Believe it or not, I'm not Andrew Hussie, therefore I do not own Homestuck. If I did, GamzeexTavros would be canon, as would RoxyxCalliope, DirkxCaliborn, EquiusxFeferi, and EridanxSollux. I'd like to dedicate this story to Snow Whites Poison Kiss. You have inspired me to write a GamTav story. Thank you, and enjoy c:
You casually wander the empty streets of a barren Detroit, Michigan and rub your upper arms to warm yourself. The streets weren't REALLY barren of course, it's just that the people who inhabit these streets aren't technically among the living anymore. Neither are you. This city does something to ya; strips you of any moral fibers you may have left until you're a walking, talking zombie, a vacant embodiment of who you used to be. It was tough, but the drugs helped you a lot.
Speaking of which, drugs were exactly what you were out looking for. You didn't want anything hard, just some weed to make the bad things go away. You did your best to stay away from the other stuff, but you'll admit to taking acid every now and then. You're dealer was very persuasive, or at least, she used to be. She got busted two days ago and was sentenced to eight years in prison, which was an ideal amount of time for her. It had always been her lucky number, after all.
Although her absence sort of pissed you off because now you had no one to go to. It was difficult trying to find a decent dealer who wouldn't scam you out of your money or lace your basic drugs with something heavy, and even though she could be a bitch, she was a damn good dealer. No names, no chats, no traces that you knew each other. She was good, but apparently not good enough.
You round the corner down a dark alleyway that serves as a shortcut to another street. Desperate women line the sidewalks in skimpy clothing, willing to give a man anything for a quick buck. Women like that sickened you to your very core: you may be drugged up nearly 24/7, but at least you had some respect for yourself. The only one of these women you showed any decency to was a beautiful woman named Damara who went by The Handmaid on the streets. She'd forced herself upon you one night, about two months ago, but you weren't into women so you'd rejected her.
She was a feisty woman who, despite her situation, still maintained a sliver of dignity. She only did what she did to get money to raise her daughter, a nine year old named Aradia who had no clue what her mother did to support her. You'd met the child many times, and she was an absolute gem. If you were the type to pray, you'd pray for nothing more than that Rufioh bastard to take ownership of his girls. Instead, he was out sleeping with random women, never devoting himself to his own family. You hated him.
You pass the pathetic women, if you can even consider them that, and bat away the few that try to seduce you. Even if you were into women, you would never allow yourself to be touched by these creatures, and the men that cheated on their loving wives just to acquire diseases from these floozy's disgusted you. Finally past all the pathetic excuses for human beings, you go down another alleyway until you hear something familiar.
"Um, you can't just, uh, fucking pay me later. No money, erm, no drugs. Got it?"
Ah, the soothing sound of a dealer controlling his client. You head towards the voice, hands firmly tucked into the pockets up your black hoodie and gripping your money as if it were a vice. You hope that this dealer is at least half as good at what he does as the last girl was as you round one final corner and watch him deal with his buyer. He's a cute motherfucker who doesn't look like he belongs on the streets, but his ensemble tries to prove otherwise. He's wearing a ripped grey tank top displaying each and every muscle that's far tighter than it needs to be and black capris with even more rips in them.
From your position you can make out worn black sneakers and a glint of something metal just underneath where his septum is, meaning he must have that pierced. Slung over his shoulder casually is a grey duffel bag, and his general ease sort of irks you. His mohawk is unruly and dark brown, but that may just be because of how little lighting there is. His left leg is lifted up so that his foot is planted against the brick wall behind him, and his arms are crossed to display dominance over his clientele.
The man who had no doubt been trying to pull the 'pay later' scheme sulked and trudged away from the dealer, looking even more dejected than you had when you'd learned you'd have to find a new dealer.
"Yo! Are you gonna buy something, er, what?" the dealer asks, already done with the poor excuse for a man who was long gone. His voice is kind of squeaky and reminds you of a child's, and you wonder how this man is able to intimidate his customers at all. You shrug the question off and approach him, pressing the ball of your tongue piercing against the roof of your mouth as you were prone to do and shoving your hands deeper into your pockets. The man smirks at you and let's his eyes walk all over you a couple times before he rests his left foot on the floor and takes on a more defensive stance. His smirk vanishes, but you're used to this. You're a pretty intimidating guy.
You wore white clown-like face paint to mask scars that were permanently slashed across your features long ago. You'd honestly been attempting to look less scary, but it sort of had a negative effect. On top of that, you had way more piercings than necessary. Your tongue was pierced, you had two piercings in your left eyebrow, one in the right, snake bites, a stud in your nose, and gauges. You're pretty proud of them, seeing as you did them all yourself. Then there was the studded collar you wore around your neck, the ripped jeans, the beaten combat boots, and the tattered hoodie. Oh ya, and the curly, oily, and unmanageable black hair.
People feared you, police were quick to judge you, and hookers fucking flocked to you. It was sort of annoying, but hey, it came in handy most days. Nobody fucked with you, that was just basic knowledge.
"I need some a' the motherfucking miracles bro. Think you can hook me the fuck up?" you ask, dancing around what you really want just in case he was wired or some shit and staring at the ring in his septum. It was pretty likely, the wire part, considering how innocent this boy looked, like maybe the police had just tried and failed to make him look like a hard core criminal. They were usually too lazy for that stuff, but there was something about this kid. He just didn't belong in this hell of a place.
"If that's, uh, a sex thing then I guess I can fucking help, but um… I'd rather do the damn drugs thing," he says, nearly crumbling into himself. You sigh and shake your head forlornly: you had to help this kid out.
"What the motherfuck are you even doing brother? Why are you all up and out here anyway? Bitchtits bro like you just doesn't fit here," you tell him, grinning in an attempt to look trustworthy. He abandons the little kid attitude and clenches his fists, glaring at you for some unknown reason.
"Because unlike you, I don't have money to fucking waste on drugs! I don't even have enough money for a place to live, but why would anyone care about that!? As long as I can, um… Give them what they want, then I'll be fine," he says, calming down towards the end of his statement. Your heart, or at least what's left of it, goes out to the boy and some part of you that you didn't even know existed took over your actions.
You take a couple more steps forward and hug the fuck out of that boy. At first he freaks out and pounds his fists into any exposed part of your body, but once you make it clear you aren't going to hurt him, he somewhat accepts the kind gesture. You're a bit disappointed that he doesn't return the hug, but when you pull away, you can't find it in you to care because this little motherfucker looks like he's going to cry.
"Why don't I up and let ya crash at my digs? It ain't a motherfucking stellar place or no shit, but it's a home a sorts," you offer, giving a lopsided grin that you hope looks endearing. He just sniffles and nods in agreement, before shifting gears completely and digging into his pants pocket. He brings out a knife and quickly brings it to your throat. One move, and you'd be fucking dead, even more so than you already were.
"Just so were clear," he threatens in a low tone, disregarding the unshed tears gathering in his eyes, "if you fucking try anything, I will not hesitate to kill you."
You nod and almost gulp before remembering the knife digging into your neck. Satisfied, he puts the knife back in his pocket and readjusts his duffel bag. Now that the metal is no longer pressed against your skin, you gulp freely and rub your arms nervously. Brother knew how to make shit clear, that was for sure.
"I'll follow behind you just in case you get any ideas," he informs you, and you just hold your hands up defensively and nod. You feel as if talking right now won't help in the slightest, so you just shrug and start towards your apartment with the assumption that he's following behind. You don't bother turning around to check: that's not your problem.
After about fifteen minutes of police sirens, cat calls, and boots hitting the pavement, you're in front of your apartment complex. It's a really shitty building, but the only thing you could afford. You enter the infrastructure and head towards the stairs, seeing as there isn't an elevator in this damned building. You stomp up the stairs two at a time, and only then are you sure that the dealer is following. You can hear his small, timid footsteps contrasting with yours, and it makes you smile like a fucking kid. You can't remember the last time you'd been so easily amused without any drugs.
You walk through a doorway that leads into your apartment, which is just one room that's nearly as vacant as your mind. In the middle of the room is a surprisingly clean mattress with only a single blanket. In one corner is a toilet sitting out in the open, and on the left side is an oven and a microwave sitting on the floor. There's a mini fridge right next to the bed, and a small shower right by the toilet. In an attempt to make it a little more formal, you'd hung a sheet from the ceiling, but it only covered about half of the 'bathroom'.
"Well here ya go, motherfucking home, not so sweet home," you introduce, turning to finally face your guest. You'd expected him to look disgusted, but he was just the opposite; he looked absolutely blown away, like, in a good way.
"So I can really, um, stay here? No joking?" he asks in awe, and just as quickly he's reverted back to that little boy you'd seen glimpses of. You chuckle warmly and gesture to the room joyfully.
"Sure brother. A motherfucking can stay as long as he fucking needs," you say, and the grin that stretches from ear to ear threatens to tear his face in half. He hops forward and hugs you, nuzzling his face into your chest in gratitude. You return the embrace and bury your face in his mohawk, enjoying how fluffy his hair is versus your oily locks. You take it a step further and softly breath in, which he doesn't seem to notice/mind. He smells nice, meaning this shitty city hasn't gotten to him yet. Good, he doesn't deserve that.
"Um, I never did learn your name," he points out, voice muffled by your hoodie. You nod against his head and pull up for a few seconds to get out a gruff 'Gamzee motherfucking Makara bro' before slamming your face back down into the pillow that was his hair. You still had no clue what shade of brown his hair was, seeing as your apartment was only illuminated by the moonlight. You didn't use lights: too expensive.
"Mine is Tavros. Tavros, uh… Nitram," he tells you, pulling away slightly. Taking the hint, you let him go and back up a couple feet, missing the comfort of his mohawk already. Suddenly you're overcome by sleep, which makes sense since it's fucking two in the morning. You're a bit disappointed that you didn't get a new dealer, but this little guy was just as cool to have around.
You trudge over to your bed and plummet on top of it, flopping a bit before settling on your side. You grin up at Tavros and pat the spot next to you, and you nearly faint when his cheeks are consumed by a light pink. This was by far the cutest drug dealer you've EVER met. He stares at the ground and shuffles a bit before finally making his way over to you and laying down next to you on the bed. You smirk proudly and scoot a little closer to him. Hey, you like men ok? And this kid was pretty damn cute, why not make a move?
"Good night my choice motherfucker," you say as he turns his back towards you, pulling the worn blanket on top of himself. You don't bother trying to share the thing, seeing as you already have a hoodie, and you don't wanna come off as a creep.
"Just don't fucking mess with my stuff asshole," he responds, and you chuckle mirthfully before finally allowing your body to succumb to some much-needed sleep.
If you've read my fan-based oneshots, then you'll know that this is merely a oneshot being transformed into a full on story. I edited the ending so there wouldn't be fluff yet, but otherwise, it's the same thing. Comments and the like are always appreciated.