Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This class would be the death of him, he was absolutely positive. It was messy, gross, exploration based, and participation heavy. Daken much preferred his art history lectures or even the drawing and painting classes. Ones where he could meticulously plan and sketch and create. Where he had complete control of the medium and knew exactly what he wanted and how to achieve it. Not whatever this ‘push your boundaries and be uncomfortable’ torture classroom he was in now. 3D Form and Technique, somehow a required class for his major. He didn’t see the connection of sculpting to art history at all but apparently the school did or else he would be far far far away from this room. 

The uninteresting subject matter combined with an annoyingly eccentric professor made a combination that competed for the title Hell On Earth. And it was only made worse by the type of students Daken had to deal with. Art Majors were already strange to him. Either quiet and intelligent like himself, or stupidly loud, self centered and obnoxious. Such was the case of the professor's star student, Lester. A stupid man with a knack for creating the most abhorrent creations on the planet; Sculptures that looked like ambiguous blobs with a skill threshold even blind children could meet.

And speaking of the devil himself, there Lester was, 40 minutes late to their studio work time and covered in slick paint from head to toe. That had to be a hazard, right? So distasteful and crude, Daken sneered, trying to focus on his own work. The idle clay figure mocked him from its stand. It looked stiff, boring and not even correctly proportioned. Daken grit his teeth, he’d much prefer to draw it. If only he could take a pencil and bring it to life in a 2D sense, then it would be exactly as he wanted it. Rage started to flood his veins as his heart kicked up a notch and his fist tightened on the chunk of clay in his grip. Images flickered past his mind, flashes of stabbing any number of sculpting knives and tools into his work of art if one could even call it that. Thoughts of dismembering and deconstructing the whole thing boiled in him. Maybe he could turn it into a molten pile of flesh, burn it down and stomp on its remains. Yes, that would do. That would be excellent…

“Akihiro?”

Daken snapped back to the present, blinking and refocusing his eyes as he looked in front of him. Fuck, it was the professor. Had she said something? He really hadn’t been paying attention had he? “What,” Daken replied as evenly as he could, attempting to mask all the anger threatening to bubble out. Oh he hated her, it was her fault he was in this class. It was her fault it was taught so stupidly. ‘Mistakes are okay! It’s about exploring and learning!’ NO. Fuck the idea of that, he was here to be taught not babied. And the fact she was so lenient to the others only fueled his frustration, did they not care? Do they have no self respect?

“The clay.” She said, her tone a casual observation as her gaze flickered to his left hand.

He followed the look, noticing he’d squeezed it out of both ends of his fist in his silent rage. He wondered if his face was flushed as it felt, if she could see how hard his heart was pounding. This class would ruin his blood pressure, that was for sure. And potentially his pristine GPA as well.

“I see” he grit his teeth. “Thank you for the observation,” he told her firmly, breathing slowly and even through his nose. What had his therapist told him? Breathing was the first step of calming down. You can’t be calm if you can’t breathe. In through his nose, out through his mouth. He focused on taking deep lungfuls of breath until his stomach expanded and he had to exhale. Slowly the red tinge in his vision began to dissipate. He no longer felt the urge to bleed everyone in the room dry or rip his work to shreds. 

For the rest of the two hours, Daken worked quietly and listened to music in his earbuds. He tried the techniques they’d been lectured about last class. He smoothed the clay, referenced old proportion principles and even took a break to research ancient sculptures and get inspiration. By the end of the allotted studio time Daken felt as if he’d made no progress or improvement. No matter what he learned or thought he knew he couldn’t apply it to his sculpture. It wouldn’t stick. Literally and figuratively. 

As he pulled his earbuds out and began packing up his professor approached him once again. 

“I think you should visit the fine art majors gallery tonight. They have a showing downtown and there will be lots of sculptures you can reference in person. It may help you feel inspired. And you could talk to some artists, get to know them and learn some tips,” she explained, handing him a brochure. 

“I will look into it,” Daken said unkindly, he didn't like that she knew he was struggling. He was a good artist, the best. He had a 4.0 GPA, two majors and a minor. He didn’t need help and yet… he was going to fail this class and it had barely been 3 weeks. 

With the brochure in hand and anger simmering on the back burner of his mind, Daken left the workshop to return to his dorm. At least he didn’t have this class until next Monday, a whole 3 days of freedom, he consoled himself. 

“You looked pissed,” Karla said the minute Daken unlocked the door to their dorm. It was a small box with two lofted beds and barebone furniture. Desks, chairs, dressers and closets. The walls were made of white brick like they were in some sort of prison institution and the window barely let any sunlight in. It was miserable. 

“I got back from 3D Studio, how the fuck do you expect me to look?” Daken snapped, throwing his bag down and picking up his cat from where she was trying to sunbathe in the limited light. 

Azuki meowed softly, her pristine white fur soft and warm to the touch. She’d been a gift from Logan, his dad, after he’d tried to kill himself the second time. Funny how Logan’s thought processes worked. He may not be emotionally available but he could give his son a cat and help pay for tuition. 

Karla hummed and leaned back in her office chair, she looked amused at Daken's suffering. Of course she was, the freak. “Was it Lester? He always seems to get you off,” She said with a knowing glint in her tone. “Pardon me, I meant set you off.”

“Lester? What does he have to do with anything? No, it wasn’t him. What the fuck are you talking about?” Daken glowered. 

“My, my, quite a reaction, Daken. Have you been skipping your meds? You really ought to be taking them. I prefer not to room with an unmedicated psychopath, you know.”

He ignored Karla, climbing onto the top bunk with his cat. Fuck her, she didn’t know anything. He didn’t know why he agreed to room with her. Maybe it was because last year his roommate had been an obnoxious cat-man idiot who insisted on meowing at him of all things. He’d met Karla in the second semester of freshman year and they hit it off okay. Now it was a year later and she began to grate on his nerves. She’s gotten too comfortable with him, thinking she can trample all over him. Whatever, he’d set her straight another time. For now he needed a fucking a nap.

Just as he closed his eyes he heard a rustling noise and the unmistakable noise of Azuki trying to eat something she most certainly should not be. He slid one eye open, glaring at the damned cat as he noticed the piece of paper in her mouth, punctured by those sharp fangs.

“Fuck, don’t eat that,” Daken mumbled, swatting at her as he tore the pamphlet. He observed the details of it and noticed that Lester of all people was on the roster. Of course he was a Fine Arts Major, Daken rolled his eyes. He had a morbid curiosity of what kind of “art” Lester would be showcasing. How the hell he even got into the gallery itself was a mystery to him. What did people see in his crude and elementary sculptures? Daken huffed, realizing he was already debating going to the stupid opening night. He’d have to find something suitable to wear… 

Karla eyed him up and down as Daken adjusted his hair. He’d put on a pair of black silky dress pants with a thick leather belt and shiny shoes to match. For his top he wore a red button down that he tucked into his pants and rolled the sleeves up on. He made sure the top buttons were popped of course, showing a hint of the tattoo on his chest. Then he scattered a couple of ornate rings across his fingers, some earrings and a dragon ear cuff, and finally, nail polish to complete the look. Glossy black nails with his middle fingers being painted red to stand out. 

He barely even noticed Karla entering the dorm as he stared at himself in the mirror and put some eyeliner on. 

“Hot date?” Karla smirked, leaning against her bed frames post. 

“An opening event for a gallery,” He replied, the anger from earlier was gone. He felt much better, it was pure wonder what a nap could do to someone. 

“Mmm, Lester’s event, by chance?” she asked innocently.

“He happens to have a small exhibit,” Daken replied smoothly, not letting her get under his skin. Besides, it would be entertaining to see what monstrosities Lester would proudly display to the public. 

“Well, do enjoy,” she winked, “And maybe visit a club after, you look absolutely exquisite. I could eat you up.”

“Charming as always,” Daken teased, swiping his hair back one more time before he checked Azuki’s food. She’d be fine for the night. With that settled he snagged his phone, keys, and wallet, then headed to the door.

Chapter Text

The gallery was fancy, they even had servers catering wine and appetizers around the place. Only four artists were featuring work and after closer look, all of them were seniors except Lester. He was a sophomore, the same year as Daken yet here he was. He must be a nepo baby, surely that would explain it. 

Daken wandered around aimlessly, appreciating a collection of paintings mounted to the wall. The technical skill was gorgeous and he felt like he was staring at a picture scaled up. Breath taking. He moved through the works with a glass of wine in hand, nails tapping the glass quietly. For students, the works shown were quite gorgeous. 

Finally he came to Lester's little section of the gallery. He’d made camp across the whole corner of the largest room and had paintings hung crookedly on the wall and sculptures placed precariously throughout the floor. 

The sculptures were, as Daken had predicted, crude abstract messes. They were a sloppy blend of soap stone, clay and paint. Most of them were hideous by Daken’s standards, unrecognizable with no sense to them. They looked like something a mad man would make, and well, that did fit the bill. But over by the wall Daken noticed a collection that actually intrigued him. Small tiny carvings made out of some sort of white material. Ivory perhaps? It was hard to say but even he had to admit the detail was impressive. Microscopic and ornate, something a surgeon would carve. 

“Like it?” Lester said, his voice ringing from behind Daken. “They’re bones,” he told him with a grin that grated on Daken's nerves.

“I see…Very unique,” he supplied, deciding he should at least compliment the artist whose show he was attending. 

Lester was dressed up for once, wearing black slacks and a button down shirt and tie. He looked almost professional but there was red paint on his jaw and hands. His blue eyes made Daken uncomfortable, they were too bright and eerie, out of this world. 

“Of course it is. I’m a unique person,” Lester replied proudly, stepping away from Daken and gesturing to his work. “You should take a look at this shit. If you ask nicely I might even be able to help you with your project.”

“Help? I don’t need help.”

“Oh please. You looked like you were going to burn the whole lab down. Everybody needs some help now and then. Well not me, though. I’m magic. I’m a god. You can’t touch me, fuck-face.”

Daken wanted to knock the ridiculous smile off Lester’s face. He was delusional, clearly. And actually, along that line of thought Daken squinted and really looked at Lester.

Usually he didn’t pay much attention to the fumbling idiot. He wasn’t worth his time. But up close under these bright lights he noticed the sheen of sweat on his brow and the way his eyes kept jumping and moving at every sound. Twitchy little fucker. His speech was always fast paced but he tripped up on his words frequently and the grandeur and euphoria just made it all the more obvious. Something was fucked up in Lester’s head, that was for sure. You had to be a special brand of crazy to make this kind of “art”. 

“I wouldn’t want to touch you with a ten foot pole,” Daken retorted, the insult juvenile but he couldn’t help it. There was something entertaining about bickering back and forth with Lester.

“No, you’d rather take that up your ass, wouldn’t you, shit-for-brains?”

“You’ve been thinking about my ass? I’m flattered, Lester, really.”

The sculptor growled, he seemed to barely control the urge to slam Daken against the wall. “Fucking faggot, I’m not one of you. I’m not,” he snarled as viciously as he could. Which was to say he acted like a puppy who didn’t know how to bite. 

Daken just smiled, “Mmm, could’ve fooled me. You attend an Art School, do you know how many cis straight men attend our university? Next to none.”

The jab was ignored however, Lester’s attention falling to one of the professors who was observing his art. He unceremoniously shoved past Daken, leaving the man stranded and fuming. How dare Lester just toss him away like he was nothing. They weren't finished. 

Daken spent the rest of his time drinking the free champagne and wine, his rings clinking against the flutes. He eyed Lester from across the room. Since his departure the bald man had refused to come near him again. Instead he seemed to busy himself talking with guests. That surprised Daken to be honest, he didn’t expect Lester to be the type to clean up or have manners. Let alone be good at it. People hung off of his every word, entranced by his sculptures and paintings. They asked questions and genuinely wanted answers. They listened to Lester’s stories and the process of his art like he was a goddamn prophet.

It all made Daken want to blanch. If only he had an art showing. It would be so much better than this. He’d curate the best of his paintings and photography. He’d frame them and strategize their placements. He’d charm every guest and sell any piece he wished. It’d be nothing like Lester’s pathetic attempt at fine art. 

“Hey,” a voice spoke up from behind him.

Daken nearly startled but he forced himself to remain still as he turned. It was Mac Gargan. The fumbling senior idiot who would probably do nothing with his degree. He was also one of the students who was showcasing his art. And while Daken could admit, it was tasteful and well executed, Gargan would still never get anywhere. Simply because his social skills were atrocious. The man was a fidgety pathetic thing, always on edge and stammering through his words. 

“Yes, Gargan?” Daken replied, raising a sculpted eyebrow at him.

“The other artists and I were gonna go get a drink. Show’s winding down. Wanna join?”

Daken rolled the thought over in his head. A stronger drink would be nice. “Sure,” he decided, “Why not,” he flashed him a smile. 

The bar was quieter than Daken would’ve expected. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall dive types of places. The atmosphere was friendly enough but the floor was sticky with poorly mopped alcohol and vomit. Daken sat on a stool with an old fashioned, sipping thoughtfully as he observed the hockey game on the TV. The colours and shapes were starting to blur, he’d definitely had too much. The drinks from the bar along with all the wine he’d sipped throughout the night were catching up with him. 

He had just signaled for a refill when Lester approached the bar to order his own drink. He had to squint just to recognize the man.

“Should you really be drinking on your cocktail of meds?” Daken taunted him without even thinking. It all came so easily, it was just so amusing watching Lester get riled up and annoyed. His face got all flushed when he was angry and it was pretty.

“Pfft, people talk, you know. I know you’re not exactly sane either,” Lester grinned, sitting down next to him. “It’s quite obvious, really, fuck-face. What with how murderous and psychopathic you look all the time.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“Mmm, a psychopathic heart to heart conversation. But no, I’m not a sociopath. I’m moody. There’s a difference. For example, I’m not some unloveable gross monster who hides behind sophistication and perfectly manicured nails.”

“You like my nails? That’s adorable, darling.”

“Yeah, they’re real pretty, shithead. You’re almost a real girl.” he said snidely, glaring at Daken with those bright blue eyes. The man seriously needed some brown contacts. There was something wrong with how blue they were. And while he was staring at Lester he realized the man was pretty drunk too if his pupils meant anything. 

“I’m sure I could show you a better time than any girl you’ve ever been with.”

That was how Lester found himself in the men's bathroom with Daken shoved against the sink. Thank god it was a single room, not that Daken would probably care if anyone walked in, the man was a slut. But Lester couldn't dwell on those thoughts when said slut was biting his neck and rocking his body against his desperately. 

“If I’m a real girl are you going to be a gentleman and take care of me?” Daken teased, his breath hot on Lester’s skin.

“I said you’re almost a real girl,” he shot back while hastily undoing the buttons of the dark haired man’s shirt. 

He’d seen the tattoo before of course, it was hard not to when Daken wore shirts with deep necklines and always had it peeking out of his collar and sleeves. But what he didn’t realize was that it traveled down his chest all the way to his navel. On his right side the tattoo extended from his hip and slid down to frame his crotch, following the V of his body perfectly. On the left side the tattoo trailed along his midline, stopping an artistic distance above the bulge in his slacks.

“Like it? You should check the back,” Daken smirked when he noticed Lester staring. He managed to slide off the sink and turn around while he pulled his belt out and dropped his slacks to the ground. Just when Lester thought it couldn’t get any better, Daken spread his legs and bent over the sink, arching his back. 

He made quite the sight. Between his smooth skin and the sharp jut of his shoulder blades and hips, plus the bold tattoo running down the left side of his body… Lester had the sudden urge to sculpt him, he wanted to mold him from nothing and then destroy him. As much as he hated him, the man was gorgeous and on closer inspection he realized the tattoo curled around his ribs and down his spine and–

“Who the fuck tattooed your fucking ass crack?” he blurted out. 

“Why, thinking of getting your own?” Daken asked breathlessly, ever the cheeky bastard.

Lester shoved his middle finger into him dry as a retaliation. As much as it was meant to make Daken speechless it made Lester speechless too. The man was tight, much tighter than he would expect for a provocative whore. He had to spit on his hand to get some more lubricant before he added another finger. Taking it like a champ, Lester thought to himself drunkenly. 

By the time Daken was actually ready his back was shiny with sweat and he was panting over the sink. The dark wild mohawk was draped over his clear shoulder and his knuckles gripped the counter top so hard they were white. The mirror on the wall was large enough that Lester could see both of them clearly. Their faces were flushed red from the alcohol and desire and he could distantly observe their pupils were much too large to be normal. But he couldn’t care enough to stop whatever this was. A need pulled at his gut, some sort of fire that burned strong enough he feared it would consume him if he didn’t fuck Daken right this moment. It had been building ever since the punk idiot showed up to his 3D Form class, 20 minutes early and with a pristine notebook. He’d acted like he was above the performance of sculpting, talking as if modern and contemporary art was stupid and beneath him. Well fuck that and fuck him.

Fuck him literally, Lester thought crazedly as he pushed in despite the resistance. 

Daken gasped underneath him, his tongue flicking out across the top of his teeth. Through the mirror Lester caught a glint of metal and realized the fuck-face had his tongue pierced. A simple bar that matched the one in his left eyebrow. 

The artist snarled and grabbed Daken’s hips harder, pulling him back on his dick as he fucked into him hard and fast. It was drunk and heated and sloppy and nothing about it was pretty except for Daken and his stupid gorgeous face. This only urged Lester to be rougher and meaner.

By the time they were getting close Lester was certain he’d left bruises all over Daken’s hips. He thrusted a few more times, burying deep as he plastered himself against the man’s back and bit down on the side of his neck near his shoulder.

Daken gasped loudly, his whole body convulsing as he lost his grip on the counter and slammed into the sink with a crunch. Admittedly it was the blood that dripped out of Daken’s nose that did it for Lester. He came with a silent shout, hiding his face in the other man’s neck.