literature

Dave x Troll Reader: Deliquents Part 1

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Literature Text

“And THAT’S how I ended up in a police cell,” you inform the wall dully. There’s no one else in your cell, because you were allegedly “dangerous” and “unpredictable”  and “fit to be culled”. Never mind the “poor boy” that broke your nose and made half your slate skin bloom bruises in the colors of the hemospectrum--all he had was bruising on his stomach and legs--suddenly, because of the horns drooping from your skull, you’re stuck in here for...how long, again? The officers seemed a little scared of you and were considerably unfriendly, to say the least. You didn’t even get any medical treatment for your poor nose, which is really starting to hurt now that the adrenaline has worn off. It has to be a fracture, at least.

In the corner of the cell, there’s a dented cot and the thinnest blanket you’ve ever seen. You irritably pull off your socks--darn, you actually looked kind of cute today in your used oxfords and battered skinny jeans--and mop some of the blood from your nose, as much as you can without moving it too much. Then you try to get comfortable on the cot, but you can’t sleep on the side because of the bruises, and you lie awake in pain almost all night.

***

They let you out in the morning, but by then you’re far worse, haggard and hungry and dried blood crusting your face. You stagger out and take a minute pleasure in seeing people stay about 100 feet away from you at all times.

It takes you ages to stumble around with your (stolen) smartphone’s map apps (at least they gave that back), but you find your cheap-ass apartment eventually, and let yourself in. Home sweet home smells like a gym locker and McDonalds, but it’s better than jail.

Once you’ve changed into comfortable clothes and applied ice to your bruises, you look up how to fix a broken nose. The cure? Apparently, a bottle of Advil and rest. You chug two gel capsules with a glass of cranberry juice and two-day old takeout teriyaki, then heave yourself into the shower. Very carefully washing the dried blood off, you put on deodorant and change clothes.

They tried to call your parents yesterday, but, for obvious reasons, you have none. One, because you were captive-bred and never had a lusus--and two, no one wanted to adopt a mutant. You were sifted through many, many foster homes for your whole life before you finally landed a couple of rich, pitying adoptees. They raised you for a time, almost as a human, and life was a lot better than it had been for a long time. This lasted until you stole a few thousand dollars and ran, taking buses and trains and being an 18-year old troll hobo until you found a really cheap apartment here. You even landed a Target job, restocking the makeup aisle. It’s minimum wage, but the freedom of feeling partly human and not something to be owned for the first time in your life makes up for it.

Speaking of which…you glance at your phone and curse. It’s 8:47 am, and you’re supposed to be at work in 13 minutes. Shit. You can’t afford to show up looking bad, either, which means you have to put on makeup, at least a little bit.

15 minutes later, you arrive panting at Target, and grab your apron from the staff room. You can feel the dirty glances radiating from the customers, and find yourself hoping you don’t lose Target too many customers. After all, you do get free pretzels.

When you arrive at your station, you’re immediately set to work restocking mascara. Trying to mask your irritation, you grab a basket full of glinting green Revlon tubes and fit them into their little plastic holders on the shelf. Careful--you have to be particularly jovial as you do so, otherwise anybody passing by you will stare, or worse, bark at you for your “aggression” and “bad manners”. Gee, you wonder why.

You try not to hate on your circumstances, but it’s hard, especially when you’re at the bottom of...well, everything, really. You’re a troll, a mutantblood, AND a female under age 20. Any worse and you’d be back on Alternia, hung on a cross like troll fucking Jesus or something.  

You like to think as far as things go, you’re doing pretty well. Nevertheless, you can feel the stare burning into your back as you slide the last of the mascara tubes into their holders. Turning around, you’re expecting a dirty glare from a middle-aged mom or a perfectly coiffed, 20-something blonde, but to your mild surprise, the offender is neither of those age groups--or genders, for that matter. It’s a pale human boy, swathed in an overlarge long-sleeved shirt, white with a collar and sleeves that are--the absolute worst color.

Red, bright red, the color of human blood and a color you don’t want near you with a ten foot pole.

You don’t notice anything else about him--not his messy, bleached-blonde hair, or his crazily freckled face (you wish trolls got them like that), or the huge black glasses covering his eyes and the skin around them entirely. Nothing but that fucking shade of red, and you have to work hard to conceal your startled, similarly crimson blush. Which is also a dead giveaway that you’re, you know, fit to be culled.

You hastily turn back around and take a deep breath, staring at your face in the mirror on the makeup stand until the slight red flush has dissipated from your cheeks. Ugh. Now some other idiot teenage boy is going to mock you?

Subtly glancing behind you in the mirror, blondie hasn’t moved much, but he’s slowly advancing towards you, and you’re still restocking a whole basket full of mascara. Movement from your post is like performing an act of insubordination, even if you’ve got good reason to suspect that this annoying stranger is going to call you out for being a mutant, or a troll, or both.

Gritting your teeth, you swallow your ego. It’s all you can do to repeatedly try to jam a mascara tube on top of another one, so focused on not looking at the carmine sleeves that you don’t even see what you’re doing. The red burns into your peripheral vision as he passes by, and you can just TELL that he’s still not-so-subtly glancing at you with all the tact of a 13-year-old in a snapback and basketball shorts.

You keep adding the mascara tubes to the slots, ignoring his slight pacing and entrance into the aisle you’re in until it becomes absolutely apparent that he’s not moving, and that’s he’s now practically boring a hole into your back.

You curtly turn around and say, “Can I help you?”

His eyebrows raise so far off his face, they’re in danger of liftoff, and his mouth twists into a cocky smile that instantly bothers you.

"Yo," he says, crossing his arms. "Nice horns."

Oh. So he’s going to play this game. You blink slowly and force yourself not to roll your eyes, reminding yourself that this is a potential customer, and you can’t be reported again. "Thanks. Is there something I can do for you?”

"Nah," he says smoothly. "I mean, you looked a little angry back there. I guess I just wanted to say hi."

You're caught off guard, so surprised you forget to be angry. What kind of a reason is that? "Uh...thanks?"

"I'm Dave," he announces, smiling arrogantly, like you should be honored to have received his attention. It pisses you off even more, but you'll admit, it makes him somehow magnetic, his bright white teeth flashing.

You roll your eyes and turn back to your restocking. "(y/n),"  you say grudgingly. Yet, despite your irritation, you're just the slightest bit attracted to this strange boy, one who has, against all the odds, approached you.

Dave grins, and he's like a magazine cover model with a bit of dorky kid-next-door thrown in. "Nice to meet'cha. So, when's your shift up?"

Maybe not all boys are so bad.
request for :iconmareniavictoria:! see, im not dead hahaha

image not mine
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AngelinBlue123's avatar
OMFG Y U NO UPDATE?!?!