and what if i said that when treasure asked to be turned, porter refused to be the one to do it
treasure knew what they wanted. deep down, they always had - theyād just always been too reluctant to take it.
they were always preoccupied with the feelings of others, bending over backwards to make life just a little easier for everyone else, no matter what that meant for them.
theyād never done anything for themself before. never been selfish. guilt settled like lead in the pit of their stomach at the mere thought. they were supposed to be helpful.
they were supposed to be kind. people only ever liked them when they made themself useful. people only ever wanted them around if they promised to make it worthwhile.
āhey, bring drinks when you come over later.ā
ādo my hair for me? please? youāre so good at it.ā
āmind picking us up? what? no, iām not drunk.ā
they would drag themself out of bed every morning at 2AM if it meant their friends would let them stick around. they needed this.
until theyād met him, that was.
heād taken them by the hand and guided them from the haze that was their need to please. heād kissed their eyes and cleared the fog from their vision. heād convinced them that they were worth more than they ever couldāve imagined.
maybe it was time to be selfish.
porter solaire didnāt get attached. porter solaire didnāt love. porter solaire didnāt let people mean something to him.
theyād wormed their way into his heart like a parasite that he didnāt want to be rid of, knocking down his walls with reckless abandon and picking at the weakest parts of him until they bled.
heād always liked the sting.
if he could hurt, he could feel. if he could bleed, he could breathe. if he was in pain, he was alive.
it was more than pleasure. their skin flush against his, their palm striking his cheek with a hot flash, their blood pooling on his tongue. it was rapture.
laying under them, their flesh warm and alive, their eyes wide and bright, he existed and he was allowed to be.
not the right hand of a king.
not the cold-blooded assassin.
not the bastard progeny of some frenzied lunatic.
porter had dreaded those words from the moment heād realised that this human meant something to him
try as he might to protect his treasure from the cruel reality of his world, their curiosity wouldnāt go unsated.
he knew he was a fool to withhold the truth. his treasure was perceptive. they knew every twitch of his mouth, every hitch of his breath, every stutter of his heart.
he could try to push them away for as long as he wanted. theyād keep coming back.
he shouldāve seen it coming. every time their eyes glinted when he bared his fangs. every time they placed their soft hand over his heart, feeling it slowly pick up beneath those unyielding muscles. every time their fingers brushed over the delicate points of his ears.
hell, when they first met, even. theyād stared into his eyes like they were trying to drown themself in the silver they found there.
when they finally asked him to turn them, he just stared, those same eyes glazing over.
bear progeny of his own? heād banished that idea long ago.
allow his treasure to become his pawn?
he couldnāt stomach the thought of them at his mercy.
heād contemplated their power imbalance once before, the first time treasure had begged him to let them in - let them help.
heād shut them out then, too.
porter considered his answer as they blinked at him expectantly, hopeful eyes shining in anticipation.
in his head, he saw treasure - but something was wrong. they werenāt his treasure.
ears pulled up into sloping points, sharp teeth and a sharper tongue - and those eyes.
flat and grey, dull gaze meeting his, just like every time he looked in the mirror, bile searing his throat, just like every time he had to face himself.
and so theyād go elsewhere.
and theyād come back to him, just like they always did.
but they would never be his treasure again.
dededos
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