”

“Our friend the marshal got out,” Joseph supplied. “Hope County has evacuated, if they’re lucky. But you know, John, even if they come for us—even if they arrest us—there are…”

A pause lingered between them, just long enough for something close to dread to knot and writhe between his ribs.

“... ways,” his brother continued, placing each word meticulously, “to make a legal case like this one fall apart.”

I don’t know what you mean, John wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come out of him. If Hope County was on the run, they might not ever look back; if the U.S. Marshal brought his buddies back, that would make Elliot the key witness in their case, while the other members of Hope County and the Resistance were…

“It’ll be all of them testifying against us,” John said after a moment. “I appreciate your confidence in my abilities, but—”

“You can convince people not to talk,” Joseph replied. He paced away from the table at the center of the chapel’s front room, absently scratching at his jaw, as though he were only just coming up with this idea; John knew that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t ever the case with Joseph. Nothing went without careful deliberation. “There are particular brands of persuasion that work better than others. But we’ll need more than just silencing our neighbors. We’ll need…”

Positive testimony, John thought, when the words didn’t come out of Joseph’s mouth.

“Yeah,” John murmured tiredly. “I know.”

“Good.” Joseph gave him a small smile. He reached out, gripping John’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, John.”

He stared at the wood paneling of the floor. Maybe he was tired; maybe it was the exhaustion from the last few hours, but Joseph’s words didn’t strike the same match in him that they had before. If Joseph noticed—and he almost certainly had—he didn’t let it show; rather, he let the distance between them grow, hand dropping from his shoulder as he walked for the door.

“You were going to let Jacob kill her.” The words came out of John’s mouth before he could think to stop them, before he could say to himself, it’s not worth the fight. He’s your brother, John. He gave you everything. Don’t you always say that you waited your whole life for something to say yes to?

He felt, more than he saw, Joseph pause in the doorway leading out of the chapel. A strange silence stretched between them; it was one where John thought he might have felt the scrutiny of his older brother’s gaze on him.

And then, in a voice casual and light, Joseph said, “You’re tired, John. You’ve had a long day. Get some rest, won’t you?”

John was tired. Tired enough to think that he might fall asleep standing up if he wasn’t careful. “You’re right,” he said after a moment, turning his head to look at Joseph over his shoulder with a small smile. “I will.”

“Goodnight, John.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Night passed more quickly than he would have liked. By the time morning had arrived, he thought maybe his conversation with Joseph was a dream; that he’d hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe some of the Family’s weird drugs had rubbed off on him while he was in there.

By the time early morning had rolled around, he’d dragged himself through a shower and into cleaner clothes. He half expected to find the bunkhouse completely vacated by Elliot and Hudson by the time he walked out with an armful of clothes, pleasantly surprised that Elliot was leaned against the door. Smoking, naturally.

“You look more like yourself,” John said as he approached. Her gaze flickered over him absently. She looked tired, but had since washed the blood and guts off of her face and out of her hair; as she took a drag of her cigarette and tapped the ash out of the end of it, her eyes turned away from him. Weird, he thought. He added, “I know you’ve got the whole blood-stained look, but I thought you might like to get into some clothes that are a bit cleaner.”

Elliot smoothed her boot over some ash on the ground, waiting for a heartbeat longer than normal before she said, “Thanks.” She sounded sour , like John’s mere existence was a chore for her, and not the way that it had been before—like she really meant it.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, watching her curiously. Despite the dark circles under her eyes, and the sickly rasp in her voice—it had probably felt nice to be high in that regard—she looked clear-headed. Normal. “How are you feeling?”

“John,” Elliot sighed, “let’s not.”

“Fine,” John snipped. “Where’s Hudson?”

“She went to walk the perimeter to try and call Boomer,” Elliot replied tiredly. “And then we’re leaving.”

Fuck, he thought, remembering his conversation with Joseph. Fuck fuck fuck. “Well, isn’t that lovely.” The biting venom welled up in his voice. There was a strange panic setting in now. She wouldn’t look at him, not for longer than a second, and her tone rang hollow and empty. He swallowed thickly, teeth clenching as he continued, “And how do you intend to leave, then? On foot? You sure seem like you’re in peak physical condition to be walking cross-country, Elliot. But I suppose if you have Hudson, then it won’t matter, because Hudson rescued you from those cultists and—”

“I don’t know, John ,” Elliot bit out, a real flex in her voice this time. It was comforting, to have her be anything—anything but ambivalent, anything but absent from their conversation. “I think I could get pretty far if I decide to start blowing people’s fucking skulls in with a shotgun, don’t you?”

John stared at her. “Pardon?”

“Oh, fuck off,” the blonde snipped, dropping what remained of the cigarette and stomping it out with her shoe. “Don’t give me your fucking clothes. If I change out of these I might forget that you splattered me with that woman’s brains.”

She turned and opened the door to the bunkhouse, going to close it, but John shoved his foot in the doorway to stop her, tossing the clothes onto the bed the second he got inside.

“I didn’t ,” John seethed. “Maybe you were too fucking high out of your mind to tell—”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Elliot’s voice was flinty. “It completely slipped my mind that you’re incapable of taking responsibility for yourself. Remember, John, that time you rubbed it in my face that your fucking family made me into a murderer? Because I do, and the pure fucking irony —” She jabbed a finger into his chest, the anger seeping out of her now. “—of you trying to make me feel like shit for killing your idiotic little cultists and then obliterating a woman’s skull onto my face is palpable!”

“Are you deaf?” John snapped, snagging her wrist before she could turn and try to walk somewhere else again. “I didn’t shoot Ase in the head, Jacob did. I put both my fucking hands on you to get you off the ground. How am I going to do that holding a fucking shotgun, Elliot?”

“I don’t know!” she replied furiously. There was a reckless, high-color in her cheeks, her voice cracking and breaking on something that John couldn’t quite pin down, couldn’t quite get his hands on. Even now, he thought, even when she was spitting her venom she was so —

“I don’t fucking know, John, you do—crazy fucking things all the time,” she insisted, and there was an uncomfortable wobble in her voice as her lashes fluttered. “Half the time I don’t know which John is going to open his fucking mouth—I don’t know if it’s—if it’s the John that kidnapped my best friend or if it’s the John that… That can be… With me, he’s...”

Her voice trailed off, weaker now, her fire spitting furiously as it tried to stay alight. John’s fingers loosened around her wrist, but didn’t let her go.

“There’s only one John,” he said, and his voice came out hoarse. “It’s just me.”

“I hate you,” the blonde managed out weakly, her lashes dark with unshed tears, soft and doe-like. “I’ve never—”

“Elliot,” John, tugging on her wrist, pulling her forward until she was in his space, until he could feel the warmth of her body and smell the wild on her—pine trees and ash and the mild shampoo she had used, “you’re going to have to come up with a new slogan that you actually believe.”

“John,” she tried again, and she was soft, soft and tired, “please, I’m—so tired of trying to figure you out—”

He closed what little space remained between them to kiss her; for a second, her entire body tensed like an animal ready for flight, stony and immovable against the affection, but he let her wrist slide from his hand, concerned that any moment he might spook her, that she was frozen because she was deciding when to run.

Her wrist slipped through his grip, catching at the base of her hand. She knotted her fingers into the front of his shirt and when his hand came up to the slope of her jaw, she leaned —like a flower to sunlight, blooming under his touch, just like that. Just that easy. John’s other arm slid around her waist to tug her up closer, and her mouth parted against his like instinct, like it had never not been this way between them.

The moment stretched; reality swung back in, the warmth of her mouth against his leaning back until a bit of space stretched between them. Not a lot, just enough for their noses to brush, and Elliot said, “I don’t know which—”

“I told you,” he replied, threading his fingers through her hair, “there’s just the one. This one, El, me. I want—”

“John,” she started, her voice overlapping his, "tell me that you're not lying when—"

He went to say, I want you to stay, I want to kiss you again, you hellcat, I’ve wanted to kiss you for days, but he didn’t get the chance because the sound of Joey’s voice outside the front door had broken the magic of the moment.

“Elliot,” Hudson called, “guess who I...”

The door opened, followed quickly by a scattering of dog nails as Boomer came racing inside. Without a second thought, Elliot had crouched down to wrap her arms around the dog John immediately took a step back and cleared his throat, feeling as though he’d been caught-out. Maybe, in a way, he had. He wouldn’t have cared, if he didn’t think that the idea of Hudson catching them would have made Elliot bolt instantly.

I should have kissed her again, he thought absently, watching Elliot fawn over Boomer with the kind of delight that she reserved only for him, her lips kiss-reddened. Before Hudson.

“He must have followed you here and waited,” Hudson said, looking at John with a narrowed, suspicious gaze. “Everything okay, Elliot?” she asked, even when she was looking at John. “I heard arguing.”

“Fine,” Elliot insisted, crouched on the floor to get as close to the Heeler as possible. “Everything’s fine. John was just—”

“Just dropping off some clean clothes for the deputy,” John interjected, despite the anxiety he felt sliding around inside of him when Elliot looked at him. The flush in her cheeks remained, and he knew that it wasn’t just anger there, anymore. Not really.

Joey crossed her arms over her chest. “Great. So you can leave, then? We’re done with you.”

We’re, she said, like she spoke for the both of him, both herself and Elliot. We’re, like just seconds ago, John hadn’t been thinking about the way Elliot’s breath hitched when his fingers brushed her skin.

“Sure thing,” he drawled, taking a few steps toward the door. He almost walked right out the door, even with his hands itching for her again, but he stopped. I should just say it, he thought. I should just out it right now.

“What is it?” Joey prompted, her voice hard and flinty.

Elliot wouldn’t ever forgive him if he did.

“Nothing,” John replied after a moment. A little smile ticked the corners of his mouth upward, and for a second his gaze met Elliot’s. “Hope you get some well-deserved rest, you two.”

The brunette watched him with a dark, inscrutable gaze, and he stepped out of the bunkhouse, letting the door swing shut behind him. For just a moment, he paused outside the door; long enough to hear Joey go, “What was that about?”, and he started off across the yard.

Not done with me yet, deputy.

#far cry 5 #john seed/deputy #john seed/rook #my writing #fic: ancient names #when i say it's clowN HOUR #I MEAN IT #WELCOME TO CLOWN TOWN BABY #i'm the MAYOR

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fragmentedink-archived · 4 years

Text

Hell to Pay: Chapter Thirty-Five

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, IX, IX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XVIIII, XXX, XXXI, XXXII, XXXIII, XXXIV

cowritten by @lux-scriptum

A/N: trigger warning for possible implied eating disorders??

Nik was asleep, and Cameron was doing paperwork, and Lev was almost guilty about how bored he was. Being a ghost wasn’t exactly the most exciting thing. After running his fingers through Niks hair, wishing he could heal the deep cut on Nik’s cheek, he slid off the bed. He still didn’t know how it happened, but it distressed him. That belonged in a box in the back of his mind, though, before he stressed himself to the point of flickering out.

Lev wandered out of the bedroom, scooting around sentries. Checking on Cameron didn’t reveal Darius, but Lev wandered over anyway, peering over Cameron’s shoulder at what he was working. After a moment, Cameron looked at the black and silver watch on his wrist. “Are you done babysitting Nik?”

“It’s time to babysit you,” Lev said, even though Cameron wouldn’t be able to hear him. He reached over and brushed Cameron’s hair from his face. “You need to eat.” It was getting easier to move things, but it helped that hair wasn’t exactly heavy.

Cameron went back to his paperwork. Lev let him for a few minutes, and then tugged on his hair with more force. “What do you want from me?” Cameron asked tiredly.

“For you to eat,” Lev replied, dropping his forehead on Cameron’s shoulder. He didn’t know how to get through to Cameron when Cameron couldn’t hear him. Not that Cameron was waiting for a reply; paperwork had his attention, and even on a good day it was hard to distract him from it.

It took Lev several minutes for Lev to figure it out. He pressed a hand to Cameron’s stomach, tapping insistently.

Cameron went still, just for a moment, before, “I’m busy.”

Lev huffed, and pushed at the paperwork. All he did was bump Cameron’s pen, but he figured that was better than nothing. Cameron looked up, staring into space with a look that told lev he was grasping for non-existent patience. After hesitating, Lev tapped insistently on Cameron’s stomach again, and then reached up, cupping Cameron’s cheek.

Cameron stared down at the desk for a solid minute, jaw clenched, before he stood. Lev followed at a distance, guilt pricking at him. He knew Cameron liked his schedule, needed it even, but he needed food too. Once he was satisfied Cameron was getting something, Lev perched on the counter to watch, swinging his feet back and forth out of habit.

When Cameron settled at the table with an apple and a cup of tea, Lev padded over. He pressed a kiss to Cameron’s cheek, stroking his hair once more. To Lev’s surprise, Cameron leaned into the touch, ever so slightly. For a moment, Lev stayed, keeping his hand pressed against Cameron’s hair. He waited until Cameron was almost done with his apple to give Cameron one last pat, and then blinked away in search of Darius again.

---

He found darius with Eden, which didn’t surprise him one bit. Lev settled next to them on the floor, leaning against Darius as he listened to him talk to Eden. A smile tugged at Lev’s lips listening to Eden screech.

“I got Cameron to eat an apple,” Lev said.

“Mmm. Better than nothing. More progress than yesterday.”

Lev nodded. “He wasn’t happy,” he added, even though that was probably obvious. “Nik’s still sleeping.”

Darius sighed softly. “Cameron’s never happy. But it’s probably a good thing Nik’s still sleeping. He can't get in trouble that way.”

“Yeah. Someone hurt him last time he went off on his own. He’s got a big gash on his face. So maybe sleep is for the best.” Lev hesitated, and then admitted, “It did get boring, though.”

“I imagine so,” Darius said after humming to himself.

“Is it offensive to ask how you did it for five hundred years?”

“Would you believe I played a very long game of scrabble to keep my mind busy?” Darius asked.

“You did?” Lev asked, startled. The look on Darius’ face was close to pitying, and was enough for Lev to give a very embarrassed, “Oh.”

Darius patted Lev’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Lev sighed, and just tucked his cheek against Darius’ shoulder. “You’d think after almost a century and a half I’d learn when people are joking.”

This time Darius patted his face. “I think it's more that sometimes it's hard. Some people are too serious.”

“Like Cameron?” Lev wrinkled his nose. “I love Cameron, but I don’t think I want to be like him. Or not too much, anyway.”

“I don’t think anybody can be quite like Cameron,” Darius mused.

“He’s very unique,” Lev agreed solemnly.

When Lev looked up at Darius, he was smiling. “Unique is a good word to describe Cameron.”

Before Lev could figure out what else to say, Nate stepped into the room. Lev lifted his head from Darius’ shoulder and asked, “Is it nap time?”

Nate looked between the both of them. “Sorry to... intrude, but yes, it’s nap time.”

Lev made a disappointed sound, leaning over to kiss Eden’s forehead. “You weren’t intruding,” Lev promised. “But we can go, so we don’t keep her up.”

Nate’s expression was apologetic. “You’ll know where she is,” he said.

Lev offered a hand to Darius to help him up, and when they passed Nate Lev leaned into him briefly in thanks. “I’m probably going to hang out here for a while?” Lev said to Nate. “Nik’s asleep, and Cameron’s stressing me out.”

Nate snorted. “Cameron stresses everyone out.”

Lev nodded a little. “I can see it,” he said, solemnly. He took Darius’ hand, and scooted out the door.

When they reached the front hall, Lev looked over at Darius. The sad look on Darius’ face made Lev pause. “Are you okay?” Lev asked, squeezing Darius’ hand lightly.

The sigh Darius gave sent a pang of sadness through Lev as well. “He didn’t know Cameron like I did.”

This time Lev leaned close, pressing his nose to Darius’ shoulder. “I don’t think many people know him like you do.”

“I think he went through painstaking lengths to make sure they didn’t.”

Lev nodded, but he didn’t have much else to add to that. Instead he leaned into Darius, sighing softly. He wasn’t sure how long they would have stayed there, taking comfort from each other’s presence if Ash hadn’t stormed in, slamming the front door open so hard Lev jumped.

“Where the fuck is Lev?” Ash demanded loudly.

Automatically, Lev shrank back, even if the irate angel couldn’t even see him. It didn’t take long for Bay to appear, wailing infant in his arms. Nate was on his heels, and before Nate could say anything Lucas was settled in Nate’s arms. Bay stalked across the room, grabbing Ash by the hair on the way out, and all but dragged him out of the house.

“What did I do?” Lev asked Darius, his voice small. “I haven’t done anything. I’m dead.”

The concerned look on Darius’ face didn’t help at all. “Do you want to go find out?”

“No,” Lev mumbled, pressing his face against Darius’ shoulder. “He seems angry.”

“I think that’s just Ash,” Darius said thoughtfully. “But he does seem angrier than usual.”

“I don’t want him angry at me,” Lev said, his voice rising an octave.

More footsteps made him look up. Silas had arrived, looking more than a little confused. Nate only hesitated a second before placing Lucas in Silas’ arms.

“I’ve got this,” Nate said in their direction, and strode out the door after his mate.

“We should probably go see what’s wrong,” Darius prompted, when Lev didn’t move.

That was the last thing Lev wanted to do, but he forced himself to head for the front porch. The moment Nate looked in their direction, Ash opened his mouth and said heatedly, “You’re going to stay dead.”

Lev shied back. “I don’t- I don’t understand,” he said, shooting Nate a desperate look.

Bay shoved Ash. “Calm down. Lev is dead.”

“Not for long, if Amara gets her way,” Ash shot back.

Lev froze, and then looked back to Darius. “Is that even possible?”

Darius’ troubled look didn’t soothe Lev at all. “I don’t know. I didn't think so.”

“What do you mean, if Amara gets her way?” Nate asked quietly.

“Apparently she conned some witch into doing her dirty work. Necromancy is against the laws of nature,” Ash said. He still sounded pissed.

Lev bit his lip, not wanting to leave the safety of Darius’ side. He crept forward anyway, touching Nate’s hand lightly. “I didn’t ask her to,” he promised faintly.

Nate patted his hand. “I know you didn’t.”

Ash whipped his head around to glare in Lev’s direction. “You can't.” He switched his gaze to Nate. “I want to talk to him.”

Nate looked to Lev until Lev realized he was asking for permission. Lev nodded hesitantly. It was obvious Lev had become visible to the other two the moment Nate took his hand. Ash zeroed in on him with an intensity that had Lev flinching back into Nate instinctively.

“You need to move on,” Ash said. Lev could almost feel his desperation. “Please move on.”

“I can’t,” Lev said. “I don’t- I don’t know how.”

“Then figure it out. She’s going to break the laws of nature for you, and this is one that should not be broken.”

That was panic; Lev could recognize a panic attack from a mile away, and Ash was close to having one. It only fueled Lev’s own distress. “I don’t- I didn’t ask her to. But I don’t know how to. Nik- he’s bad, and I don’t know how to move on while he’s like this. Him and Cameron both.”

“They’re grieving. This is what people in grief do.”

“What if they grieve themselves to death?” Lev asked. He was trying to keep his emotions in check, but black was edging on his vision.

“You are no help.” Ash looked defeated, and that seemed to be the end of it, because he was walking away.

“I don’t know what to do,” Lev said desperately, flicking a look between the three who were left. “I don’t- I didn’t ask for any of this.” He could feel himself working up, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

He could feel Darius at his side, his hand on Lev’s cheek. “Breathe,” Darius ordered firmly, until Lev sucked in one useless breath after another. He tucked his face in Darius’ hand, clinging to the fact that Darius and Nate both were holding onto him.

When he wasn’t on the verge of blinking out, Bay cleared his throat. Lev looked up at him, met his stony stare as best he could. “What do you want?”

Lev touched Darius’ hand, which still cupped his face comfortingly. “I don’t- what does it matter? Amara wants me here, Ash wants me dead, and they’ll just duke it out on their own.”

“No. I didn’t ask Ash, and I didn’t ask Amara. I asked you. What do you want? Cameron and Nik are also not a part of this question.”

Lev hesitated. “I want it,” he finally said softly. “Why wouldn’t I? I was- I was happy. I’m never happy, and I was happy. I want that back. But it isn’t- it isn’t fair. And Ash- nature- do I deserve that?”

“Are you asking if you deserve to be happy?” Bay asked flatly.

“I- yes.” Lev looked down. “Do I deserve it at that cost?”

Bay sounded pained as he said, “Haven’t we been over this before?”

Lev lifted one shoulder. “I wasn’t dead.”

“Your point?” Bay asked sharply.

“I don’t know,” Lev said miserably. “All I know is I feel useless right now. More than useless.” He paused, and then mumbled, “Not that that’s too far from usual, but...”

“Then either move on, or come back. You’re not doing anyone any help just floating around here.” Bay definitely sounded annoyed now.

Lev looked to Darius now. “You... you’d be alone again,” he said, a question, almost.

“I’ve been alone for five hundred years. I think I’ll manage.”

Lev made a discontented sound, but just looked to Bay. “Are you giving me permission to let Amara bring me back?”

“I’m giving you permission to do what you want,” Bay replied evenly.

Lev nodded slowly. “I- okay,” he finally said. He hesitated, and then, “...Ash?”

Bay’s sigh was tired. “I will deal with Ash.”

“Okay,” Lev repeated, and then said, “Can I go now?”

Bay looked to Nate instead of answering. All Nate said was, “I’m not going to stop you.”

Lev slipped his hand free of Nate’s, and immediately buried his face in Darius’ neck. Darius’ arms went around him. “It’s okay. You can go,” Darius whispered softly.

“I don’t know if I will,” Lev said back. He slowly put his arms around Darius. “I- I need to think about it.”

“That’s okay. You have the time.”

Lev nodded against Darius, and then closed his eyes. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Then don’t be here.”

Lev shook his head. “I don’t want to leave you alone, either.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Lev just shook his head again. “I’ll stay,” he promised. “I want to.”

---

At this point Cyrus wasn’t even surprised when someone else marched into his house without warning. Sorin had been asleep on the couch, curled in his massive demonic form, but his ears pricked as the door slammed open. They flattened as he recognized the ginger angel who had answered Bay’s door a couple weeks ago, but when Cyrus waved him off, he stayed on the couch, claws digging into the fabric.

“I should have known you’d be doing Amara’s dirty work when you came for Bay,” Ash said.

“She didn’t give me much choice,” Cyrus said mildly.

That didn’t seem to impress Ash at all. “You’re a witch. You have plenty of choices and you chose the coward's way out.”

Sorin sat up, sliding off the couch and winding around Cyrus’ legs. Cyrus knew without looking that Sorin was glaring at Ash, but he chose to ignore his demon in favor of keeping Ash’s gaze evenly. “I made a promise. A poorly thought out promise, but a promise nonetheless.” He stoked Sorin’s head, and then added, “If it’s any comfort, there’s no guarantee I can figure it out. I have conditions. I don’t doubt I can't make a spell for necromancy, but I will not let him be raised if he’s going to spend the rest of his new life wishing he was dead.”’

“Then. Lie. Tell her you cant perform the fucking spell. Do not do this when you are a witch. you serve nature, nature does not serve you.”

“I don’t lie,” Cyrus said simply. “I do not lie, I do not go back on my word, and I do not do anything other than my best. And I do not serve nature any more than nature serves me. It’s a give and take. I won't take anything I do not intend to give back in equal value.”

“You don't lie but you'll bring back the dead?" His face hardened. Cyrus supposed he could have tried to lie, but Ash would have known, and he really had meant it when he said he didn't lie. Ash looked down at Sorin. I bet you'd want your cousin back wouldn't you. So of course you are going to be absolutely no help in getting your idiot boyfriend to see common sense.”

“There’s no need to antagonize him.” Cyrus could feel Sorin’s magic flare already; he pulled some of it into himself, just to get the temperature settled. “It was my decision, and mine alone. He doesn’t like it any more than you do.”

“Because his cousin moved on already?” Ash asked heatedly.

Cyrus frowned. “No.”

When Ash swung his gaze down to Sorin, Sorin leaned back against Cyrus’ thighs, a soft hiss coming from him. “Are you going to stay a damn cat,” Ash demanded. “Or are you going to contribute anything to this conversation?”

Sorin lashed his tail, but he shifted up. “I don’t have anything to say.” He narrowed his eyes. “Cyrus makes his own decisions.”

“Your boyfriend is going to perform necromancy, but hey, at least you're letting him be his own man, right?”

“Something like that,” Sorin snapped.

“You must be so proud of yourself. Congratulations.”

“Excactic,” Sorin said flatly, the temperature in the room spiking with his temper. This time Cyrus didn’t try to reign him in, even as he started to sweat from the two pyromancers glaring at each other.

“You're a coward. You're both cowards and you should be fucking ashamed of yourselves,” Ash shot back, before stalking out the door, slamming it behind him.

Cyrus blinked slowly at the door, and then looked to Sorin. “He’s right,” Cyrus said quietly. He pulled away from Sorin, walked into his study, and locked the door behind him.

---

Lev looked around. One of the perks of being a ghost was that the ash didn’t stick to him. He stared at the shell that used to be his house. “Amara got fed up,” he mumbled, half to himself. He looked over his shoulder at Darius. “This was the first house I owned,” he said quietly.

Darius looked around. “It was lovely.”

“It was small,” Lev said. He padded up the porch steps. “But it was mine.” He stepped through the doorway. “I remodeled the kitchen last year.”

“I’m sorry that was taken away from you,” Darius said quietly.

“It’s okay,” Lev promised. “It wasn’t a home. Not in the way that I wanted. It was small, and... empty. I didn’t mind the smallness, but it was just a place to live. Less a home and more of a safe house.”

Darius thought about that for a long moment. “It didn’t seem that safe,” he finally said.

Lev puffed out a surprised laugh. “It wasn’t in the end. But it served its purpose when I first bought it. Rem- Remiel didn’t know where I lived for a long time. I was careful. Until I wasn’t.” He watched Darius for a long moment, and then, “Did you... did you have a home? Not... not like this,” he tapped the mostly gone doorway. “But... a home.”

“I grew up on the streets of Assyra,” Darius told him. “The only home I needed was Cameron.”

Lev wasn’t sure what to say to that for a good long moment. “Cameron’s a good home,” he said. He reached out, touching Darius’ hand. “Was that all you wanted? Cameron, for a home?” He meant it sincerely, and he hoped Darius understood that.

Darius shrugged. “I wanted a family of my own, but I made sure I couldn’t have one.” He paused. “And now I’m dead, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“I wanted that too,” Lev said softly.

Darius gave him a knowing look. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Lev shrugged. “No alpha would want someone like me,” he offered. “I wanted a mate, and Cameron doesn’t do that. But I... I was happy to take what I could. It was still a family, sort of. Nik loved me, and we had Eden. Dreams are nice, but... the best I could ever do was get as close as I could.”

“For what it’s worth, Cameron does want you. He’s just not that good at admitting what he wants. He never has been.” He looked over the remains of the house, arms folded on his chest. “That would take him admitting he’s a person.”

Lev looked down. “Well... now I’m dead. So it doesn’t really matter.”

Darius shot him a look. “The people you love are trying to bring you back from the dead. I’d say it does matter.”

“I don’t know if I will,” Lev replied softly. “And we don’t know if they can. The word trying is really important.”

“Yes it is. And I think that means something about the people that love you. You’re not giving them the justice they deserve by continuing to say you don’t matter.”

Lev flinched. “I don’t mean to,” he finally said.

Darius touched his shoulder. “I know. But it doesn’t make it less true.”

“I’m sorry,” was all Lev could think to say.

Lev looked up when Darius touched his cheek, just in time for Darius to kiss his forehead. “I know,” Darius said.

Lev leaned into him, sighing softly. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said. “But I don’t want to leave Nik. And I don’t want to... I don’t want to upset nature, but I don’t want- I don’t want to be here. I hate it. I hate watching them. I don’t know what to do.” His face screwed up as he tucked it into Darius’ shoulder. “And I can’t even cry about it.”

“Bay is right,” Darius said softly. “You only have two choices.”

“And too many reasons to decide either way,” Lev pointed out. “Everyone has an opinion on what I should do.” He looked up abruptly. “What would you do?”

“I’d go back without hesitation,” Darius said.

Lev was surprised at how quickly he answered. The conviction, no uncertainty to be found, was something Lev found he envied. “Okay,” he finally said.

---

Bay found himself at Ash’s house, trying to talk Ash from burning everything to ashes around them. He’d probably start with Amara and then the witch and save him for last since he hadn’t even bothered to try and side with him.

He knew what it was like having loved ones ripped away from him, time and time again and he wasn’t going to stop Amara, especially if Lev did want to come back. There was literally no point in Lev being stuck in limbo with a bleeding heart unable to do shit besides watching on miserably.

And that was its own kind of hell.

There were bruises peeking on Ash’s skin where clothes couldn’t cover. He was breathing hard, fingers tight against the sheets as he clearly was trying to not set himself off with a pregnant Celeste sitting next to him with her fingers running in his hair. “You just need to breathe,” Celeste was saying to her mate. “Their decisions are not your fault.”

His fingers tightened. “Tell that to my magic,” he said, through gritted teeth. The underlying tone of pain did shoot a spark of concern through him, especially when she gave Bay a look. “Those selfish bastards are going to kill me because they thought it’d be fine to break the laws of nature- which- owns my ass. But sure, I just need to breathe.”

“They won’t kill you,” Bay said, sternly. “I won’t let it.” He was sure the witch wouldn’t either.

“My father is dead because he thought he could bend nature,” Ash snapped, glaring at him as he sat up rigidly in the bed. He could feel the heat pulse off him. “And now I pay the price. Those idiots perform necromancy and who’s to say nature won’t take it out of Lev? Huh? What’s that twinky little angel going to do with just angelic healing to protect him against a primordial thing like that? He’s afraid of everything.”

Bay folded his arms and frowned at him. “It’s. Lev’s. Choice. Which means he can deal with the repercussions that come of that. He’s an adult. He knows what he’s getting himself into. Everyone needs to stop babying him. He’ll keep being afraid of everything if everyone is constantly trying to protect him. And where did that get him? Dead.”

“Exactly!” Ash yelled. “He’s dead! He needs to stay dead. You do not undo death like that. You just do not. I don’t give a flying fuck how much you want someone back,” his voice cracked. “You can bleed, you can grieve and scream and cry all you want. But. You. Move. On.”

The deafening silence filling the room didn’t sway Bay’s decision, if only because Bay didn’t have one to begin with. And he didn’t know how to help any of the parties involved in this dark magic.

tagging: @incandescent-creativity @idreamonpaper @halstudies @solangelo3088 @mis-lil-red @alittleyellowdinosaur

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #wip boost #a/b/o verse #hell to pay #ch: cameron #ch: darius #cameron and nik and lev

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fanfiction-inc · 4 years

Text

Baptism of The Fathers Betrothed (Chapter I)

Series: Welcoming The Bride

Verse: Far Cry 5

Characters/Pairings: Joseph Seed/ Reader, John Seed, Jacob Seed, Faith Seed

Rating: T for Teen

Warnings: Potential drowning, Baptist and Christian vibes, lots of religion, but lets be real, this is the Seed family! Induction ceremonies, family love.

Word Count: 2283

Summary: Joseph Seed has fallen in love and wants to marry the woman of his dreams. But what kind of process must that include to be fully his?

Link to Ao3 Version: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22995019/chapters/54978007#workskin

[Next chapter]

---

Silence among the church, soft reds, blues, yellows and so on filtering in from the stained glass among the windows all around. A clear of his throat, all eyes on him and he begins with the faintest of smiles that held his joy. This sermon was special, after all. He knew the intended audience would get such. “The Bible says we are to love one another. We are to hold them close, to savor their beings and we are to make them into one with ourselves if it is destined by the lord above and the man or woman before you. The message we hear, the message we read is simple. In the book of John, it is stated “For this is the message you have heard from the beginning: we should love one another", and in the book of Matthew, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind.' This is the greatest and most important commandment. The second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself'" Now, I know love can lead to lust, and lust can be the worst among the sins, as is wrath, but my children, lust is not a sin when matrimony is in place.” He adjusted his aviators, a clear of his throat and his eyes fixated on the woman sitting in the second row behind the family pew. Her body was relaxed, gaze returning his own and smile big as always. Her smile was infectious, drawing his own to grow before returning to the sermon before him.

“While love is a wonderful, warm feeling, it is not only a feeling. In fact, according to the Bible, love is primarily an active interest in the well-being of another person.” A single glance stolen to the front pew, the knowing looks giving an encouraging glint. He takes a deep breath, moving from behind the podium with arms outstretched before his congregation, those who looked on in awe. The colors of the stained glass dance over his bare skin, tattoos and scars glistening under such. The woman watched as he moved to stand before everyone in the pews, looking among them. “Or perhaps it is in the matrimony of a person. One allows their love to develop, to flutter and grow. If God had not made love an emotion, a feeling and so beyond...then why would he have made my love for my family? For you, my children, my congregation…” He looked to the woman, meeting those bright eyes. “My angel, (First name)?” He held a hand out to the woman, watching as her cheeks redden and she stands, taking the mans hand before he brings her own to his lips, gently brushing them against her knuckles. He lowered down before her, the room fluttering with a number gasps and shock when he sits before her on one knee, never letting go of her hand, the free one reaching back into his pocket and pulling out a small, velvet box. “Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust my life….(First name), will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? My beloved angel that will walk hand in hand with me to Eden's Gate? Will you marry me, and become (First name) Seed?”

She was frozen, watching those desperate eyes look on to her own behind yellow tinted aviators, his fingers moving to remove them and view hers with those blue eyes that had drawn her into his company. Those blue eyes that made her stay at his side when the conflicts with the Resistance began, that brought her into his service and kept her safe from harm the night they came for him. The locust in the garden. That smile she's woken up to from nights of staying over, the same smile that watched her take care of the children of his congregation and begin his teachings with the younger generation. She was his angel, his sweetened woman…”Yes.” He was now shocked, stammering. “W-Wait...Did you just say yes?” Her smile grows and with careful ease of getting down before him and careful of the dress she worse, she cupped his cheeks, forehead against his own. “Yes, Joseph...I want to be your wife.” His lips were against her own in seconds, the start of the clapping and cheers coming from the front of the church where his family stands, and soon the rest of the congregation cheering on the new couple before them. He separated from her lips, standing with her and slips the ring onto her finger. This was the start of it all.

The start of their new lives.

---

Slow steps with joined hands and gentle exchange of glaces lead the way down the path to the lake below. The sun shines brightly through the tree branches overhead, creating an almost sort of glow to the future brides skin. A loving tone against her ear, her husband whispering such sweet words that leaves her in giggling fits that were followed by his own sounding chuckles. Each step was steady, each sway of their arms a gentle motion. Three months after the proposal, Joseph had grown impatient. He couldn’t handle the thought of the woman not being in his arms, in his bed with him or by his side as he gave his sermons. He couldn’t imagine them not being joined as one, and so he begged for the wedding to be sooner...For their family traditions to be done the day before. The generations gave was to the immersion of their family, his father immersing his wife, his grandfather before them his, so on and so forth. Now it was his turn...But he wasn’t the one to be baptizing her today.Slowly their steps draw to a stop when the waters graze the tips of their shoes, Joseph's finely polished leather shoes taking a turn to face the woman at his side, forehead resting against her own and eyes simply staying connected with her own. “My angel, my darling...Today you are to join our family, to finally be introduced as a true member, and tomorrow we shall make it truly official. We’ll be one, souls intertwined and together once the words “I do” follow...now I need your absolute trust. I need to know that you will be okay with this, that you will be fine with what is about to happen. Are you ready?”

The woman lightly clutched the lapels of the mans suit jacket, lips gently turning up into that sweet smile that always brought him calm in his chaotic life. Those sweet eyes making his own smile grow and the words that made his heart flutter slipping out like honey from the wooden stir stick. “I’m ready to be one with you, Joseph.” A quick kiss was shared, gentle and innocent but wanting for more. They would just have to wait. Joseph stepped away from the waters edge to stand with his brother and sister, watching the younger of the group approach the woman, shoes already off but suit perfectly dry as he stands within the waters of the shore. They were far cooler than the hot summer air, but it was a relief to the body. John outstretched his hand to the woman as she cautiously took his own, white gown fluttering in the light breeze before flattening out as they went within the waters of the lake. He goes waist deep, hands supporting the shorter woman before him. Her abdomen was submerged beneath the cool waters, goosebumps littering her skin and heart beginning to hammer. His hand raised, water droplets falling from his fingers to her forehead, and a smile grows. “Lets begin. Today, we are here for the baptism of (First name) (Last name), a member of our wayward flock and soon-to-be sister in law of the Seed family. We shall go right into the ceremony, then we shall celebrate with our new sister as she has been bled of sin.” John allowed her closer to him, a hand placing against the back of her neck right on the nape, long fingers curling and holding her with firm fingers. His other hand eases beneath her legs, supporting her at the thigh as he tilts her back, aiding her in floating on the surface of the lake. His voice grows muffled due to the waters, but the shift of his gaze is what makes her heart begin to beat steadily. The night before, John had promised to not let her drown. Though he had a chuckle and smirk that followed, He was joking...right? Her pulse began to grow harder, fingers shaking among the water as his hands slipped from her body, letting her float freely.

“Baptism, which corresponds to this, now saves you, not as a removal of dirt from the body but as an appeal to God for a good conscience, through the resurrection of Jesus Christ." To meet our lord, you much descend among the depth and purge yourself of your sins. Among the water, you must declare then revoke them, and allow our lord among yourself. The waters will wash your sins, will clear your mind and leave you fresh for the acceptance of our lord and our family.” A brush of his fingers to clear her hair from her face and he brings a hand back to be beneath her. He placed one on the back of her head, his other hand moving from her face to her chest and placing flatly between her breast within the white dress. A glance to Joseph and a small nod follows. “Hold your breath.” The only warning sounding before he puts her beneath the waters, watching the bubbles rise and how her eyes close to hide from the particles within the lake. “Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved, but whoever does not believe will be condemned.” So says Matthew. “There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to one hope when you were called; one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.” So says Ephesians. You will be free of all past traumas, of all bad and return to the surface as the innocence you extrude. Be purged and be free.”

Within the next minute, she had began to panic, looking up to the man who kept speaking, who met her gaze with that grin and watched when she began to struggle. Her hands reach up to clutch at his wrist holding her chest down, trying to push up, to rise to the surface and yet he wouldn’t let up. Her nails began to dig, her legs began to kick and as quickly as her lungs began to fill with water, he brings her back up. “And so your sins have been purged, my child of God. Your past has been freed and you are within the love and acceptance of God...of us.” He held her close against his chest as she coughed and sputtered, clearing her lungs of the water that lingered and simply catching her breath as the small group clapped from the shoreline. Johns hand pats her back gently, free hand raising her to tilt her chin towards him and do the same as her soon-to-be husband does to her, that her new brother and sister waiting among the shore do when they accept the woman she has become. “Didn’t I say I wouldn’t let ya’ drown?” The softness of his voice, the sweetness within those blue eyes much like his brothers own and smile as bright as the moment someone successfully atones. “Lets get you back to the shore.” He helps lead her along, Joseph meeting then where the water touches the tips of his shoes and arms going around the soaking wet woman. She held onto him tightly, face buried away in his neck due to the way he held her. “You’re my perfect angel, (First name). All mine.” The whisper of his voice made the other shiver, kiss placed to the others temple before separating when the tallest of the brothers brings her smaller form into a bruising embrace, gruff voice fluttering in the air with a near appreciation of the smaller woman. “You’ve been welcome in this family before this moment, you know that, right?” He grinned. “This is just a measure...But welcome. We’re happy to have you.” In Jacobs mind, it was a breath of calm air in this family, the one normal aspect to it all. Faith damn near knocks the woman over when her arms envelope her, giggle sounding and joy bubbling up in the sweetest of ways. “Oh, I’ve always wanted a sister!”

The path back up was steady, hands once again intertwined and shoulders bumping as they go on. His jacket was over her shoulders, keeping her warm as the sun began to set and the night air began to chill the area around them. Each step was quiet, each word sounding from the siblings as the pick on each other and tease the newly joined member. John approached at his brothers side, hand slapping down on his back and grin keeping in place. “So, you ready to marry her?” His voice whispered near his ear. An air of confidence floods Joseph as he looked to the younger Seed, smile growing as his eyes seem to damn near brighten.

“Yeah. As ready as I’ll ever be.”

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

Tag List: @yancy-trash

If anyone else would like to be added to the list, please let me know!

#far cry 5 #joseph seed #Joseph Seed/Reader #Joseph Seed x Reader #John Seed #Jacob Seed #Faith Seed #potential drowning #Baptist and Christian vibes #lots of religion #but lets be realthis is the Seed family! Induction ceremonies

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stevenuniversetanzanite · 4 years

Text

The Angel Among Us (Cordelia X reader) Part 7

Last part for this yay! Honestly thought this chapter would be longer. I’ll work on Venable one again soon but it will be easier with this out of the way. God what am I going to do when this is all done? Another series I guess.

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 , Part 4, Part 5 , Part 6, Part 7

Sequel: Fallen Angel

One the first day light was created, the second, sky. One the third day, dry lands and the sea was created, plants blossomed and grew throughout Pangea. The fourth day - the Sun, Moon and stars were created. Sea and sky animals on the fifth and humans and those of the land the next. The seventh was a day of rest and was made a holy day.

Now you might be asking, how the hell was light created if the sun or stars didn’t exist? The answer is- stop thinking this comes from a book written and translated over 100 times, there is bound to be errors. Also, humans weren’t there until the sixth day, so who the hell knows what happened.

Man was crafted in the likeness of the creator which humans named God. Fashioned out of dust, the first man was made. He and many to follow would return to said state after death. A human woman was crafted out of one of the man’s ribs.

Humans were riddled with sin from their creation. Eve, the woman crafted from the man, Adam’s rib wasn’t the first woman created for the man. Another made from the dust to act as Adam’s wife. She refused to lay beneath Adam during sex or let the man exert dominance over her. This wasn’t in god’s plan. When they couldn’t get the first wife back, that’s when God made Eve. She however, sinned to, stealing an apple from the tree of knowledge.

Ten generations passed, and humankind became more corrupt. The land was purged, a rain poured for forty days and nights and the rest were history.

Not everything was destroyed in the rain. Not all of God’s failures could be erased. The conniving snake that tricked Adam and Eve back in the garden lived on. For he was not a snake but the devilish fallen angel casted out of heaven. Along with the snake was the garden of Eden. Now it was hidden way from the world, saved as a memory of the failures of humanity. Only the truest of heart could find it- that or those who know how to find it.

The Sanctuary, humans last hope. Well it was until you got to it.18 months in a plant covered heaven. Hidden behind a waterfall within a mountain. It was like living in ‘Journey to the Centre of The Earth’. Planted in the middle was the tree containing forbidden fruit. This time there was no snake not that you needed one when you were with the child of hell himself.

“You’ve been a loyal ally,” he said as he looked over your shoulder to the tree. The leaves were a luscious green and the apples were a vibrant green. A trunk sat beside the tree; you knew the boy had it brought here before the two of you entered this life-sized terrarium. An ecosystem that had remained untouched for billions of years and would have remained that way if you both weren’t there to disrespect the space. The blonde man you had accompanied, plucked an apple and handed it to you.

The bombs had gone off leaving this land the only place to be left untouched by the nuclear weapons. Ironically, the first place to exist is and will most likely be the last place to contain life. Satan’s kingdom would be crafted on the foundations he recked for humanity. The ‘Sanctuary’ was the perfect place.

As the story goes, one man and one woman take a bite of the forbidden fruit.

“I know how this story goes,” you said, raising the apple to your lips.

“Then you’ll know it wasn’t the snake that made them pay but their God.” Michael had a point. You’d been with him this long, if he wanted to kill you know it would be a waste. There was no one to condemn you for your sins. “You seek answers but refuse to hear the answers. That fruit in your hands contains all the answers in the universe. Anything you need to know is at your fingertips. It’s up to you choose to accept the gift of clarity.”

“And if it changes my outlook on you or myself?”

“Me? Certainly not. But you? I can’t predict.”

You gazed down at the shiny apple. Gripping it in both hands you rip it in half and handed on half to the man.

“Together,” you said. You both ate your respective part of the apple.

“Now, what did you see?”

~~~

An angel- a spiritual being believed to act as an attendant, agent, or messenger of God, conventionally represented in human form with wings and a long rob. Living humans are only known to have witnessed two of the nine types of angels of which the two lowest forms, guardian and archangels, mingle among man. The others had no purpose among mortals.

Your creation happened long after the creation of earth but before the time of Jesus. You were an archangel, responsible for managing life on Earth, including the creation and facilitation of soul contracts, life paths, the spiritual development of souls, order within the natural world etc. You were lowest out of the level for your reputation as replacement of a former angel, Lucifer.

You didn’t understand the importance of your job, why care for these humans? Let them do it themselves. You never witnessed the years of evil all caused by one fallen angel.

You, the 2.0, crafted in his likeness with the removal of his ill-intent. You knew what you were, they didn’t bother hiding that. You knew him to be pure evil, corrupter of God’s plan.

Free will, something you weren’t allowed to have. We were all meant to be subservient to the Lord. He, the morning star, was the first to be cast out of heaven. He was defiant, not agreeing with god. All he would’ve had to do was simply said “I sinned, I submit, please forgive me,” and the matter would’ve been resolved. But he was too arrogant, feeling too proud to bow down. He used his own logic and blamed God for misguiding him. Why would God give them knowledge if they weren’t meant to use it?

Your life was a self-fulfilling prophecy. It was never yours to begin with.

Human’s didn’t belong in the kingdom of heaven; they didn’t belong at all. Why was the Lord so infatuated with his creation? Human’s fascinated you, the ability to come back from sin and earn their place in the holy kingdom. It wasn’t forced but advised. Sin still existed and you could choose to break the 10 commandments. Choice. You wanted to choose your life not be bound to a memory of someone else and forced through the wrongdoings as if it were prophesied.

You could have been good if someone bothered to explain your questions. Always being brush off to the side caused you to rebel. You can’t do this without any explanation as to why. Archangel Michael brought up your status as replacement constantly but if your ‘predecessor’ was here he wouldn’t speak a word.

“I’ll see you at the end times,” were the last words you said to the angel. The man will have a special role in the end times [“For the Lord Himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so, we will be with the Lord forever. (1 Thessalonians 4:16-1 7)”] Now with knowledge of the end, you didn’t believe that for one second.

“Catch her! Stop Y/N!” The angles that guarded the gates of heaven shouted as you ran through people’s heaven’s gate crashing and accidentally destroying them in the process. You jumped from room to room, hiding amongst people’s belongings to lose the guards chasing you.

The group zoomed past. You sighed before stepping out of your hideaway. The air was musky, you got the sense you weren’t home anymore. Your powers were unhinged, unable to control them was becoming more dangerous than ever.

Accidentally transmuting into an unknown location was never good.

You’ve stepped into the devil’s den.

You wandered, getting your bearings. It was all too new to you, how where you expected to follow along?

You stumbled into him, the man you were designed after.

You resonated with his actions and logic, maybe because you were him in some way. That’s the problem with the likeness, the blurred line between who you are and who you are seen to be. If he betrayed, then, so would you?

He wasn’t like you expected, rude or demeaning. He was cunning, motivated by ill-intent, but who’s to judge if it’s morally good or bad? Those concepts confused you, bad could be good in another’s eyes.

The man knew who you were exactly, rumours of your creation spread fast in the spirit world. “Sister. I didn’t expect to meet you so soon. I would have prepared for your arrival.” He offered his land to you, to help rule his throne. He had bigger plans for the end times than he let on. He fed into your desire, the same confusion he had experienced at the beginning of his rebellion.

He offered you whatever you could have wanted in order to steal you from the grips of your creator. “I want to understand the purpose of all of this. Why are humans so important? Why are expected to follow subserviently?” A life of my own.

“Then go, seek out your own answers and when you get bored or don’t like the answers that you find, there’s a place for you here.”

“How do I get there? I don’t have control-” You’d gotten there by mistake, you couldn’t your powers yet. The angels expected you to which is how the ruckus in heaven began.

The former angel chuckled and explained that earth would be a perfect playing ground for you to learn them for yourself. He kindly answered your question, “Think of suddenly being were you want to go and step forward. You’ll be incognito unless you want to be seen. No angel has had long term exposure to humans, who knows the damages it could cause”.

You found yourself amidst a sandstorm. You knew few things destinations on earth, but you knew one that would be a good starting ground… Eden. Sand flew everywhere. You covered your eyes protecting it from the granules flying everywhere.

Along your journey you find a woman stranded, you called out to her. She sheltered herself with the fabric, she peered up slightly to catch a glimpse at you. Her face was scratched raw in placed due to the environment. You extended your hand out to help her, you noticed the red bloodstain on her clothing. “Are you injured?” you asked. The woman didn’t understand you. Either of you spoke the others language. You sighed, using your index and middle finger and guided her to shut her eyelids. You pulled the woman close before placing a hand on her wound healing her. You sheltered the woman from the storm, extending your wings and wrapping them around her to protect her.

She was your first. Your first living human interaction, friend, lover. It only lasted a couple of weeks before the side effects happened. There was a reason you weren’t meant to be down there for long. Her body broke down in your presence. Each day there was less and less to love. She was your first heartbreak. Your first death.

A day after her death you found Eden. You buried her underneath the tree of knowledge in hopes that her death wasn’t a waste. Countless followed her, all meeting the same fate. You saved women only to cause them more harm. None complained nor blamed you for you had ‘saved them’ in one way or another.

It got to a point you would only show if called upon. You always took a trinket, it could have been the kleptomaniac on you and occasionally, for your favourites, you stole ideas from them, and she ware them when they died. Most of your clothes were from other people including the frame of the glasses you wore at the academy.

Heartbreak, betrayal, lust, Lost. Happiness, unity, fulfilment. Kindness generosity. This is what it’s like to be human. There is no one way to live but through your life, you experience a lot, both positive and negative.

Somehow, in your darkest hour there was light. You managed to befriend a young man; his name long escapes you. He was a descendant of the Salem witches. Up until this point you knew nothing of magic users among the earth. Throughout your years your friendship blossomed. You limited your interactions with the man for his safety. The man became the chancellor (two before Ariel Augustus) as well as taught at the school he attended in his youth. From time to time you haunted the halls. Towards the end of his days, he offered you something to mend your soul.

To truly understand something, you must see it up close, to experience something (by either firsthand or by a secondary source) and to formulate your own ideas on it. You made it clear why you were on earth and though you had understood what it was like, it wasn’t enough.

“To tell you the truth, this may not be the best idea.” A cigarette in hand, you flicked off the ash into a tray nearby. You never said it was going to be the best idea. “You’ve gone in too deep. Someone’s going to get hurt-” You raise your hand cutting him off by their fear of you alone.

“I’d call you a friend,”

“Thank you?”

“I’d hate to see you die too.” You brought your cigarette up to your lips, inhaling the deathly sweet smoke that has and will kill many. “But you treat me as a god and not an equal. I am no different than you. You see, I have to do this. You aren’t the first to confuse me for something better and if I am to truly understand, I must live in your shoes. Submit myself entirely to science.”

“But this can’t be done the way you plan without flaw.”

“So, let there be flaws.” Your friend, the man you’d been with since he was a young man, who dedicated his whole life to you was in disbelief. You were driving yourself into insanity and in turn bring him down with you, for he worshipped you, claiming he had found god reincarnated. But the man was wrong, you were no god.

“And when it’s all done, what of it then?”

“That won’t happen until the end times.”

In your final hours, you sat down with a piece of parchment and a pen. You weren’t sure why he believed they would take you. You gathered he would put in a word with the staff of the establishment that you belonged, whether they believed the man, only time would tell, you thought as you sealed the letter.

An identity spell only lasts until the death of the caster, to ensure it lasts longer as secondary plan was devised. Capsules containing the powered used in the spell could need to be ingested. Once they wear off, related stimuli could jog the memory.

When you awoke from the spell. You stood outside the gates of Miss Robichaux’s, letter in hand anxious for your years to come.

~~~

“Did you get the answers you wanted?”

You got answers you sought. You understood their purpose. Humans were playthings for the Gods. A hobby to waste away at. A game gone wrong. A game you had power over. A game you were breaking all the rules for being down here. You weren’t your brother, you weren’t tossed aside, you shouldn’t be down here. Your friends, all those you forgot about. There were too many. You needed to go back to see them. But you can’t, you ran off.

“So, you’re my nephew? You better not start calling me Aunty, I’m too young for that.”

“It’s good to finally meet you, truly.”

You paused for a moment, thinking about how you felt about all of this. Numb? “Same with you, Mickey.”

“You still going with that?”

“Yes, and now you can’t stop me, I’m your aunt-”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Shut up, I’m your boss now- Kidding.” Michael scowled at your comment. “In all honesty though we should get to work on this place. Torch it?”

“Why the rush? We got a year to waste.”

#cordelia x reader #cordelia foxx x reader #cordelia goode x reader

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moveslikebuckywrites · 5 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: The Bentley (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens) - Character Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Moving In Together, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens) Series: Part 4 of Weeklyverse Summary:

“Alright you lot,” the Gardener surveys his charges with a judgmental gaze, “today is the day we’ve been waiting for, that I’ve been waiting for. And I won’t have anyone sticking a leaf out of line.”

Gardener marched among the greenery like a general preparing them for battle. Not that plants understood such things.

They did understand that Gardener was anxious, nervous, and possibly, deep down where he’d never admit it, just a little bit scared.

A scared Gardener was a vengeful Gardener, even the Seedlings knew that.

------ Gardener is acting strangely and all the plants are more terrified than usual.

READ IT UNDER THE CUT:

Dramatis Personae:

Puck, a Fiddle-Leaf Fig – Planted 1987, the youngest of the named ones. Very kind and considerate, although fairly naïve. Was stolen from a neighbor taking poor care of him.

Benedick, a Dracaena Massangeana – Planted 1967. Purchased on impulse during a depressive episode. Because of this, they are highly volatile and very negative. Does not get along with Hamlet.

Hamlet, a Diffenbrachia – Planted 1964. A gift from a certain angel to a certain demon, and therefore the demon could not get rid of it. Soft and kind, but not naïve like Puck. As a gift from a being of love, Hamlet is generally good-tempered, but does not get along with Benedick.

Eve, a Devil’s Ivy – Planted 4004 BC. The first time. Has been replanted several hundred times by now. Intense and intimidating, keeps the others in line.

The Seedlings – Planted two weeks ago. Tiny sprouts of we-aren’t-sure-what, newly clinging to life and amazed at the world around them.

Bentley – A car with a bit of a mind of its own.

Gardener – A demon

Sunshine – An angel

For convenience’s sake, and because it is the assumption of the narrator that most individuals do not, in fact, speak plant; dialogue has been translated into standard English and actions have been described with approximation to things of human understanding where applicable.

Thank you and have a nice day.

---

Gardener marched among the greenery like a general preparing them for battle. Not that plants understood such things.

They did understand that Gardener was anxious, nervous, and possibly, deep down where he’d never admit it, just a little bit scared.

A scared Gardener was a vengeful Gardener, even the Seedlings knew that.

They cowered and trembled, which seemed to placate the Gardener slightly.

“I don’t see any spots now and I don’t want to see any in the future,” the Gardener grimaced at them all, “you know what happens then. Just because we’ll be in a new place, doesn’t mean that changes. I want you all to have it straight before we go there.”

He gave the room one last glare, “I’ll be back for you lot soon.”

And Gardener left, shutting off all the lights and slamming the door on his way out. The sound reverberated through the empty flat. The plants were the only things left in the apartment at this point. Statues, paintings, furniture – all gone.

All in the flat was silent for a few moments, before a rustling of leaves could be heard.

“Is he gone?” Puck asked quietly.

“Believe so,” said Hamlet, “wonder what all of that was about.”

“Gardener said we were going somewhere, that’s never a good thing. What could it be? Who here has spots! Did someone get spots?” Benedick was prone to panic, and today wasn’t going to be any different.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hamlet tutted, “he just said none of us have spots.”

“Spots! Spots! The dreaded spots,” the Seedlings shivered and shook, “what will we do, what will we do!”

“Hush now, little ones,” Puck cooed at them, brushing one of their leaves across the tops of the Seedlings in a comforting gesture, “there’s not a spot to be seen on any of you, it’ll all be fine.”

“Fine? FINE?” Benedick shook violently, “listen to yourself, Puck, he’s taking us somewhere, Gardener only takes plants somewhere when they’re destined for the landfill! We’ve disappointed him somehow!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Benedick,” Hamlet piped up from his place across the room. Gardener had learned a long time ago (relatively) not to put them near each other. Pots would be mysteriously broken the next day, “We’ve no sooner disappointed him than we’ve sprouted wings to fly.”

“Shut up, you insufferable old fool.”

“I most certainly will not, especially not for you. Everyone knows who the insufferable pit of despair is around here is.”

Would that one could see a plant sulk, one would’ve seen a sulking Dracaena.

“Now see here,” Hamlet continued, ignoring the sulking, “if I have told you once, Benedick, I have told you a million times! We are all stuck here together and that is that, we must at least try to get along!”

“I’d sooner be engulfed in Hellfire.”

“Oh, don’t be so overdramatic.”

“Don’t be so insufferable!”

“Everybody, quiet!” Eve, the ancient Devil’s Ivy in the corner of the room shouted, “you youngsters are all the same, panicking at the smallest change.”

“Easy for you to say,” Benedick shook in a very beleaguered way, “you’ve been with Gardener forever!”

“Since the beginning, yes, and this will be fine as well. Gardener may bluster, but he is a loyal one. He cares for all of us deeply.”

Benedick scoffed in a plantly way, “He’s got a connection with you! Don’t you remember what happened to Prospero?”

Prospero, as it were, was an aspidistra that Gardener had acquired in 1956. They are commonly known as “Cast-Iron Plants” for their hardy nature and are, generally, very difficult to kill. This one had been a bit overly sensitive to Gardener’s methods. He lived until 1975, when his leaves started to wilt and brown and he met his fate at the hands of the ever-ruthless Gardener. And possibly a flamethrower.

“Prospero was weak of both mind and leaf, Benedick, you know that as well as I do. Too soft, that one.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that we’re in danger, Eve, surely you must notice?”

“Gardener works in his own mysterious ways. Whatever happens to us will happen, and there’s very little we can do to change that.”

They had always had a way of bringing conversations to a halting conclusion. They exuded a particular intensity that only came from being over 6000 years old.

Eve, just as their namesake, had been here since Eden. Carried in the folds of a black robe as a small clipping; grown into a behemoth on the walls of Babylon. In some form and in some way, Eve had always been with Gardener. He would take clippings of them, even when they flourished, and preserve them. If anything happened to Eve themselves, they would come back just as surely as the sun rises.

Eve had seen thousands of other plants over the years gain this semblance of sentience. If they were honest, they liked this group best. If they were honest, they were looking forward to seeing what kind of plants the small Seedlings would become.

If they were honest, they were a bit concerned.

Eve had seen Gardener this nervous before; Eve had seen a lot of things. Most recently in 1967, right before Benedick had joined them all. Once in 1862, which had led to a very long nap that (if it had not been for Sunshine) would’ve been the death of them1.

Eve had survived that; they would survive this too.

Eve remembered the first time Gardener was this nervous. All the way in Eden, while he had tended to those gardens. They had another gardener in Eden, a being in white. That gardener didn’t understand them, didn’t understand motivation.

Gardener, their Gardener, could. He saw the potential in them way back then, to spread across and choke off other life. To invade and to conquer. The Devil’s Ivy was a plant with ambition2.

Behind the back of the one in white, Gardener tended to the plants of Eden. He would wait until nightfall, keeping the guise of a serpent during the day. He made sure they were motivated, made sure they stayed green. The trees and shrubs held the most succulent and juicy fruits and berries that the world would ever see (they would never see the likes of these again).

Eve (then of no name) had been his favorite, and thus had been imprinted with this being’s occult energy. This led to sentience, quicker than one might presume. This one was a demon, Would-Be-Eve had surmised. This demon had too many emotions to keep to himself.

He talked to Would-Be-Eve, quite a bit in the early days. That’s how Eve had known about Sunshine.

“Bright as the blasted sun, wouldn’t even believe it!” Gardener had told them once about the angel he would watch guarding the gate.

But then the apple, then the end of their little garden. Gardener had lashed out. At Not-Yet-Eve, at the fruit trees, and the shrubbery, at all of it.

“I just needed a bit more time, sod this, everything blows up in my damn face!”

Not-Yet-Eve could see through this, Gardener was scared. Scared to talk to the one who was as bright as the sun. He’d had his tantrum, then he’d sunk to the ground with his head in his hands.

Soon-To-Be-Eve had done the only thing they could think to do, they stretched out a tendril of vine and softly stroked it through his hair. A simple gesture, from a simple Ivy.

“Bollocks to this,” Gardener had shot straight up from the ground, “it can’t be that bloody difficult, can it? I can just…talk to him, right?”

Nearly-Eve gave an unnoticed approximation of a nod.

“Right, that’s what I’ll do then, yes,” and with that Gardener had started off (no less anxious or scared) in the direction of the Eastern Gate, and the one who shined like the sun. At twenty paces, he turned on his heel and came back.

“But first, I think I need a souvenir,” he produced a thin blade from his robes and took a cutting of Nearly-Eve, “I’ll call you Eve, love a plant with ambition. She had ambition, too.”

Gardener had grinned mischievously as he tucked the clipping safely in his robes before shifting into his snake form and ascending the wall. Eve had been with him ever since.

This mood that had come over Gardener was, admittedly, a bit distressing. Things usually went badly for at least one of his plants in these moods.

“When was it we last saw Sunshine?” Eve asked their surrounding brethren.

The air grew a bit thicker with the effort of several sentient -albeit unwittingly- beings trying to think. Puck finally spoke up.

“He was here two weeks ago,” the fiddleleaf says thoughtfully, “right before all of Gardener’s things started disappearing.”

The plants all stood stock still, coming to a daunting realization. One they’d had several times over their combined decades.

“Oh no,” said Benedick, “you don’t think…it's...it's been months!”

“Oh dear, I think I do,” Hamlet answered shakily.

“He couldn’t possibly, after everything?” Puck stammered, “Eve, what do you think.”

If a plant could look deep in thought, Eve did. They sat silent for several minutes formulating their answer.

“My friends, my fellow botanicals. I believe we must come to terms with the fact that Sunshine has left Gardener once again.”

A gasp amongst all the flora. The Seedlings start to cry.

“Sunshine! Sunshine! No! No!”

“He’s very volatile in this state,” Eve continues, “there’s no predicting what he will do.”

“Last time he was in this state I got stuck with this insufferable bastard,” Hamlet gestures towards Benedick with one of his leaves.

Before Benedick can form a response, the door slams back open.

“I’m back,” Gardener coos in a demented singsong voice, “I hope you’re all ready to go to your new home. I hope you’ve had time to think on yourselves and how you’ll behave in your new spaces.”

Gardener picks up the tray of Seedlings, who start to shiver and tremble. He stares into their tiny leaves.

“I hope you won’t disappoint me,” he spits out the venom-laced words, as much a promise as a threat.

“I will make one exception for this lot because they are fragile,” he glared around the room at the shaking leaves, “the rest of you be ready you’ll be downstairs soon.”

Gardener walks out the door with the tray of Seedlings, impervious to their screams for help, slamming it behind him again.

“Oh dear, oh dear, not the little ones,” Puck starts to fret, “they’re so young, narry a spot to be seen! What on earth could be going on?”

“Please don’t let us be going to that god-forsaken car,” said Benedick, who had no fondness for the Bentley or it’s extreme speeds. They still had nightmares (or the plant approximation of them) of the day they’d been purchased.

“Where else do you expect us to be if he’s taking us somewhere, you idiot,” Hamlet huffed.

“Everyone just be calm,” Eve said with authority, “fret too much you’ll get a spot; wherever we’re going is wherever it will be and that’s all that we can know. The curse of being a sentient plant, as it were.”

Eve had barely had the chance to speak when they heard the telltale pop of a shift in existence. One second they had been in the flat, absorbing what sunshine the floor to ceiling windows would allow, and now they were all secured in the Bentley; back seats miraculously gone, and cabin expanded to fit them all snugly.

“Uncle Puck! Uncle Puck!” the Seedlings chorused from the front passenger seat, where their starter tray had been secured.

“Oh! My little dears!” Puck reached out a leave to stroke the tops of them again, “You aren’t hurt, are you? Of course, you’re not! Oh, thank goodness!”

Though the space had been extended, it was still fairly limited. As such, Hamlet and Benedick are shoved into each other’s personal space in a way they’ve never had to contend with.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no, not you why you! Blasted metal contraption!” Benedick said in a panic, “And you get out of my leaves!”

“You get out of mine first, imbecile!” Hamlet retorted.

The Bentley’s motor just hummed contentedly.

Eve actually rather liked Bentley. Besides them, the old car had been around the longest. They’d had a few nice conversations in the past. Occult-made sentient beings that should never have been sentient in the first place were rather few and far between, and Eve liked to keep their social channels open.

Eve reached out an ivy leaf and patted the back of the driver’s seat, “How’ve you been, old friend, I rarely get to see you these days.”

A slight shift in engine noise that could be mistaken for a Oh, you know, same old same old.

“Right, of course. Any idea where we’re going today?”

Before Bentley could answer, Gardener had returned. He climbed in the driver’s seat and turned to face the four of them.

“Alright now, we won’t be on the road long, but I don’t want to see a single leaf out of place,” he grimaced at them, “If you get dirt on my car, you’ll meet the disposal.”

The plants shivered in terror as they usually did, but Eve couldn’t help but notice Gardener stroke a reverent hand over the top of the Seedlings before giving them a quiet smile.

Hmm, that’s interesting.

Before Eve could finish the thought, the Bentley shot off like a lightning bolt.

They must’ve been going well over 100, weaving and dodging through the midday London traffic. Wherever Gardener wanted to be he wanted to be there in a hurry. This didn’t stop him from continually glancing in the mirror, almost more than necessary.

Benedick and Hamlet screamed, wrapping what leaves they could around each other. Puck tried his best to reassure the Seedlings, who were terrified in their own right.

Eve, always stalwart, was beginning to think their initial assessment may have been off. The reverent hand almost petting the Seedlings, mentions of a new home, the way Gardener had made sure all of them would be safe and secure.

Gardener was nervous and anxious, but this was a different kind altogether than Eve had seen before. And Eve realized, his glances in the mirror weren’t at traffic, but at them.

His prized plants riding in the backseat of the fastest car in London.

“Everyone,” Gardener shouted as they hit the heavy traffic of Piccadilly Circus3, “this is the last thing I’m going to say before we get there. Things are going to be different now; very, very different. For all of you. For all of us.”

Eve rolled Gardener’s words over their roots. The other three continued to shake, and the Seedlings continued to cry.

“I hope,” Gardener said with a sigh, “that this is the right thing. I hope we don’t have to go back.”

We, the Devil’s Ivy puzzled, we, we, we. Curious.

“Because if we do, I don’t know how I’ll survive it.”

Was it just Eve’s imagination or did Gardener’s voice just crack? Couldn’t be, semi-sentient plants didn’t have that much imagination. Gardener was very, very scared.

“You’ll all be lovely, and he’ll love all of you,” the distinct hint of a sniffle, “it’s if he can deal with me or if I’m gonna break this.”

The others had now caught up with the situation. Hamlet and Benedick had relaxed and were trying very hard not to look like they’d just jumped out of each other's leaves. Puck seemed to be on the verge of crying themselves, though that was nothing new.

“I don’t know how much you lot actually listen to the shit that I say,” Gardener continued, “but I’ve always felt like you could hear me in some way. I’m terrified. Absolutely scared shitless right now.”

He took a long steadying breath, the Seedlings leaned towards him in their tiny plastic starter pots. Eve began to reach out a tendril.

“What if I’m not what he expects? What if we do this, and he regrets everything? He can’t go back to Heaven there’s nowhere else for him and if I fuck this up…Go-Sat-SOMEBODY if I fuck this up there’s no going back to how things were.”

And there it is, Eve thought to themselves, that same old fear from the garden. Rejection.

The traffic at this point is at a standstill, and Gardener’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. Eve continues reaching and snakes their tendril up to run through Gardener’s hair, comforting him just like they did 6000 years ago.

Gardener freezes.

“I knew I hadn’t imagined that,” the coldness in his voice gives Eve pause, “you’ve all gone sentient, haven’t you?” Eve answers by flicking his ear. “Well, you have at least. Old sod.”

A crackling of static from the radio, and the voice of Freddie fills the car as it has so many times before:

It's a hard life

To be true lovers together

To love and live forever in each other’s hearts

It's a long hard fight

To learn to care for each other

To trust in one another right from the start

When you're in love

“Oh, now the bloody car is gonna give me advice? You too, then?” He raps his knuckles on the dashboard, “got a bit of unknown brainery going on in there I need to know about, eh?”

The Bentley vrooms in response. It might’ve sounded something like for about thirty years now, thanks for noticing.

Eve suppresses a shake that could be mistaken for a chuckle as the traffic starts to thin.

“Alright, fine, you’re right. And, unfortunately, that does make sense,” Gardener runs a hand through his hair exasperatedly, “taking advice from a fucking car what the Heaven comes next.”

As they pull up in front of the bookshop, the plants can already feel the glow from Sunshine inside. Given how fast he moves, he’d been watching from the window for Gardener to arrive.

“Crowley, there you are,” he says, sounding fidgety, “I was starting to worry you might’ve changed your mind.”

Gardener closes the distance between them, planting a kiss on Sunshine’s forehead, “Never, Angel, just had to get the rascals in line, you know how it is.”

He circles the car and picks up the tray of Seedlings, who immediately lean towards Sunshine.

“Oy! Traitors! Every last one of you!” Gardener starts towards the door, “just gonna put these on the roof, make ‘em a nice little place outside.”

“That sounds lovely, dearest, I’ll be up to help once I take care of the others.”

“Y’don’t have to, Angel, I’ll be back down for them.”

“No,” Sunshine says, looking pensive, “I think if I’m adopting them, I must get better acquainted, yes?”

“Ngk,” is all Gardener can manage to say as his face goes red and he stammers incoherently on his way into the shop. Sunshine chuckles to himself before leaning into the car towards the rest of them.

“Hello lovelies,” he says, radiating that glow that leads them to call him Sunshine in the first place. All four of them are drawn to it like moths to flames. Or plants to sunlight. Pick your metaphor, if you’d like.

“I understand this will be a bit different for you,” he pauses and spares a glance behind him to the open door, “it will be a big change for all of us, I believe.”

He absentmindedly strokes a hand over one of Hamlet’s leaves, “A change for the better, of course.” At this, Gardener finally returns to join him.

“Hey, don’t give them ideas.”

Sunshine smiles at him, “Oh but they’re so lovely, darling, you’re just too hard on them.”

“I’m just as hard on them as I need to be,” Gardener glowers at them, “aren’t I, my friends.”

The immediate shaking of four large plants in a big black vintage car assuages him for now, and with a snap of his fingers all four of them find themselves relocated to their new homes in the bookshop.

“We could’ve just carried them, dear,” Sunshine says, looping his arm through Gardener’s.

“Eh, possibly,” the demon shrugs, “But this keeps them on their toes. Er…roots. I don’t speak plant.”

Though maybe I should learn, he thinks to himself.

---

Epilogue…6 months later…

The corner window of the bookshop is a lovely place to exist, Eve thinks to themselves often. Lots of sunlight, a lovely view, and their new favorite pastime.

Target practice.

Having a sentient plant around the bookshop has done wonders for the customers, and Sunshine has never been happier.

Neither, it would seem, has Gardener. There’s an old wingback chair posted by Eve’s position and, during the day, it’s one of Gardener’s favorite places. True to his thoughts, Gardener had somehow learned to speak plant. Which was a good thing, because with Puck minding the Seedlings (now fully immersed in their ‘rebellious teenager’ phase) in the rooftop greenhouse, and Hamlet and Benedick taking up a peaceful cohabitation in the kitchen; Eve had been feeling quite out of the loop.

“Sorry it’s a bit spaced out, old friend,” Gardener tells them, “It’ll get better though. Good work with the customers, I’ll never get tired of them running from creeping vines.”

Eve notices a woman reaching for one of the Wilde first editions and lashes out a tendril to snap at her hand.

“Your aim is getting better, too.”

Eve would wonder sometimes if Gardener talked to the others like this now, without the venom and the threats4.

You seem happy these days, Eve entreats with the various swaying of leaves, moreso than I’ve ever seen you.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Gardener was smiling more these days. He was content, something Eve had never thought their anxiety-ridden Gardener could be. Plants weren’t the only beings who needed Sunshine, it would seem.

“Thank you, by the way.”

Whatever for? Eve rustled, confused.

“Eden," Gardener said quietly, seeming a bit far off, "you listened back then, too. Helped, a bit, I guess. If, and that’s a big if, I had to admit it.”

There isn’t a need for that either, you’re the reason I’m not still there.

“In any case, if I hadn’t talked to Angel that day…” he trailed off as he sipped his coffee.

It had been so apparent, even in those first few weeks, that this was where Gardener belonged. Not this bookshop, necessarily, but wherever Sunshine was. Even through the tussles that come with any blending of houses, they never faltered in their love for each other. No matter who left the dirty dishes in the sink or forgot to take out the trash.

“We’ll move out of London at some point, of course,” Gardener said, “nice place in the country, with big windows. We’ll get the gang back together; I know you miss them.”

Oddly enough I do, it’s awful quiet without Hamlet and Benedick’s bickering.

“Truth be told they aren’t doing much of that these days,” Gardener said with a smile.

“That’ll be quite enough customers for today,” they heard Sunshine say on the other side of the shop as he flipped the little CLOSED sign on the door, “ready to head up, dearest?”

“At three in the afternoon, Angel?” Gardener laughed, “Any special reason for closing early?”

“Do I need a special reason to spend time with my husband?” Sunshine asked before taking Gardener’s hand and pulling him up from the chair.

“Lead the way then,” he gestured grandly towards the staircase, kissing the hand entwined with his own, “husband.”

Sunshine led Gardener back up the staircase, and he looked back one last time at the Ivy and gave them a wink.

If plants were able to smile, Eve would. Instead they focused on a rather pesky housefly that had been bothering them most of the afternoon. They'd get the bugger this time.

In a couple of years there would be a little cottage in the South Downs, with too many windows for too many potted plants. The Seedlings would grow and come into their own, Hamlet and Benedick would grow almost as close as Sunshine and Gardener, and Puck would continue to watch over whatever new sprouts came to be.

Eve, however, would become part of the back garden, helping Gardener make sure the trees and shrubs held the most succulent and juicy fruits and berries that the world had ever seen.

A six-thousand-year-old Devil’s Ivy is a very intimidating thing.

Especially one with absolutely impeccable aim.

---

1 – Sunshine, unbeknownst to Gardener, had made a habit of coming by and watering the plants. However, Sunshine had whatever the opposite of a green thumb was and none except Eve had survived. Eve had survived solely because they didn’t want to disappoint Sunshine.

2 – Devil’s Ivy, as it is, is extremely invasive in tropical climates. It has a habit of completely devouring forest floors and causing extreme disruption in the environment. And if Gardener can take credit for the destruction at his job, well, it’s just a symbiotic relationship.

3 – There are only two motorways that are impervious to Gardener’s and the Bentley’s occult powers. The M25 and Piccadilly Circus in rush hour.

4 – He, of course, is not as nice to the other plants. Some considerations had been made for the one member of his garden that had been there since the beginning.

#good omens #fic #my fic #crowley #aziraphale #crowley's plants #ineffable outliers #this is 4.5k words of fic from the perspective of some plants #and I'm not gonna go through and fix all the italics #they're right on ao3 #xD

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superwho-am-i-kidding · 4 years

Text

Stars In Our Hearts ~ Chapter 6

So I’ve had some downtime the past couple of days and have managed to write another chapter! We’ve now succumbed to the angst that has always been inevitable. You’re welcome.

PREVIOUS/NEXT

It had been ages now since Crowley had last been to Hell. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t remember each twist and turn of the corridors as if he had never been gone. He had, after all, spent centuries down there before he was sent to Eden, and subsequently, Earth. The walls were still covered from floor to ceiling with mold and uninspiring posters.

Previously when the demon Crowley entered Hell, there would be a large to-do. He was known to have been one of Hell’s favorite operatives and therefore had gotten away with far more than the average demon would have. But since his trial and attempted execution, he became one of the most feared demons in Hell. They avoided his cold stare as much as possible, slinking away to other corners of Hell to avoid the demon known as Crowley. Therefore, it was silent when he appeared. His sunglasses had been discarded in the Bentley along with his patience. Fury was rolling off of him in waves, the sheer amount of it enough to terrify any demon within a hundred miles. The hallways had become empty the moment he descended the staircase.

He brushed down hall after hall, the sound of sizzling mold echoing throughout the realm due to the flames shooting from his silhouette. Posters curled into themselves and fell to the floor as the demon passed. When he reached the door he sought, Crowley growled. “What did you do?!” he kicked the door into Beelzebub’s office.

They hardly looked up from their desk, unperturbed about the intrusion. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Beelzebub continued scratching out their paperwork.

“My daughter,” Crowley hissed venomously, slinking closer to the desk on the far side of the room. “What have you done with her?”

The demon finally looked up from their work. “We both know that Hell and I had nothing to do with the disappearance of your spawn. You’re barking down the wrong tree.”

“Sssstop trying my patienccccee!”

“Look,” Beelzebub stood, pushing themselves up with their palms on the rotting wood desk. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Crowley. Threaten me all you like, but it won’t bring her back.”

“What do you know?” Crowley’s voice had begun to collapse, coming out hoarse and small. The flames slowly began to die around him, his whole body sagging. “I’m begging you: tell me what they’ve done with her. Please.”

“Crowley, I don’t like you, and you know this.” The flies moved a little slower, their buzzing faint as Beelzebub continued to watch the demon fall apart. “But I honestly don’t know what they’ve done or what they’re planning to do.”

Crowley slumped to his knees, tears forming in his eyes as he looked up. “Do you know anything?”

Beelzebub sighed. “Gabriel asked for my help. I told him I wasn’t interested and to get lost. He never told me any details.”

Crowley thought back to the stench that had crowded the bookshop. Angel, with a little bit of demon. Gabriel with the trace of Hell. “He took her…” Crowley looked back to the ground. “He took her and I don’t know why…”

“You want to know why?” Beelzebub scoffed. “You’re not very bright if you couldn’t figure it out.” Crowley glared at them. “Alright. It’s because that thing’s a threat.”

“Carina is not a thing!” Crowley sprang up. “She is my daughter!”

“Heaven sees her as a threat, like I said. There’s never been anything like her and her powers are something that Heaven wants for themselves. If she even has any,” Beelzebub shrugged. “They really don’t know what she can do; if she can do anything at all. But they’re not above doing everything they can to figure it out.”

“Help me get her back,” Crowley said.

Beelzebub sighed again, sitting back down. “No.”

The anger flared back up inside of Crowley. “No?”

“You knew what my answer was going to be,” they said calmly. “You knew and you asked anyway. Crowley, I can’t risk myself for you. In case you don’t remember, I still hate you. And I’m not going to do something nice for your just for the heaven of it.”

Crowley nodded slowly, the anger melting away again. He did know that it was a lost cause asking for Beelzebub’s help, but he didn’t have any other option. “So what do I do now?”

“Send that angel of yours to Heaven and have him bring his sword. Then you may get somewhere. But I can guarantee you that you’re not going to find help down here.”

Crowley left the office and slowly made his way back to the stairwell that would bring him back to Earth. He briefly contemplated just staying in Hell so he wouldn’t have to see the pain on the angel’s face when he gave him the news. The thing that made him climb the stairs was the thought that if he didn’t go back he would lose Aziraphale too. And he couldn’t lose both of them.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale had been sitting in the Bentley, wringing his hands together while he waited for the demon to return. “Crowley, did you hear anything?”

Crowley slid into the driver’s seat. “It was Gabriel,” he said. “Beelz knows nothing. Hell knows nothing. I know nothing…” He sat still for a moment before he buried his face in his hands and began to sob. “Aziraphale, I don’t know what to do! Heaven took her. What if this was all part of the Plan?” he turned to the angel. “What if She meant for this to happen all along? What if we were just pawns to create Her something new, something with powers that rivaled Her own?”

“No, I… I can’t believe that,” Aziraphale shook his head. “The Almighty wouldn’t do something like that.”

“No?” Crowley bitterly shook his head. “What about the flood? All those children gone just because She was mad at some of the adults. She’s never been afraid of bloodshed, angel. I wouldn’t put it past Her to do something like this. To take a child–to take our child–because she posed a threat to Her supreme rule.”

“Crowley, stop that!” Aziraphale shouted, tears in his eyes as well. “I can’t believe that! I won’t believe that. I’m going to talk to Gabriel myself. And Michael if need be.”

“Why would they tell you anything, angel?” Crowley asked. “Why would they tell you the truth?”

“I…” Aziraphale shook his head. “I need to try.”

Crowley nodded, tears streaking down his face. “Be careful, angel. I can’t lose you.”

Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together. “I love you, my dear. And I’m not going to leave you.”

#stars in our hearts #my writing #good omens #good omens fic #angst #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #a z fell #crowley #a j crowley #anthony j crowley

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sweetlangdon · 5 years

Text

From Eden: Chapter 5

Notes: Michael Langdon x Reader/OC. Evil Power Couple fic. It’s difficult to write a summary for this one, because I don’t want to give away the twists. (It’ll also include canon rewrite/divergence for the later half of the season.) It has plenty of angst and fluff, and a bit of character study.

Warnings: Swearing, blood, murder, graphic violence, mentions of physical abuse.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Also Available on AO3

Her shoulder knocked into Michael’s as they walked, their laughter piercing the quiet of the neighborhood. Crickets thrummed in the grass and somewhere a few streets over a dog barked incessantly. She tried to tell him to keep his voice down when they approached her house, but it was no use—the two of them were caught in a cycle of infectious giggling. It was late and they were tired; so tired that everything became hilarious no matter how little it made sense. She would’ve crashed in the guest bedroom at Miriam’s if it wasn’t a school night. She’d spent the evening in their warm kitchen, the aroma of baking cookies lingering in the air long after she and Michael had finished devouring them. They played cards at the kitchen table for hours, gambling with chocolate chips and stealing the piping hot cookies off the cooling racks when Miriam wasn’t looking. Miriam warned Michael not to cheat while she gathered the necessary ingredients for a ritual that she hoped would cause a nasty septic leak in her aunt’s yard tomorrow night. Miriam had asked her if she wanted to participate and she was practically bouncing at the idea of savoring her aunt’s misery once her garden flooded.

She won a handful of times, but she knew Michael cheated or at least had some sort of preternatural insight that she didn’t possess that gave him an advantage. She wondered if he’d let her win. Michael’s poker face was impossible to break unless she gave him a jab in the shin underneath the table, and then he got downright smug.

The laughter died on her lips. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Michael’s smile faltered.

“They weren’t supposed to be home.” The porch light illuminated the driveway and the glossy windows of her parents’ car. The front door was open. They’d been waiting up for her. “You should probably go before they see you.”

Michael tensed beside her, then shook his head. He stared at her like it was ridiculous that she’d even considered it.

“No, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Their heads turned at once toward the porch from where they’d stopped at the end of the driveway. Her mother barged through the front door with her father trailing behind, both of them playing the part of concerned parents. She thought that maybe they were almost convincing. She wanted to laugh, but her mother’s tone was shrill and hostile and years of shouting matches through thin walls had programmed an automatic anxious response.

“Late,” she answered, stomping up the driveway, trying to stifle the panic that flared at the sound of her mother’s raised voice. Michael followed at her side, the rage inside him beginning to trigger the power he carried. It swept over her skin like fire. “Since when do you care? You’re never home.”

“Your aunt said you never showed up at her house.” Her father planted a hand on his hip as if this happened to be some kind of monumental error on her part, and a reason for them to finally acknowledge that they had a responsibility for her existence.

“I was with Michael,” she answered. “Thought you’d be happy about me making friends—again, not like a single one of you gives a shit.”

“She said this is becoming a habit of yours,” her father continued, conveniently ignoring his sister’s own blatant disinterest. “She’s been worried.”

“Right,” she scoffed. “About losing the bribe money for babysitting me? I could always save you the trouble and just…disappear. Bet you’d love that.”

Michael’s hand clenched into a tight fist—she saw it out of the corner of her eye, felt him quaking with anger next to her as his face hardened and the darkness seeped into his gaze. The rage inside him amplified just before she noticed her father’s grimace. He pressed his fingers to the space between his eyebrows to quell the pain that she imagined had stabbed at him like an ice pick. Blood oozed from his nose and landed on the porch steps, looking almost black away from the light’s reach.

“Enough,” her mother warned. “Inside the house. Now.”

She wrapped her hand over Michael’s wrist, never breaking eye contact with her mother. Her father had already ducked inside, his hands cupped against his bloody nose. “I can handle it from here,” she whispered to him. Michael loosened his hold, and she let go. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Michael’s fingers brushed against hers. “Be careful,” he murmured. His breath ghosted along the shell of her ear. “Don’t ever let them make you feel powerless.”

She shivered when a cool draft replaced the heat of his body and watched his silhouette disappear into the shadows of their tree-lined street. Once the front door slammed shut behind her, she followed the path to the kitchen marked by droplets of crimson on the hardwood floors. Her father was huddled over the sink, a dish towel pressed to his face, her mother hovering next to him.

“I can’t believe you.” Her mother lifted the hand that had been rubbing circles across her father’s back to point an accusing finger. “Doing that out in the open where someone could see you, hurting your father like this. Unacceptable.”

She accepted the blame only because she didn’t want to give them another reason to keep her away from Michael.

“It’s two in the morning,” she reasoned. “If someone around here noticed anything, it was you screaming at me from the porch.”

Her mother’s jaw dropped. Really, she didn’t know where she’d found that scrap of bravery, but it felt like she’d finally hit her breaking point.

“What makes you think you can speak to me like that?”

She scoffed. “I don’t know, why are you so interested in how I occupy my time?” She was seething, and she could feel it spread through her veins like a wildfire. It was a lot more than just simple anger; it had power behind it. “Why the fuck do you want to be my mother all of a sudden?” You gave up on me a long time ago.

Her father wanted to intervene, she could tell, but the dish towel was working overtime to staunch the flow of blood. She had no idea what Michael had done to him, but the result had yet to wear off. Her mother swallowed hard. She’d been caught, and she knew it. There wasn’t any reason to pretend now, no reason to explain away the fact that she’d always come last in the list of her parents’ priorities. That for most of her life, her mother had been afraid of her.

“I don’t like you hanging around that boy,” she continued. “It’s making your affliction worse, I can see it.”

That was her mother’s name for it—an affliction, a curse, for which there’d been no cure. And for a while she’d believed her mother. For years she thought something had been wrong, broken inside of her. That she needed to run from it, bury it and leave it alone.

Not anymore.

Her knuckles went white, her hand shaking as she finally released the anger welling up. Her mother let out a yelp when she slammed into the cabinets, the dishes inside rattling from the impact. She fell to the floor and scrambled until she backed up against the lower cabinets, trying to put as much distance between them as possible.

“Go,” her mother choked out. Her airway was beginning to constrict, the oxygen forced from her lungs at her own command. “Get out of my sight.”

Her mother clutched at her neck, wheezing, trying to suck in a breath. Veins protruded from her temples with the effort, her face going red, then almost pale.

The whisper she’d heard for so long in the static became a scream, that voice calling to her in a language she couldn’t possibly understand. And yet she did. The power that coursed through her seemed different this time; more immense and much more potent. She saw flashes of fire and the darkness seeping down the walls like black paint blossoming in a pool of clear water. The heady scent of charred wood and brimstone engulfed her senses, connecting her to something far greater than herself.

And then something—someone?—knocked her off course, breaking the link. She returned to herself sprawled out on the kitchen floor on her side, and it felt like she’d just woken up from a dream, taken a breath for the first time. A high-pitched droning sound filled her ears, and somewhere there was a distant echo of her father yelling, her mother sobbing hysterically. She blinked until the room came back into focus. In a daze, she crawled off the kitchen floor and swayed on her feet, her hands braced on walls and furniture as she navigated the way to her bedroom.

Her whole body shuddered, the adrenaline and anxiety still alive in her system.She felt like she couldn’t take a deep breath, couldn’t think, couldn’t remember what had happened outside of herself before the fire took over. Her limbs were heavy and her chest hurt. She collapsed into her mattress, listening to the tones of her parents’ raised voices through the walls until she cried herself to sleep.

***

She fled her aunt’s house in the middle of a downpour.

Water that had already pooled on the uneven sidewalks sloshed up her jeans as she dashed through them, soaking the denim. Pressure mounted behind her eyes and burned down the back of her throat from the tears she tried frantically to subdue. She was too busy running to be distracted by it. The sky hung low, the clouds a muddy gray against the encroaching night. The storm didn’t relent just because she was trying to escape, trying to get a handle on her frayed nerves. She was drenched from head to toe by the time she slipped into Miriam’s backyard, the rain a gusty torrent of freezing water that plastered her clothes to her skin.

She leaned against the closed door once she rushed inside, water collecting on the hardwood floor at her feet as it dripped from her clothes and sodden hair. The tears came then—loud, heaving sobs that left her almost bent double from the weight of them. She reached a shaky hand up to her throbbing head and wept harder when her fingers came away bloody.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Miriam took her bruised, bloodied face between her hands. She hadn’t even heard Miriam come into the kitchen, but she nearly collapsed into her kind touch. “What happened? Poor thing, you’re soaked to the bone. Here, sit down…come sit over here…easy, now, that’s it. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

Miriam eased her into one of the chairs at the table while she tried to catch her breath. She tasted iron on her tongue, her bottom lip split open again from the effort of crying. She could smell it all around her, too—her nose had bled, she was sure of it, but most of the scarlet trickling down her face was from the cut along her hairline.

“That awful woman,” Miriam grumbled. “I’m gonna get you cleaned up, don’t you worry.”

“What did she do to you?”

Michael’s voice was pure steel from somewhere behind Miriam, but through the anger that flashed like a storm across his face, she noticed the deep concern. He was at her side a moment later, taking her chin in between his thumb and forefinger with the lightest of touches. The blue of his eyes glistened with fresh tears, but he didn’t let them fall. His thumb traced along the curve of her jaw, careful of the bruise that had started to blossom there.

“We got into an argument…about my mom.” Michael’s hand wandered into her hair and he raked his fingers through the tousled, drenched strands. She sniffled, then winced. “I threw her into a table…I thought she was going to kill me.”

Miriam returned to the kitchen with a first aid kit and a quilted blanket, which she draped around her shoulders. “Is she still breathing?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a damn shame.” Miriam settled into the chair opposite and set to work wiping the blood off her face gingerly. “I should’ve poisoned her a long time ago when I had the chance.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Michael was at the side door in a few paces, but Miriam held up her hand.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

Michael turned sharply. “She can’t keep getting away with this.” The dishes in the cabinets and jars on the counter shuddered from the burst of energy.

“And she won’t,” Miriam promised. “Last thing we need is to do something impulsive and foolish. That won’t help the situation at all—not right now, not tonight. I know you’re angry; hell, so am I, but she’ll get what’s coming to her when the occasion arises. We just have to be smart about it and wait.”

“I don’t want her to get hurt again.” She saw the tremor in his lower lip, even if he fought against it. “If something happens…”

“She’ll be perfectly safe,” Miriam assured. She let out a sharp exhale when the antiseptic came in contact with the open cut that edged her hairline. Miriam took her hand. “You’re staying here with us for the night. You’re not going back there, not if I have anything to say about it.”

“My parents are out of town for the weekend.”

Miriam’s face broke into a broad smile. “Even better.”

***

The patter of raindrops against the window coupled with distant rumbles of thunder was enough to soothe her anxiety at last. She found herself exhausted but unable to sleep. Which was fine because Michael couldn’t sleep, either. She’d crept down the hall from the guest bedroom to his room; he’d been awake, and she’d crawled silently into bed beside him. Without a word, Michael pulled her in close so that she was nestled in the crook of his arm, her head tucked against his chest. The painkillers Miriam had given her earlier were beginning to wear off—her cheek had a dull ache, the laceration on her head a mild annoyance—but there wasn’t anywhere else she wanted to be, not right now.

Michael dragged his fingers lazily through her hair, still damp from the shower she’d taken after Miriam patched up her injuries. At least now the metallic odor of her own blood had been replaced with the floral fragrance of shampoo. She’d borrowed a shirt and a pair of pajama pants from Michael—she really needed to start leaving her own clothes here in case of future emergencies—both of which managed to look a few sizes too big on her slender frame given their height difference. Not that she cared, really; she was warm and comfortable, wrapped up in Michael’s scent with his heart beating beneath her ear.

“It’s good that you radiate heat like a furnace,” she told him. Her voice was hoarse and a little sleepy. “Because I’m still freezing.”

That rain had been colder than she thought, leaving her with a chill she couldn’t quite shake.

She felt the soft vibration of his laughter below her cheek. Michael’s hand traced patterns across her back, warming her skin underneath the fabric of her shirt. His other hand still hadn’t left her hair, and she was quickly becoming lulled by the gentle rhythm of his fingertips.

Michael sighed. It sounded long-suffering to her ears; an exhaustion that she couldn’t fully comprehend.

“If something had happened to you, if she had—”

“Don’t, Michael,” she countered. “Don’t go there.” She draped her arm over his stomach. “I wouldn’t have let her kill me, you know that.”

“I know.” He was quiet for a long minute. “I just…don’t want to lose anyone else.”

She could hardly believe this was the same boy who’d nearly brought an entire house down around himself, who’d used his powers in silent rage to inflict pain on people who’d hurt her, who’d been brought into this world just to tear it down.

“You won’t,” she assured when she heard him sniffle. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“The world will be different someday,” Michael said, and she closed her eyes, conjuring the images of fire that had come to her when she’d lost herself in the midst of her own power. “Something better will rise from the ashes once this one’s done burning. I don’t know how to get there…I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, but I think the two of us were meant to find our way to each other.”

She opened her eyes. “It feels stronger than just a coincidence.” She’d believed that was true for some time now.

“I can’t do this alone,” Michael admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to.”

That night, Michael finally told her about the house he’d been born in—a house haunted by too many ghosts, a house where the only family he’d known had given him up to the darkness.

The following weekend, she stole the last breath from her aunt’s lungs with a flick of her wrist after she’d passed out drunk in her bedroom. She and Michael watched the house burn down together, standing side-by-side on the grass, bright orange embers drifting upward to meet a pitch black sky.

@lastregasolitaria @mylippo @zeciex @lvngdvns @langdonsdemon @yourkingcodyfern @sojournmichael @gabnelson98 @rainbowrosesjas @antichristlangdxn @keavysmithxoxo @artistlunadrayne @codysfallenangels @batgirlbride @mileeyyowens @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998 @gentianea @cryptid-coalition @langdonsrapture @kinlovecody @yuriohoe04 @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean @langdonscurls @jcshadowkiss-blog @frozenhuntress67 @sebastianshoe @dixmond-taurus @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon @queenie435 @holylangdon @weareallevilmotherfuckers @langdonfern @angsty-otters-blog @denaexr @mr-langdonn @micheallangdons @lostin-fern @crazedcatcuddler @satansapostle @monsucre @softlangdvn @ritualmichael

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x fem!reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon fanfiction #ahs fic #ahs imagine #ahs apocalypse #ahs apocalypse fanfiction #ahs apocalypse imagine #fic: from eden

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