Private New Beginnings, Familiar Hearts

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't interrupt him when he spoke. She didn't recoil, didn't flinch at the confession of what he would have done if someone hadn't stopped him. She recognized the shape of that darkness — the way grief twists thought into something sharp, the way pain makes vengeance feel like purpose. She understood it better than most, and not because she had read it somewhere, but because she had lived it.

When he turned away in shame, she didn't chase his gaze. Instead, she let her fingers settle lightly on his arm — not a restraint, not a comfort, just a grounding point, something that said I hear you without demanding that he be proud of every part of his past.

And when he finally leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, pulling her down against him with that fierce, urgent sincerity, she exhaled slowly — not resisting, not collapsing, simply allowing the closeness to settle between them.

His words, tangled in affection and self-awareness and fear of what he'd been, washed over her with quiet impact.

A dark heart.
A shared shadow.
Two people who could've easily broken under the weight of what they used to be.

When he let her up and moved toward the radio, she stayed still for a moment, watching him with that steady, unreadable expression of hers — the one that softened only for him. When the music filled the room, she pushed herself up from the couch, brushing a loose strand of purple hair aside, and placed her hand in his without a single hesitation.

"I never asked you to save me," she said softly as he pulled her close, her hands sliding around the back of his shoulders in one smooth motion. "And I don't need you to change. I don't want you even trying."

She let him guide her into the slow rhythm of the music, her hips aligning with his, her body matching his movements naturally, almost instinctively.

"You think my heart is dark," she murmured near his ear, her tone low and steady, "and maybe it was. Maybe parts of it still are. But what matters is that you're not afraid of it. Or running from it. That's more than most people could give me."

She shifted just enough to look up at him, her thumb brushing once at the edge of his jaw.

"And I accept yours, too. You're not perfect. Neither am I. That doesn't make either of us unworthy of having a life we actually want."

A faint breath slipped out of her — something that wasn't quite a laugh, more a soft release of tension.

"And for the record," she added as he joked about evil makeup and leather, "I don't own any of that. No eyeliner wings. No black lipstick. No leather corsets."

She paused just long enough for the humor to land before leaning in, whispering against the warm skin of his throat.

"…but if you ever breathe a word of that fantasy again, I'm disconnecting every light in this apartment and leaving you to read in the dark."

The threat held no bite — only a dry, warm amusement, the kind she reserved solely for him.

She lifted her head again, meeting his eyes directly as they turned in slow circles across the living room.

"You want dates," she murmured. "You want late nights. You want bed space and bright lamps and to annoy me until I threaten your life."

Her fingers tightened briefly at his shoulders — not forceful, just sure.

"Fine. Then stay. That's all you ever had to do."

And with the soft, steady swing of the music carrying them, Aren didn't look away, didn't withdraw, didn't deflect.

She just stayed in his arms — entirely, deliberately, unmistakably present.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen let her talk, knowing this was probably something needed to get out. The road to recovery was hard, and he wanted to be the shoulder she leaned on. "It was the best anology that I could come up with given the situation.. I think we are two people who have been through alot, getting used to each other while we sort through our baggage. And thats going to take awhile..." The last thing he wanted to do was offend or say something wrong to the person he loved most but addressing the elephant in the room had to be done somehow. Thankfully, Aren seemed to be understanding as their bodies sway together, their lives coming together in perfect harmony.

The Clone smiled happily back as she gently carressed his jaw, savoring her touch. He even laughed when she said she didn't own any of the make up or outfits that he suggested her would wear as an evil villianness. The only thing that brought the mood down was when she threatened that he couldn't have fantasy's about Dark Aren ever again. Just the accusation... the false accusation mind you... made the Clone draw back from her in mock horrow and rage, his face twisting as he scoffed at this taking away of his boyfriend rights. "Excuseeeeee me Miss D'Shade? Did you not say that you didn't want me not to change? Well, that includes not changing the fanatasies in my mind! You don't get to infridge on my right to think of you as whatever sexy character I can think of and thats that!"

He took the deep breaths, making as if he was trying to calm himself down after her manufactured breakdown before eventually coming back into her arms. "You can't say you haven't imagined me as anything else right?" Now that was a question that might make Aren sweat.

Meeting Aren's eyes as she guessed at what he wanted and she was right about all of it. He wanted dates, he wanted late nights, he wanted to make her happy. The annoying her till she wanted to hit him with a frying pan was just a happy bonus. "Fine. Guess I'll stay till you get tried of me. And I hope that isn't anytime soon." He left her with one last little whisper as they confirmed that they were something real and precious to each other. "I hope the dancing won't tire you out for the event that will happen after we close that bedroom door. " EL would certainly be hearing alot of noises tonight if that answer was a no. Save that poor droid's soul.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't recoil from his theatrics, nor did she interrupt them. She let him have his dramatic moment the way someone indulges a storm they've grown used to—quietly, patiently, without losing her balance. When he finally drifted back into her arms, she exhaled a long, slow breath that carried far more affection than exasperation, her fingers settling naturally against the back of his neck.

"You're impossible," she murmured, her voice low and steady, the kind of warmth that never had to raise itself above a whisper. "Truly, spectacularly impossible."

But she didn't pull away. She leaned into him as their bodies found the rhythm of the music again, her movements unhurried and fluid, her touch far softer than the dryness of her tone suggested. Her thumb brushed the line of his shoulder as she continued, "And no, I'm not policing your imagination. But if you ever say any of it aloud again, I will short-circuit every lamp in this apartment and leave you reading with a glowstick for the rest of your life."

There was a quiet firmness in the way her voice curled around those words—a warning, yes, but one softened by the slight press of her fingers against his spine. She wasn't pretending she wasn't amused. She refused to give him the ego boost of seeing her flustered.

When he asked his question—You can't say you haven't imagined me as anything else, right?—she didn't look away. She didn't blush. She held his gaze with the same steady clarity she used when disarming explosives or fixing malfunctioning servos.

"Of course I have," she said, and the simplicity of the confession carried more truth than any dramatic reply ever could. "You're not the only one with an overactive mind. The difference is that I don't panic when mine slip through."

Her body drifted closer with the sway, her hand sliding down his arm in a slow, instinctive motion that anchored them both. "And no—I don't get tired of you. You irritate me. You push every button I have. You make me consider throwing you out a window at least twice a week." Her voice dipped, warm and fond. "But tired of you? That isn't in the equation."

Then came the last part of his teasing—heat wrapped in humor, the promise of everything waiting behind a closed bedroom door. She didn't shy from it. She lifted her head just enough for her lips to brush the line of his jaw, her breath warm against his skin.

"Omen," she said softly, and the tone alone was enough to shift the air between them, turning it thick and certain. "If you think a few minutes of slow dancing is enough to wear me out, then you really haven't been paying attention."

Her hand slid to his waist, steady and deliberate, her touch speaking more clearly than any teasing retort. She let the closeness settle between them before continuing, quieter still.

"But we're finishing the pizza first," she said, her voice smoothing into a slow, amused hum. "I'm not facing whatever chaos you're planning on an empty stomach."

She leaned in again until their foreheads touched, the contact soft and grounding as the music carried on around them.

"And as for EL…" A small, knowing smile curved her lips. "She can pray for her circuits if she wants. It won't save her."

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

As always, Aren was the emotionless rock, only letting the Clone see what she wanted to see. Still that slight bit of warmth in her voice told him that he was still on her good side for now. "You could say my existing here was impossible but here I am, ready and rearing to love you" His own hand glided along her curves, trying to prove that to be true.

He let out his usual playful sigh when she batted his ideas down. "Guess I have to take a couple things off your Life Day list then..." Whether or not he had a Life Day list of outfits for her, who was to say? At least those touches that made him think that she wasn't overall tired of him yet, as they made him melt even more into her arms.

The grin on his face that sported when she admited she did have dreams of him. "Don't worry, you just saying you think about me is all that I need. Thats really sweet Love." He let her finish her deleceration on how much the Clone annoyed her with that same knowing smile, only replying when she end with a deep kiss, only parting to whisper. "No, I thought dealing with me and my evil plans all day would be enough to tire you out. Guess I'm only going to have to work harder." With that he gave her a playful dip, his eyes never leaving hers as the passions sizzled between them.

Letting her back up, he chuckled as she requested to eat some food before the chaos commenced, relucantly letting her go so they could both walk into the kitchen. Making a plate for her, he only handed it to her after whipsering with the same gentle warmth he held in his heart for her. The same warmth she had for him. "Careful, you are starting to sound fond of our nighttime activities." Getting his own plate, he took a big bite of his culnary creation, the cheese stringing out as he gobbled it to quench his hunger. But his hunger for Aren... Omen didn't think satiating that would ever be possible.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't roll her eyes at his dramatics—though the faint shift in her expression suggested she very nearly did. Instead, she let him guide her into the dip, meeting his gaze with a sharp, steady look that told him she saw exactly what he was doing… and that she wasn't as immune to him as she pretended to be.

"You existing anywhere is already impossible," she murmured, her breath brushing his cheek as he held her suspended in his arms. "Existing in my living room and still breathing? That's the real miracle."

Her hands steadied on his shoulders as he lifted her again, and though she didn't cling, her fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary before she released him. That was all she ever gave—small, precise indications that she wasn't as unmoved as her face suggested.

When he teased about the Life Day list, her eyebrow rose in that slow, cool arc he knew far too well.

"Omen," she said calmly, "if you ever buy me something made of lace or leather, I'll wrap you in it, tie a bow, and ship you back to the ME."

But the warmth in her voice undercut the threat. She wasn't pushing him away—she was letting him be exactly who he was, while keeping him in line the way she always had.

The moment he grinned at her admission of imagining him, her expression didn't flinch. If anything, it softened—just a fraction.

"Don't get used to that," she warned, even though the tone was too low and too warm to carry any real danger. "I didn't say I'd give you details."

His kiss silenced any further commentary, and she gave back exactly what he gave—slow, sure, controlled at first… until the heat between them tugged a quiet exhale from her chest and her fingers slid into the back of his shirt.

When he finally pulled back to tease her about tiring out, she didn't even blink.

"You'd have to be far more coordinated to wear me out," she murmured—and the tiny spark in her voice wasn't mockery. It was a challenge.

Then she let him take her to the kitchen, releasing him only when she needed both hands to accept the plate he offered. She didn't thank him out loud (she rarely did), but she leaned her shoulder into his for just a moment—a small gesture, subtle but unmistakably affectionate.

She took a bite, hummed softly at the taste, and only then bothered to respond to his whispered teasing.

"If I ever sound fond," she said dryly between bites, "it's only because you're useful in bed."

A beat. Then, with that same even tone:

"And because you remember to feed me."

She took another bite of pizza, seemingly unbothered by how easily she said it.

Her eyes slid sideways to meet his, steady and unreadable at first… until a small, knowing warmth flickered at the edges.

"And Omen?" she added quietly, her voice dipping into that tone she only used for him. "You don't have to work harder. You already occupy enough of my mind as it is."

She continued eating, perfectly casual.

As if she hadn't just admitted something that would fuel his ego for years.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen just smiled through the vauge threats, knowing she didn't mean it by the way her breath ran across her face. She was just trying to breath her fire however she could. Trying to lazingly find the chink in his armor that would let her have a "win" in. "You can send me out into the cold whenever you want. You know that right?" The Clone wasn't going to fight it if she wanted to let him go. But the way she gripped his shoulders told him that wouldn't happen in a long time.

"Stop threatening me with a good time, except for the ME part" He was a pusher of boundieries, that was to be sure. But he tried to push Aren's bounderies in a way that might make her happier. Otherwise, he would just become one of the droids that Aren worked on on her workbench. For now though, the Clone let Aren keep him in check.

The Clone kept his smug grin up as he watched the iceberg of her face to slowly continue to melt. He would let her have her forbidden fanatises for now but he kept it in mind for later. Maybe he could tickle it out of her... Either way, the way those fingers touched him , he had an idea in mind of what it was already...

He also took the statment for what it was. "Lets hope you can teach me then. I thought I would already have a good grade though." Guess he would just have to keep at it until he was worthy.

As she start to take bites out of her slice, he started to get his own out of the pan when his Lover finally found that kink in his armor. The way she said her words about what he was good for, it might sound like she was upgrading him for the next model soon. Maybe that was just Aren being Aren but it made him run his fingers over those scars on his wrists. Maybe she really was speaking the truth, that he wasn't anything more than an all use Bulter for her. Omen quickly waved those thoughts from his mind however and put his mask back up. Aren would though that he had lost some of his fire as well as his hunger, for the pizza or otherwise.

Some of that hunger did come back when the Cat's voice tempted him, bring that real smile back on his face. "Same for you, always" He didn't take the oppurtunity to boast or capilitize, he simply came forward to lovingly peck her cheek. "Okay if I leave the dishes for tomorrow?" He would all of the energy he had to tire Aren out tonight.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren noticed the shift the moment it happened. It wasn't dramatic enough for most people to catch, but she wasn't most people—not with him. She saw the exact instant his grin faltered, the moment his shoulders dipped just slightly out of rhythm with the easy confidence he always tried to project, and the way his hand drifted—almost automatically—to the faint scars along his wrist. It wasn't a conscious gesture; it wasn't meant to be seen, but it revealed more than anything he had said out loud. And she couldn't pretend she hadn't seen it.

She didn't rush toward him or drown the moment with reassurance; Omen didn't need to be treated like he might break. Instead, she finished her bite of pizza, placed the plate down with quiet deliberation, and let the silence settle just long enough for him to feel her attention without being overwhelmed by it.

"Omen," she said at last, her voice low but clear—none of the ice she used on strangers, none of the sharp edges she used when she wanted distance. Just his name, steady enough to draw him back from whatever thought had flickered across his face.

She stepped closer, letting her fingers brush the back of his hand in a gentle interruption to the habit he'd fallen into—touching those scars as if they defined him. She didn't grab him or force his hand to still; she gave him something else to anchor to.

"If I wanted a butler," she said, her tone dry but carrying an unmistakable warmth beneath the surface, "I'd build one. And it would do the dishes without groaning about it."

Her hand slid fully into his, not pulling, not claiming, just there—solid, offered, and unmistakably intentional. Her gaze held his with quiet certainty.

"You're not here because you cook, or keep the place running, or do whatever ridiculous thing you think makes you 'useful.' You're here because I chose you. Every day. Even when you drive me up the wall. Even when you're impossible."

A soft exhale left her, something very close to a laugh, though gentler.

"Especially when you're impossible."

Only then did she lean in, resting her forehead lightly against his temple, not demanding closeness but offering it with a steadiness he rarely allowed himself to believe he deserved. The moment lingered between them, warm and grounding.

"And if I ever wanted you gone," she murmured, her breath soft along his cheek, "you'd know. I'm not subtle."

She drew back slowly, just enough to meet his eyes again, and there was no coldness there—only a calm, quiet affection that she trusted him to see.

"So stop imagining exits. There aren't any."

Her hip brushed his in a slight, deliberate nudge that said I'm here more clearly than words could. Then, as she turned slightly toward the kitchen doorway, her voice returned to its dry, composed cadence.

"As for the dishes… leave them. We'll pretend we're responsible adults tomorrow."

Her mouth softened at the corner—still not quite a smile, but unmistakably close.

"Right now, I'm far more interested in you than in cleaning."

With that, and without any theatrics or push, she slipped her hand more firmly into his and began to guide him down the hall—slowly, deliberately, as if the decision had already been made long before either of them spoke it.

She wasn't taking him to a task.
She wasn't taking him because he was convenient.
She was taking him because she wanted him—fully aware of who he was, and entirely unwilling to let him doubt that.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Just as Omen went into that dark place... Aren's voice pulled him out of it. The purple-haired strong-arm women of his dreams come over to comfort him and stop him from getting into his own head, with him first noticing her fingers stop him. He quietly listened, a soft smile spreading across his face, his normal self returning as he said it with that same warmth. "I thought you would make something to help with the other thing, but that's alright, you do you." He also wanted to defend himself about the dishes, but settled on an eyeroll that told Aren, "You aren't exactly the most willing disherwaher either." That was enough to sate his honor for now.

Their hands slipping in together, Omen squeezed her hand to tell her he was alright and he wasn't going anywhere. His smile grew wider and more sincere as she continued telling him what he needed to hear. The Clone's hands slid down to her hips as their bodies and foreheads pressed together, not seemingly wanting to let go. It would take a miracle for anyone to pry Omen's hands off the women he loved.

When she finished, the kiss on her lips would tell her thanks. Thanks for telling him what he needed to hear. "I feel myself chained to you already with that statement. Not that I don't want to be." And then he let her part from his grasp, his heart skipping a beat at her look that would make any lesser man go feral for her. "I won't complain... As you said, the dishes can wait. And I never want to wait to be in bed with you." Letting her lead him down the hallways towards the bedroom, he said one last thing before she shut the bedroom door behind them both. "You're planning the date next time."

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't look back when he told her she'd be planning their next date. Not because she was ignoring him, not because she didn't hear him — but because the smallest upward curve at the corner of her mouth said everything she meant to say in response. That subtle hint of amusement, that rare softness reserved only for him, followed her all the way to the bedroom door.

She paused there for half a breath, her hand still resting on the frame, as if considering whether to push him further or let the challenge hang between them. When she finally turned her head, the hallway light caught her violet hair and the sharp line of her jaw, softening both just enough to betray the truth she never said aloud.

"You're assuming there'll only be one next time," she murmured, voice warm enough to curl around him like a hand at the back of his neck.

Then she pushed the door fully open and stepped inside.

Not tugging him.
Not demanding.
Just knowing — absolutely knowing — that he'd follow.

And he did.

The moment the door shut behind them, the soft click of it landed like a quiet promise. The world outside fell away, replaced by the close warmth of their breathing, by the rustle of clothing against fabric, by the gravity that always pulled them back into each other's orbit no matter how far they tried to run from their own histories.

Aren reached for him without hesitation this time, her palm sliding along his jaw, her body finding his as naturally as an exhale. The last flicker of harsh white light from the hallway was swallowed as her hand rose behind him, fingers brushing the wall just long enough to switch the room into soft darkness.

And with that, there was nothing left to say.

Only touch.
Only warmth.
Only the quiet certainty that whatever their pasts had carved into them — this part, right here, belonged only to them.

The night closed gently around them as they met again in the dark, the world reduced to breath and skin and the steady, familiar rhythm of two people who kept choosing each other despite everything.

And for once, neither of them ran.

Fade.

Sergeant Omen