"When the lights are on, I'm an idol. But back stage I'm just a slab of meat to be cut down. Never did like that much." Indie RP Blog for Kyle Fitzpatrick.
(Side blog - follows come from notaliberator.)
Kyle leaned into the touch, his eyes still closed and a purr leaving his lips that had little heart in it. He wasn't interested in Cohen touching him. And yet, he never stopped him. And it wasn't all because he was scared of trying. It was the habit, and the assurance that Cohen would always be there when no one else was. Even if he barely remembered the time when he truly, genuinely wanted to be with him.
He glanced up from his comfortable spot beside his master, his head laid on Cohen's lap. That was the face of evil. Despite his best attempts at making good choices, Kyle remained in love with this man. And fearful of life without him.
"Not asleep yet?" Years ago, maybe even months ago he would have sat up, kissed Cohen and offered to do something in the meantime. Now he just left the question open, too content with his spot far away from Cohen's face but not far away from his hand.. or, well, the head that still mattered to Kyle.
Kyle had learned not to trust people who gave him drinks. After the amount of times he'd been drugged or given unwanted alcohol... more often than not by Cohen... he usually made sure to make or buy his own drinks and keep a close eye on them.
So at first, when Jackie handed him this cup of heavenly hot chocolate, he eyed her suspiciously. And it was one of the few times where Kyle gave her any sort of negative reaction at all to attention. But, he thought, it was Jackie. She never had any malintent toward him. He should give her the benefit of the doubt.
A sip later and he felt warm and loved and not in that hazy drugged way he was unfortunately used to, and it made him grin. Although instincts drowned out from years with Cohen told him something this good should be enjoyed in silence, hiding from anyone who might take it away from him claiming that he was being greedy. He insisted to himself that Jackie was better than that.
"Have I ever told you I love you?" He never did, because he didn't believe in love. He especially didn't believe anyone could love him. But people say crazy things when they drink homemade hot chocolate for the first time.
He flinched at first; he was starting to notice he did that much more often around Cohen. Maybe it was the predatory tone of voice. Maybe it was the prospect of pretending to be the untarnished dove he was still supposed to be. Maybe he was just drained and tired and didn't want to act like he wasn't. Those were all part of it.
He took a deep, shaky breath before clutching his shirt over his chest as if he didn't expect it to end up on the floor anyway. Christ, he hoped Cohen wouldn't be too upset that the bruises on his back didn't all belong to him. That was all he needed right now.
"I-I'm glad you do, but- I'm just trying to change."
Leave me alone, you dirty fuck.
"I'll be heading home in a second, uh.. do you need something?"
[[ a soulmate au would absolutely break kyle. lbr.
because even if there were years to go he'd spend every second of his day until the timer hit zero preoccupied with who his soulmate was and he'd forget to live. and then his soulmate would just get this clingy apathetic possibly suicidal asshole to deal with and kyle would throw fits if they didn't pamper him. it would be a MESS. ]]
Kyle hadn’t shut up about his timer for days. It was ticking down, every day - tic, tic, tic - and in the end he’d gotten bandages tied over his wrist to stop him from counting the seconds. Because god, Silas was sick of him.
It was still at a few hours when he woke up, groggy and completely sure he’d been drugged, with his legs plastered to that goddamn piano bench. He knew because the bandage had been gone when he checked. At the time it had been less worrisome than the fact that he had fallen asleep in casual attire and woken up in his work clothes.
For hours and hours he’d played, begging to be allowed to go home. Begging to know what was going on. And the timer went down - tic, tic, tic - while his piano drowned out the racing panic in his head.
There were ten minutes left when he heard Cohen get distracted, speaking to someone else over the loudspeaker. Was this over? Was he going to go home? Or at least get an opportunity to apologize for whatever he did wrong?
"Once again, young Fitzpatrick."
No, of fucking course not.
Tic, tic, tic, he could still hear his wrist ticking down. Who the hell would find him now? He’d been so excited, he’d considered every possibility, but meeting him in the midst of this humiliation… he’d never hated himself enough to let it cross his mind.
Thirty seconds.
"I’m trying!"
Twenty seconds.
Tic, tic, tic.
The door to the Hall opened. He could hear it. He couldn’t bear this anymore.
"Cohen, you sick fuck, let me out of this-"
His words were cut short as flame engulfed his body. The last he saw of his wrist, it read 00:00:10. And his soulmate was a dark figure by the back row.
In a universe where everyone is born with numbers on their wrists counting down to when they'll meet their soulmate, send me 00:00:00 for my muses reaction to their numbers hitting zero when they meet yours.
vaporwave
jacobvanloon
kaledo-art
tangentwithtanner
turnnoffyourmind
izzy806
areudirty
2087
pixelskylines
