#so i could have spent several more hours on this 'fixing' it but i'd rather not go through the agonizing routine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starlightsearches · 4 years ago

Text

Eyes On Me

Requests are open ✨ Modern Armitage Hux x F! Reader Warnings: RC is a sex-worker, discussions of sex, language. AN: Hi friends! After stressing over the newest chapters of Office Romance for the last, uh, forever, I thought I'd reward myself by writing something fun, flirty and fresh! I started working on this a few months ago after partaking in @thembohux's wonderful sugar daddy content, and then I had to put it on pause for a while until I picked it back up a few days ago. I have no plans for this story: no additional concepts, no plot points. Mostly I wanted a place to dump PWP in the future. If there is enough interest, or if you guys have any ideas about stuff you'd like to see in this storyline, please let me know and I might continue sooner rather than later. No sex in this chapter, but because of the nature of the story I'm still gonna ask minors to not read. Thanks!!

He’s already at the restaurant when you arrive.

That never happens. You’ve spent hours alone in restaurants sipping on wine and kissing your teeth, waiting for the moment some investment banker with a receding hairline finally decided you were worth his time—as if he hadn’t contacted you first.

You were hoping for a chance to find the restroom before the meeting, maybe fix your hair and refresh your lipstick—like you normally would before introducing yourself to a new client—and instead you’re rushing to the table, fanning yourself with one hand and hoping that you don’t have any leftovers from lunch stuck in your teeth.

Your heels click rapidly against the tile; you’re practically running over the hostess as she leads you towards the back of the mostly-empty restaurant, right next to the wide picture windows which overlook the garden and the golf course beyond.

There’s only one person seated there—a man much younger than you anticipated, closer to your own age than any of your clients. He has to hear you coming, loud as you are, but he keeps his eye on some distant point beyond the glass, brow creased, looking pensive.

You take stock of him as you approach: he wears a crisp, three-piece blue suit in a classic and well-tailored cut, black shoes shined to a polish, so clean you could see your reflection in them. The watch he wears is out of place, understated as it is; certainly not what you’d expect from a man in his pay-grade. It probably has some sentimental value, considering the signs of wear on the leather straps, and the nicks studded in the metal. His hair is slicked back and neat, a shock of red tamed into submission with shiny gel.

When your eyes trace over his face, you find it difficult to look away.

Pale skin stretches over angular cheekbones and a proud nose, his features carved with the decisive hand of a master. His jaw is strained, eyes severe—storm-colored and intense—but framed by soft lashes and an intelligent brow. The combination makes your legs go numb for a moment.

You didn’t expect him to be so handsome.

The tension in his face is lost as soon as you approach, his full, pink lips part in a whispered greeting as he stands. Chill fingers meet your own, his handshake firm and formal, but his eyes widen when you lean in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, catching the faintest mouth-watering whiff of Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille on his skin.

He pulls away from the unexpected embrace, taking your chair in both hands as he pulls it out from the table. There’s a rosy tinge over his skin, his hands gripping the wood back of the chair tightly, but you don’t miss the way they shake when he lets go.

He’s nervous. How sweet.

“Armitage Hux,” he offers, the gentle lilt of his accent like a melody, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You offer him a smile, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”

The waiter arrives at the table soon after you’re seated, probably eager for something to do during the post-lunch lull, and you let Armitage order for you, as he’s more familiar with the menu. Soon enough, the table is spread with an array of exquisite desserts and a coffee for each of you.

Armitage sips from his mug as you sink your fork into the chantilly cake, your lips wrapping gently around it, lingering there before you pull it from your mouth with exaggerated slowness, moaning slightly when the fresh berries burst against your tongue.

It’s not an act, as far as he can tell, but a genuine reaction of pleasure, as if you couldn’t possibly imagine something more enjoyable than a bite of cake and the taste of a blackberry.

Jesus. What has he gotten himself into?

You sample a few more of the desserts he’s ordered, making silly comments about each, probably sensing his nerves and hoping to put him at ease.

You have kind eyes. It’s the first thing he noticed while scrolling through mountains of photos in the email, discreetly marked as a list of potential assistants for hire. You stood out among all the others; even after his initial hesitance, and the thirtieth or fortieth time he’d decided that it wasn’t worth it, the image of you stayed with him in the back of his mind.

To his dismay or delight—he hasn’t yet decided—the effect is only magnified in person, and he’s glad when you glance away, reaching into your purse and pulling out your cell phone, tapping at the screen a few times before setting it face down on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind if I record our conversation today,” you ask, “I find that it’s helpful to keep track of these introductions, and it would be a little too conspicuous if I pulled out a notepad. Everything that you share with me will be kept between us, of course.”

He nods in confirmation, and you settle into your seat, leaning over the table, attention entirely focused on him. “Alright, then. Tell me about yourself.”

He shifts in his chair, trying and failing to get comfortable. “I’m not sure what you’d like to know.”

“That’s alright. You can tell me about work, or your hobbies. Any pets?”

There’s the softest hint of humor in everything you say, but you treat him like he’s part of the joke instead of its target. It’s distinctly unsettling, but he’s not sure if it’s unpleasant.

“I work in finance—First Order investments. I don’t have time for hobbies . . .” he hesitates, trying to decide if you’re seriously asking him about his pets, “ and I have a cat named Millicent.”

“How sweet. Are you married?”

He splutters into his coffee, setting the cup back down on the table before choking out his answer, “no.”

You wave his distress away with a flighty hand. “It’s alright if you are; I’m not here to judge you. It does help to know, though.”

“No, I’m not married,” he confirms.

“Great,” you lean back in your chair, crossing your legs. The gesture feels more suitable for a therapist than . . . whatever it is you are, “Let’s talk a little bit about why you contacted me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s always a reason. Usually it’s a big life event, but not for everyone. Things like a recent divorce, close family member or friend getting married, a new promotion . . .”

You finish the sentence with a flourish of your hand, inviting him to imagine all the different reasons men would want to buy your company, and his face falls.

If anything, it was the opposite. Nothing had happened for too long, his days all painted with the same brush. Arrive at work. Sell his life for the success of his father’s company. Leave the office too late. Continue working at home, Millie on his lap and a glass of wine.

And then repeat.

“No,” he coughs, clearing the tightness in his throat, “Nothing of that sort.”

You purse your lips. “Is there anything specific you’re hoping to get out of this?”

He turns away too sharply, pain singing up the side of his neck, the sun in his eyes. How god damn embarrassing, sitting across from someone so lovely, knowing that they had to be paid to be there.

He bites down on the inside of his lip, hoping to stave off any more unfortunate emotions. He’s startled from his melancholy when he feels your hand against his, brushing the tips of your fingers over his knuckles. There’s some hesitation in your touch, a hint of apprehension; it surprises him, and after a moment, he lets his eyes find yours again.

“There’s no shame in being lonely,” you say, before pulling your hand back, a serious look on your face, “it’s the most human emotion.”

He scoffs, “and what would you know about that?”

You glance down, pressing your lips together before offering him a sad smile that’s achingly familiar. “I’m lonely more often than you might think.”

He wonders what might have happened if he met you under different circumstances. If he had found you organically, maybe sitting alone at a hotel bar—would he have had the courage to approach you? Would the conversation flowed so easily, would you have pressed your hand against his shoulder and smiled, maybe left him with your phone number, or held his hand tight in your own as he led you back to his hotel room?

It’s a ridiculous question, a fantasy in the purest sense. You wouldn’t have looked at him twice.

You cough gently, clearing the emotional charge from the moment before continuing your line of questions.

“Why don’t we talk a little bit about your preferences for appearance, like certain kinds of clothing, or lingerie?”

He takes a deep breath, letting out the last of his self-pity with it. Thank god, he knows the answer to this one. “Black lace.”

“Okay, I can do that. Do you have any other requests? Specific hair styles? Nail colors?”

His distaste must be clear on his face, because you laugh, “do people really care about any of that?”

“Oh yes,” you nod, eyes wide, “you’d be surprised what some men consider essential.”

“No, nothing,” he hesitates, “but if you have any darker lipsticks . . .”

“Of course. What about intimacy? Is there anything specific you’d like to try?”

His toes curl in the tips of his shoes, a familiar guilt accompanying a very unfamiliar thrill, thinking about what he’d like to do to you. He can see it now, the images achingly realistic: his hand circled around your neck as you chase your release against his thigh, or your lips curled around the head of his cock, shiny trails of spit leaking from the corners of your mouth. The way your eyes would roll back in your head as he thrust into you, his lips at your neck, leaving currents of bruises in his wake.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he says instead, embarrassed he had let his thoughts run so wild, especially in public. He digs his nails into his palms, hoping the pain might redirect the blood currently pooling in his dick.

You pluck a stray berry off one of the dessert plates, pressing it against your tongue. “Then we can explore together.”

You can’t help but be pleased; despite a few unorthodox moments, this was a fairly easy meeting. He’s a pleasant person to be around.

You take another bite of dessert, this time choosing to sample the bread pudding, still warm from the oven and coated in a caramel drizzle, letting the sugar melt in your mouth.

“There is one last item we need to discuss,” Armitage says seriously, and you look up at him, setting your fork down again as you swallow, “I have one more request, but it’s a bit . . . unusual.”

Oh, god. Nothing good could come from those words. “What is it?”

He leans closer, speaking quietly. “Unfortunately, my work requires that I attend a variety of events with my colleagues and our clients, and I would like to request your presence as my date. I have a reputation to uphold, both in my personal life and my employment, and I’d prefer to avoid a scandal. To prevent any gossip about this arrangement, I’d like to request your exclusive attention.”

Your teeth click together, jaw tense. Of fucking course something like this would happen—nothing could be too easy.

You take a calming breath, trying your best to give him a diplomatic answer despite your annoyance. “With all due respect, Mr. Hux, this is my job. My employment. I make a living providing my company to a small set of loyal clients, I do my job with the utmost discretion, and if you can’t respect the value of my time—”

“I assure you,” he interrupts, sliding a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, removing a folded slip of paper, “I understand how valuable your time is, and for the privilege of your undivided attention, I offer . . .”

He slides the paper across the table, and you reach for it, unfolding it in one hand.

It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep your features in check when you read the number—it’s actually a little more than you’re currently making per month between your four other clients.

You chew on the inside of your lip, considering your course. The other girls would tell you to make a counter-offer, but you’d never really learned how to execute a successful negotiation, and just thinking about raising your price has your heart racing, the adrenaline doing nothing to aid your mental calculations.

He clears his throat, reading your panic as dissatisfaction, “and I’m prepared to make that payment weekly.”

Holy fuck.

“I can’t accept that much,” you press the paper back towards him, sliding your hand across the table until he stops your progress with his own, his fingers brushing gently against your wrist. He must not be used to touching people unintentionally, because he pulls his hand away, resting his tightly-clenched fist against the table.

“As I said before, I understand the value of your time.”

You trap your lip between your teeth. “I’ll take this amount, twice a month. Gifts are also appreciated—jewelry, perfume, or clothing—but won’t be considered as part of your payment unless I’m also given a receipt.”

“Of course,” he concedes with the faintest smile, “diamonds don’t pay the rent.”

You suppress a laugh at his dry humor, “and some men have truly horrendous taste.”

It’s only for a moment—the briefest flash of heaven. He smiles at your comment, the sun shining in his eyes, illuminating their emerald facets, and everything else ceases to exist.

He’s going to be trouble. You’re sure of it.

He presses his lips together, embarrassed for his little lapse before returning to his serious demeanor, “what happens now?”

“Now, I formalize a contract that I’ll have you sign covering the details of what we’ve discussed today. Then, I’ll contact my other clients and let them know that I will be unavailable for the foreseeable future, and then—” you lean forward, deciding to tease him, leave him wanting, “—you can take me to dinner.”

18+ Hux Tag List: @thembohux, @writingletterstothefire, @missmadwoman, @evarinaandlat, @sitherin-mxschief, @imafatassmess, @toasterking, @rosevon7975, @pradahux, @armitages-galaxy, @dark-lord-of-the-simps, @daughterofaries, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @theold-ultraviolence, @mrs-ghuleh, @lemongingerart, @isthisheaven5, @trash-queen-af, @generalthirst, @tobealostwanderer, @huxxoxo, @theoriginalannoyingbird, @liceforlunch, @g3n3ralhux

Join my tag list here!

#armitage hux x reader #general hux x reader #armitage hux x you #general hux x you #armitage hux/reader #general hux/you #armitage hux/you #general hux/reader #armitage hux fanfic #armitage hux smut #armitage hux fanfiction #armitage hux oneshot #general hux fanfic #general hux smut #general hux fanfiction #general hux oneshot #my writing #minors dni

118 notes · View notes

shespeaksinsongs · 4 years ago

Text

You Are My New Fear | Letters To My Mom

TW: MOMMY ISSUES, MENTIONS OF DEPRESSION, SUICIDE, AND ANXIETY.

Me in my game room at about five years old.

I wish somebody would have told me that that smile I used to slather onto my face so effortlessly would soon become something I forced. I'm not sure if it would have made a difference, but it's best to be prepared in any case.

"What's your biggest fear?" My elementary best friend asked, kicking her feet giddily under the table. We were still too little to reach the floor.

"Drowning." I'd say, with a panicked look on my face, growing pale at the mere thought of dying that way.

"What are you most afraid of, hija?" My dad asked on our regular morning car rides to school.

"Drowning." I'd say, without even thinking twice. The answer was almost prepared, seeing as how casually it rolled off my tongue.

"What's your biggest fear?" My friend asked in the comfort of her room, watching as I shifted uncomfortably in my spot on her bed.

"Becoming my mother." I'd say wishing that drowning was the most of my worries.

I don't know when my default answer of drowning to death switched to the terrifying idea that I would, one day, become my mother. Still, somewhere along the lines, those little moments that I would suck up to my mom and gift her pretty pictures I spent hours working on and picking daisies from my backyard for her turned into scheduling my crying for nighttime when everyone was asleep.

Slowly but surely, I became uneasy about the idea of marriage, fearing that I'd only ruin it and become a wife like my mother. The idea of having children scared me to the point where I felt I would rather sacrifice my own happiness so that my children wouldn't have to live to see the day I turn into my mom.

Because in my eyes, my mom is a monster. She's not the kind of monster that has big, sharp teeth and scary yellow eyes, and a menacing growl. She's the kind of monster that you would never suspect. She's the bloody hand, but you were the accomplice. She was the screwdriver, but you were the loose screw. Sure, she hurt you, but you let yourself be hurt by her - so really, whose fault was it?

My mom is the kind of monster that uses your vulnerability against you in the worst way possible.

"I'm just not feeling good right now. I feel like I'm dying, and I feel tired all the time." My sixth-grade self, awkwardly positioned in the passenger's seat, turning my head away from my mom.

"Well, you know we care about you." My mom said, stoic in her demeanor and ultimately still in how she held her body up.

It was a day I'll never forget. She picked at her fingernails and anxiously tapped the gas pedal, waiting for me to be done talking about my emotions so she could drive back "home."

Warm tears stung my eyes, forcing their way down my face in slow streams. "You don't get it, I-" I stopped, knowing it wasn't worth it to try to make my mom understand feelings she'd been adamant didn't exist.

"Ay, don't be so dramatic." My mom said, waving her hand up to dismiss me and my silly ideas. She was right. I wasn't depressed or anxious, and I definitely didn't look for any excuse possible to threaten suicide against myself. My mom said so.

I don't know why I kept running back to her in times of need. Maybe it was my dream version of her that I relied on to justify my ever-growing love for her. Feasibly, it was the person I wanted her to be. And perhaps, just perhaps, my expectations of her drove me to the point where I'd convinced myself my mother was the person I saw when I closed my eyes at night.

I remember telling her things, spreading rumors I'd heard about people in the family, hoping that it would make us closer. The things I did just to make her happy...

"Mom, I'm trying my best!" I cried on the floor, cleaning up the mess my new puppy had made. She'd pooped and peed all over the kitchen. I was exhausted, previously knocked out in my bed, when my mom called me downstairs, screaming for me to get my ass down there.

"No, you're not! You never try! You're useless! I should've never had you!" My mom yelled from the bottom of her heart (or lack thereof).

Tears welled in my eyes for the millionth time because of my mother. This wasn't the first time she'd wished me dead, and it sure wouldn't be the last time. "Mommy, please just leave me alone and let me clean up." I begged, letting broken sobs come out of my mouth. I wanted to hurt her, and I wanted to hurt her as bad as she hurt me.

My mom refused to leave, yelling at me, watching as I piteously scraped my dog's contents off the wall.

It's sad that the only good memories I have of my mom are those I couldn't participate in. Instead, I have stories of her youth and how caring of a mother she used to be when I was a baby - conveniently so far back that I can't remember it. It pains me more knowing how she was before she had me, her firstborn. If she were this way her whole life, would I take it so personally?

Am I dramatic for wishing I had a mother who could hug me back when I hugged her? Am I a selfish and pathetic bitch for feeling envy when I see how my friends' moms act with them? Why can't my mom love me the way she loves her? Why does my mom have more pictures of her first niece than she does of me? What did I do to her?

"Mommy, mommy! Look!" I said, running up to my mother, holding my report card in the air like a shiny new toy - all A's.

"Nice job, Fio. I'm so proud of you. You're doing great. Keep it up." My mom said softly, pulling me into a warm hug. Somehow, that was all I needed - that's all I wanted. It really is a shame that that memory is fake.

I have plenty of other fake memories that I store in my head, letting the (also fake) backstories take over my mind when I go to sleep. For one of them, I was romping around on an old swing set, one that made little squeaky noises whenever I swung too high.

Somehow, I lose control of the swing, and my mom comes rushing up to me, worried and begging for me to tell her how she could help. I don't know when or how she got there (my dad was usually the one to take me to the park), but what I do know is she's exactly who I needed there at that moment.

So many real memories I have of me needing my mother most, waiting for the day she would actually turn up in one of them. She was always the first to pick me up in school lines. She was always at my open houses. She attended every grade promotion I had. But she was never there. It was all a facade. She'd said so herself that she craved being the all-star mom, the one who'd win several gold medals if there were award ceremonies for that sort of thing.

Her perfectionism is what makes her corrupt. She has spent my entire life telling me what to do, how to do it, scolding me for not doing it the way she imagined me doing it in her head.

She refused to seek help when that's all I wanted her to do.

"What do you want for your birthday, hija?" My dad asked, glancing at me while keeping his eyes fixed on the road, humming along to a Christmas carol playing on the radio.

"Honestly, dad?" I asked, only twelve years old, my green eyes twinkling in hope.

"Whatever your heart desires." My dad said in a goofy voice, making me smile.

"I want Mom to get help." I said sadly, hoping my dad would agree and push the idea upon my mom.

My mother went to therapy for four months. My dad had to pay her every session for her to go. In my mom's life, money has never been an obstacle. Her father was a middle-high class socialite in Venezuela who worked in engineering and oil companies. Her mother, who passed away of Leukemia when she was twelve, spoiled her rotten until her very last breath.

Eventually, I became mentally sick to the core. Writing and singing, my two favorite things in the world, became hobbies, and life had lost its zesty twang. Little things like music and the people I passed on the street that waved "hello" at me became nuisances. My mom "gave up" her therapy so I could get help.

I still wonder if she did it for herself or for me.

A few times a year, I get asked what my biggest fear is. Sometimes it comes up in conversation. Other times I create the question, not thinking about the consequences if people answer with "Spiders, yours?"

Each time I get asked, I take a deep breath and lie. "The dark." I say now, the idea of death by sea sounding more of tranquility than a travesty.

I look back at the old pictures I have of myself, a smiley and shy little girl who was afraid of nothing and everything at the same time. To her, I ask, "When you have nothing to lose, why be afraid?"

Me, with my baby doll at age three. I loved taking care of her. I used to take her everywhere with me.

#open letter #dear mom hlbutterfly #hlbutterflyoriginal

19 notes · View notes

prankprincess123 · 3 years ago

Text

The older I get the more I realize how much - mostly voluntary - parentification I went through as a child. I don't blame my parents, cause I'm the one who stepped up while they were calling their siblings and parents for help, but it does explain alot about me.

Like I didn't realize till I was a teenager that it wasn't normal to have nightmares about my siblings safety every night since I was 3yo. 95% of the time they werent in any danger; there were things like childhood bullies, appendix scares, and stitches and broken bones from being really clumsy kids, but nothing big or consistent. But I still felt it was 100% on me to protect them.

I didn't realize till adulthood how abnormal it is for a 3/4yo to be the one getting their little sister breakfast almost every morning. Because dad was at work. And between combined infant loss and postpartum depression with my 2nd sister + horrible morning sickness with my 3rd, mama was bedridden till at least 10 most days. And I'd naturally sleep till then, but my little sister was up and hungry, so we'd get up, go downstairs, and I'd make us breakfast. And then we'd play in our room or crawl into bed with mama and watch Disney movies till she was able to function. My aunt moved in with us to help during this time, but she had work and school in the afternoons and evenings, and most days I didn't want to bug her.

I didn't realize that most 6yo's don't offer to 'babysit' so mom can get household chores done more easily. She could still have gotten everything done with all of us underfoot. But if I took my sisters to the park across the street for 20min or kept them in the backyard or playroom for an hour, she could get everything done more quickly and easily, and have a chance to catch her breath too.

I didn't realize that most 8yos have no clue how to change a diaper and have never been in a situation where that might be necessary knowledge. But regardless of if mom's in the shower or cooking dinner, and dad's at work, the baby still needs a diaper change. And just changing the diaper is so much less hassle than waiting for an adult to be available and dealing with the smell and crying till then.

I didn't realize that most kids didn't get into fist fights on the playground at least weekly, because someone was mean to their sibling and it made them just see red. And I didn't realize that my frantic checking on my siblings and practically smothering them in hugs of relief immediately afterwards only gave the bullies more ammo. It was a bad cycle, but even the first time I got a concussion I still won the fight, and none of my siblings was ever physically hurt when I was around.

I didn't realize that most 10yo's would fake being sick to get a day off school, rather than coming to school several hours late because everyone else was sick and someone had to take care of them. I was getting ready for school, but mom was so sick she couldn't get out of bed without throwing up - let alone help me with my hair. And dad was at work and the littles were all feverish and throwing up too, but awake enough they needed to be entertained. So I spent 3h giving everyone the correct medicine, cleaning up pukey sheets and emptying puke buckets, and making sure that everyone was tucked in on the couch with a movie on and more easily accessible. And then I got myself ready and went to school.

I didn't realize most preteens-teens would balk at being partnered with at least one, if not two or three toddlers for buddy-system every time it was implemented to go to the park or zoo or anywhere. If there were adults there (there usually wasn't for the park) they would have the actual babies, and then we'd match off oldest with youngest all the way till the two middle kids were with eachother. But if there were odd numbers or someone was really unhappy with their partner, I'd always volunteer to take an extra buddy or two to fix the problem.

I didn't realize it was abnormal to be the one putting at least one sibling or cousin to bed every night. But someone had to be driven to scouts or play practice. And someone else needed help with homework. And dishes still needed to be done. And this aunt and uncle needed a babysitter again. And with all the chaos, curling up with a little for a bedtime story and a lullaby was the least I could do.

I didn't realize it was odd for me to be the one dealing with my siblings and cousins when they woke up in the middle of the night alot of the time. I just almost always shared a room with several sisters, so I was always closer than a parent. And my brother would wander when he couldn't sleep, and often end up sleeping under a desk if I didn't either put him back to bed or let him crawl in with me. And mama had just sat down for the first time in 6h when baby woke up, but it was no biggie for me to run up to the nursery and calm her down. And one of the older little cousins would call or text me in the middle of the night cause they needed to talk to a non-parent someone right then. And sometimes aunts and uncles would call because someone woke up in the middle of the night and already spent an hour refusing to go back to bed without the lullaby I wrote. And if I was babysitting, and I was usually babysitting someone with the number of households in my family, it was actually my job right then, so I was just used to doing it even when adults were around.

I didn't realize that most teenagers weren't lending their parents money from babysitting and paper routes to buy groceries or keep the power on. But consultants are always last on the payroll and rarely get paid on time, so there'd be months where dad was working full time but wouldn’t get paid at all. I had two jobs though, and a couple hundred a month isn't a ton, but when mom's pay alone wasn't quite enough and dad's check was a week later than the maximum they had budgeted for, it was usually enough to keep us afloat. And I'd almost always offer before they had a chance to ask any adult family members for help.

I did realize that most teenagers weren't making lunches for everyone before leaving for school, then after school picking the baby up from their parents' work before going home to make dinner for the rest of the kids, and sometimes putting the kids to bed because mom and dad were still working; but I thought very little of it. It was only for about a month that they both had to stay super late regularly, and cooking (or helping cook) dinner was on the chore rotation and I usually helped on the littles dinner days anyway. They'd be running out the door at the same time as us kids, and both breakfast and lunch had to be made, and homework had to be checked, and everyone's hair needed to be done, and it was a bit of a mess, but everyone had something they needed to be doing. And they could keep the baby at the office with them most of the day no problem, but she'd get super fussy if not home by dinner, and worse for bedtime, so I'd run the extra two blocks to grab her and the stroller before going home after school. And the other kids were old enough that they didn't need a babysitter between their schools ending and mine, so it wasn't really a huge hassle.

I did realize that when most high schoolers skipped school they usually went and did something dumb or just wasted time, but walking over to my parents office and 'kidnapping' the baby for an hour at the park so she wasn't stuck there with them all day instead was way more fun. Like between the options of going to physics class, being bored out of my mind, getting myself into trouble, or going outside and playing with an adorable little monkey the choice was obvious.

I did realize that 'stay at home big sister' is not a thing for practically anyone but me, but it was genuinely one of my favorite experiences. The economy was enough of a mess that mom had two jobs and dad had three just to support us. Because so many actual adults were needing the extra income, no one would hire a kid straight out of high school and university was too expensive to even consider immediately. But someone had to be home when the littles got home from school, and the baby was only in preschool for 4h a week. And the mess of trying to work from home and/or find babysitters was just another stress on our already frantic parents, and was something I could easily help with. So both parents worked, and I became the primary daytime caregiver, and started taking a few cheap online uni classes once baby was in kindergarten. And when she was half way through gr1 I moved in with my aunt and uncle to do the same with their then 18mo youngest for 6m while they were preparing to move. And of course that's when covid hit, and as a result I had their 4 kids under 10yo, and at least one of the kids from across the street for most of every day, but it was so fun, and something I wouldn't trade for the world.

I didn't realize that most people don't consider titles like 'Big Sister' to be the most prevalent part of themself, until I had to do a report in high school on main aspect of my identity and the teacher barely even counted such as a minor one until he read my report.

I didn't realize how proud I am of that fact, and how much it says about me as a person until one of my little cousins in utter confusion about which part of the family I belong to declared that I am "Everyone's Big Sister" and an "Individually Existing Entity of Chaos and Big Sister-ness"

My parents never asked me to essentially become the 3rd parent when I was a toddler still, and with the bigger things often tried to stop me somehow or another when I insisted on helping. They reached out to adult family members to help before even considering putting it on my shoulders, but I always took it upon myself anyway. And my aunts and uncles especially never asked me to decide to take that role in their houses too, they just each needed a babysitter for a few hours once or twice a week, and I eagerly volunteered and went above and beyond because I love my cousins the same as if they were my siblings.

I didn't feel like I was doing anything majorly out of the ordinary, because I didn't have the social awareness to realize that other kids didn't do the same things or that my parents were trying to lessen how much of this I was doing. I never felt like I was missing out on my childhood, and in fact felt it was extended in some ways, because I was at the park or in the playroom goofing off with the littles long after other kids my age decided such things were for babies. And it took me a while to realize it was abnormal and alot of unnecessary stress I was putting on myself, because while I've always been hyper-responsible in this sort of way, I've always consciously overly childish in alot of other ways, so I was never 'acting like an adult' I was just 'being the big sister'

But it does explain why I almost always side with the adults when my sisters get into fights with our parents, because I'm not seeing it from the veiw of a co-conspirator in teenage rebellion, I'm seeing it from the veiw of a caretaker. It explains why I never went through a teenage rebellion myself. It explains why I feel a little lost living with roommates while at university, with no little siblings or cousins in the house. It explains why I start going crazy if I go more than a few days without the sound of children playing and getting a hug from at least one little monkey. It explains why I adore the 'accidental child acquisition' trope enough that I use it repeatedly in my writing. It explains my enduring fascination with the Pevinsies' reign of Narnia. It explains my current obsession with the song Surface Pressure. It explains why the thought of one of my siblings or cousins being hurt sends me into a panic so bad that I can't eat, sleep, or do anything even semi productive until I know for a fact that they're alright. It explains why being sick or injured myself, or otherwise unable to help for any reason, is outright psychological torture to me.

#am i a mess? yes.#personal ramblings #long ramble #mental health #parentification #family stuff #it's a mental breakdown! *off key kazoo*

3 notes · View notes

catxsnow · 5 years ago

Text

ADMIT IT D.W.

Summary: You crush on the great Boy Wonder was a little more than obvious

Warning: Older!Damian fLiRtInG

A/N: Damian is like early twenty’s here.

GIF not mine

Word count: 2k

It was a stormy night in Gotham. Rain poured from the dark sky and thunder boomed continuously. It seemed like any other night in that dreaded city. Day in day out, nothing but clouds and overcast. It was like the sun never shined in that city. If this was God's cruel punishment against the city, then you couldn't blame him.

Between the crime rates, the horrible citizens, and the corrupt police force, Gotham was no sanctuary. It was a city made for sinners, thugs, and those unfortunate few who had no chance of escape. You hated Gotham, you hated it enough to try and fight against the dreaded nights and sorrow days.

You worked by yourself, but it wasn't a surprise if part of Batman and crew showed up to your fight scene. They allowed you to continue your fight against crime as a vigilante, but they didn't dare trust you enough to take down important missions on your own. Sometimes you appreciated their help, most times, it was a nuisance.

It had been only a few years since you started this gig. Slowly at first, taking down petty thefts and drunk assholes. Then you started reaching the bigger leagues, the crime lords and mobsters. Soon, you became popular enough to be within Batman's radar.

The night was quiet, despite the loud thunder that rolled across the clouds. You saw the outline of Robin standing along the building edge. His cape flowed in the wind and his shadow cast upon the city as lightening struck behind him. You scoffed to yourself, but nonetheless flipped over to him.

"Dramatic much?" you asked. Judging by Robin's build, his voice, even the way he moved, you guessed that he had to have been around your age. At least, he was the closet out of all the others. You were nearing twenty-one, just shy of being able to buy your own drinks.

"Quiet out there tonight, huh?" You asked as he didn't reply. Robin seemed to tolerate you, nothing more, nothing less. He spoke very few extra words than needed and always had a snarky tone. You couldn't tell if that was because of his facade, or if that was who he really was.

Even so, after working with him several times, you couldn't help but be attracted to him. His voice, his actions, the way that he beat the ever living hell out of douchebags. Robin finally turned to face you, jumping down from the small ledge that he once stood.

"It is," he agreed. Truth be told, around you - it was an act. He would never admit that he enjoyed time with you. "That doesn't mean that you need to come bother me."

"But you're my favourite person to bother," you approached him. Damian stood still as you dragged your gloved hands up his chest and rested them at the bottom of his neck. "Why can't you just admit that you like my little visits."

"Because then I'd be falling into Batman's footsteps with Catwoman," Robin scoffed. He would never allow himself to admit that he did enjoy seeing you on the rooftops. Most times when he was on his own, he wished that you would show up to see him, even if it was just a coincidence.

His eyes would linger on you, the suit you wore was tight around every perfect curve of your body. Even the way you swaggered towards him like you knew god damn well that any man watching was eyeing you up. Damian wanted his eyes to be the only ones on you.

"Ugh," You rolled your eyes. You had a few run ins with Catwoman, none of them ending well. "I'm nothing like her. She's a thief, I fight for the good guys. I'm on your side, it's okay to admit it." You took another step closer to him so your chests touched.

You had a bad habit of shamelessly flirting with him. Robin was well aware of your attempts to flirt with him - and if he was any good at it he would have flirted back. Instead, his words came out cryptic. You often were confused by what he was feeling - his body was relaxed near you but his words said otherwise.

"Come on, Robin. Just one little word, just admit it," a Cheshire grin covered your cheeks as you stood on your toes. Your lips just barely brushed against his before pulling away. Fuck, did Damian want to pull you in, to kiss your properly after all these months of teasing him like this. You never gave him the satisfaction of what your lips truly felt like.

Damian's shoulders stiffened. He knew very little about you. Hell, he didn't even know your name, where you came from, how old you were. Yet, without knowing anything about you, he still found himself wanting to agree to your pleas. To admit that he enjoyed your company was to admit that he liked you. How could he like someone without even knowing them?

"I'll get you one day," you promised him. Damian watched as you backed away from him. The sway in your hips was entrancing and he couldn't look away. You stood up on the ledge that he was previously at. With a wink in his direction, you flipped off and soared down. Damian's breath caught in his throat, worried that you were going to fall to your death.

Not even a second later, you came flying back up again. A grappling gun was secured in the palm of your hand and your laugh echoed through the stormy night. Damian furrowed his eyebrows and looked down at his belt. You had stolen the grappling gun from him. Had you just used him to get the tech? Or did you genuinely want him to admit that he liked your visits? He wouldn't know.

"Fuck." Me.

Damian wished that he could get you out of his head. As Robin, as himself, he couldn't do it. He spent hours at night thinking about you, who you really were. He wanted to meet you, the real you. He tried finding out who you were, but you were careful - careful enough for Batman to have not figured it out yet.

He wanted to see you again. At night, he searched for you rather than searching for crime. He needed to see you again. This ache in his chest was driving him crazy and seeing you again was the only thing that was going to fix it. Damian was only frustrated by these feelings, he didn't want them to affect his everyday life but here he was.

It was over a week since your last encounter. He hadn't seen you, or any signs that you were even out on the streets. Damian was getting worried about you, he always saw that you were protecting the city at least once every few days. It was far too long to have no signs at all.

Damian overlooked the city from one of the tallest buildings in Gotham. It was stormy out again, this time the rain pounded against his skin, soaking him to the bone. He was cold, miserable, and was ready to call it a night and head back home.

"The Boy Wonder," a voice from behind him spoke. Damian nearly sighed in relief at the sound of your voice. He spun around to see you leaning against one of the arches. The grappling hook that you stole from him was tightly secured around your waist. He looked down at it. "Sorry, I don't exactly have the money to get one of my own, figured you'd have lots."

You weren't wrong. There were tons in the batcave, he just wasn't particularly excited to tell Batman that you had taken one from him. You strolled up to him, wiping some of the water that drenched your face off. It was useless, the rain wouldn't stop.

Damian noticed the stitches that laced up your cheek. His hand went up to your face, skimming just below where you had been cut. "What happened?" He asked, concern in his voice.

"Didn't realize you cared, Robin," you joked. As he moved his hand once more, you winced in pain. He went to lower his hand but you placed yours on top, forcing him to stay there. "Got myself into some trouble right after I saw you last. Thought I could take them, pulled out of pair of brass and well..." you trailed off. "It was nothing bad. Just a cut and some bruises. Had to stay home for a few days."

So, he was right to be worried. You were fine now, but what about the next time? What about the time that you aren't going to make it out with such ease?

"I'm fine, now," You told him, as if you were reading his thoughts. The brief look of sadness in your eyes was instantly replaced. "Better now that I'm with you.” You tried to reach for another one of his weapons but Damian was too quick. He latched onto your hand before you could steal something else of his.

You tried to interlock your fingers but, Damian pulled away and he once again went back to his rigid form. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were up here looking for me." You gestured to the high skyline and then looked back at Robin.

"I was looking to see if there was any criminal activity," Robin corrected. Lies. He was looking for you, but he wasn't going to tell you that. "But I am glad to see you aren't dead."

"Why because you'd miss me?" You teased. You jumped around him, flipping here and there to get some of the pent up energy released. Being forced to stay at home had you going stir crazy. However, with the rain making the roof top more slippery, you had lost you footing and nearly fell right off the edge. Robin had grabbed your wrist just in time, pulling you with so much force that you landed into his chest.

"Because you owe me," he referred to the grappling hook. He didn't mind you keeping it. "Twice, now."

"Mhmm, I could make up for it, right now. Up here, on this rooftop, with no one around," you suggested. The only reason that he knew you weren't completely serious was the joking tone in your voice. Yet, he swore he could feel your finger traceing his chest plate right on his skin. His thigh trapped between your legs, and you were nearly begging for attention. "Just the two of us."

He was tempted. God, was he tempted. Damian didn't care if anyone would show up, he would gladly accept your offer. But he couldn't, he knew he couldn't. So, as much as he wanted to, he denied. You pouted at him, which had made it even harder for him to decline your idea.

"Come work with Batman and I," Robin suddenly countered your offer. "The tech, the protection, at least someone will have your back so this doesn't happen again."

You pulled away from him. Batman had already offered to become a part of his team. You were sure he had a stickler for having young kids under his wing but you weren't eager to become one of them. It was easier to work alone, at least that way you would never have guilt of messing up with them.

"It was nice seeing you again, Robin," you had done the exact same thing as last time, flipping off the roof to dive into the streets. This time however, as you left, the playful smile wasn't on your face, but a frown. Were you really that offended to be working with a team? Damian was sure that you would have jumped on the opportunity to be able to see him more.

Damian frustratingly sighed. He ran a hand through his soaked hair. What was it going to take for you to join him? He just wanted you safe. Damian would never be able to forgive himself if you died while trying to save the city because you couldn't agree to work with him.

Avoiding Robin was easier said than done. Firstly, you didn't want to avoid him, you wanted to be there with him, teasing him like you always did. Secondly, between him, the Bats, and the others, it was near impossible to get anything done without being spotted by them. Yet, you managed.

Not being able to see Robin made you realize how much you actually liked him. It wasn't just playfully flirting, but a hope that he would in fact be able to recognize your affection. You wanted to know who he was, as a real person not as some side kick of Batman. Whoever was hiding under the mask was your number one goal to find out.

Maybe the only way to do that, was to join him.

You didn't want the pressure that being on a team came with. People relying on you? No, that wasn't something you were ready for. But maybe, with their help you could be ready for it. Maybe if they were so adamant on you joining, then they needed you just as much as you needed them.

So, instead of avoiding Robin, you searched for him. It had been weeks since you had seen him last. The gap in your visits was hard on you. It made you wonder how you could care for someone who you didn't even know. Robin thought the same thing, you just weren't aware of it.

"You must be getting tired of this rain too," You nearly jumped at the voice from behind you. Robin was leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed over his chest and a satisfied look on his face. Finally, he found you. He just wasn't aware that you let him find you, you wanted to see him again.

"By this point. I'm used to it," You answered. "Besides, getting to see you all wet like this? Mmm, that's a treat all in itself." You dragged a hand through his wet hair, having to stand up on your toes to even be able to reach. God, did you love when he got flustered to the point of not knowing what to say.

"It's been a while," Robin stated. You shrugged at him, pretending that the time that you spent away didn't bother you. Of course it did, but seeing the disappointed look on his face that you didn't seem to care? That was worth it.

"I was busy," You nonchalantly informed, waking away from him and back into the rain. It was true, you did have several busy nights but for the most part, things had been quiet, boring even. "Who do you think put Two-Face back in Arkham?"

"I figured as much," Robin stalked back over to you. He stood right by your side, brushing against your suit.

"You miss me?" You smirked up at him. He should have expected that question, you asked it nearly every time. However, the tone in your voice, the way that you were holding yourself up, it caught him off guard. You were genuinely wanting him to say that he had missed you - and after all these times that he denied it - he admitted it.

"Yes."

You looked up at him in shock. Robin always found a way to change the subject or come up with some sort of quip that ensured you that he didn't miss you when you disappeared. You could always tell that he was lying when he denied it but hearing him finally admit that he missed you meant everything to you.

Damian finally looked down to you. He didn't mean to blurt out the answer but he couldn't hide the truth any longer. Seeing you was always the highlight of his night, he couldn't deny that any longer.

"I want to see you, as much as I can," Damian continued on. He was surprising himself by these words, it was rare that he spoke of his emotions. "These little visits, they're not enough for me any longer. I need to see you, to fill this void in my chest when I'm not with you. Come work with me, please."

You were nearly as shocked by his words as he was. Robin never uttered a word of how he cared for you, how he craved to see you. Hearing him say this was everything that you ever wanted to hear. You cared for him, but could never accept that he cared for you back, he never proved it to you that he did.

After a moment of silence, Damian began to panic. Did you not feel the same way? Was the flirting just a trick? A game? No, it couldn't be.

Damian watched as you reached up towards your face, peeling of that mask that covered half your face. You met his eyes when your face was bare, revealing who you were and what you truly looked like. Damian was in awe of your beauty, everything about you was just as perfect as he had imagined.

"(Y/N)," You told him. "(Y/N) (L/N). I proved to you that I care enough about you, now prove to me that you care enough for me to join." You didn't expect him to do the same action as you - maybe one day but not yet. However, you also didn't expect what he actually did, either.

Damian kissed you.

His hands cupped the sides of your face, wishing that he didn't have these gloves on so he could feel you. Rain drops raced down your skin, between your lips that parted when needing a breath of air. Bodies pressed so close together that nothing could have broken you apart.

He kissed you with all this pent up desire that you constantly left him with. The worry that he had for you when you were on the streets by yourself. The neediness that he felt every time he was near you. He kissed you like he had cared about you for years.

Damian pulled away from you, his fingers still resting your facing. He rested his forehead against yours. This small taste of getting what he wanted didn't come close to fulfilling his desires. He needed you, constantly.

"I'll join you, Boy Wonder," you spoke barely above a whisper. "Just admit that you've been wanting to do that since the day we met because I've wanted you to do that since then."

"I admit it."

#damian wayne #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne oneshot #damian wayne x reader #older!damian #dc imagine #dc one shot #dc #batfam #batfam imagine #fluff #batman

617 notes · View notes

ckret2 · 6 years ago

Note

that fic where Goji Ghids and Mothra get turned into humans was the highlight of my entire week. I'd love to see a continuation for it if that's okay with you, it'd be so amazing

This is for you. *fingerguns*

###

Dr. Chen had been been staring at Mothra for the past ten minutes, ignoring the discussion around her. She hardly noticed that Serizawa had come up beside her until he spoke. “Your thoughts?”

“She looks almost like my daughters,” Dr. Chen said softly. “Her skin’s darker, but other than that…”

Serizawa nodded. “I had the same thought,” he said. “Perhaps she copied them, somehow?”

“‘Copied,’” Dr. Chen repeated. “Like she chose her appearance. Do you think she did? Did any of them choose their appearances?”

A good question. One of the many questions that had passed through both Dr. Chen’s and Serizawa’s heads over the past hour.

Godzilla was built like a Polynesian wrestler—Rick had taken the opportunity while escorting him somewhere safe to slap a sticker name tag that read “Hello, my name is… God ‘The Rock’ Zilla” on his blanket, and everyone got it even though his mane of black hair killed most of the resemblance—which made sense, didn’t it? It made sense for him to be built like professional warrior. But why should Godzilla, turned into a human, have a body that “made sense” to humans? And on what “sense” was he operating? Why shouldn’t he be covered in scars, to mimic his scales and to mark his battles? Why shouldn’t he be built like a swimmer instead of a wrestler? What had decided the length of his hair?

And under that logic, if Godzilla was built like a warrior, shouldn’t Ghidorah be, too? Instead they were three tall, narrow women, with pallid skin and distrustful eyes and long hair that was already busily tangling into knots. Dr. Russell, whose primary form of movie consumption for the last fifteen years had been in the form of children’s cartoons, had commented that they looked like “three Rapunzels left alone in the tower until they went feral.” They had the builds of marathon runners or high jumpers: bodies and muscles that were long and stringy. Not built for combat. So why was that prioritized? Why were they three people instead of, say, three-headed? Or conjoined? When Ghidorah and Godzilla were thousands or millions of years old, why did they look to be in their twenties or thirties, while Mothra, who’d hatched only a few hours ago, looked like a kindergartener rather than a newborn?

Why did Mothra look so much like Dr. Chen’s daughters had at age five, with their wispy black hair and curious eyes and round cheeks?

Dr. Chen stared through the window and wondered.

The ex-titans obviously needed to be contained—they’d been trying to kill each other that very day—but Monarch ships didn’t exactly have brigs. They’d found a room with large observation windows that was intended to be a lab but had yet to be filled with anything but tables, and stored the ex-titans in there.

It had been a challenge just to get them that far. Simply pulling Godzilla and Ghidorah—the Ghidorahs?—off of each other had taken several attempts. Monarch was full of hopeless nerds, and although Godzilla and the Ghidorahs were only newly human and incredibly uncoordinated, they had muscles like they’d been training them for twenty years. Even after being pulled apart, Godzilla and the Ghidorahs had continued struggling against the humans until they’d had blankets wrapped around them, at which point they had apparently realized they were being helped and calmed down—at least enough to accept the blankets.

Godzilla had willingly trudged inside with his human escorts. The Ghidorahs—who had insistently shared a single blanket too small to properly cover them all rather than accept three blankets over each of their shoulders—had scrambled away from the humans and up to the highest ground they could reach, losing their blanket in the process; and they’d remained there as the night chill set in, standing, shivering, and naked, until they gave up and trudged down to claim the blanket that Monarch had left at the entrance to the ship as bait.

Mothra had been the easiest to corral: she’d sat waiting for the humans to come to her, accepted her blanket, and wrapped it around herself like a cloak. She’d poked a hand out of the top of her cloak, reached for Serizawa, taken his hand, and walked in with no fear and no struggle. She’d even cooperated when Dr. Chen, who couldn’t stand what looked like a little girl walking around in nothing but a blanket, had taken her aside and dressed her in an oversized t-shirt.

(Holding a blanket closed was something none of the others knew how to do—instead, they let their blankets dangle loosely and attempted to hunch their shoulders to keep them on, leaving their entire fronts exposed. Monarch was attempting to have decency on their behalf by not looking too closely. A few of them were starting to wonder if the ex-titans would interpret the averted eyes as some kind of display of deference, and whether it would be a plus or a minus if they did.)

And now there they all were in the empty lab. All three of them—or five of them, maybe. Godzilla and the Ghidorahs huddling in opposite corners, Mothra toddling around near Godzilla and improving her coordination on two legs with every minute.

“In all the stories you’ve studied,” Serizawa murmured, “have you ever heard of anything like this?”

Dr. Chen opened her mouth, but took a long moment before she said anything. “Therianthropy is common in belief systems all over the world—humans turning into animals—as are figures that disguise themselves as humans. Werewolves, messenger angels, the huli jing—or kitsune… The Egyptian gods that we interpret as animal-headed were actually intended to be seen as inhabiting both an animal form and a humanoid form at the same time. There is precedent. But, in the mythology of any creatures we have identified as titans…” Dr. Chen frowned uncertainly. “There are some legends of Mothra that suggest she may have human forms. I’ve always interpreted those legends as referring to human representatives who speak for her, but I could have been wrong. I’d have to look for more.”

“I’m sure you will find something,” Serizawa said. “If this has happened before, and if humans ever witnessed it…”

Dr. Chen nodded. “We would have found a way to remember and record it.”

Godzilla and Mothra occasionally spoke to each other in some hissy, raspy, growly, shrieky language that Monarch was, of course, eagerly recording. Godzilla had spent most of his time in the lab crouched near the floor, constantly losing his balance and toppling backwards—missing his tail, no doubt—and every few minutes trying to swipe his hair back out of his face. A biologist had tentatively approached him to try to offer her headband, but he’d roared at her when she got close; Mothra had taken the headband and Godzilla let her fix it in place without so much as a growl.

In contrast to the two more active titans, the Ghidorahs—who had eventually been given a king sized blanket that could drape over them comfortably—were huddled tensely together on the floor, with their elbows linked and wrists twisted and fingers interlaced. They were much quieter than the other two titans, occasionally whispering inaudibly to each other but otherwise silent. The most noise they’d made so far was when the one on the left had nearly tugged away from the group to examine something. The middle had jerked him—her? fraction-of-them?—back before she—she, then—could break their hands, and had punitively bitten her on the ear; and she’d shrieked in pain. The middle one had been apologetically licking the left one’s ear ever since. Every time the trio moved, it seemed like they tried to find a way to press their shoulders closer together.

Serizawa sighed. “Well. Now is as good a time as any to talk to them.”

Dr. Chen stared at him. “Talk to them?”

“We have to open up communications,” he said. “We cannot simply corral them around, like animals in a zoo. We need to speak to them—to learn their language, or teach them ours—and cooperate with each other to decide how to handle this situation. And it starts by talking to them, even if they don’t understand us yet.”

“What if they…?” Dr. Chen’s gaze moved to the Ghidorahs—in her view, the far likelier source of any potential assault.

“I’ll be near the door,” Serizawa said. “I’ll be fine.”

She nodded. “Be careful.”

All five heads swiveled to face Serizawa when he stepped into the lab. “Good evening,” he said, like some kind of person who wasn’t trying to have a conversation with three titans that had been mysteriously transformed into humans. “Gojira, Mosura, Gidora.” He nodded to each in turn. Mothra nodded back. “My name is Serizawa Ishiro—a representative of the organization Monarch, which hopes to foster cooperation between humanity and your kind, the titans. I welcome you all aboard our ship.”

They gave him totally impassive looks.

Expecting that, he went on anyway. “As long as you are with us, we hope that you will feel like guests—not prisoners. While we would like to give you all medical exams soon—as much for your own health and welfare as for our own edification—our first priority is seeing to your comfort, and we don’t want to inflict any sort of examinations on you that you don’t understand and consent to. For tonight, we’ll do our best to find somewhere comfortable for you to sleep. Under the circumstances, I don’t know if you will prefer human beds, or nests more similar to those in your own… habitats…?”

He trailed off, watching as the Ghidorahs stood. The two on the outside raised their free arms, lifting the blanket—one awkwardly pinching the edge between two fingers and letting the fabric dangle under her arm, the other twisting it over her forearm and holding the corner against her palm with her thumb—like their wings lifted high in a threat display. Voice raspy but clear, the middle one said, “Suck our dick.”

Leaping to his feet, Godzilla snarled, “Shut up or I’ll break your necks.”

Serizawa stared at them. Then he turned and stared out the window at Dr. Chen.

And that was how Monarch found out that the titans could speak English.

#godzilla #mothra #king ghidorah #ghidorah #kotm #my writing #fanfic #directorhachi #ask

89 notes · View notes

thirium-delirium · 7 years ago

Note

hello again! as already mentioned: your stories are reallyreally great 😍👍 and ooooh I'm so happy you're taking x-Reader requests! I'd be very excited if you could write a Connor x Reader story where the reader is rather sceptic about androids. he/she doesn't like that they become more humanoid and is especially annoyed of Connor. but at some point Connor does something that turnes the readers opinion around and he/she falls in love with him

combination of these two requests. COFFEE SHOP AU.

6.5k words.

In the chaos of the morning rush, you hadn’t noticed him come in. Hadn’t spotted the tell-tale luminescent blue accents on his CyberLife-issued jacket as you pinballed between the register and the service counter and the three drip machines against the wall under the chalkboard menu.

You place an espresso and a whipped-cream doused latte on the counter, calling out the orders over the din.

“Espresso for Melissa, latte with whipped cream and three pumps of vanilla for Xiong!”

Don’t wait to see them get snatched up before you’re on to the next customers, maintaining the precarious, hectic rhythm of brewing, counting out change, and serving.

Greeting every customer with a smile is a challenge. Your feet hurt already, there’s no chance of a break in sight. You’d opened at 6am, and you’re the only one here right now, three hours later. The only staff the owner of Has-Bean can afford.

Still, it’s a job. A decently-paying job, and there’s a set of Detroiters who make it a point to support human-owned and -run businesses. You have regulars who greet you by name, ask how things are going, drop a dollar in the tip jar even though for some of them a cup of coffee is, itself, a luxury.

You grab some empty cups that people have bussed to the counter, toss them in the sink where dirty dishes have already piled high, reassuring yourself that the crowds will die down enough within half an hour that you can make a getaway to the restroom.

“Good morning.”

You hear a pleasant voice from behind you, and turn, wiping your hands on the rag tucked in the front pocket of your apron. “Hi, welcome—“

Android. Your throat tightens. He’s tall, brown haired. ‘RK800’ is emblazoned on the right breast of his jacket; a model you don’t recognize, though you can’t bring yourself to study him closely. There’s no rule against him being in here, of course. Not anymore. “What can I get you?” You ask tersely, unable to muster your usual warmth.

“One large black coffee, please.”

“Name?”

“My name is Connor.”

“For here or to-go?”

“To-go, please.”

You ring it up, resolutely not making eye contact. There’s no point anyway. People come here for the human touch, the android-free atmosphere.

How’s he even going to pay? Androids don’t carry cash, they pay by linking wirelessly with other androids. “That’ll be four fifty including the city fee for the disposable cup and lid.” Here it comes, he’ll have to ask, don’t you accept link transfers, and you’ll get the petty satisfaction of telling him no—

“This should cover it.” He places a crisp five dollar bill on the counter, which you take, punch in the amount on the antique cash register, count out his change. Fifty cents back, and you note with absent interest that one of the two quarters you slide to him on the counter is rare, and old—an eagle on it instead of the newer designs.

“Thank you,” he says, but you turn away, busy fixing his order, and moving on to the line that’s accumulated while he slowed you down.

Even so, making brief, comfortable conversation with Julie, a regular, you watch him out of the corner of your eye.

“Bizarre, aren’t they?” Julie remarks in an undertone. “Now that they’re more human?”

You nod, starting her drink, which you know by heart, before taking her cash and giving back the appropriate change. “First one I’ve ever gotten in here, even after the referendum. He’s alone, too.”

He thanks you again when you put the large black coffee out for him; you only raise your eyes when he takes it and turns to go. The crowd parts for him, and you glimpse him in profile: handsome, impeccably neat, and pleasantly mild, though there’s a keenness to him. As he makes his way out the door, you get the impression that not very much escapes his notice.

“It’s gotta be a one-off.”

“Some wealthy asshole was in the area, wanted coffee, and sent his android to get it for him.”

Your regulars offer their opinions one-by-one, and you listen, nodding impassively, until it devolves to an argument among several about whether there are any androids left who willingly serve people since the deviant uprising. Then you tune out, the rush dies down, you finally tackle the overfull sink, hoping that the strange, polite android had just been a one-time thing.

He was cute. The thought pops in your mind, as unwelcome as his unexpected appearance had been. You shove it away, along with the lingering unease that androids always bring.

Later, at the end of your shift, you take the contents of the tip jar. Owner’s policy, for which you’re always grateful, because if there’s enough you get to eat two meals a day instead of one. You count out all of it: a five and nine ones. Enough for something cheap. A handful of coins, too, and as you pile the quarters in stacks of four, you note, with a strange jolt of curiosity, the rare eagle. Rare enough that it must be the same one you’d handed as change earlier to that android.

You keep it. Not one to hang on to spare change, but it takes up residence in your left hand jacket pocket, and doesn’t get spent.

He returns the next day, same time, same outfit, same order, same cash amount.

Who the hell is giving him money for this? Any decent person would know not to send their android on an errand in a place like this.

Same perfected air of calm in the face of general disdain. As human as he’s supposed to look, he stands out in the crowd, his carefully-designed idiosyncrasies making him somehow more irritating.

In the usual rush, you forget to watch the tip jar, and instead get distracted when he orders, because he tilts his head and gives you a small smile when you remember his name—

“Connor, right?”

“Correct.”

“What can I get you?” You’re not trying to be accommodating, and certainly not friendly. “Same as yesterday?”

“Yes, please.”

But he acts as if you are. Unfailingly polite, and you think—can’t be sure, but you think— he’s left all the change again as a tip.

And again, the day after. Looking at him still makes you uncomfortable, and you don’t even bother with the strained smile you give human customers you don’t like. Probably doesn’t matter. Androids don’t care about niceties. And you suspect he keeps tipping you anyway, though you haven’t caught him at it yet.

All through the week, Monday through Saturday, he keeps coming back. Always neatly dressed, even though Friday morning brings a thunderstorm.

Rain always has a way of thinning the typical morning crowd. During the lull, you lean against the back counter, trying to ignore

your gurgling stomach, and focus on the soothing grey of the downpour outside. It’s nearly empty in here, only a couple tables occupied. The quiet allows you to hear when the bell jingles.

It’s the android again. Right on time. And apparently not one to use an umbrella. Water streams off his hair, down his face, his grey jacket and jeans and boots. He doesn’t seem to notice, and you reject the instinct to offer him a towel, although he is tracking water in, and you’ll be the one who has to mop that up later.

You meet him at the counter.

“Good morning.”

“Is it?” You look away, already starting to ring up and prepare one large black coffee. At his odd silence, you glance back up, and find him staring at you.

“Yes, I think it is. Although, my programming isn’t meant to distinguish between good and bad. Only evaluate outcomes, and select subsequent responses. But– ” his expression softens with genuine curiosity, “—I really only meant to wish you a good morning. Is that not a thing humans say anymore?”

You really shouldn’t be noticing his hair right now. The fact that it’s shiny with water, dark and silky looking, and he has that one lock that falls to the left, which you’d really like to reach out and comb back in place for him—

“Are you alright?” He tilts his head, and you get the sense you’re being scanned.

“Fine,” you snip at him, and for some reason you’re blushing. He’s staring at you too intensely, that’s why. NOT for any other reason. “This is what you want, right? Your usual?” You’d never dare be this rude with a human customer. It feels wrong, somehow, with him too. Unfair, and are you REALLY worrying about hurting an android’s feelings? But you can’t help yourself.

“Please,” he inclines his head. “And I’m sorry for getting the floor wet.”

Wanting an excuse to stay even slightly irritated at him, you ignore the apology and fix his drink. Throughout the week, you’ve wondered who it’s for. What, and who, exactly, he is. Asking wouldn’t be out of line, you make small talk with customers all the time. The one thing humans have left to be better at than androids.

Too late. His order doesn’t take long enough to make, and you hand him the paper cup. Maybe you should suggest that he bring in his own reusable mug, like most of your customers do, save a few bucks. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, miss…” his gaze drops below your eye level, to your chest. He stares longer than necessary, zoning out.

You cross your arms reflexively, like he’s any other creepy customer who feels entitled to check you out, though that’s not really the vibe you get from him. More like he’s scanning you, again. Still. RUDE.

“Hey!” You snap at him. “What are you doing?”

He blinks rapidly, brought out of his reverie. “I was looking for your name badge. My programming directs me to address all humans by name, if I know of one, and failing that, a title. I couldn’t find either one for you.”

You frown at him. “Aren’t I in the National Citizens Database?”

“Most likely, yes. But I’m not authorized to access it for any reason unrelated to my job.”

“Job?”

“I’m a prototype,” he tells you earnestly. “A detective assigned to assist the Detroit Police Department.”

That’s a jarring thing to hear. You have a handful of regular customers from the DPD. Most are uniformed beat cops, though several are plainclothes detectives. Some are kinder than others, though the idea that any of them might be edged out of a salaried job by an android is upsetting.

How can a machine know the measure of pain, and despair, and humiliation– all the hurt that comes with not being good enough to earn a living?

Even if he is an android, it’s very hard to snark at someone who’s so polite. You resort to staring at him right back. His eyes are brown and warm, his expression open. The corner of his mouth twitches up in an almost-smile and in that moment you swear to yourself– swear it-- that you won’t get some stupid crush on him, because he’s weird and unwelcome, and an android for crying out loud.

But you feel your heart beat faster. Curiosity shocks you, like a hand shooting out to grab your wrist and pull you off course. What does he want?

What does he dream of? Why, after the android uprising, is he still an errand boy for the people who probably shot at his friends?

How does he see the world?

What can he know?

“Is everything alright?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. His voice is as warm as the rest of his demeanor, calm and un-intrusive.

“Yeah. I’m– everything’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like he actually means it. “I have to go.” He inclines his head.

He takes the coffee and leaves, and you notice, for the first time, how he moves. Precise and efficient. Nothing wasted.

You wonder if you might see him again, if only to have your questions answered.

On Sunday afternoon, the end of your week, you wait restlessly for the android.

My name is Connor. You hear his pleasant, even voice in your head, picture the peculiar ways he moves, and how he enters the cafe. Scans from left to right, cataloguing everything, and then fixates on—

You.

He doesn’t show up.

“Have you had any androids come in as customers recently?” You ask Jamie, your replacement, at shift changeover.

He looks at you expectantly, as if you’ve just given him the set up for a joke.

You match his expression. “I’m not kidding.”

“Uh… no. No I haven’t. Kinda figured they knew not to come in here. Could be a deviancy thing?”

“Could be,” you allow, though you’re hazy about how android deviancy actually works. No number of explainer articles in Century magazine had succeeded in making sense of it, and several months after the uprising, news pundits debate the issue ad nauseum on TV.

“I did have a dude on red ice try to swipe the tip jar.”

“No shit. Me too! Really short, skinny, with like, a gross, scraggly goatee?”

“That’s the one—“ Jamie interrupts himself to help a customer who approaches the counter.

“You haven’t seen Hank recently, have you?” You wait to ask until Jamie’s done with the order, and you have one foot out the door, with your apron folded over your arm.

“Who?’

“You know, the cop. Grey beard, usually cranky, smells like whiskey?”

Jamie shrugs. “Don’t think so. Can’t say I remember him.”

You adjust your bag strap over your shoulder, and, by way of farewell, remind him to give away the stale pastries by the time he closes. Anyone who had met Hank would remember him, you think. For better or worse, he makes an impression.

Same with that android, or maybe that’s just you. The half hour bus ride home gives you plenty of (unwelcome) time to contemplate your growing fascination with your newest regular customer. You thumb the quarter in your pocket the whole way, shoulder to shoulder with androids and people since public transport had been desegregated.

It occurs to you that some of the people might actually be androids. They aren’t required to self-identify anymore, not by clothing or any other way.

The usual aversion you feel towards them is muted today. Connor is on your mind instead. He’s so straightforward, he tips the scale back to enigmatic. Every time he had come in, another question had piled on, and now all you can think about is the little quirk of a smile he’d bestowed on you, and how soft his lips might be on yours, and if he’d kiss you back.

“Hey Hank!”

He grunts.

“Having a good morning?”

He grunts again, lifts his chin and glares at you. You beam at him, already starting on his usual order: large caramel drizzle cappuccino with extra whipped cream and a sprinkle of chocolate shavings.

There is something deeply satisfying about meeting his eternal crankiness with persistent cheer, especially on a Sunday morning like this.

You’ve tried with other grumpy customers, but it just isn’t the same. He’s not looking very good today, but then he rarely does. A web of broken capillaries covers his sunken cheeks and blunt, rectangular nose. Eyes are bloodshot, grizzled hair coarse and unkempt. His clothes are rumpled. You can smell the whiskey lingering on him, he’s been drinking for so long it’s in his pores.

Hank has a way of timing his coffee runs such that he avoids the crowds, and you comment on this to him, as you often do. He shrugs, gives his typical response, which is that he can only deal with so much bullshit this early in the day.

You hum in agreement, and ponder bringing up the unusual android customer you’ve dealt with for the past week. Hank’s always up for a good round of complaining, though you vaguely recall him mentioning something about an android at work. He seems like he’s changed over the past few months, though you’re not sure how that all fits together. But he has been smoothed around the edges. He smiles a bit more easily.

“How’re things at the precinct?’ You ask instead. “Any cool cases? Anything juicy?”

You turn back to him in time to see him put the whole ten dollar bill in the tip jar for you, instead of paying at all. You’d only stopped thanking him for doing that when he’d threatened to arrest you for ‘being too nice, it’s suspicious’.

“Same shit different day. Assholes trying to get away with stuff they know they shouldn’t be doing.”

“Did I tell you someone tried to grab the tip jar and run?”

Hank does not look surprised. “Nope. Might wanna think about bolting that thing down.”

“Maybe.” You drizzle in three times the called-for amount of caramel, and extra pinches of chocolate shavings. Sometimes you suspect Hank keeps coming back to you not for the preferential treatment, but because you had laughed in his face the first AND second times he’d placed such a ridiculous order.

“Was it a junkie? Or just some desperate kid?”

“Red ice. Sooooo… both?” You hand him the drink. If you didn’t luck into this job, that desperate kid could very well be you.

Hank grumbles his thanks, but sounds defeated.

“You gonna make it today?” You ask him lightly, wondering how bad his hangover is.

“Eh” He takes a hearty slug of the coffee, leaving whipped cream on his mustache. “I’ll be fine.” He makes to leave, then remembers one last thing.

“Oh, by the way. Precinct’s standing up a new task force. Anti-android hate crimes are getting out of hand—“

You know what’s coming next, and start shaking your head before he’s finished. “Hank, I’m not—“

“Just listen! Hear me out. Six month internship, and at the end, the possibility of transitioning to a full time position.”

The idea of it is enticing, and just out of reach. Too painful to hope for. And so you decline, again, with the reasons you’ve given him before. Can’t afford to take an unpaid, full time position. Can’t afford to quit your jobs and then not be able to get them back in half a year when you aren’t selected to join the force.

It’s your eight day working in a row, though you don’t mention this. You’d needed to request an extra shift, having come up almost a hundred dollars short on rent. Your life feels unmoored. Drifting, and precarious. You must simply make do, can’t hope for much more than that. Have to depend on the generosity of people who can’t really afford to be generous.

“Look.” He comes back to the counter to grab a few napkins and wipe his mustache. “Take some time, think it over. Could use someone like you.”

Weeks go by. Connor becomes a fixture of most of your mornings. Hank comes by less often, about every other Sunday. Every time you try to persuade him to bring his own mug—you know he has one, because he bought the café-branded one at your urging—he grouses and reminds you of the internship.

Someone like you. The words come to mind every time you look up from the register and see Connor step forward. Sometimes he’s doing tricks with a quarter. Snapping it from hand to hand, or spinning it edgewise and making it hop from one fingertip to the next. It’s his way of zoning out, you suppose, or entertaining himself (his screensaver, maybe?), but he always stops when he speaks to you.

Would the station even want you, when they had him? You can make coffee. He can do coin tricks and probably a hell of a lot more, and all better than you.

“Good morning. The usual, please.” He seems to enjoy saying that.

You’ve already started on it, and the next few drinks for some of your regulars you see behind him. “You got it.” And through the familiar routine of taking his cash, giving change, and the sleight of hand he performs to tip you without you catching him in the act. “Do you ever make coffee at work, Connor?”

The rare attempt at small talk doesn’t faze him. “No. A detective who resented my presence on the force demanded that I make him a cup of coffee. I refused, and he became upset.”

It occurs to you, with a sudden pang of shame, that you’d asked assuming Connor didn’t have a choice. You can’t imagine yourself doing anything other than hover in the breakroom and make coffee for whoever wanders in. That’s probably not what Hank has in mind.

You bustle around the little kitchen, with several drinks going at once, but not in any particular hurry to dismiss Connor. You still haven’t asked him why he comes to buy coffee most days, and he hasn’t volunteered the information. “What happened then?” You look over in time to see an odd expression cross his face, though you can’t quite place what it is, and it reminds you, again, that despite everything, he’s not human.

“He punched me in the abdomen.”

“What?”

“And then he left without getting any coffee.”

“Wait, go back to the part about him punching you, that’s crazy—“

He doesn’t get a chance to answer; a loud, shrill ‘excuse me!’ issues from somewhere further back in the line. You tip your head to peer around Connor, and see a young man—maybe younger than you— wave his arm in the air, as if you’re too dense to notice him otherwise.

“What’s the holdup!”

You don’t recognize him, he’s not a regular. He has a small dog on a leash, a cellphone pressed to his cheek.

“That expression of ‘excuse me’ didn’t sound polite,” Connor observes, more to you than anything else. He steps aside, and you keep the line moving, accepting payment and passing the appropriate drinks to regulars, who mostly disperse, out the door, a few to tables.

The man on the phone is next, carrying on half a conversation there, and half with you. There’s nothing that gets you riled faster than customers like this; you do your best smile (more of a grimace) and ask him for his order.

He pauses just long enough to sneer something about vanilla soy, and gives Connor, who’s hovering in front of the pastry display, a look of revulsion.

Connor tilts his head serenely, not oblivious, but unconcerned. Only observing. Something twists in you.

“Name?” You prompt, since the guy resumes yelling into his phone again.

Typical. You’ve noticed that it’s mostly the younger customers who are obnoxious, entitled assholes. Older people remember life before androids, and many, you’ve surmised, at one point had to work a service job just like the one you’re doing now. That’s a rarity these days. Those who didn’t suffer it end up like him.

“Name?” You ask again, and he apologizes to the person on the phone before sniping at you.

You hold your tongue, turn to start on the vanilla soy latte. Still haven’t given Connor his order, but he seems to have gone into standby mode or something, zoning out at the asshole on the phone, who’s starting complaining loudly about slow service, prices, laziness, and then you hear—

“fuckin androids, there’s one staring at me right now, it’s creeping me out.”

–and that twisting wrenches too far, and snaps.

You trash the drink without adding toppings, go back to the register, and ask him to leave. He’s causing a scene.

From there, the exchange goes pretty much as you’d expect. Indignation. Outrage. Insults at you and Connor and androids. Avowal to never frequent Has-Bean again.

Blood roars in your ears. Fine with you. Attitudes like his aren’t welcome here, you inform him, your patience hanging by a thread, reinforced only by Connor’s unflappable composure. He can apologize or leave.

Wrong thing to say. You weather the barrage of abuse until finally the guy storms out in a fit of apoplexy, yanking his dog’s leash.

The door slams shut, bell jingling. The whole place has cleared out. You look back at Connor, awkward and apologetic. There’s a slight furrow between his eyebrows, which you misinterpret.

“Sorry,” you begin. “Sorry you had to… see that.”

“I’m fine,” he says evenly. “I—I’m concerned about that man’s dog.”

“What? Oh.”

“It showed signs of distress, and abuse. There were contusions around its neck and snout.”

“it was a real dog?” You ask, before you catch how rude that sounds. As if it matters. As if androids aren’t real. As if Connor, and his feelings, aren’t real. Come on, get your head straight. You hand him his large black coffee to cover your embarrassment.

“Yes,” he replies. Unusually distant, until he accepts the cup, his fingers brush yours, and the attraction to him you’ve repressed surges anew.

How strange, that he seems to smile with his eyes, or maybe you’re just imagining it. “Thank you.”

Suddenly you need to stop him. You need him to stay, and you come around the counter. It’s strange, and new, to stand with nothing between you; you ruin the moment by wiping your cheek. “I think that guy got spit on me when he was yelling.”

He says nothing, listening patiently, until he determines you’re done.

“I should go. I apologize for any disturbance I may have caused.”

“Connor, wait. I have to ask, why do you keep coming back here?”

“I like it here,” Connor says, after a moment of consideration. “It’s cozy.” He conveys this with a kind of earnest conviction, which initially puts you off. Androids aren’t supposed to have a concept of what’s comfortable and what’s not. A pleasant, quiet space isn’t supposed to evoke anything in them.

You clear your throat. He’s quite tall. He’d have to bend down to kiss you. “What’s, um… what parts are cozy? What do you like about it?”

He looks around. You note the LED on his temple, spinning from blue to yellow. Processing…

“The ceiling. It’s a molded pattern, 17.5 feet high. Constructed early 20th century. It was a house first, then this first floor was a ballet studio. The floors are original, you can see over by that wall, the unusual wear on the floor boards. There probably used to be a bar where the dancers practiced.”

You turn to look over your shoulder where he’s pointing, but don’t see it. He sets the coffee down on the counter, puts his hands on your shoulder and spins you around.

All at once, he’s very close. Maddeningly close, and he still has one hand on your shoulder, the other pointing out details of the architecture and design you’d never noticed before.

The windows are oriented north-west, allowing an optimal amount of natural light throughout all times of day.

And the smell of coffee, but ignore that, and you can sense more, can’t you? The wood polish and warm, worn leather, and the musty doilies the owner won’t allow anyone to throw away.

The views across the street are nice: a flower shop, a pet store, an art gallery. Here inside is the perfect refuge to watch the minutiae of other people’s lives play out, though he phrases it as ‘gathering data’.

You hadn’t thought of it that way. Had never sat at the table he indicates, the one by the window, but now you can imagine sitting at it across from him, and you want nothing more than know what it feels like to hold his hand. To know him deeply, and for that quiet, familiar intimacy to become your language of ‘are you okay’, a keeper of secret things and shared smiles.

“Huh.” Is all you can say, after you turn to face him again.

He watches you, too perceptive, his LED still yellow.

The strength of your affection catches you short of breath—how shallow you must seem to him! How transparent, and uncertain, swinging from one extreme to another. At the mercy of emotions, so unpredictable they leave you twisting in the wind.

Your heart beats wildly, filling your chest with a fluttery excitement. You swallow thickly, “That’s, uh, nice, very informative. But I meant why do you keep getting coffee? You don’t drink coffee, do you? Is that a thing. Do androids drink coffee now? I’ve never heard of them drinking it, I thought they—you—I thought you didn’t need food…”

Connor waits for you to run out of breath and stop talking before politely replying. “No. I get coffee for my partner at the police precinct. I like doing favors for him. He’s my best friend. Plus he needs it. He drinks too much, so he’s usually hungover.”

You watch Connor with the sort of sinking feeling of an unrequited, inevitable crush. The lightness of infatuation in conflict with that weight, which addles your mind enough that what he just said doesn’t register immediately.

Hungover. No, it couldn’t be… And besides, the drink orders are polar opposites, and the idea of Hank having a best friend is absurd.

“I really should get going,” Connor reminds you, before adding, “you appear flushed. Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you say, though you’re not. You turn away to retrieve his coffee, and behind your back hear the clink of coins in the tip jar. One of these days, you’ll catch him at it. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” He accepts it, and inhales its scent; curiosity flickers across his features.

“Connor?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you could teach me those coin tricks sometime?”

“Alright. But I have to warn you, my biosystems and programming make it look easier than it actually is. For humans. Any android could do it.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone besides you do it before.”

He shrugs, a totally natural gesture, accompanied by a disarming smile. “They could if they wanted.”

“Huh,” Hank grunts at you. “Maybe you really aren’t cut out for police work. Took you long enough to put it together…”

Upon seeing Hank again, on a Sunday when he clearly did not want to be anywhere except drinking more, you had questioned him about work, and the internship, and most importantly, any androids working at the station.

You’d tried your best to hide your pique of interest in the connection, at the fact that an android considers this cranky asshole his best friend. You have to wonder if Hank feels the same, but as he endures your questions, you conclude that he does– that he loves Connor like a son.

“Well?” Hank asks. “Was that enough to convince you?”

You sigh, doing the math in your head. “Could you really swing it so I could live in the new recruit housing?”

“The barracks, yeah. Probably. Wouldn’t be the easiest living situation if you aren’t used to it.”

You take out the quarter that has inhabited various pockets of your clothing for the past few months. The prospect of possibly working with Connor in the most enticing aspect of this whole thing; as you fidget with the coin you again try to dismiss your pathetic infatuation and focus on practical matters.

Even with free housing for the six months, you’d have to find a way to afford food, and there’s no guarantee of a paying job at the end of it. Would be safer just to stay here. Making coffee. Forever.

“Where’d you get that?”

“This?” You hand it to him “Tip jar.”

He turns it over, grumbling, but you can tell it’s his ‘this is interesting’ grumble, and not his ‘I hate everything and everyone’ grumble. At last he gives it back. “Be glad you didn’t spend it. That thing’s worth a bit.”

“Really!?” excitement makes you knock over a cup of milk you were steaming. “Shit.”

As you clean up, Hank answers the question he knows you’re yearning to ask. “Fifteen thousand. Maybe more, depending on the date.”

A horrible thought intrudes suddenly; you imagine one, out of all the times you’d been turning the quarter over in your pocket, had you dropped it somehow, watched in roll away, fall in a storm drain. You pat the pocket where you’d just put it away, then zip the pocket closed.

“I’m no collector,” he assures you. “Stupidest way to waste money I can think of.”

To be sure, you personally can’t imagine have fifteen grand to spend on ANOTHER piece of money. People are weird. Then again, you have a crush on an android.

“You should take it to an appraiser. See how much you can actually get for it.” He lifts his chin like a challenge. “…unless you feel like keeping it.” Which only an idiot would do, is the clear subtext there. You shake your head. Plans are already forming in your mind, nebulous visions of a future, which somehow includes a scene of you and Connor strolling in a park, hand in hand.

You sigh, and shake your head to dismiss that image. “You said the barracks aren’t easy? What’s it like?”

Hank almost smiles. He must know he’s got you, and he motions to a table. “You have a few minutes?”

The countdown to your last day brings rising trepidation and doubt. What if you’re making the wrong decision? You’re giving up a steady income, as well as fixed rent that you know you’ll be able to afford for at least a couple more years.

The longer you wait, the harder it becomes to approach Connor with an apology. But he deserves one. It’s not just for your own peace of mind. How could you ever have hated him? Your memory of how you treated him is painful to admit to yourself, you’ll have to confront it soon.

Yet you put it off. Wait one day, because you see him and he smiles at you and you don’t want to mess it up.

And another day, one bright quiet morning, when he holds up a quarter between his index and middle finger and asks, “ready?” In the empty shop (lack of customers not a good sign, perhaps it’s for the best that you’ll be moving on soon) he stands behind you, hands on your forearms, speaking low and steady in your ear.

Relax, you’re tense, it’s all in the wrist. He sounds so human, you could be forgiven for mistaking him for anything other than a machine, but then he observes your precise heart rate, and the spike in dopamine, and he finally reminds you that humans need to breathe.

Of course. How silly of you. Forgetting to breathe. Inhale, exhale, and all that. While he’s hovering there at your back, appropriately spaced and you’d rather he NOT be. You’d rather he press himself against you, make you feel the ridge of his erection, if androids even have urges like that. Probably not, but that doesn’t stop you from getting distracted, nor does it weaken the potency of your arousal, because fuck he’s right behind you and it’s too easy to fantasize about dragging him into the back room and showing him how you’d like him to kiss your neck as he fucks you.

One day, a second day, a third, and fourth day in a row, he comes in, orders, then sits down and reads.

He carries a book with him. What was the outdated term you’d heard Hank use?

Oh yeah— hipster.

An android reading. Such a simple act of enjoyment; it shouldn’t be a shocking sight, but regular customers keep shooting him unpleasant looks. Finally, after the rush has died down, you work up the nerve to slide into the seat across from him.

“Good morning.” He looks up from A History of Jazz in the American Midwest: the 1940’s.

Last day, you realize with a start. Last chance, before you’re sort-of colleagues with him. You’d practiced variations of a most eloquent speech in your head, every bus ride to and from work.

“Connor, I owe you an apology,” it would begin. “I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. I was unwelcoming and bigoted and it was wrong of me to act like that. I’m sorry.”

He’s staring at you expectantly, and in the aftermath of this conversation, nothing about the way you parse the details can account for what your mouth decides to do in defiance of logic.

“I’m an idiot with a crush on you.” You blurt it out and then freeze.

He tilts his head, bewildered. Clearly doesn’t know how to process this kind of thing, and the LED on his right temple spins from blue to yellow. When he speaks, he’s halting. “My algorithms can’t give me a precedent on how to respond to that—I’m…” He pauses again, searching vast databanks and not finding the right words. Any other time it would be reassuring. One of the most advanced prototypes ever made, rendered uncertain by human weirdness.

You wait in wrenching silence, brace yourself for a rejection that doesn’t come. He shuts his book without marking the page.

Then, he reaches up to brush a strand of your hair out of your eyes, and gives you a kind smile. His fingers trail from your hair to your cheek, caressing the skin. Your breath hitches.

Up close, he’s somehow more handsome, and how is it that everything he does makes you giddy? He regards you serenely, head cocked slightly to the left, observing your reactions. As always.

“It’s okay,” he answers your unspoken apology. “Do you want to start over?” And at your grateful nod: “My name is Connor.”

You respond in kind, though your own name sounds distant in your ears, because he’s saying something about how his protocols indicate this is the optimal moment to initiate mouth to mouth contact and he’s leaning over the table, closer, closer.

In the empty, quiet shop, he kisses you. This one, lambent morning when there’s a break in the clouds and sun in your eyes, he kisses you, not quite hesitant. More like he’s experimenting. Thoroughly.

You stiffen, though he’d moved slow enough to it, but his lips are soft, pliant. You kiss him back fervently, bring your hand up to grip his forearm, don’t go. Don’t end this too quickly.

When you part, it’s not far, you pull away needing to breath and knowing he never will.

“You know Hank hates plain black coffee, right?” It slips out before you can stop yourself. Something about this damn android.

“Yes.” His brow furrows. “He needs to eat healthier. He’s at risk of heart disease.”

You find yourself worrying your lower lip. “The fact that we made out probably isn’t going to help his stress level.”

“No. Luckily I know of several disused rooms at the precinct which are perfect for–”

“Discussing the history of jazz?” You finish, glancing down at his book.

He almost smiles. You catch it in his eyes. “Find me on your first day and I’ll show you around.”

#connor x reader #dbh connor #connor dbh #detroit become human #detroit: become human #fanfic #coffee shop au

104 notes · View notes

impracticaldemon · 7 years ago

Text

Chaos Theory: Sasuke Ch. 2

by impracticaldemon

Chapter 2: The Oda Strike Back

Author's Note: The sequel to my first Ikesen Sasuke story (Do You Have a Fever?). Welcome to chapter 2. Chapter 2 still isn't ns/fw. Sorry. On the bright side: Mitsuhide. Also, Chapter 3 is also done and much steamier.

Thank you to all for your support, kind notes, reviews, fun tags and so on!

~ Impracticaldemon [Read on FFN HERE]

The Oda Strike Back

I didn't see Sasuke for over a week after The Episode of the Wardrobe Malfunction (also playing in my embarrassing moments highlight reel as The Day I Got High and Snuggled Sasuke). A week wasn't actually very long, but I harboured deep suspicions that his buddy Yukimura was keeping him away with comments like, "You can't trust those wild boar women, Sasuke—show even a moment's weakness, and they're all over you."

Of course, that was probably unfair to both guys. Sasuke wouldn't tell even his BFF—Sasuke's term, employed with his customary lack of expression—about what had happened. Probably. And Yukimura and I got along pretty well now, except when his tactlessness got the better of my patience. He just doesn't have my appreciation for your charming naiveté, noted my inner Mitsuhide, before I slammed the (mental) door on his comments.

In any event, whether it was Sasuke's gift of ibuprofen that helped me, or the unintentional snuggling, I got over my cold in record time, and then spent a week hoping to see my fellow time-traveler so that I could apologize for my behaviour. Inevitably, certain people made a point of commenting on my occasional lapses of attention.

"How are you feeling today, Chieko?" asked Mitsuhide, his lips curving into what the naïve might call a smile. Apparently, he was spending some quality spymaster-conqueror time with Nobunaga this morning.

"Fine, thanks. Why do you ask?" I paused, politely handed Nobunaga his morning correspondence, and then added, "It was just a cold, and I recovered six days ago." I gave him my haughtiest don't-mess-with-me-this-morning look. A pointless effort, but he'd asked every day since I'd—completely accidentally, and while under the influence of opium—pressed my aching head into Sasuke's surprisingly well-defined chest. For the record, Sasuke had done a fine job of holding on to me once I was there, so—

A soft huff of amusement from the white-haired Machiavelli of the Oda forces suggested that I might have inadvertently lost focus at a bad time. I glanced up at Nobunaga to see whether he'd noticed anything, but he appeared to be skimming through the letters I'd brought. I resumed my attempt at a withering glare, and tried to will away the ridiculous—and entirely uncalled for—blush that was creeping across my cheeks.

"I am merely concerned about the health of our dear chatelaine, after her recent illness." Mitsuhide's long, white lashes concealed the predatory gleam that no doubt lurked in his snaky golden eyes, but nobody was fooled.

"Perhaps; however, you do keep asking." Nobunaga's incisive tones were curious, rather than annoyed, but they demanded a response. So much for my small hope that Azuchi's premier candy thief wasn't paying attention. "She doesn't look ill, Mitsuhide, she looks infatuated. Does it involve you in some way?"

What?!

"I am not infatuated with—with anyone!"

Mitsuhide ignored me. "Alas, I do not believe that I am the object of her desire," he lamented, with patently false regret. Nobunaga shot him an oddly appraising look, but his so-called left-hand man merely returned his usual slithery smile.

"Well, Chieko? If it's not an entanglement with Mitsuhide, then what is it?"

I kept my eyes on Nobunaga, unwilling to risk looking at The Bane of My Existence. A sudden idea skittered through my brain.

"I'm not entangled with anyone, Nobunaga. However, I must admit that my thoughts have turned to Mitsuhide quite often of late."

For once, if only for a fraction of a second, both men looked surprised.

"Really now?" Mitsuhide was suddenly beside me. "Do tell!" Now that he was looking down at me—and so close!—I felt just the tiniest bit apprehensive. He was a snake who preferred to play with his food before finishing it off. Sometimes I curse my powers of imagination.

I took a calming breath, and resisted the compulsion to look up into Mitsuhide's eyes. I addressed my reply to Nobunaga.

"You see, Mitsuhide has been like an uncle to me"—I thought I saw a look of appreciation cross Nobunaga's face—"and recently I've found that he comes to mind when I am faced with a difficult decision."

"I see." Nobunaga managed to imply enjoyment without actually changing expression. Then his attention returned to his desk. "Mitsuhide, we have work to do."

"Of course, my lord." Mitsuhide's eyes were gleaming with mischief, and I suddenly felt a qualm or ten about my decision to poke back a little. A slender finger caressed my cheek in a way that was not at all avuncular; I was unable to fully suppress a shiver—of apprehension, mostly. Only mostly? Good grief! "Good morning then, my dear Chieko. Rest assured that I will keep an even closer eye on you, now that I know how much you look up to me."

I managed a rather sickly smile as I left. Baka! Idiot! What the hell were you thinking? Mitsuhide Rule Number One: Do not, under any circumstances, try to play his game—any of his games. You will lose, and not even the occasional, fleeting victory is worth it.

When I got back to my room, I decided to go down into the market instead of returning to work with the seamstresses as originally intended. Maybe I could find Yukimura, and warn him that Mitsuhide seemed to be uncomfortably aware of Sasuke's activities in and around the castle. When Inner Mitsuhide snickered at the word 'activities', I may have snarled aloud.

Unfortunately, Yukimura wasn't in his usual spot. My heart sank, although I tried to keep the disappointment off my face as I pretended to browse the wares in nearby shops and stalls. After half an hour of searching—and a rather convoluted walk around the market area—I was forced to admit how much I'd been hoping to see Sasuke again, and how worried I was that I might not see him again for a long time.

"Hsst, ojō-san! A moment of your time!" The words were pretty standard for both beggars and merchants, but the hushed tones made no sense. Plus, who used words like 'psst' and 'hsst' outside of old novels?

I was about to take a quick step back—strangers trying to kidnap me had been an issue in the past—when I realized that the stooped, oddly-dressed figure was the man I most wanted to see. He was wearing the traveler's traditional flat straw hat, and strange clothing, but it was Sasuke. My heart started to beat a little faster, and my attempt to play it cool failed miserably as I rushed headlong into the narrow, shadowed lane.

"Sasuke! I've"—one hand gripped my shoulder, and another pressed against my mouth, preventing further speech.

"Sorry Chieko, we need to get out of here. Okay?" Sasuke sounded apologetic, but didn't remove his hand until I nodded. His fingers seemed to linger on my face for a moment longer than necessary. A weird part of my brain replayed the sensation of Mitsuhide's mocking caress earlier, cataloguing similarities and differences. Then the hand on my shoulder slid down to close firmly over mine, and a giddy, swooping feeling in my stomach made me a little light-headed. I winced internally as I felt the goofy smile hit my face. You are an independent, adult woman, not a fourteen-year-old with a crush! Despite my best efforts, Mitsuhide's smirk flashed across my mind, followed by Nobunaga's irritatingly knowing expression.

Sasuke was already moving by the time I got my head together, and I had to hurry to keep up with him. Despite his obvious anxiety to leave town quickly, his grip never tightened too far, nor did his pace increase beyond what I could handle in my kimono and sandals. For some reason, I could feel myself smiling again. Pull it together, Chieko! He's just a considerate guy, not some kind of hero. I mean, you didn't see him for a week, and now he's dragging you off somewhere without an explanation! And you're happy about it! (Mental eye-roll.)

Out of nowhere, my usually quiescent—more like comatose—romantic self downed a few shots of espresso, sat up, and took umbrage. And how many considerate guys have you actually met in the last couple of years? Right? So shut up! I had a point, I conceded, blithely going where I was tugged.

Actually, Mitsunari was often considerate, if not always helpful. And Hideyoshi could be very considerate, once you got past his—let's be honest—obsession with Nobunaga, and if you didn't mind Extreme Fussing™. Masamune was a good guy—and a great cook—despite living life at twice normal speed. In fact, they all had their own ways of being kind, even Mitsuhide, although his version was subtle, and usually involved him entertaining himself at your expense while helping you. Fine, noted my romantic self, now sipping gently at a mild green tea with lemon, but you're not holding hands with any of them.

We traversed several of Azuchi's less pleasant lanes and back-streets, before emerging onto a footpath leading across a meadow toward a not-too-distant wood. It was a beautiful day, and bright flowers were scattered throughout the waving grasses. Sasuke came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the meadow, and I careened into his back. He automatically helped me to regain my footing, but his eyes remained fixed on some point ahead of us—at least, the glint of sunlight off his half-concealed glasses suggested that he was staring at something.

"Um—Sasuke?"

"I'm fine. Just don't move."

I still couldn't understand what was wrong, but I did my best to obey, a little relieved to get a break from trying to hurry in geta. I continued to peer around Sasuke's side—though without moving too much. The grip on my hand tightened a little, and my companion looked down at me and then away.

"We'll have to go around. I'm sorry about this—it will be slightly harder for you underfoot."

"Sasuke, what are we going around?"

His expression didn't change, but his cheeks and neck reddened a little. Was he embarrassed? His expression was as difficult to read as ever, especially since his upper face was in shadow under his straw hat.

"…Could we discuss that later? Right now we have to get under cover. Though it was clever of you to lose them back in the market."

"Lose who?" I demanded, starting forward a little reluctantly this time.

"Lord Mitsuhide's agents. I thought that was why you travelled so randomly around the market area."

I was stuck on the first part.

"Agents? Mitsuhide's agents?"

"My hypothesis was erroneous, it seems."

We were moving again, but a little more slowly than before. The grasses in this area had been regularly scythed, and there were no flowers. There wasn't so much a path as a wide, rather barren field that appeared to go on all the way to the trees in the middle distance.

"I guess so—that you were mistaken. I have no idea what's going on." I was momentarily distracted by a different question. Or maybe I just had too many things to think about at once and fixed on something irrelevant. "I wonder why this area is all grass? I hadn't thought about it before, but it's like this all the way around the town, pretty much. Not short and hard-packed like this, but you know what I mean." You're babbling, dear. Yeah, I'd noticed, thanks.

Sasuke's grip loosened a little, as though he appreciated the break from more difficult subjects (whatever they were). Naturally, he knew the answer to my not-quite-question.

"Most castle towns are like this—in Europe as well as Japan, from what I've read. You don't want an army to be able to creep up on your castle or castle town. So you cut down the forest around the town. The area we're crossing now is where the Oda forces drill. That's why it's so hard underfoot, and the grass has bare patches."

"They've been at war for a long time, haven't they? All of them, I mean." After two months, I'd finally gotten my head around it, but sometimes the whole Warring States thing really hit me.

"Yes. Over a hundred years already—so not just the existing warlords, but their fathers and grandfathers and so on. It was a terrible time, but…" Sasuke slowed, and I knew without looking up that his expression had become both more animated and a little distant.

"But there were some brilliant and wonderful people?" I asked softly, not wanting to break this brief sense of being outside all of the bloodshed and disaster. I could pretend to be out on a summer walk with a friend, just chatting—for no apparent reason—about historical Japan. Do you always hold hands with your friends? No—now go away, you're interrupting my fantasy. …Which involves holding hands with a Sengoku fanboy named after a famous, but probably fictional ninja?

"Yes, exactly," said the fanboy in question. For a moment, I couldn't recall which question he was answering, and just stared at him blankly. "…Chieko?"

We were almost at the edge of the wooded area, but Sasuke stopped and peered at me as though trying to figure out why I'd stopped working. I found myself holding my breath, keenly aware of just how close he was now that we were facing each other. He still had my hand, and my imagination was starting to get the better of me.

"I was just thinking things over," I said hastily, trying to ignore the fact that he looked adorable, even in the ridiculous straw hat. Wait—seriously? Adorable?

"I see. It's true that there's a great deal to consider. For my part, although I can't condone the way in which violence is used as the first—and often only—approach to dispute resolution, I have come to greatly respect the warlords with whom I've served, even beyond my pre-existing, quite considerable admiration. I suspect that they are all suffering from various mental health issues, but despite this, they seem more alive, more vibrant, than most of the people I know back home."

I found myself nodding at his words, and saw his lips curve into his rare, rather shy smile. My heartbeat sped up further. "I'm glad we can talk about things like this, Chieko," he told me earnestly. "I mean, I realize that you are the only other time traveller here—that I know of—but, just for the record, I consider myself fortunate that you were the person who was inadvertently trapped here with me."

"Oh…" I managed feebly. Was that some kind of confession, or was Sasuke just that oblivious?

There was a short, possibly awkward silence. Then Sasuke's eyes went very wide behind his glasses, and he quickly took a half-step backward, letting go of my hand. This time the blush was unmistakeable.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean—that is, we should keep going. This is all because of the—of them—being in the way when you were sick. Chaos rides on their fluttering wings. I should have known that something like this would happen."

Sasuke's last two or three sentences were muttered under his breath and largely incomprehensible to me. I had the impression that I wouldn't have understood even if I'd heard him properly.

We slipped under the shade of the trees just a few minutes later, and Sasuke took off the hat and peasant's kimono he'd used as a disguise—principally for changing his outline, he explained, although the hat was also useful for concealing his glasses (less reflected light off the lenses). Before I could ask any questions, he told me that we were "almost there," and moved silently away. His cheeks were no longer red, but he still wouldn't meet my eyes.

Despite Sasuke's assurances, it took another twenty minutes to reach our destination. Yukimura was waiting at the door of a small wooden hut, looking just about as twitchy and irritable as I was starting to feel. My sandals were pretty, but not appropriate attire for hurrying over rough ground, or through the woods. And my sore feet were the least of my worries.

"Sasuke! Where the hells have you been, moron?! You were supposed to be back here an hour ago—at least!"

"I'm sorry I'm late," Sasuke replied calmly, pausing to exchange a complicated fist bump that looked distinctly out-of-place in Sengoku Japan. "Things came up."

"What's that supposed to mean? You said you needed to tell Chieko about some stuff and then we could go. Have you even told her anything yet?"

"Hi Yukimura, nice to see you again," I said politely.

"Right—hi. I'm afraid we've got go now. Akechi's really turned up the heat in the last few days, since Sasuke's last mission went wrong somehow."

They were returning to Kasugayama? For good? I brushed away a sudden—and totally excessive—sense of disappointment. And something went wrong with Sasuke's last mission? Anything involving Mitsuhide was potentially dangerous.

"Sorry, I really don't know what's going on. Sasuke kind of grabbed me from the market and now we're here." I gave Yukimura my best innocent bystander look. He frowned, but it wasn't the scowl that I used to get. His eyes flicked over to Sasuke, and I sensed something like concern. I was impressed with the lack of eye-roll.

"Well? Do you need a bit more time? As long as you didn't accidentally lead anybody here—"

"I didn't." Sasuke's reply was unusually terse.

"Okay, fine. Just remember that everyone makes mistakes, even you, so—"

"I have never assumed that I am infallible, Yukimura. However—"

"Then stop beating yourself up for making one mistake, okay? It's annoying. Besides, we had to leave now anyway, as it turns out."

"…I understand."

This time, Yukimura did roll his eyes, but I couldn't blame him. What was going on with Sasuke?

"Alright, I'm heading out. You, uh, explain things to Chieko, then catch up to me." He gave me a quick nod, and a wry smile. "See you 'round, Chieko. Don't run off any cliffs after we've gone, okay?"

"Sure thing, Yukimura." My return smile wasn't feigned—it was an old jibe, and the guy had saved my life. "Look after yourself, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Although—" Yukimura hesitated, then shook his head. "It's just weird, you know? The people I need to watch out for most are your buddies on the Oda forces. And vice versa." The last was said with chilling sincerity.

"As I explained before," interposed Sasuke, "Chieko values personal friendships above the feudal ties of lord and vassal. She wants everyone to be safe."

Yukimura just shook his head again—at me, at Sasuke, at life in general. "That's not how it works. But—hope you can stay out of the worst of it, Chieko. See you soon, Sasuke. No offence to Chieko, but we've got some feudal ties to honour. And Lord Kenshin won't go easy on you if you're late."

"I am aware of the value that Lord Kenshin places on loyal service. I will rendezvous with you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?! You're using weird words again, but tomorrow? We're due back—"

"ASAP. I know. But I have a few more loose ends to tie up."

There was a brief stare-off, then Yukimura shrugged. "It's your neck. Literally."

On that valedictory—and ominous—note, Yukimura turned and strode off. He navigated the undergrowth without difficulty, the sword on his hip and spear on his back as comfortable and familiar as his tunic and trousers. All at once I felt like I was seeing Sanada Yukimura the warlord, rather than Yukimura, Sasuke's merchant friend.

[END]

A/Note:

Stay tuned for chapter 3, where things get decidedly more risqué! Okay, but Sasuke is just an overachieving cinnamon-roll and I ♥ him.

Tags: @cherryb0mb79 @shell-senji @nalufever @hidetheremote @eliz1369 @iamaikotachibana @flower-dragon @canadiangaap @yum-chan @llama-in-socks (thank you for wanting more!)

Thank you to @acrispyapple for your kindness. ♥ (also, Byron - nuff said)

#ikesen #ikesen fanfiction #sarutobi sasuke #ficsforvera #impracticaldemon #imp writes #cybird otome

58 notes · View notes