Blooming colours of red, of purple, blue and yellow. In the spring flowers, in your skin, bruises. Deeper each time. Maybe one less, maybe one more.
"Again," he says, each time, each failure, sly yet monotone. A glint in his eye, every movement watched, tracked, destroyed. Cat-like precision. A blow to your side, a grip on your wrist, iron-tight, punishing. That smirk that you know so well.
Training with Wesker goes beyond the word. Some indescribable mix of torture and boundless satisfaction when you finally get a hit in. His strength is beyond human, beyond your understanding, and fighting it feels impossible. A daily dance of futility. Until it's not. Until your fist finds his chest, beating his speed, beating his experience, and he stops to huff a congratulations.
"Impressive. It only took you two hours."
Sarcastic. Only the quietest hint of sincerity. He doesn't have to pretend, not with you, not anymore. Raccoon City is a thing of the past, a tiring lesson in patience, his old veneer of Captain is no longer necessary.
"It's faster than last time." You say. Sweat shines along your skin. Your breath is sharp, measured. Something else he's taught you.
"And more than anyone else has achieved, I suppose."
That teacher role he thought so pointless in the station still sticks with him. Does he realise? The way his hands smooth over your wounds, wrap your knuckles with something akin to care. The way his hands smooth up your waist, along your arms, to place them in the proper position. His reprimands, his praises. They spit out sharp and calculated. That indifference of his hides poorly his attentive gaze.
You will be better. Stronger. Smarter. Because he is training you so. Efficiency is simply a given. The blood on your hands can be kissed away.
"Again."
And so it continues. He hits your weak spots, holds back only to the necessary extent. As not to crush you, to shatter each bone into dust. The curve of flesh and muscle no longer distracts you like it did back then. A marvel of humanity, a statue made real, tantalising even with the knowledge you own. That he's a monster, a murderer, a manipulator. Each trait perfected.
He sweeps your legs from under you, scoffs at your lack of reaction. You simply lie there and stare at the ceiling, chest heaving, eyes drifting shut.
"I can't do this anymore."
He considers you for a moment. Admires seems the more optimistic word, the one you use to cope with the day to day, the one that used to make sense. Does it still hold true?
He offers his hand, and with a sigh, you let him pull you to your feet. Your bodies collide, and you let your face fall to the crook of his neck, trust him with your weight. His hand squeezes your waist and slithers up, runs along your bare skin before raising up to pet your hair. To placate you just like he used to.
"Tomorrow then," he says, his voice in your ear, "I expect a better performance."
A thousand pretty stars hover above you, below you, all around you. Every inch of infinite darkness embroidered with twinkling lights.
If only there was a window.
A big window, framed ornately with curling silver and sparkling jewels. A planet or two far off, reminding you of home, of the promise of earth. You dream quietly of soil and dirt. Of clouds and pouring rain. Mundanity. It's so overlooked when you have it. When you hold simplicity in your hands, you disregard it. Then, when it's gone, you beg for its return. Never pleased. Never-
"Can't sleep?" A voice comes from behind, cuts through the air and your thoughts with ease as though they were one. Curly.
You hum. "No. Somehow I ended up back here, staring at the screen."
His footsteps sound out loud in the silence as he makes his way to your side, then hovers for a moment, like he doesn't know what to do with himself. He motions to the spot beside you on the couch.
"May I?"
"'Course. You're the captain, after all."
"Well," he sits down with a huff. Your knees touch, and the two of you flinch away on instinct. A glance is shared as an apology, but you both run from it. "I wouldn't want to be an intrusive captain. I don't think anyone would appreciate that."
"How responsible." Your eyes remain trained on the fake night sky, the screen that works only to make your yearning harsher. The room seems infinitely warmer with the captain here. There's space between you, but clearly not enough. "I'm sure Pony Express is... proud."
The shift of his hips draws your attention. He leans back, puts his hands up on the couch in an attempt to get comfortable. He looks anything but.
"I don't think the word proud has ever crossed their mind, to be honest."
There's a pause, a jittery quiet, and then he looks to you. His face illuminated by the ships nighttime blue and the fake moon. You hate how quickly your insides melt.
"And do you- does that bother you?"
His eyes dart down, and away.
"What? If Polle's proud of me or not?" Curly tries to laugh, but seems too tired for it.
"No, I mean," you struggle to grasp the right words, the right way of approaching what you really want to talk about. "Does it bother you that no one's proud? That nobody really... cares, or even knows that we're out here?"
His gaze returns to you. From the corner of your vision you can see, see how he watches your every twitch with unearthly interest, see how he takes his time to commit even the curve of your nose to memory. At least, it makes you feel better to imagine he's doing such.
"I don't know. Sometimes. But you should keep your head up, right? Think about the people who do care, like me- the crew." He places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, but it leaves quickly, too warm, too out of place.
"I really don't think Swansea would think twice if I disappeared off this ship, captain."
He laughs properly this time. The sound alone almost shatters the walls you've built, the high inhibitions your position calls for. You find yourself shuffling just an inch closer to his warmth regardless. The sun, smothered and hidden by metal, yet visible just for you.
"Well, maybe. But I would. More than twice, actually, I'd probably..." he clears his throat, "probably think a few times. You know, think about where you've gone."
Now comes your turn to stare. The gentle blue light on his warm features, the red creeping up his thick neck, his hair falling perfectly over his face. Every movement you make now is deliberate, awfully so, each inching move towards him a desperate crawl through dirt. Your knee nudges his again. This time, neither of you move.
"When we're back on earth, what do you wanna do?" You ask. He shifts uncomfortably.
"Get a nice dinner somewhere, maybe. There's this one place I used to love but... I haven't been there in ages. I'm sure they've forgotten me by now. You?"
"Go on a hike in the rain. Breath in some fresh air. Pet a dog, buy groceries. Everything I can't do up here I guess."
He fixes his eyes on you now, clenches the fist that's fallen to his lap.
"Would you..." he pauses, "would you, by any chance, need some help with that?"
"With... breathing?"
He blinks. "No, I meant- would you-"
"Like to go on a date when we're back?" The words spill from your lips, molten and hot. You regret them instantly, curse yourself for pushing so far, but the look in his eye changes your mind. A gentle glimmer of hope, of surprise, of hesitation.
"Uh, yeah. I'd take you on one now if I could but we're in the middle of space and I'm, well- I'm your captain. I don't want you to... feel pressured."
You smile. His expression is uncharacteristically timid. It fits strangely onto his strong features, runs along his nose to leave muddy footprints. With another push against the tides of your hesitation, you reach over, pull his clenched hand into yours. He sighs from the contact, sighs again when you run your thumb along his knuckles.
"Good thing we're getting fired after this, I guess. You won't have to worry about the captain thing anymore."
He leans his head against your shoulder. Your other hand wraps around him, kneads through his hair as if you'd done this a thousand times before. Maybe you have in some other, distant life. But with how fast your heart is beating now, how hot your skin feels at every touch, that life must have been centuries ago.
"What then? I take lead of another ship? The pays good, but... there's so many things I wanted to do before I put myself in this loop. Now, they're just empty boxes on a bucket list." He looks up through his lashes, embarrassed yet emboldened by his vulnerability. By your acceptance of his vulnerability. "Sorry. I shouldn't just dump that on you."
"It's okay. You're in a difficult position. We all are." You weave your fingers through his thick hair, crumble at every small noise that leaves his throat. The bags under his eyes are getting darker, you notice. "We'll do one thing at a time."
"Right. Yeah," Curly sits up, "but the first thing's dinner, alright?"
His smile is contagious. The sweetest disease in the galaxy.
It's a part of modern life. Even in a city as enforced as Piltover, a city as patrolled and watched as Piltover- it happens. There are still monsters that roam alleys, or wear uniforms as camouflage. There are still tragedies in everyday life. Despite seeming so very distant when they're plastered on newspapers, or milk cartons, they happen. They're real.
But people like Jayce are not supposed to go missing.
Maybe it's selfish to say that. Maybe it's something that's meant to go unspoken, the fact that some people are considered more important by society. That some people have more privilege, more protection from the uncaring nature of catastrophe.
And yet, despite Jayce's renowned status, the man of progress, despite him holding the gaze of Piltover itself- he's gone missing.
You're not sure how long it's been. How many sullen days have passed, searching, even in the unlikeliest of places, for a sign. A message. A murmur would do. The weeks have simply collapsed into each other, a sinkhole of hours.
You too, following the hours, have collapsed into yourself. The days spent wrapped in cloak roaming Zaun for information have little difference to the days spent curled in bed like a discarded child's toy. Every minute is one, bound together by pure desperation, utter confusion, and endless despair.
Because how could he have just... Vanished?
Just like that, a man of yesterday. It seems that the city is too caught up in political tribulations to care about his disappearance. Some haven't even noticed it. On your endless quest for information, more than once you've received the response, Jayce Talis? I didn't even know he was missing.
But you haven't given up. Not yet. Despite the circles under your eyes, the new strain in your shoulders. Despite the ever-growing pit in your stomach. For what else is there to do but search? Even if you 'gave up', you'd be looking for his shadow in the street, searching for his image in the crowd whilst trying to wipe it from your memory.
You run a hand down your face, curl into the covers that bit more. A knock at the door forces your tired eyes to re-open. Fatigue in your very self argues against moving, and for a a few moments getting out of bed seems the most difficult task in the world. But the knock comes again, harder. With some garbled noise you crawl out the covers as though emerging from a cocoon, movements lethargic like those of a dying animal.
The first lock comes undone with the work of your fingers. Then the next. Your hand hesitates, though, as it grasps the doorknob, your mind considering the swathe of potentials, an unwanted bouquet of sorts. A sales pitch? A concerned visitation? An enforcers questioning eye?
Or- maybe, a new lead. Unlikely, but it's enough to force your hand.
What greets you is none of those things.
You don't recognise him at first- what, with the tattered clothing, the deep-set frown, the beard as messy as his hair.
As soon as he looks up, though, when those terribly familiar eyes reach yours, the confusion evaporates. Boils away to unearth a passion you can hardly hold; it makes your hands shake, your eyes line with tears, your mouth dry in wordless ecstasy. His name leaves your lips as a whisper, and his gaze falters from yours, the soft reality at complete odds with the one he's settled in. The one with sharp edges, with blood and steel as key elements, not butter and affection.
Jayce's face twists, the onset of tears, and all at once he reaches forward to pull you into himself. Hides his sadness in the crook of your neck, his hammer clunking to the ground beside him. You hadn't even noticed he was holding it. His hands run to your waist, pulling at the fabric to ascertain its reality, but he finds it inadequate. He reaches under your shirt, his warm hands against your skin, and he sighs instead of sobbing.
He's not sure if he can anymore. If that part of him survived the Arcane.
But he's here, now. With you. His hands roaming your back, your arms thrown around his neck. Like the pose from a romance novel. The thought drags some whimper of humour from him, and he thinks that's a good sign.
He smells of oil and iron. Earthy. He mumbles about how much he missed you, right into your ear, breath hot. You think you're crying, though you're not entirely certain. The sensations in your body, your mind, overlap into something abstract to the point that crying seems like a spiritual experience. Like the word crying is unable to describe the motion, the true feeling.
You pull him inside, the door slamming shut a reminder of reality, the loud noise binding you to earthly sensation. The questions that fall from your lips are boundless, piles upon piles of vocalised mysteries that Jayce can't seem to answer coherently. You sit him down, push his hair from his face and cup his jaw tenderly. Tenderly as though he could break any second, but from that newfound fire in his eyes, from the dirt staining his skin, you know such a thought is ludicrous. Peeling off his tattered overcoat and the flimsier shirt underneath reveals bruising you could never even picture before now. The curves and hard muscle of Jayce now stained purple, now scarred in places that'd been smooth perfection beforehand.
A part of him, he thinks, should perhaps be insecure of your wandering eyes, your wandering fingertips. He's changed. His body has been torn, battered, bruised. No longer made of marble, but of flesh.
But your eyes are gentle. Concerned, but gentle. When you settle into his lap to hold him close again, to press desperate kisses against his lips, against his neck, he feels he can never leave your side again. Feels an avalanche of guilt for doing so in the first place, despite the decision not exactly being his own.
Whatever comes next, he knows he'll have you. You know you'll have him. And in this moment, your foreheads together, eyes searching each others for the things that can't be felt with words, you both know that it'll be enough.
Viktor is, you've clearly observed, insecure of himself.
Quite valiantly, due to some looming social norm or personal feeling, he tries to hide it. But in moments like these, such an act becomes impossible. Try as he might, desperately at times, when he's pressed against you in the warm water, your fingers over his skin, your fingers in his hair, his failure is palpable.
"Are you okay?" You murmur into the nape of his neck, his back against your chest. The water threatens with gentle churns to spill over the bathtub.
He turns his head to press a kiss against your wrist.
"More than," he says, voice quiet but firm, "I just feel, sometimes," and he hums, as though forming an adequate description of his emotions were the hardest task on the planet. Viktor, your genius scientist, hesitant not to innovate, to change the world with his research, no. He's hesitant only to make sure he says the right thing to you.
"Like I'm too good for you?" You ask, catching his eye. By the gentle look you know that's what he means. He faces away again, nods in a vaguely ashamed way.
How, you've always wondered, can you truly change someone's perspective? When words don't seem to persuade, when actions bring only fleeting relief, what can you do?
"It's irrational, I know, some... flaw of the mind. You don't need to keep reassuring my senselessness." He leans into your touch, takes your free hand into his, soap suds bubbling between your fingers.
"Sometimes you talk about yourself like you're a machine, you know." You muse. He gives a half-hearted laugh.
"Not a well functioning one."
Are words or actions worth more in this game of convincing? Does he feel it deeper when you press your lips into his hair, or when you mumble compliments and honeysuckle words into his ear? He shivers either way.
It's a long game, you know. It's taken months to even reach this stage, where the self-deprication is a rarity, not the norm. Maybe it'll take his whole life before he can accept every part of himself like you can, before he can truly see himself through your eyes, gleaming and gem-speckled as they are.
You free your hand from his, reach up instead to knead shampoo into his thick hair. He responds with a sigh and sinks somehow further against you, the water falling slowly to a more lukewarm temperature. You're not sure how long the two of you have been in here, talking quietly about very little, exchanging words that'll disappear forever with the water. But you really can't find it in you to care.
There's work to be done, errands to run. Errands that should've been run a week ago. This ceremony, this meditation makes all of it null. For where else would you want to be? Where else exists besides here, this room, this moment, static in the cooling water with the embodiment of perfection.
When you tell it to him, as you so often do, when you tell him that he's perfect, he can't believe you. The first time you ever said it, peering into his eyes as if they held some secret treasure within, he thought you were joking. He'd laughed, more out of obligation than actual humour, but your expression remained still. Sincere. To say he was moved would be a wildly inadequate explanation. What he felt in his chest that night was something otherworldly, something without a name. He's come now to associate it simply with yours.
You run water through his hair, rinse out the shampoo as he lies pliant in your hands. He insists you use your soaps in his hair, some floral-scented collection you've used for who knows how long, because the smell reminds him of you.
There's no point in overthinking it, you suppose. No point in trying to map out and organise moods, emotions. No point in trying to turn a gentle human experience into something clinical, something without humanity.
That swirling, omnipresent yet transient concept of humanity. You simply must cradle it within your own. You press your lips into his wet hair, whisper words made of ginger and lavender into his ear. Because at the end of the day, you're human. You're in love. And sometimes, that's all that matters.
Viktor this season has rlly inspired me. I hope you all enjoy the various drabbles :) I'll try write more here.
The first time you met Viktor, you recall, the sun was shining.
The meeting was perfectly ordinary. Not even a meeting, really, seeing as you learnt his name a week later.
With a cool breeze, you ate your lunch in silence, head held to the sun as though a flower in bloom. You closed your eyes, breathed deep. Meditative perfection.
And when you reopened them, he was there.
Half-frozen in the doorway, he gazed at you with what seemed like surprise, at the time. Later you'd learn that he was, from his own words, mesmerised.
"Professor." He'd said in polite greeting, looking away. You smiled, but he left the way he came before any conversation could commence.
The next meeting, he was the one sat outside, silently pondering something. You'd found his expression of concentration endearing beyond words. The furrow of his brows, the occasional, unconscious movement of his lips. The way his eyes lit up when they landed on you.
The weather that afternoon, when you'd strolled over to properly introduce yourself to the man, was similarly bright. A perfect blue running across the sky. A songbird somewhere unseen, and the breeze defined by its almost supernatural ability to alleviate.
You weren't superstitious, nor did you believe in signs, an elusive, irrational concept. But with his presence offering as much warmth as the sun, with the way his eyes ran nervously from yours only to return, bound by some societal principal of politeness, with the way he tested your name on his tongue that cloudless day, you thought maybe there really was something to the concept. Some sign leading you to him.
"How about we get lunch sometime?" You hadn't exactly thought the offer out. But his smile alone was quick to convince you of the idea.
"Of course," Viktor said, "are you... free now?"
"I think I had something planned, but I seem to have forgotten all about it..."
-
For a few months, then, you re-learnt what it meant to be alive.
To meet someone so perfectly in tune with your every move seemed fantastical, seemed like a sign. You spent free weekends not hunched over a desk, stressed beyond articulation, but with Viktor. You learnt of his work, learnt of the pure brilliance that bloomed at the mere touch of his hands.
And you learnt every contour of those hands. Pressed your lips into the palms, into every scar and cut. A fleeting remedy, but one he grew unable to live without. For he, too, had to re-learn what it meant to be alive.
He felt astoundingly undeserving of what you seemed so willing to provide. More than love, but adoration. Something almost approaching worship. He felt the weakness of his own body so acutely with yours pressed against it, so terribly perfect. Whatever scar or mark you seemed to mention in distaste, he loved. He thought, maybe, that you were some kind of sign. That things would get better. That the traitor he called a body would recover or, at least, stop wilting away.
But nothing changed. Not really.
Learning of his illness wasn't a shock, because it wasn't a secret. Jayce mentioned it to you often. The real shock came on slow. Like a spider taking it's time to crawl up your spine. As the months passed, the extent of its deteriorating effect showed itself. Viktor's heart, weak against your own. The bags under his eyes darkening further, his pale skin sinking pallid.
Happiness, by some twisted measure or other, seems to run from its owner more often than not.
You think you're living in a state of euphoria, a state of perfection for so long, the way we were supposed to exist. You feel as though nothing could break this film of joy over your life, that you're somehow exempt from reality.
But you're not.
Overtime, Viktor shut himself off. He spent more and more time in the lab. He had very little to say. When you broke down, the only consolation he could offer was a quiet apology, mumbled from across the room.
You dreamt of consolation. Every night, from then on. Endless fields of restorative ideas. Endless ways to make him feel better, to be there for him even if he found the idea ludicrous.
Because why would you waste your time with him? He knows you're better off somewhere else, stretched out in the warm weather without a burden as heavy as him on your back. The pillar you were in his life, crumbled by his own hand. He deemed it necessary. Convinced himself so.
But what could you do?
You could barely comprehend his struggle. How could you even begin to ease it?
This thought process kept you from physically seeking this dream of yours. A warning sign from your mind, a psychological guard rail which, in reality, only protected you from yourself. All these flowery ideas of reconciliation, bouquets of roses and trays of baked goods in your mind, and yet, you did nothing.
The attack on the council made sure that you'd never have the chance.
Jayce had been the one to tell you. Tell you that among the victims was the dream gifted to you every night, the man you viewed as an inseparable extension of yourself. And when you visited, stared up at whatever the hexcore was doing to Viktor, you felt an unparalleled hatred.
For yourself, for your failings and shortcomings. Every time a word came out wrong. Every time a day ended in silence.
Rising tensions, blood on the city streets. Soon, you had nothing left in Piltover besides a few shattered friends.
So you left.
-
Of course, you felt that you'd never see Viktor again.
Even if somehow he survived the critical condition he lay struggling in, you convinced yourself that he wouldn't want to speak to you. Perhaps out of self preservation. Perhaps out of genuine belief.
A knock at the door was already uncommon. And, certainly, a knock that specific. Gentle, apprehensive. You stumbled out of bed with an undeniable sense of neuroticism, convincing yourself of the knocks familiarity whilst simultaneously convincing yourself of your own delusion.
But, there he was.
Wrapped in a robe, which to you appeared regal, the blue sky beyond framing his pale face, was Viktor. A songbird carried the news, then another, but your words seemed inadequate compared to theirs.
He raises a hand to cup your face, the flesh replaced with something firm, something running with a strength he himself barely comprehends.
There was always something unspoken between you and Viktor.
After the attack, you were certain you'd never get the chance to explore it. Find the words, hidden as they were, bring them together into something satisfactory. With smoke in your throat and blood on your tongue, you'd seen Viktor in the rubble, barely comprehended the mumble of Jayce's voice through ringing ears.
You thought then that the words would never be spoken. The sentence never brought to fruition, whatever that may mean. A ripe fruit left to rot.
And, now, with Viktor alive, weary against your headboard and awfully silent, you think again that the words are a lost cause.
"Can I see?" Is all you ask.
He raises a hand, sinewy purple accented by pure gold, and lets his robe fall loose to pool around his hips.
There's no sensuality in the way you examine him. The way you eye every curve in the dim candlelight, every meeting of gold and purple, the shade failing to find a name in your mind. The way you shuffle forwards, almost unconsciously, the way his hand finds yours when you come to straddle him. The touch is hesitant, fearful, almost. He looks to you for assurance as though weaving his fingers through yours could somehow offend.
Your free hand finds his collarbone, his chest, sinks down to his torso with a terribly gentle touch.
"Does it hurt?"
"I don't think so."
His voice, the sweet tone you've grown so accustomed to, remains intact. Changed, in a way, by a humming undertone. A simmering of something powerful present even in voice. Your hand finds his face, the pale skin beneath your palm, and the sound he makes is quiet. A mix of confusion and pleasure. Your thumb runs over his cheek, your fingers knead through his hair.
He's afraid, or something close to that. The sensation you bring to him seems to closely match the definition of fear, the uncertainty of it all. He slips his hand from yours, lets it rest instead on the curve of your waist. On skin covered by cloth. He feels it safer that way. He seems, now, to feel everything acutely at once, and yet, to feel nothing in its entirety. Apathy and passion pressed together into an amalgam of unknowns.
Your touch seems to be the only certain reality. Your quiet questions. Your deep breaths, your steady heart. He raises his hand to feel it in your chest. Encased in bone and flesh, your life, so terribly delicate against him.
The words sit heavy on your tongue. You feel almost like this is your last chance to speak, like the Viktor visiting you now is a shadow. No more quiet afternoons in the laboratory. No more shared lunches and exchanged laughs. Simplicity shattered, for better or for worse. He feels the same. You see it in his eyes, in the way his lips part, in the way his brow furrows so subtly.
"I should've said it sooner," you say, faces close, both equally enraptured by the intricacies of expression, "I care about you a lot. I should've..."
His kiss is gentle. It fills you with warmth, makes your chest feel as though it were stuffed with flowers and ginger. When you part, you watch the colours of his eyes swirl, mumble honeyed words against his lips.
It's selfish, you know. Thanking the powers that be that his life was spared, however changed it may be, however against persistence he may seem.
His face falls to the crook of your neck. You hold him like an idol, a prized possession thought lost.
And you hope, so deeply it burns, that he too can feel warmth in his chest. His hands wrap around you, the stream of something you can't begin to comprehend running through the skin, and you pray solely that he can still feel the way you do.
That the words can still find meaning in his mind.
During dark hours where his metal hands slithered along your body is when he felt this realisation most deeply. He could give you no warmth, no child- he couldn't even kiss you. Kaleb wasn't even sure if he could love you, a simple thing to most, but to him, one who hadn't felt the touch of such a thing during centuries of life, he wasn't sure at all.
And yet, time and time again, you came to him.
You pressed hot kisses against this face forced upon him and sighed in content at each one. His fingers knead the flesh of your hip as you straddle him in his plain, undecorated room, and he listens as your heart thrums quick and hard between your ribs. He undoes your shirt buttons deftly and hums as your hands move to cup his face.
He was vile. He was the villain in countless stories, the shadow waiting in the dark; he'd told you so countless times. Months upon months piled up like paperwork, but for some reason, you continued to disregard his verbal attacks and senseless force. You stayed, a thorn in his side that continued to remind him that he was still much too human. When he fucks you like a man starved, he finds himself yearning for his long-dead body, for his blue eyes and smooth voice, not for himself, but for you. So you could be normal, you could be warm, and safe, and content. So you could feel more than steel and rage with your gentle touch.
He brushes his unmoving, metal lips over your neck as your shirt is thrown across the room. He knows that you'll leave him- of course you will. As he helps you discard your shorts, he thinks, and he knows. How could you ever be content with a monster? With a monster who lacks every desirable aspect of humanity, with a monster who can't mutter out I love you, even when it weighs down on his fake tongue and strangles him with its twisting fingers.
And as he enters you, silicone and steel, he knows he will never be enough. No amount of metal can recreate what you need, what you deserve. His hands squeeze your thighs as he fucks up into you, carnally, face shoved into the crook of your neck to stifle his own noises as you moan his name, his real name, and he thinks of what a sick joke his life is; he holds perfection in his hands, he hears it cry his lost name, but he will never be enough.
"Are you okay?" Your voice comes out breathy, broken, and Kaleb stills within you. You bring a hand to his face, guiding it away from your neck. Of course, you could decipher nothing from his expression, for it never changed, still as the mountains no matter the situation. But you could tell from his silence that something was bothering him behind those yellow eyes.
"Yeah." Is all he says, and leans in, waiting for you to press a warm kiss against his cold lips. And you do, humming as he moves his hips again, slowing the pace slightly.
You want to prod; you want to beg him for his real thoughts. But getting those out of Kaleb was nigh impossible. Rarely, on a cool summer night stargazing, something about his past or present turmoil will spill from his lips, and you cherish it, you love his words because you love him. But you knew that pushing him for vulnerability was a mistake, no matter how much your heart hurt for him.
And he knew he was stupid. He knew that he was ruining the one good thing in his pathetic life by not opening up, by fucking you and pretending there was nothing to it besides lust. His eyes are trained on you as you throw your head back with a moan; he eyes the bead of sweat rolling down your neck, he eyes your lips, your closed eyes, the curve of your nose. He feels the ghost of his heart flutter and thump with humanity, and he hates it.
He hates it because he knows, deep down in the pitiful thing he calls a soul, he knows that you will leave him. He knows that this will not last, that the butterflies in his chassis that swarm when he sees you will die, because you will realise that he can offer you nothing. He shoves his face back into your neck as he cums, mechanical hips stuttering against your bruised skin, a synthesised groan of both ecstasy and agony crawling from his throat.
You drag him down into bed with you, and unlike every other time, you are met with no resistance. You cling to his metal frame like ivy, sighing at all the words left unsaid that linger in the air, making it stale and unbreathable.
"Kaleb?" You ask with a nervous lilt.
"Hm?" His hum sounds somehow exhausted.
"You know I'd never leave you, right?"
"I know. You tell me this every day." He wants to slam his head against the wall for responding to your sincerity with sarcasm. Yet, despite your constant statements, he can't bring himself to believe you- because he knows better. He knows that eventually you'll run off. As soon as you get a taste of the humanity absent in Kaleb through someone else, you will leave. It'll fill your lungs and pump through your heart like fire, and you'll be wondering why you wasted your time on him at all.
But, even so- as you mumble against his chest and hold him somehow tighter, he can't crush that fluttering of hope inside him that maybe...
It was true that his hands left black marks on your skin, on your soul. Deft, filthy fingers pressed deep into your flesh time and time again, acid-laced words slithering into your mind and silencing the rational part of yourself that said that this was the last time.
You bring a hand to your face.
It'd been a week since you'd last seen him, he was busy, he'd said over the phone, busy dealing with Freddy's and the absolute mess it had devolved into. You'd been to that place once for a family gathering, and never again. You knew what took place there; you could see the screams on the walls, the blood scrubbed by those very hands that you let touch you- and it was sickening. You'd watched as your family laughed and played, completely unaware, and glanced over as he stared you down from across the room with a grin on his face. Those missing posters recently plastered on milk cartons made your insides churn, made your mind run in circles trying to find some justification. Moonlight streamed through the blinds onto your skin; you felt the ghost of his hand around your throat, the ghost of a knife pressed there too- and you sighed.
A knock at the door makes you jump. A rapid, almost violent string of knocks follows, and your stomach drops.
Every hidden, tucked away piece of rationality lodged into your mind leaps up at once, begging you not to open that door, pleading desperately with you to stay in bed and hold the pillow tighter, cry quieter and pretend that nothing's wrong until that knocking goes away. But these voices are too quiet. In reality, there was only a moment of hesitation, a mere blip with the lifespan of a mayfly before you were on your feet, stumbling over discarded clothes to reach the front door. You fumble with the locks, heart beating with the ferocity of a prey-animal as a mixture of dread, excitement, fear and desire fight for dominance in the pit of your stomach.
And then he's in front of you.
The light from the corridor lights up one side of him, leaving the other in deep shadow. There are stains on his white button-up, dark and unsettling, but today they appear to be nothing more than motor oil. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, you note, as your eyes drag along the vein running up his arm, along the creases in his shirt, and finally reach his own eyes that have a crazed, hardly hidden spark in them. He smiles, a genuine thing that juxtaposes the death and distaste that fit along the lines in his face. His hands find your waist as he steps forward, squeezing, kneading and moving you back into the small apartment he's marked as his property; his beard scratches your neck as he lays unnaturally sweet kisses against your throat- and you want to give in, you need to let your brain turn off, but a shaky excitement is wrapped tight around his figure- and you're terrified of what that means.
"William..." You mumble, barely forming the syllables, but he hushes you immediately, his breath warm against your neck as he consoles you in an almost mocking way. But you take it, you love it, you whimper as he smiles against your skin and laughs at your pathetic response. You're back in your bedroom now, moonlight flittering over the two of you as he slumps into your bed and pulls you into his lap; that look is still in his eye, and you find yourself asking, "What happened?" without actually wanting to know. His hand comes up to loosen his tie, and his words escape with a breathless quality.
"They moved- they-" He clears his throat, and meets your gaze. "They moved again on their own, but more fluidly. More alive, more..." The horror in your mind is tangible to him, he feels it instantly, and he begins to stroke your hair, to tuck it behind your ear lovingly. "More alive works. They appeared more alive today."
The only response you can give is a wavering hum, and a momentarily bowed head. And you know he revels in it- revels in the disgust you feel for him and the inability you have to live without him. He laughs lightly, nothing more than an exhale, and lifts your face back to his.
And then you're kissing him, hard, because you don't want to think about what he's just said- you don't want to think about anything but the way his skin feels against yours and the way his grip crushes you into nothing but rotten petals again, and again.
Your hands slip off his tie as his cold fingers slide up your shirt- you swallow your gasp and almost laugh at the tease, willfully forgetting that the man you were about to fuck had just reminded you that he was a murderer, a disgusting man that hell had gurgled up one day and spat onto the earth for its own sick amusement; he was dangerous, horribly so, and the thought alone sent a filthy shock through your abdomen. He flips you over, pressing you into the messy covers as your shirt is peeled off without thought. His hands squeeze your neck, your breasts, your waist whilst pressing sweet kisses to your stomach. You stare down at him through a half-lidded gaze, squirming every time his eyes flit up to yours whilst he tugs down your slacks, his breath hot against your thighs, his bites erotically painful.
You throw your head back with a hitched breath as he licks a strip up your pussy, and you wonder for a hot second why you continue to let this man defile you with his searing touch and horrifying cruelty; he laps you up like water, thumbing your clit all the while, and the heat in your abdomen clashes with the disgust in your chest- and you feel your eyes sting. There was something so undeniably broken inside you, because you liked it, you loved it when he held you, when he choked you and when he fucked you like a man starved. You moan as he pushes a finger inside you, then another, shuffling up just in time to see a tear run along your face- and he hushes you, he consoles you, whispers a gentle, "What's wrong?" and smiles when you tell him it feels too good, too overwhelming. You taste yourself on his tongue as you kiss and arch your back as his fingers undo you with ease, but as your grip on him tightens, as your whimpers and moans heighten, he pulls his hand away. You re-open your eyes, whining, reaching down to touch yourself but he stops you with an iron grip, and tuts.
His belt clinks as he discards it into the already-impressive pile of clothes that's been on your floor for a week. He palms his already-hard cock, lining it with your entrance in a messy, impatient motion as you throw your head back in desire, in disgust, in relief that he prefers fucking you to killing you. Your hands drift from his shoulders to his hair peppered with various shades of grey, and his first thrusts are slow, thoughtful even- but then his fingers wrap around your throat like a necklace and he starts fucking you like an animal. His shirt is still on, you realise, as he presses his body hard against yours and shoves his face into the crook of your neck, biting, rasping out grunts and dirt-covered words you can barely hear. Your moans and cries hitch as his grip on your throat tightens, loosens, and his other hand pulls at the fat of your hips; the sound of skin-against-skin fills the small room and the knot in your abdomen is tight again already, brutally so, and as he fucks you into the covers you moan brokenly into his ear. An undeniably violent wave of ecstasy washes over your body, over your eyes, over your heart, and you feel wonderfully helpless against his ravaging of your body.
In this tiny, brief moment, you forget all about his misdeeds. Even with his hand wrapped tight around your throat and his hips stuttering against yours, you feel peace for a second, pretending to yourself that William Afton loved you, that he cared for you and he'd done none of the things he'd openly confessed to doing. He was simply your troubled lover, nothing more and nothing less.
His groan is hitched and raw as he cums pressed deep inside of you, breath hot against the side of your face. You stroke his hair for a brief moment as he recovers, chest heaving, but soon he shifts over and lies down beside you, leaning up against the headboard. You can already feel the bruises forming, the bitemarks that he'd left scattered over your flesh. He meets your eyes again, that crazed look temporarily satiated, and asks for a cigarette in a tired voice. He did last time, and the time before that, so now you had a pack on the nightstand waiting for the occasion; you lean up against him, wrapping yourself around him like ivy as the lighter clicks a few times, and then the flame comes to life. It lights up William's face for the few seconds it's on, and then the sharp smell of smoke hits your lungs and poisons them that slight bit more.
A canvas of purple and pink paints the sky as the sun gradually falls beneath the sea, leaving you and the land to settle into cool darkness. The sea reflects that range of colour whilst also maintaining that pure blue that the nation of Hydro commonly emitted, and clouds were splattered up above in picturesque perfection. Besides the lapping of waves and peaceful chirp of birds, there was silence all around.
Teyvat's evenings were consistently beautiful. The colours of the bright sky varied from nation to nation, but always, they were stunning.
You shift to get comfortable, leaning back on your palms whilst sat on a hill by the Fontaine waters. There was a light drizzle falling, enhancing the overall melancholy that joined you this evening. It wasn't an uncommon emotion, not for you nor anyone else, but it was certainly enhanced by quiet, lonely days that ended like this. It's strange how you tend to end up sad when surrounded by such magnificent nature. It made you wonder- were melancholy and content really such juxtaposing emotions? In times like these, they seemed to fuse, just like the colours in the sky came together to form a blue darkness.
You sighed, and laid back in the grass.
Lumine and Paimon were waiting, you knew. They were waiting for you at a hotel in Fontaine, deciding to splurge a bit instead of spending the night camping as you three usually did. You'd been in Fontaine for about two months, and not much progress had been made in regard to talking with Furina... You weren't surprised, not after seeing her personality on show during all these trials, but it was frustrating nonetheless. It felt like this journey was simply your group running in circles, witnessing history that you never intended to be a part of, over and over in an endless cycle. You could sense the frustration building in Lumine too, despite the pure kindness she housed within her heart. In the end, all you could do was keep moving forward. Such a thought should be comforting... But the prospect of doing this forever was not very appealing. Camping endlessly, never settling down, getting involved in root-deep schemes from the Fatui... It was certainly not an easy life.
Footsteps from behind make your ears perk up. Treasure hoarders? Fatui? Every possible threat passes your mind as you pull yourself to your feet, eyes narrowed, sword in hand- but no, instead of danger, a few meters from you stands the Iudex of Fontaine, the Chief Justice himself.
"Monsieur Neuvillette?" Your voice comes out meek, but pleased; he stops in his tracks, and there's a moment of silence as he finds the right words to say.
"I'm sorry for approaching unannounced." He clears his throat. "May I sit with you?"
"Oh, sure, no need to apologise..." You chuck your weapon back to the ground and return to the floor, patting the spot next to you. He appears hesitant for a moment, as if he hadn't expected you to say yes, but soon strides over. "Any court cases today? I didn't have time to read the Steambird."
"Only one, but I had a great amount of work to get through, so that's for the better." A soft sound leaves him as he settles on the ground, looking rather out of place in his fancy court garb. His hair is so long it settles partially on the grass, and you wonder, does he have to brush it himself in the morning? Does he have some kind of assistant to help with his daily life? The thought causes a rogue pang of jealousy in your heart. "What did you do today? If you don't mind me asking." His words pull you back to reality.
"Well..." You start, glancing away from his curious gaze, "I joined Lumine and Paimon for some adventuring. Didn't find much besides confirmation that this nation has stunning scenery, but still, I think Liyue can't be beat in that category." You lean back once more and stare out at the sky as its colours drain to a dark blue; the waves continue to lap in your ears as the trees darken against the skyline, shadows of their former bright selves. You want to say something more, something deeper that'll bring the two of you closer- but you don't.
You never do, and neither does he.
"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. The nation has certainly gotten livelier since you three arrived." His voice is composed and has a tinge of coldness as usual; you can almost feel it in the air- the heaviness of words left unsaid. You hum in agreement, and turn to see his eyes have yet to leave you. Neuvillette sits stiffly as if he has no clue what to do in this casual setting, too used to standing and sitting straight as a board. It's amusing, really.
"Are you comfortable in that suit?" You ask, because clearly, he wasn't. You reach over to the button on his ornate waistcoat and pop it open- the choking noise he stifles is not lost on you. "Take your coat off, it's warm anyway."
Your glance meets his, faces much too close as he shrugs his jacket off. It never ceases to amaze you how absolutely ethereal his eyes are; they're every shade of blue in one, finer than the sky and deeper than the ocean. The words spill softly from your lips, barely louder than a breath, "Your eyes are beautiful." And he looks away abashedly, like he doesn't know how to react to a compliment.
For a while, the two of you sit together in deep silence, too distracted to focus on neither the sea nor each other. Despite knowing his hard exterior is easier to crack than porcelain, you still find it difficult to find the right words. Though, Neuvillette doesn't seem to mind. He browses the scenery he's viewed a thousand times before with curiosity and awe, his lips unmoving as if words would simply get in the way. He has made his intentions clear by simply coming to see you all these evenings, in his mind. You find that soon, a dull sleepiness washes over your eyes, inviting them to close; you end up leaning your head against his shoulder without even realising it. He tenses, for a brief moment, before all stress leaves his body in a gentle exhale.
"What do you think love is?" He asks, seemingly out of the blue, and your eyes re-open with effort. You look up, and smile at the curious expression your companion has. Curious, but not unhappy with his lack of understanding.
"I think..." you start, "I think love is when you really feel alive. You feel emotions deeper than before, without even understanding why. Colours appear richer than before, trees look somehow more real against the sky." Neuvillette's hand hovers over the small of your back, hesitant, before wrapping around your waist. You carefully move his silky hair out of the way, and press up close to him. "Love is just viewing life in a new lens. Those amazing sights were there before... But sometimes you need help to notice them, I suppose."
His gaze is soft now, not as piercing as usual. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, then looks away, back towards the sea.
"It's an emotion that has eluded me up until recent history." He says, "Not to say I have never felt love. But listening to you explain it is like listening to poetry. Humans have a way of making even the most mundane things sound wonderfully exciting." His cerulean eyes come back to you, and a small, distant smile is present on his lips.
"I think you're giving us too much credit." You say, but really, he was right. Maybe because only one lifetime is guaranteed, humans tend to find ways to make that short while an adventure, no matter how mundane it truly is.
"Perhaps." His hand comes to cup your face, and you lean into it. "If it's not too much to ask, would you continue helping me learn what love is?"
And with a soft, tired smile, you nod. You kiss his palm and feel human love at its highest peak.
...You weren't quite sure when the rain had stopped.
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