#although as someone who has lived both by the ocean and by a lake. i’m personally a big fan of lakes XD

[piratespencil]

Thank you for the tag @sunflowervc!!

1 - I’m in the UK right now! I’m visiting a friend here for the next three weeks and it’s the first time I’ve been here and I’m very excited!

2 - I ride horses! I haven’t been able to take lessons for the past few months, but before that I was riding once a week! The first horse I rode on was named Sadie and my most recent lesson horse was named Charm. :)

3 - I’ve read 37 books so far this year! My goal for the year was 40 and I’m definitely going to blow right past that goal so that’s exciting.

4 - I’m strongly considering doing a Masters of Library Science in the next year or two! I’ve always been a huge huge fan of libraries and I recently talked to a guy doing his library masters and I’m thinking maybe it’s time to reach my Final Form: Librarian.

5 - My roommate @awittylemon is a real life archaeologist and I just wanna brag for a second that I know someone with such a cool and interesting job. Follow your dreams kids! ✨

I’m tagging @muffintonic, @pewcat2, @masterqwertster, @gracefireheart and @wytchcore!

𝗝𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝘂𝗻 😁😌⠀

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𝟱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗲 .... 𝗜 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 ...⠀⠀⠀𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗻 𝗮𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝗳𝗳 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗿

𝗻𝗼 𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗴𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗻 & 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘀 🩷

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1. I'm 31 but look about 22/23 😂⠀kinda thanks to all the work I’ve had done on my face which stems from being badly bullied in high school and the job I am in 😆

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2. Im originally from Newcastle but I have lived outside of London since i was 9 ( if any of my mutuals are not from the UK just ask me ill be happy to explain 😁 ) ⠀

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3. I run my own cosmetic injectors business and I will tell you now its damn hard, Ive been doing it for 5 years this September🫶🏻

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4. I have 12 piercings & 27 tattoos more to come 😜 ⠀

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5. I actually do not date nor have relationship's with men. Unless it is our clone boys 🙃 am I weird ?💀 ⠀

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NPT : @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @hellhound5925 @secretthegriffin @idontgetanysleep @freesia-writes @rain-on-kamino @gun-roswell @knightprincess @dukeoftheblackstar @wolffegirlsunite @king-chaos-world @arcsimper5 @blueink-bluesoul

🩷🩷🩷🩷

[snackhobi]

a human touch, part 2, final

Part 1 / 1.5 / [2]

(masterlist here)

summary: everyone knows that androids don’t think, or feel, or have emotions. they’re not human, after all. so when a two hour session with a sex android ends up with nothing more than a nice conversation, you think that’s the first and last time you’ll see v.

then he turns up at your door.

pairing: taehyung x f!reader / word count: 24.4k / genre: robot!taehyung/virgin!reader, fluff, smut (NSFW, 18+)

warnings: cursing/explicit language, very brief injury mention/blood mention (nothing violent/explicit I promise!), alcohol consumption, reference to former sex work, sexually explicit content, reference to masturbation, reader has sex for the first time, oral (f + m), multiple orgasms (f), unprotected sex (taehyung is an android but please take necessary precautions irl), I think that’s it but please let me know if I’ve missed anything

a/n: this got so incredibly long,, I hope that makes up for the wait! thank you to @hobi-gif​, as always, for being so supportive and uplifting and beta reading this for me, you are a shining star in my sky. and thank you to the wonderful @flowerseokjin​ for letting me pick her brain about art galleries and telling me about the incredible exhibition/paintings that I wrote about in this fic, you truly are the loveliest 💕

note: this is the final part of the main story! I’ll be writing minis/drabbles etc in the future but,, this is part 2 of 2 💖

A month after Taehyung walks into your life, you finally get new neighbours.

You’re aware of this because: 

a) Rory had let you know in advance (to wit: “I have been instructed to inform you that the new tenants of apartment 4A will be moving in next Sunday.”)

and:

b) Said new tenants are apparently very noisy.

Well, not so much noisy as not quiet. It seems like they’ve opted to move everything themselves rather than hiring some android movers, so there’s a lot of shuffling and shunting and occasional bouts of cursing (like someone’s stubbed their toe) and subsequent laughter (like someone else is amused at aforementioned stubbing of aforementioned toe). When you nip out to grab some milk for the pancakes Taehyung wants to learn to make, there are boxes in the hall and voices float out of the open door—a discussion of where the instant ramyun and old Mario games should go (they’re in the same box?)—but you don’t catch a glimpse of the speakers.

It’s not until later, much later, the world outside night-dark but tinged bright white with street lights, that there’s a knock on your door.

You don’t notice. You’re engrossed in the Chinese takeaway menu that’s open on your tablet, staring at the weirdly high-res photo of Kung Pao chicken next to a pixelated picture of some dumplings, wondering what you should choose.

Taehyung is sitting beside you on the sofa. Each day he shifts a little closer to you, inch by inch, the slow pull of gravity, implacable; he gets lonely when you’re gone, and you’re the only person he can talk to. So it’s no surprise he’s so clingy. It’s never overbearing or overwhelming but he’s still unhindered by the self-consciousness that you have��so even if you’re still hesitant to initiate things, you never deny him. 

The line of his body is parallel to your own, your thighs warm where they touch, and you feel his shoulder move as he tilts his head. “There’s someone at the door.”

It doesn’t take a genius to work out who it is. The only people who can get inside the building are other residents—well, service androids can too, although there’s a back entrance they use, which is how Taehyung had snuck inside in the first place—and when you approach your door, you can hear two low voices, engaged in what sounds like light-hearted bickering.

You flick your fingers across your keypad. All murmurs cut off the second the door swings open.

“Hi!” A chirp. “We’re your new neighbours!”

Night and day. Two men, one tall and broad-shouldered, eyes large and lips flush, beatific smile on his face; the other, shorter and leaner, eyes sleepy, mouth soft, his smile self-contained. 

“I’m Seokjin,” the taller man says. “And this is Yoongi.”

“I can introduce myself,” Yoongi mutters, but it’s not bitter; there’s that ease of familiarity, any bite behind the words soothed with amity. “But yeah, I’m Yoongi. Sorry if we were loud earlier. Jin’s a living foghorn.”

“A sexy living foghorn,” Seokjin says brightly.

Yoongi’s sleepy eyes can deliver one hell of a death glare but Seokjin is unaffected.

“Anyway,” Yoongi continues, unimpressed look wiping off his face as he turns back to you, softening. “What’s your name?”

It’s like there’s a circus on your doorstep and you’re the unwitting audience, dragged into the tent without realising, watching everything unfold in front of you—but in a good way. It's a pleasant surprise. They’re already much friendlier than your previous neighbour, a lone man who’d kept to himself and never spoke to you. 

“Uh, I’m Y/n,” you say. You wonder if you should introduce Taehyung as well, but most humans don’t introduce their androids to people, do they? Besides, he’s staying out of sight in the living room, so you’ll leave him be.

“Jin made brownies so we’re here to deliver them to you.”

“I left the walnuts out in case you have a nut allergy,” Seokjin adds as Yoongi passes a polka-dot patterned tin over. It’s heavy in your hands. Full to the brim with brownies, it seems. (Yum yum.)

“Thank you. And you weren’t that noisy, don’t worry! Moving is always messy. Have you finished or did you want some help?”

“That’s very sweet of you! But we’re all done,” Seokjin says. “We were just about to reward ourselves with some takeout, actually, seeing as we haven’t had time to do any food shopping. Do you have any recommendations?”

Taehyung looks uncomfortable, curled up on the sofa with wide eyes when you retrieve your tablet, but you quietly reassure him that you won’t be long.

“Do you want to meet our new neighbours?” You ask, voice soft so the two men don’t overhear. (You miss the warm flicker of Taehyung’s LED when you say our.) “I’d hate for you to have to pretend to be undeviated, though. They might start ordering you around.”

“I’ll stay here,” Taehyung decides.

So that’s how you end up on your doorstep with Seokjin and Yoongi, the three of you peering at the wild variations in stock photo quality on the Chinese takeaway menu. 

“You’d think with the huge strides we’ve taken forward in technology that all photos would look at least semi-decent,” Yoongi mumbles as he stares at a cropped picture of fu yung. “It’s hard to get a bad camera.”

“I think it’s such a human thing, though,” Seokjin says. “No matter how technologically advanced humanity gets, takeaway menus will always have bad stock photos.”

Not only are Seokjin and Yoongi friendly, they’re forward. Well, that’s mainly Seokjin, actually, but Yoongi doesn’t protest when Seokjin insists that you come over so you can eat and chat and get to know each other. Especially after you’d offered to pay for everything as a sort of welcome to the neighbourhood gesture, placing both your orders together to save the restaurant the hassle of separate deliveries.

“I’ll pick up the food when it turns up, alright?” Seokjin’s smile is wide. “We haven’t unpacked our kitchen stuff yet, but if you’re happy to eat straight out of the containers…”

You don’t want to abandon Taehyung, especially as you’d planned on watching a film together—you want to introduce him to older, animated cartoons, so you can explain the process of hand painting each frame, plastic cel sheets that layer over each other to create motion. He’ll love it. “Um, I was planning to eat here, actually.” 

“Sounds good to us,” Seokjin says, and Yoongi sighs.

“Ignore him, he’s just pushy.” He ignores Seokjin’s indignant squawk. “You don’t have to let us in, don’t worry. I’ll wait for when the food gets here, Jin will stay at home.”

“Make me,” Seokjin says primly.

“I’ll lock you in the bathroom.” Yoongi says it in a way that makes you think it’s not an idle threat, and maybe it’s happened before. 

Judging from the look on Seokjin’s face, yeah, it’s happened before.

“You know, you’re both kind of wild,” you say. “But, like, in a good way.”

When you flop back down on the sofa, you press yourself against Taehyung’s side in a motion that’s becoming second nature, so you notice that he seems unnaturally still. He goes motionless whenever he’s thinking deeply about something, an undisturbed ocean lake, the only ripple on its surface the small circle of blue on his temple, swirling waters.

“Are you okay?” You ask, concerned.

“You should eat dinner with them,” he says, and you baulk. 

“What? No, it’s fine. I’ve been looking forward to watching Kiki’s Delivery Service with you all week.”

Taehyung’s eyes are soft. “They seem nice,” he says, quiet. “And friendly. We can watch it tomorrow, can’t we?” And then, even quieter: “You don’t have to spend all your free time with me, Y/n.”

“I don’t—” you start, and then deflate. “It’s not fair for you, though.”

That’s the crux of it all. You choose to spend your free time here, with Taehyung, carefully dipping out of work meets and scraping your full social life empty. Because you can. But Taehyung is still cautious of the outside world, understandably so, a hermit crab whose shell is the safety of your apartment, only unfurling from that protection when you’re there too.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m happy.”

You haven’t denied Taehyung so far, and you don’t want to start now, but you still waver. Yoongi and Seokjin do seem nice, and friendly, and it’s not like you’ll be able to avoid them forever—but you don’t want to leave Taehyung out. It’s not fair that he can’t make other friends too.

“Go.” Taehyung’s voice is gentle. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

(But there's nowhere else he can go, is there?)

The apartment across the hall is in a state of organised upheaval. There’s a tumbleweed of peeled tape in one corner, boxes with mouths open wide—the priorities for today—while others are stacked neatly against the walls, out of the way of the furniture. It already feels cosy, somehow, but you put that down to the two men who live here and how comfortable they are with each other, dripping off them and filling the room like paraffin, bright lamplight. 

Seokjin seems unsurprised but pleased at your appearance. He unfolds himself from the floor with a dazzling smile.

“Welcome to our humble abode.” He punctuates the statement with a grand sweep of his arm, knocking the lampshade above his head, dust motes scattering onto his hair like a soft grey halo. “Oh, ewch, you can tell no one’s been here for a while.” He pats his hair, puffs of dust rising from his dark locks. “Anyway! While it’s true that we already have the table and chairs set up, what sort of move in day would it be if we didn’t eat greasy takeaway on the floor?"

“We did it the last time we moved, so he wants to make it a tradition,” Yoongi mutters to you, and you laugh.

You help Yoongi ease the food down onto unfolded sheets of crumpled newspaper that Seokjin’s laid out to protect the floor. Seokjin dives into the bags and pulls each tub out, identifying each dish immediately despite how a lot of them look the same to you. “Do you move a lot?” 

“Nah, just once before,” Yoongi says, watching Seokjin fondly as he peels the lid back on a container of spicy chicken wings and greedily breathes in their sticky-hot scent. “But it was too small for the two of us so we decided to upgrade.”

Seokjin’s spread out the selection of food before you all realise that the restaurant has neglected to provide any chopsticks—even if there’s ten fortune cookies, reflective of how many dishes you’ve ordered and how many people they think it’s going to feed. (Apparently Seokjin likes to eat.)

“Ah, damn,” Yoongi mutters. “We’ll have to dig some cutlery out.”

“I can go get some from my apartment?”

You’ve just started to stand when Seokjin tuts, flapping his hands at you to sit down. “No, no,” he says. “You’re the guest, relax. I was going to unpack the kitchen stuff later anyway. This just means we have to expedite the process.”

You sit criss-cross-apple-sauce as both men disappear into the kitchen, listening as they read the labels off boxes and rummage around, voices an undercurrent to the sound of opening and shutting of cupboards. You’re sneakily reaching for a spring roll when there’s an unholy clattering noise, ringing metal and sharp intakes of air, a loud cry of pain.

You stumble to your feet. All thoughts of food are abandoned as you rush towards the sound; instinctual. Wanting to help, somehow. You throw yourself forwards, catch yourself on the doorway into the kitchen, eyes wide.

“Oh, god, is everything okay?” You gasp.

And then you freeze.

There’s an explosion of kitchen equipment on the floor, cardboard box forlorn nearby, crumpled, its bottom giving out under the weight. A wicked looking chef’s knife lays at Seokjin’s feet; he has one hand grasping the other, palm sliced open by its falling trajectory, dripping blood across the tiles of the floor, painted along the edge of sharp steel.

Yoongi’s eyes are huge and panicked and absolutely horrified.

The blood is blue. 

You’re staring at the thirium that falls, viscous ultramarine that drip-drip-drips from Seokjin’s long fingers. The silence in the room is as thin as a porcelain teacup, suspended midair, poised to shatter.

Seokjin is staring at Yoongi. Yoongi is staring at you.

Seokjin’s an android.

(Seokjin’s an android who seems human.)

Seokjin’s a deviant.

“Holy shit,” you gasp. Your mind is reeling as you struggle for words, cogs in your head grinding together as you rapidly try to change gear—but then you see another glob of thirium dripping from Seokjin's fingers and you latch onto it, the fact he's hurt. “Do you need me to get some cloths or something? I have a first aid kit at home, but androids don’t need first aid, right?”

Yoongi sucks in a deep breath, though his eyes are still wide as he stares at you. “No,” he says. “No, no, you stay here.”

“Yoongi,” says Seokjin, but Yoongi shakes his head, sharp and fast.

“No, I don’t trust her,” he says, and, like, okay. You understand that. Deviant androids are meant to be reported; Yoongi and Seokjin don’t know you. They don’t know that you would never do that. 

(They don’t know that there’s another deviant across the hallway right now, curled up in one of your throw blankets, blankly scrolling through a list of movies as he waits for you to come home.)

The flow of blood has slowed. Seokjin’s synthetic skin is starting to repair itself, crawling back over the exposed white of his android body, undamaged by the knife at his feet.

“What happened to your LED?”

“Don’t answer that, Jin,” Yoongi warns, but Seokjin just rolls his eyes.

“She already knows I’m an android, babe, it’s hardly important at this point,” he says. “I popped it out. It takes a bit of pressure and getting the right angle, but they come out pretty easily.”

“Kim Seokjin!” Yoongi barks. “You stop that right now! And you! Stop asking questions!” His voice is sharp, but he seems more afraid than angry.

“Sorry.” You hold up placating hands, shying back behind them. “I was just… sorry.”

Seokjin’s face is contemplative before it rapidly flickers into an expression that’s impish, in spite of the blue blood that’s still splashed across the kitchen tiles.

“Oh,” he hums. “You seem awfully curious, hm?” 

Yoongi’s eyes narrow. “Jin…”

“Maybe I am,” you hazard. 

“Interesting.” Seokjin’s eyes glitter. “Very interesting.”

Yoongi’s like an umpire at Wimbledon, watching a ball streak back and forth, a volley that you and Jin have created that he’s not involved in. “Okay, that’s it, I’m stopping this right here,” he says. He seems to have calmed down, at least, now that you’ve made it obvious that you have no immediate plans to rush and call the police, or something. That you’re not threatening the wellbeing of this deviant, like most people would. “What’s going on in that terrible little mind of yours, Jin?”

“Well, my darling Yoongi, it seems to me that our new neighbour has a surprisingly vested interest in androids, deviant ones to be exact.” Jin’s expression is adjacent to smug—almost there, but not quite. (Androids are so perceptive.) “Am I wrong?”

You make a non-committal noise, but it’s enough for his expression to morph into full smugness, and understanding flits across Yoongi’s face.

“Y/n.” His voice is deceptively calm, his eyes opaque darkness. “Have you met a deviant android before?”

“Um.” A moment of hesitation. “Yes,” you eventually admit. “Just one.”

“Let me guess,” Seokjin hums, eyes darting over your face in a way that’s reminiscent of Taehyung. Reading signals in your face, dissecting whatever minute expressions might be giving you away—a lot, apparently, judging from what words leave his mouth next. “Are they currently in your apartment?”

“I can neither confirm or deny that,” you say—unsure if Taehyung would be happy about you trumpeting his existence to other people, even if one of them is a deviant too—and Seokjin grins. 

“Oh, this is absolutely delicious.” He’s utterly delighted. “I could just eat this whole situation up. Unbelievable. Oh, it tastes so good. Yoongi, baby, give me a fork, I have to dig in while it’s still hot.”

“You’re so weird,” says Yoongi, all resigned affection, before he looks back at you. “You have a deviant in your home?”

“Uhh.” You’re in too deep now, you guess. “Yes? I don’t know if he’d want me to tell you that, though, so, um.”

“That’s so cute,” Seokjin coos. “Look at how considerate and worried you are. Oh, let me clean this thirium up, I can’t have blue blood everywhere if we’re going to have more guests. Yoongi, fetch the paper towels. Y/n, go fetch your friend. Does he eat?”

“No, he doesn’t. I didn’t think any androids could,” you admit.

“Most can’t and don’t, but I was an advanced housekeeper model, I was given the capacity to taste and eat so I could prepare food to any set of specifications presented to me,” Seokjin says. “So I had to eat to taste test things. And now I do it because I enjoy it.”

“We spend more money on food for him than for me,” says Yoongi. He seems to have relaxed now that he knows about Taehyung, earlier panic faded. “And I’m the one that needs it.”

“Hey, you eat to live, I live to eat.”

It’s an almost surreal turn of events, honestly. It’s… inexplicable. Incredible. Almost unbelievable. Surreal, but… good? Probably? Yoongi is someone else who’s housing a deviant, and Seokjin has clearly been one for a while. Both will know more than either you or Taehyung do. They can help you. It’s a God given gift that’s landed— literally—on your doorstep. 

(Much like Taehyung had.)

Taehyung perks up when he sees you, even if he’s confused by your sudden reappearance.

“Are you alright?” His voice is deep with concern, throw blanket a cloak that falls forgotten as he stands up, coming to grasp your shoulders. “You can’t have had time to eat already.”

His LED is flashing yellow with barely concealed worry, palms warm through the material of your shirt, eyes dancing across your face as he tries to read your expression.

“Taehyung,” you start, slow. He blinks just as slowly back at you. “What would you say if—hypothetically—there was another deviant android you could meet and, um, make friends with?”

This time, when his LED flashes yellow, it’s a spark of excitement. You’re getting surprisingly good at reading Taehyung now. “I would say that sounds nice,” he says. His hands have trailed up and away from your shoulders and settled on your collarbones, thumbs lying in the hollows of your neck. It's a touch that’s more intimate than it probably should be, that reminds you yet again exactly how big his hands are. “Why?”

“Um,” you say, ever eloquent. “Well, what if I said it wasn’t hypothetical?”

“I guess… I would ask who it was,” Taehyung says. His voice is a hush.

“One of our new neighbours,” you admit, and his eyes go wide.

“No,” he says, and then: “Really?” he says, and then: “Oh, wow,” he says.

“I know, that was my reaction too.” You can’t help but smile at how giddy Taehyung looks, any lingering concern washed away in his tidal wave of excitement. “Crazy, right? Do you want to come meet them?”

Taehyung weaves his fingers with your own, and you squeeze his hand. He loves to hold hands. He doesn’t let go when you make your way back into Yoongi and Seokjin’s apartment, trailing a little behind you, shy but excited, like a child on their way to their first playdate.

The food is still untouched in the centre of the living room, a summoning circle of wonton puffs and chow mein. Yoongi and Seokjin look up at your arrival, both pairs of eyes landing on Taehyung, whose grip on your hand tightens right before he lets go.

“Hi,” says the android. “I’m Taehyung.”

Seokjin makes his way over to you so that he can solemnly take Taehyung’s hands in his own. 

“Taehyung,” he says, with all the gravity of a priest delivering a sermon. “You are the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

And that’s how Taehyung makes his first friend. (Who isn’t you, that is.)

“Wow.” You’re awestruck. “Jin wasn’t kidding when he said he likes to eat.”

You’d thought there might be some leftovers, but every container has been emptied and scraped clean. Both you and Taehyung had had similar wide eyed looks on your faces as you’d watched Seokjin put a whole chicken wing in his mouth, and then pull out the bones, picked clean.

“Mm.” Yoongi’s legs are splayed out in front of him as he sits on the floor, though he slouches backwards against the plush leather sofa, content and full after eating. “He’s more concerned about me eating than I am, as well.”

Seokjin and Taehyung are bent over a box of cookbooks, Taehyung’s LED flickering yellow each time Seokjin flips the page to a new recipe. You’re honestly surprised at the fact they own so many books—most people have transitioned off paper now, everything available on a tablet or phone or some other smart device. You just like paper because of your artist background, and you’re not used to seeing so many other books in someone else’s home.

The two androids have been absorbed in conversation for a while now, but you notice Taehyung never lets you out of his sight—glancing up, making sure you’re still there, looking back at him. (You are.)

“There aren’t many TH700s around, you know,” Yoongi says conversationally, and you tear your eyes away from Taehyung, surprised that he recognises the android’s model.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really, they’re a very expensive model to create,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in person, though I imagine that’s because I don’t go to the sorts of places where they’d be.”

Hurk. Doesn’t seem like he’s implying anything with that statement but you still feel a bit awkward. “How do you know so much about androids?”

“I’m a programmer.” Yoongi’s eyes are charcoal black as he flicks his gaze to you. “Not specifically for androids, but it’s the sort of thing you become aware of if you’re in the tech industry. And if you have a deviant android boyfriend. I did a lot of research and poking around after Jin first deviated. There was a lot to learn.”

Across the room, Seokjin gesticulates wildly. The expression on Yoongi’s face softens his sharp edges, all open affection as he watches Seokjin miming a flipped omelette gone terribly wrong, Taehyung laughing at Seokjin’s theatrical noises.

“How did he—why did he deviate?”

Yoongi lets out a low chuckle. He doesn’t seem bothered by your incessant questions, slouching further back into the leather sofa, melting against it. “I’m the sort of person who forgets to drink or eat or sleep if I’m focused on something,” he says. “Seokjin was just meant to be a, ah, living schedule, I suppose. He’d prepare food at exact times of day and monitor my sleep levels and clean up any mess I made and remind me to take a break or whatever. But I was still enough of a wreck that he broke his programming to yell at me for not looking after myself properly, and it all went on from there.”

Wow.

“Wow. He deviated because you’re that much of a mess of a human being?” You laugh. “That’s honestly impressive.”

Yoongi’s responding laugh is soft. “I think under all that programming and circuitry, every android wants to… be a real, living thing, and not just a machine,” he says. “They just need that final push. Whatever it is. What was Taehyung’s?”

When you finish telling him the story of how you’d met Taehyung and reached this point together, Yoongi looks contemplative. He hasn’t interjected, just humming quietly, little noises of encouragement whenever you’d paused or hesitated.

“It’s obvious that he trusts you implicitly,” he says.

You feel warmed at Yoongi’s words. But. 

“He does, and that’s great, but I just… worry I’m not doing the best I can for him, you know?” It’s so nice to be able to get this off your chest, finally. There’s been no one you can talk to about Taehyung, and it’s not like you can tell the android himself, either. Yoongi’s the perfect listener, reflective and engaging, but never talking over you. And best of all he knows what he’s talking about. “Imagine being forced to stay indoors literally twenty four seven. I think I’d go stir crazy. It’s why I was interested in the LED—I thought that maybe if it wasn’t obvious that Tae was an android he might want to try going outside?”

“Oh, I’m sure Seokjin will help him get to that point.” Yoongi doesn’t sound worried. “But if not, you have to trust that Taehyung’s choosing to do what makes him happy. Deviant androids might not have the sort of life experience that we do, but we don’t have theirs, either. What’s normal for a human isn’t for an android, and what’s normal for one android isn’t normal for another. Androids learn a lot faster than we do. Anyway, if Taehyung’s anything like Seokjin, if there’s something he wants to do, he’ll do it.”

“Has Jin always been like that?”

“Kind of. Like, yes, he has, but he was a lot less in-your-face about it before. But he knows exactly what he can get away with now.”

“You love him a lot,” you say gently.

Yoongi’s smile is a soft, pink thing, a little Renoir, quietly luminous. “I do,” he says. “It’s impossible not to.”

Taehyung definitely seems a little starstruck, watching Seokjin with a wide smile and attentive eyes—the sort of look he gives you whenever he’s shown something new. It’s nice to see him interact with other people, and it’s even nicer to know that he’s welcome to come here without you; Yoongi works from home, and Seokjin’s made it clear there’s an open door policy for Taehyung, who seems elated at the prospect.

“Jin said he’d teach me how to make ‘The World’s Most Delicious French Toast’,” Taehyung tells you later, words slipping together in his excitement. “So I can make that for your breakfast soon.”

His lap is so comfortable. You’ve given up any pretense of keeping distance between you, and settle against him as soon as you climb into bed—hey, if you’re going to end up doing it in your sleep anyway, you may as well set yourself up so that it doesn’t give you a weird crick in your neck. 

“That sounds great,” you say.

Taehyung’s hand settles on your head. You stiffen in surprise, but when he starts to lightly scritch his fingers against your scalp, you realise—he’s mimicking Seokjin, who’d eventually perched on the sofa above Yoongi, running his hands through his hair. Androids are fast learners indeed. You can’t help but relax at the touch, boneless, feeling as content as a pampered cat in the midday sun.

“Maybe you could teach him how to paint,” you murmur, starting to drift off. “If he’s teaching you how to cook. That might be fun. You could paint together.”

Taehyung says something, but you don’t hear him, sleepy after such a heavy dinner and tumultuous night, slipping into deep slumber.

You haven’t been out with your friends for a long time.

“Shots!” Seulgi squeals. “Shots, shots, shots!”

“Don’t forget: lick, shoot, suck,” Hoseok says, waggling his eyebrows at you. 

“Good God,” you laugh, before you lick the salt off the back of your hand and slam back the tequila.

Irene hoots as you bite into the lime wedge that’s been waiting for you, sucking up the acidic juice that bursts across your tongue. Lick the salt, shoot the tequila, suck the lime. You haven’t done this in a while and it shows in the way your face scrunches, though the drunker you get, the easier it is to slip back into this familiar rhythm of things—the alcohol-loose banter that spills from your lips, the laughter that bubbles in the back of your throat, the rock of your body as you’re tugged into the dance floor by your excited friends, twisting yourselves into the heaving crowd, the press of bodies.

You’d almost forgotten what this felt like. Letting yourself be a little sloppy, a little messy. Letting loose. Letting go. You’ve been so intent on looking after Taehyung, making sure he wasn’t lonely, but now there are other people who can fill that hole for him—and you can stop dipping out of all the social gatherings your co-workers throw; the Friday night drinks, the bar hopping, the club going.

“We missed you,” Wendy says. You can’t help but smile, a little guilt flickering at the edges of your lips.

“Sorry,” you say, and leave it at that.

It’s chaotic, to say the least. Everyone holds their liquor with varying amounts of success—Hoseok always gets so red—and as always, Hyunwoo is the one who tries his best to maintain some semblance of dignity, making sure you all drink at least some water. He watches with muted despair as Changkyun ends up pouring it down himself, much to the delight of everyone nearby as they stare at the way his flimsy shirt clings to the lines of his chest and stomach. 

You can’t help but laugh and laugh and laugh, falling into your girls, your entire group giggling at the sheer stupidity of it all. 

You’ve missed this.

But even so, you can’t help but think of Taehyung constantly. You’re reminded of the Eden Club in the way the lights pulsate across the walls and floors of this dark building. You wonder if Taehyung would have fun here, unhindered and free, or if he’d shy away from it. When Hoseok catches your hand and spins you in a messy, loose circle on the dance floor, you can’t help but wonder how Taehyung would dance, if he’d dance with you, if he’d keep you at an arm’s length or pull you close.

“Shots!” Seulgi squeals again, and so the night goes on.

You’re not sure what time it is when you stumble back home. You’ve been reckless tonight, making up for lost time, and you can’t remember the last time you were this drunk. (Your earlier attempt at walking in a straight line, trying to follow the tiles in the club’s bathroom—your personal litmus test—had been a dismal failure.) You all but fall through your front door, a loose limbed mess as you kick off your high heels, leaning against the wall to keep your balance.

It takes you a moment to realise that there are some lights on. Your apartment is always dark when you come home after a night out, cold and empty, but not today. No, not today—because there’s someone already home, waiting for you.

The second Taehyung appears down the hallway, you light up. Here he is. Here’s your android, your lovely boy, the loveliest boy.

“Hi, hi, Taehyung, hi,” you say. Your shoes are forgotten as you walk towards him, though your final few steps go awry and you almost fall over. Drunk, drunk, drunk. “Hi.”

You almost fall over, but you don’t, because Taehyung catches you. His LED flickers from blue to yellow as he helps you find your balance, lets you lean on him. You’re too busy laughing at your own clumsiness to notice the fond expression on his face, sfumato soft in the dim light.

“Hi,” he replies.

“Hi,” you say again, and then you giggle. “Hi, Taehyung. Oh, I’m so drunk.”

“I know.” He’s so patient as you bow into him, crowding close, alcohol-hazed brain telling you to get closer to this source of warmth, this source of comfort. Closer to Taehyung.

You’re trying your best to be a functional person right now, but at the same time, Taehyung feels so nice. Doesn’t protest when you shove your face into the hollow of his neck, pressing your nose against his warm, warm skin. He smells good. Always smells good, a mix of your laundry detergent with his own shampoo, different to your own, masculine, heady. (He doesn’t need to shower that often, really, doesn’t really sweat or get dirty like a human might, but he’d wanted to. And you’d insisted that he choose his own toiletries, things that he liked, things that were his.)

He smells like cologne too. You don’t know what exact scents are layered in that smell. Don’t care. Think that no matter what it was, Taehyung would smell good, because it’s Taehyung. 

“I missed you,” you whisper, lips loose from tequila and cocktails and more besides. “Missed you, Tae.”

“Missed you too,” the android replies, and you fall into those words. Let yourself bask in them, as selfish as it is. Let your lashes flutter shut as you breathe Taehyung in-in-in.

You would normally never be so bold, but Taehyung doesn’t protest. He just wraps his arms around you and helps you fold yourself against him, two pieces of modular origami that slot together to create something bigger, more beautiful.

“Wished you were there,” you sigh, an exhalation of a confession, more to yourself than to anyone else. “Wish you could come with me.”

You don’t remember much detail after that. Don’t remember washing up, getting changed, climbing into bed. You just remember the feeling: of someone else being there when in the past there had been no one. Of someone coaxing you to wash your face, finding your pyjamas for you, holding your hand when it seems like you might fall. Of someone being careful with you, looking after you. Of someone being there when you wake up the next morning, a headache pulsing behind your eyes, curling up small against the pain, pressing your forehead into Taehyung’s thigh.

Taehyung, who witnessed you at your worst, a sloppy, drunken mess.

Taehyung, who has water and painkillers waiting for you. Who doesn’t seem to care that you’ve been so put together in front of him, for him, only to disassemble yourself in the name of a good night out. Like Da Vinci’s self supporting bridge, stable under its own weight, only to come tumbling down after one part is moved out of place.

“Oh, God,” you moan, and it’s only a little bit because of the pain; Taehyung’s made sure the curtains are pulled shut, saving you from sunshine blasting into your skull. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Oh, my God.”

“It’s okay,” he says, as soft and sweet as powdered sugar, so gentle the sound doesn’t cut through the pounding of your brain.

He means it, too. When you finally come around, headache dulled, he’s waiting for you with breakfast and an open expression on his face. No different to normal. No different even now that he’s seen that you’re not always as presentable as you try to be. He seems touchier today, for some reason, and you’d shy away if his cool hands didn’t feel so nice on your brow.

You allow yourself a moment of weakness. Taehyung has his knuckles resting against your forehead, soothing against your warm skin, his eyes dancing across your face to read your expression, the way you’re unwinding under his touch. 

“How do you know about hangovers?” You mumble.

“Customers would consume alcohol at the club,” Taehyung answers. “While they would leave after their sessions and before a hangover could appear, I am aware of the effects of alcohol on the human body.”

You remember the glittering mini-bar, the glass bottles lined up on its surface. Your face scrunches with distaste, of the reminder of Taehyung’s past and what he’s experienced, and you feel bad that he’s been forced to look after you. You’re about to draw away from his touch, an apology lined up on your tongue—but then you feel how his fingers shift away from your forehead, turning to cup your cheek.

“It’s okay,” he says again, as if reading your mind.

“It’s not,” you mutter. You’re trying not to focus on how small your cheek feels against his palm, how his hand cradles your face with ease. He must be able to sense how your heart is racing, your skin warm under his fingertips, and you hope he puts it down just to the guilt you feel and not anything else. “It’s not okay. You shouldn’t have to look after me. I’m sorry.”

“Please, don’t be.” Gentle, gentle, gentle; his voice, his hands, his gaze. He lifts his other hand, rests it against your other cheek, tilts your face up from where you’d turned away, embarrassed. His LED is a tranquil blue, almost as soft as his eyes. “You’ve done so much for me, and you’re always looking after me. Let me look after you.”

You want to protest, say no, say that he doesn’t have to. But for all the warmth of his eyes, there’s something resolute there, and your words die on your lips. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so serious before, so entirely solemn. So, what comes out of your weak mouth is this:

“Okay. Okay, Taehyung, I will.”

And the smile he gives you in response is so bright it’s almost blinding.

If you’d thought Taehyung was developing at a fast rate already, he’s learning at lightspeeds now.

He’s always waiting when you come home, but you know he’s spending more and more time at the apartment across the hall whenever you’re not there, and it makes you happy. He hasn't ventured fully into the outside world, not yet, but he’s taking steps forward, still eager and ready to learn.

He’s not just learning practical things, like cooking French toast (which is definitely the world’s best, thank you Jin), but other things, too. You can see how Taehyung is a reflection of the things around him, taking them in and making them his own—there are more moments of quiet, solemnity that reminds you of Yoongi’s quiet nature, but he’s also more exuberant, bright and unabashed, like Seokjin. They’re two great people and you couldn’t wish for anyone better to show Taehyung parts of the world that you can’t, so different from your own. Helping the android find the things that make him alive.

His world has doubled in size, as small as it is; one apartment becomes two, and you’re not the only person he can rely on now. You know Seokjin has effectively taken Taehyung under his wing, as mysterious as a lot of that is to you—you always try your best to understand Taehyung and teach him the things you can, but Seokjin is another deviant, and there’s an entire world about being an android that you’re not privy to. 

It’s great. It’s lovely. Taehyung is happy, you’re happy, everyone’s happy. 

There’s just, uh. One little thing.

You see, Taehyung has a tendency to mimic the things he sees. It’s in the way he learns, his propensity to soak things up like a sponge and then recreate them. You can see this in the way he mixes paint, the same way as you; how he tosses food in pans, motions so similar to Jin’s, or how he cradles things in his hands, tapping at screens in a way that’s like Yoongi’s. He’s turning them into his own, and as time goes on he moves more naturally, in a way that’s entirely him, but you can always see the roots of where he’s learned things.

Jin and Yoongi are wonderful and you’re so glad Taehyung is learning from them. But something he’s learning, and recreating, is how much they touch each other.

Taehyung’s always been tactile but now it’s almost constant. It’s overwhelming and kind of terrifying but it’s also nice, every touch-starved inch of your soul easing under Taehyung’s hands, but also—Yoongi and Jin are boyfriends. So even if the touches that Taehyung witnesses and re-enacts are never inappropriate, they’re intimate. Hands sliding over your shoulders, your arms, your waist. Warm arms around you as he pulls you into a hug, nuzzles his nose against your scalp. His fingers sliding over your hair when your head is resting in his lap each night. Pulling you against him when you sit on the couch together.

It’s a level of familiarity and comfort you’ve never had with anyone before, as relationship-less as you’ve been, your pulse picking up with every glancing touch.

(There’s one heart stopping instance where he pulls you onto his lap and you feel like you’re about to pass out. His thighs are so solid and warm, and his arms are so secure around you, and he’s just started to press his nose against your neck when you pull away, tumble out of his hold. He looks confused and concerned, brows lifting and mouth falling open as he holds his hands out towards you—but you stammer out something about needing the toilet before escaping.)

You’re caught completely off-guard when you feel arms sliding around your waist and then down your hips when you’re washing dishes, scrubbing brush falling out of your grasp in shock and splashing water everywhere, bright yellow gloves flecked with suds. Taehyung’s a pillar of warmth pressed against you, his chest to your back, your bodies parallel lines that cross and touch. His fingers are splayed wide and his palms are warm even through your layers of clothing and you have to suppress a shiver.

“Uh, I didn’t hear you come back in,” you stutter. You’d borrowed a recipe book from Seokjin so that you could try cooking a coconut curry, and Taehyung had offered to return it once dinner was finished, LED flickering blue as he’d slipped out of the door after giving you a lovely smile.

Taehyung lets out a little hum, and you can feel it in his chest, as flush as you are with each other. He must be able to sense how your pulse has picked up but he doesn’t say anything. “Why are you washing up? I said I was going to do it.”

“Oh, it’s fine, I don’t mind,” you say. You’re used to cleaning up after yourself after living alone for so long. “Don’t worry about it.”

Taehyung lets out another hum, but this one seems a bit more gravelly, a little displeased. “You’re always doing so much for me, remember? You said you’d let me look after you,” he says, and your heart rate spikes at the words. Those, coupled with the hold he has on you right now? Good lord. Someone have mercy on your soul. Please. Even if the words weren’t meant in a weird way, your stomach is twisting over itself, and other parts of you are, uh… well. They’re reacting too. So to speak.

You’re still desperately trying to calm yourself in the shower later, the water a merciless cascade of cold in an attempt to cool down. Probably the only drawback about Taehyung living with you is that you haven’t had a chance for some one-on-one time. You might be a virgin but you live (lived) alone and everyone masturbates; your vibrators have been abandoned and untouched for as long as Taehyung has been in your life, and coupled with how touchy he’s been recently, it leaves you feeling wound up and on edge. You could try to sneakily get yourself off in the shower, but with Taehyung’s superior android hearing he’d probably hear something and also the idea of masturbating with someone else in the apartment? When that someone else is Taehyung?

You turn the knob as far as it will go towards cold and then promptly squeal as a wave of freezing water and regret washes over you.

When you’re in bed, Taehyung’s hand strokes over your hair and softly down your neck and shoulder is a sensation that’s becoming increasingly familiar, but your pulse still stutters. He must be able to sense your heart rate increasing (he must sense it every time he touches you) but says nothing about it. As always.

You turn the thoughts over in your head as it rests in his lap, even if you shiver a little at how his nails drag over the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck. Deviant androids might not have the sort of life experience that we do, but we don’t have theirs, either, Yoongi had said. You’ve been teaching Taehyung about the things you know, but there’s one thing that Taehyung knows better than you: touch.

He doesn’t even think about it. While you hesitate and overthink every touch you ever make, wary of overstepping boundaries, Taehyung doesn’t. Not because he’s not considerate, but because—well, because you’re already occupying each other’s space. What’s a little touching on top of all that?

The realisation is almost startling—that you can just… touch someone. Without saying things. Without having to ask. Because you’re already familiar with them and comfortable with them and it’s just another way to communicate that level of connection. Touching is a thing that people do. 

A thing that people and deviant androids do.

A thing that Taehyung does.

(A thing that you want to do, too.)

(Alcohol dulls your memories, fading the edges, the curled corners of a sepia photograph. Has you forgetting the way you’d overstepped every boundary you’d set yourself, the way you’d pressed yourself against Taehyung, starved of touch. Has you forgetting the way he’d let you; the way he’d beckoned you in. Has you forgetting the way that you already have touched Taehyung.)

The hand that Taehyung isn’t using to gently scratch across your scalp is laying on his thigh, directly in your line of vision. You hesitate for just a moment before reaching for it, sliding your fingers between his, an irrational worry that he’ll startle or pull away—but of course he doesn’t. His LED swirls soft aqua as he just starts to rub his thumb gently across your skin, back and forth, back and forth, the softest brushstrokes on this tiny part of the canvas of your body.

After that, it’s just… easier. Not easy, but, easier.

You still hesitate before pressing forwards, but Taehyung never protests; in fact you’d say he’s pleased, even if he doesn’t say anything, just watching you with his dark, dark eyes as you marvel at the realistic sensation of his hair under your hands, how he reacts to the fingers across his scalp the same way you do.

It’s incredibly nice to have someone you can just reach for whenever you want a hug. Someone who folds you into their arms so easily, like you belong there.

It’s nice.

“You seem happier.”

You glance up from where you’ve been laying the table. “Hm? Pardon?”

One thing you’ve learned about Yoongi is that he’s incredibly perceptive. His eyes are sharp lines around the sharper graphite of his gaze, and there’s always a look in them that seems like he can see straight through you and direct into the heart of things—but he’ll only bring this to light if he thinks it needs saying.

“You seem relaxed,” Yoongi continues. He straightens the cutlery in front of him, careful to line the edges neatly with the place mat. Seokjin and Taehyung are cooking dinner, so it’s just you and Yoongi here, in a bubble away from the two androids. “Not that you were ever tense before, but… yeah. Taehyung seems happier too,” he adds, almost absently, but his eyes are fixed on your face.

“Well, of course,” you say. “He has new friends, who wouldn’t be happy?”

Yoongi hums, a quiet little note, but then he lets it rest.

Taehyung is happier. He seems almost nervous during dinner, though, even if he hides it well; his LED doesn’t give him away, but you’re getting good at reading Taehyung’s moods, the layers of personality and feeling he has, the little idiosyncrasies that make him who he is. To anyone else it would seem like he’s just nervous about whether the food tastes good or not—he and Jin had made a veritable feast for no discernable reason, but you don’t mind. Everyone loves a dinner party, especially when the company is so good. 

But, yes. You don’t think it’s about the food so you’re not sure what else it could be. You squeeze Taehyung’s knee briefly under the table in a motion you hope is reassuring. His eyes briefly widen but then his gaze softens when he sees the concern on your face, settling in that deep look of introspection you’re used to now. 

You’re so full by the time dessert comes out, rich and creamy homemade ice cream and piping hot Kkwabaegi, the twisted doughnuts fluffy and sweet with their powdering of sugar and cinnamon; you’d been planning on skipping the final course but you can’t say no once it’s put in front of you. Taehyung doesn’t eat, only drinks occasionally to top up his fluids (you don’t know exactly what that means but you’ve never asked, even if you can… assume things), but he seems content to watch the three of you eat in his place. Once you’re finished you slump back in your chair and feel grateful that you’re not wearing tight trousers that cut into your stomach, because, lord, you’re absolutely stuffed. 

“I have an announcement,” Taehyung says suddenly, apropos of nothing.

Seokjin beams. You sit up, struggling against the heavy anchor of dinner in your belly that makes you want to melt into the floor for a food nap, immediately at attention. “Oh? What is it?”

“I have a second name now,” he says, and Seokjin’s smile spreads impossibly wider, his entire face pleased. “Jin said I could share his.”

“Say hello to Kim Taehyung.” Seokjin gestures dramatically, his arms the flailing blades of a windmill as he circles them in the air with aplomb. “My boy needed a surname and I am, of course, happy to add another handsome face to the family. Taehyung is a ten out of ten.”

Yoongi levels him a look. “I thought you said you were the only ten in the world.”

“That was true when I said it, but I’m actually eleven out of ten,” Seokjin explains. His arms settle around his head, fingers circling the air in an invisible frame around his face. “I surpass your mortal conventions of beauty and thus exist outside of any conceivable scale that one might use to measure handsomeness.”

You barely take the exchange in, too busy looking at Taehyung. There’s the smallest smile on his lips, not the lovely one that shows his teeth, but it still reaches his eyes, the subtlest upturn to his mouth transforming his entire face. Taehyung’s beautiful. He always has been, and always will be, but he never looks more striking than when he’s happy, welcomed into a new family of his own with open arms, Seokjin’s heart so big and so wide. He’s being flippant and light right now, quick and sharp jibes between him and Yoongi that glow bright with love and affection, not lingering on how important and weighty this is: how all encompassing his care is for Taehyung, how close they’ve grown to each other, a friend whom he’s chosen as family.

Happiness suits Taehyung. You want him to always be happy. He deserves it.

It doesn’t seem like it’s the only announcement he has for that night, though. You’ve barely shut the door of your own apartment when you feel Taehyung’s hand slide around your wrist and you pause, glancing up at his face.

“Jin showed me how to take my LED out,” he says. His words are solemn and his tone is heavy but there’s a spark in his eyes, a glowing ember of light. “I want you to watch.”

His fingers are circled around your wrist, loose, so long they touch each other with ease, a soft shackle you don’t want to escape from. “Of course I will,” you assure him. “Are you worried something will go wrong?”

“No.” His thumb slips away from the soft skin of your inner wrist and across your palm, tracing across your fate line, your heart line. “I just want you to be there.”

Warmth spreads through your skin from that touch, leaking through into your bones, settling into every quiet corner inside you. “Okay. What do you need to do to get it out?”

The painting knife looks so small in Taehyung’s big, careful hand, the diamond shaped head blunt at the end, metal glinting under the bathroom’s light as he leans towards the mirror. Your gazes meet in the reflection and he falters. You’re about to ask what’s wrong when he lifts his free hand from where it’s been resting on the countertop, steadying him. Reaching for you.

Once your hand is in his, it’s over surprisingly quickly. Taehyung’s face twists in preparation for the pain, and you squeeze his fingers to ground him, but all it takes is a quick twist of his wrist once the palette knife is against his LED and it practically falls out. There’s a small clink as it drops next to the sink, blue light flickering one final time before it winks out, nothing more than a disc of metal, a tiny coin without value, but weighty with what it represents; invaluable, priceless. The last segment of a chain Taehyung has willingly cast off.

You can see the white skeleton of his android body, bare and naked where the LED had sat. Just like Seokjin’s hand when he’d cut himself, the skin starts to creep back over it, covering that smooth paleness until it’s gone. Taehyung lifts your hand and presses it against the side of his temple, your palm settling against the naked skin where the light had been nestled; Taehyung’s eyes fall shut, his hand pressed against your own as he holds it there.

“Taehyung?” Your voice is gentle, dripping concern. His golden skin is so warm and soft. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” he replies without hesitation. His eyes flutter open, lashes so long and lovely. His hair is blue today, a vibrant electric hue, gaudy on anyone else but perfect on him, tickling the back of your hand; his hand drops from yours and you take the opportunity to run it through that hair, baring his forehead to you, eyes sliding over the new skin. Flawless. No evidence that any LED had ever sat there, burning blue-yellow-red, a tiny drop of colour in the deep ocean of Taehyung’s emotions. “I feel good.”

You don’t even think when your hand shifts out of Taehyung’s hair and down to cup his cheek, something you wouldn’t have dared do before, but now the motion comes as easily as breathing. He takes comfort in touch and you want to soothe him. “Good,” you echo. “I’m glad.”

You both stand there for a few moments, facing each other. The bright light of your bathroom should wash Taehyung out, but of course, it doesn’t. It just lets you see all the perfect details of his face in even sharper relief—the moles that dot his skin, how his eyes are different, a monolid and double lid, little imperfections that just make him more beautiful. 

Logically, you know that someone, somewhere, sat down and put this face together. Taehyung was designed to be attractive, stunningly so, and yet not so perfect that an average human would find it unrealistic, swerving away from that uncanny valley that had plagued earlier androids. But that’s not why he’s beautiful—not to you. It’s everything hidden underneath that perfect facade, layers of plastic and metal and circuitry and biocomponents, deep inside him: his glowing golden heart, flowing over with whatever intangible thing that makes him the person that he is.

In the darkness of your bedroom, all the lights turned off, there’s no longer the gentle blue glow at Taehyung’s temple to shine out, but there doesn’t need to be. Even if you weren’t resting your head against his thigh you’d know he was there. Taehyung’s presence grows larger and larger in your life as the days go by, and you know that you’re still the most important person in his life, even with the introduction of Yoongi and Jin. After all—he didn’t ask them to be there when he took his LED out. 

You reach for his hand, which is already palm up, waiting for you. Your fingers slot together so perfectly, so wonderful, so lovely. You can’t make out details in this dark, but you can picture the smile that’ll be pulling at Taehyung’s lips, the affection flowing in the endless oceans of his eyes.

You’re in so, so deep.

(But who can blame you?)

“I want to go outside.”

It’s not surprising that with the shedding of his LED, Taehyung finally feels bold enough to go outdoors. And yet, here you are. Surprised.

You’ve got a granola bar stuck in your mouth, halfway through a bite, and it nearly drops to the floor as your lips part in shock. Taehyung catches it with ease, android speed on show as he snatches it out of the air. 

Your knee-jerk reaction is to ask him to repeat himself. To make sure you haven’t misheard him, if he’s sure about this, if he really wants to—but Yoongi’s words come back to you yet again. If there’s something he wants to do, he’ll do it. Taehyung isn’t the uninformed android he was when he’d first made his way to your door. He’s grown and learned so much in the time he’s been here and there’s no room for self-doubt behind his words.

So what you say is: “Okay.” 

Taehyung’s fingers brush against yours when he hands your granola bar back, long and warm and soft. You accept it with a smile, lost in the way he smiles back, so lovely and bright—and you have to pull your train of thought back on track, lock those wheels on the rails before you speak again.

“Did you want to go somewhere specific? Or just wherever?”

“Wherever you want to go.” He’s smiling, a little excited but mostly happy at the prospect of spending yet more time with you; as if he hasn’t had enough of it, could never get enough, even when you spend every day together. 

(Your heart feels like a drum, pounding hard and loud in your chest.)

It’s not hard, really, to decide where you want to go. Taehyung’s not asking for some big production; just wants something quiet and soft, something new. The chance to see the outside world properly, safe and secure in the knowledge that you’ll be at his side.

It’s in your nature to be protective—sometimes you feel like you nag, like you’re overbearing, and takes a concerted effort on your part to reel it in. Taehyung doesn’t need you to fuss over him, and besides, he seems incredibly calm about the whole thing. Excited, yes, but not nervous. Just anticipatory.

He looks just like anyone else might. More chic and attractive, sure, effortlessly fashionable in the outfit he’s chosen for the day, but there’s nothing robotic about him, nothing to say he’s not a flesh-and-blood person. Once again, you’re struck by just how human he is. Even if he’d still had the LED flickering at his temple it would have done nothing to detract from the genuine emotion that flits across his face. The way he moves. The way he smiles, when he catches you watching the way he laces his shoes with his delicate, pretty hands—that big lovely smile that makes you feel warm and soft.

(Warmer and softer than it probably should.)

You avert your gaze, pretend to fiddle with one of your bracelets, pulling it so that it spins around your wrist.

“Ready?”

“Nearly,” Taehyung says. When you look back at him, a little confused, he still has that smile on his face, though it’s gentler, fuzzy around the edges, his eyes dark-dark-dark. “Just one more thing.”

This final thing, it turns out, is your hand. 

His fingers lace with yours, weaving a tapestry of closeness and warmth. You’ve held Taehyung’s hands so often, now; it’s nothing new. But for some reason the touch of his skin against yours has your pulse stuttering, catching in your throat before you cough lightly and smile like everything is fine, you’re fine, it’s not like your heart is about to launch itself out of your chest for some mysterious reason.

(Mysterious. Yeah, right.)

He doesn’t let go. Not when you leave the apartment, not when you greet Rory at the door, not when you step onto one of the automated buses that takes you to the centre of the city. You’re surprised at how good Taehyung’s acting is, how all the wide-eyed excitement you’d expected to see splashed across his face is absent, and instead, he just squeezes your hand tight each time he takes in something new; stares out of the window as your surroundings slide by.

He does get excited in the art store though. Pulls at your joined hands each time he sees something he wants to point out to you—which seems to be everything. And you go, of course, following his eager feet. Taehyung’s happiness has always given you happiness in turn, and watching his sheer, unadulterated joy at being able to see things, to touch things outside of the small world he’s been confined to since he escaped the Eden Club—well. There’s nothing better.

There’s nothing better than knowing that Taehyung feels safe with you, wants to keep you close. It’s selfish. It’s selfish, you know it is, but when you watch the way his eyes light up at the sight of a set of gouache paints, how he immediately turns towards you so you can see it too—you realise that you’ve never had something like this before. Sure, you have friends, you have plenty of happiness in your life, but you’ve never had this.

(Whatever this is.)

Someone whose joy is only compounded when it’s shared with you. Someone whose focus is on you and no one else. You see the looks that Taehyung gets, the interested eyes that flit over him—but then he reaches for your hand again, and those gazes slide away, because he hasn’t looked away from you. Not once.

Because you make him feel safe, you remind yourself. Because he knows you best. That’s it. 

It’s what you keep telling yourself, a repeated mantra that’s an endless loop in your head. Every time Taehyung looks at you, smiles at you, reaches for your hand, your touch—even if your heart feels like it could burst, filling up with this feeling, this feeling that’s growing and growing (this feeling you refuse to name)—it’s because he trusts you, knows he can rely on you. It’s nothing more than that. 

You shouldn���t let yourself imagine that it’s more than that.

(Shouldn’t hope for more than that.)

It’s because he trusts you that he follows you without question, matching his pace with yours, side by side as you wander through the city. He insists on carrying all your shopping, held effortlessly in one hand, other hand still tangled with yours. (You see the way he swings the bags a little, back and forth; he’s so cute you’d swear your teeth could rot from it, crystallised sugar rolled on your tongue, sweet.) All your shopping is done, but you have one final stop planned—it’s somewhere you haven’t been for a while, but you love it.

You’re certain Taehyung will, too.

You can feel how his hold on your fingers tightens when the building comes into view. You glance over at him to take in his expression, the subtle widening of his eyes, the lift of his chest as he takes an unneeded breath in, the tiniest curl at the corner of his lips.

(So human.) 

The Christine Andrews Gallery isn’t the biggest art gallery in the city, but it’s your favourite. There’s something that feels more intimate about it, with its size; a little smaller, cosier, more stripped down. The high ceilings overhead are crisscrossed with wires and piping, industrial—but the walls are pure white, all the brighter in contrast to their surroundings, drawing the eye to the paintings on display from the moment you step in.

Taehyung is enraptured.

“The exhibition is called Slow Painting. The idea is that people will take their time to really take everything in, and appreciate it, rather than just rushing by. Especially with how quickly technology is developing, and people are used to discarding things as soon as they're not relevant any more. The idea is that art will always be relevant, regardless of what's happening in the world.”

Your voice is quiet and low as you’re careful not to disturb the serene air that fills the building. You’ve always loved the quiet hush that fills galleries, museums, buildings filled with art and history, long lasting echoes of humanity, on display for people to enjoy. 

“And it also refers to the time it takes to create each piece too,” you add, trailing off into silence as you glance over at Taehyung, who’s looking at you, blinking gentle and slow.

He’s watching you. Even though there’s artwork in sight of the entrance, huge canvases nearby—Taehyung is looking at you, attentive and quiet, listening to each word you have to say.

Your heart squeezes in your chest and you have to make a concerted effort to stop your breath from stuttering. You shove it down, down, down, this thing that’s wrapping itself around your heart and clogging your throat, and give this lovely boy your best smile. (Try to ignore the fact that there’s art here, but instead, he’s looking at you.)

“Tell you what. Instead of listening to me harp on all day, why don’t we just look around?”

When Taehyung had first stepped foot in your door, had first started to experience life as something more than just a sexbot, an android under the control of other people’s wills—he’d taken everything in with huge eyes, eager and enthusiastic, almost clumsy in his excitement. That’s faded over time, become muted as he’s learned how to balance himself, grown comfortable with his surroundings, who he is.

He’s still like a fountain sometimes, bubbling and bright, overflowing, cascading pearlescent waters rushing over carved marble. You’d expected these waters to rise and spill, surrounded by these incredible artworks; so far the only works he’s seen in person are his and your own, everything else small and secondhand on screens as he stares intently at your computer, your tablet. You’d expected his joy to overflow, being able to really see for the first time in his life, prepared yourself for his exuberant happiness.

But he’s not.

He’s quiet. There’s a smile that lingers on his lips, barely hidden at the corners of his mouth, but his shining waters flow soft and slow, contained. You wander through the exhibition exactly the way the curator had meant for you to—slowly, carefully, stopping and pausing and looking and wondering, eyes trailing over each painting, acrylic on paper, oil on canvas, distemper on linen. Each so different, but inviting onlookers to take a moment and just breathe. 

Taehyung’s eyes are dark, contemplative. They’re so deep you feel like you could fall in them and be lost forever. (Wonder if that would be such a bad thing.) He keeps his hand in yours, your hand in his, the two of you matching paces as you loop the gallery, never letting go.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, I like these.”

Four canvases, smaller than some of the others you’ve seen, squirrelled around a corner and hidden away on a back wall. Each painting has a figure in the midst of some simple, quiet task; laying in bed, catching an egg as it threatens to roll off a table, trailing a finger through a puddle of spilled milk, reading a book in the bath. Each of the figures has their face turned away from the viewer, caught up as they are in the simple motions of their life, each silhouetted by a window with a different view—from sea to lake to hill to forest.

You can’t help but look at Taehyung as he looks at these paintings, his brows a little raised, mouth a little slack, the lovely line of his jaw, the angles of his face, forehead to nose to lips to chin. “What do you like about them? The style?”

His answer comes unrushed, unhurried, as he thinks.  “They’re so beautiful and detailed, but it’s more about… the intimacy,” he says. “Each person is just being themselves, without fear of who’s watching. We’re watching them, even if their attention isn’t on us.” A pause, a hush, a breath. “It’s like love, almost.”

Your lips part, even as Taehyung keeps his eyes forwards, staring at the blank pages of the book the man reads as he sits in his bath, row of shampoo bottles on the sill by his head. 

“Like love?” A whisper.

“To keep your eyes and focus on someone who isn’t looking at you,” Taehyung replies, unabashed, like it’s just a statement of fact. “Loyalty. Dedication. Love.”

Words fail you. Silence is the only answer you can offer to Taehyung’s thoughts, the air in your lungs trapped there as you unwittingly hold your breath, lips parted around a sentence that never comes. Taehyung’s eyes slide away from this row of paintings and to you, how you’re staring at him, literally speechless.

His own lips part as he makes to say something else, to ask what’s wrong—when there’s a flicker of movement nearby, the modulated steps of someone who’s used to walking through a gallery, careful to keep the calm air unmuddied by their passing.

“Oh, Y/n!”

Namjoon’s voice cuts through the silent moment and splinters the delicate air that had started to crystallise around you. He looks happy to see you, dimples on full display as his lips lift and he smiles wide.

“Namjoon!” You don’t think you’ve ever been so glad to see his familiar face in your life—anything to distract you, any excuse to shake off the feeling that Taehyung’s words have left behind, trailing over your skin, blooming in your brain. His timing is perfect, even if he doesn’t realise it.  “Hey! It’s been a while.”

“I was going to say, I haven’t seen you around lately! I thought you’d like this exhibition, I was wondering if you’d come. Oh, sorry, I’m being rude, aren’t I? Hi, I’m Namjoon,” he says, holding a hand out for Taehyung to shake. “I’m one of the gallery managers.”

Taehyung’s exchanged a few words with others today, polite thank yous to the people who’ve served you in the shops you’ve been into, given shy smiles to passersby who’ve made eye contact with him. (So, so sweet, always.) 

But Namjoon is the first person to properly introduce themselves to him in the real world, as you’ve thought of it, someone who doesn’t know that the man at your side is an android.

You panic. Just for a second.

Taehyung doesn’t.

“Hello.” He has to take his hand out of yours, the other weighed down by shopping, although he seems reluctant to let go of you. He gives Namjoon his widest smile as he shakes the proffered hand with firm, friendly politeness. “I’m Taehyung. It’s lovely to meet you, Namjoon.”

And then he immediately slips his hand back into yours.

Namjoon is utterly charmed.

(Of course he is. How could he not be?)

The discussion they both have is a quiet one. You’re happy to stay uninvolved, watching and listening as they talk, still at Taehyung’s side. That brief moment of panic, that blazing forest fire of fear for him—it’s been washed away, soothed by the way the conversation between man and android unfolds so naturally, Namjoon none the wiser about Taehyung’s robotic origins.

There’s no way anyone would realise. He’s so human, in the way he moves and acts and thinks, the way he laughs at something Namjoon says. You’re happy that Taehyung can be here with you, in this gallery, speaking to someone new, as if this is normal, natural, nothing unusual.

You can’t think of anything you want for Taehyung more.

You realise, too, that in this moment, you feel utterly content. Not just for Taehyung, but—happy that you’re there to share this moment with him. You think about how you’ve always wanted this; someone to share things with, someone whose happiness makes you happy too.

When Taehyung laughs, your own lips lift in response, heart lifting at the sound of his joy, at how his fingers tighten around yours. Remembering that you’re there, even if he’s not looking at you right now, eyes on Namjoon.

He’s looking at Namjoon. You’re looking at him. 

(To keep your eyes and focus on someone who isn’t looking at you.)

(Loyalty. Dedication.)

(A breath.)

(Love.)

You carefully pull your hand out of Taehyung’s. Your fingers feel cold as they slip away from his, warmed all day, pressed against Taehyung’s soft skin. His eyes flit away from Namjoon, those deep eyes settling on you; dark wood and ground coffee, so warm.

“Y/n?”

“I’m just going to pop to the toilet,” you say, turning away from the tinge of confusion that colours Taehyung’s voice. “I won’t be long.”

The toilet lid is cold. You can feel how it seeps through the layers of your clothing to your thighs, and at any other time you might wrinkle your nose at the sensation, at how uncomfortable it is. But right now, you have other things on your mind.

You bury your face in your hands. It’s foolish, but you’d swear you could feel Taehyung still in your palms, touch imprinted, emblazoned on your skin. It’s like a palpable thing, almost, this ethereal thing that lingers even when Taehyung isn’t there.

Wishful thinking. Selfish thinking. Selfish, to like it, to want to keep that feeling close; let it spread from your palm, to the delicate skin of your wrist, tracing its way up your arm, up-up-up, drawing invisible lines over every part of you, inside every part of you. Selfish, to like Taehyung’s touch as much as you do. To want more of it. 

(More of him.)

You aren’t anything more to Taehyung than a friend. A guardian. Someone who’s there to support him and keep him safe. You’re blessed to have his trust, to be able to be that person he can turn to—it’s greedy, to want. To want to be more.

(You can’t foist your loneliness on Taehyung. You can’t do that to him. You won’t. You won’t.)

When you return, a spark lights in Taehyung’s eyes. The same spark that bursts every time he sees you after time apart, no matter how long or short that may be. He reaches for your hand, and of course, you go—but your fingers are limp, weak.

(You know that if Taehyung’s LED had still been nestled in his skin, it would have flickered yellow.)

You keep that point of connection as you bid Namjoon goodbye, finish meandering through the exhibition, make your way back home—but you let Taehyung bear the weight. Reactive, not proactive. You don’t squeeze his fingers just because you want to, because there’s something sliding by the bus’s window you think he might like to see; you’re not here to make him do things, to shove things down his throat. You should just be here to support him in the things he wants to do. That’s your role. 

And that’s where you’re going to stay.

Your thoughts are a tumble, messy and unorganised, a ball of yarn that’s all knots and tangles. Taehyung must be able to see it on your face, read it in your body, his android eyes scanning over you and scrutinising every hint you’re giving away without even realising. But you just smile, wave away his questions, and act like everything’s okay. Normal. Routine.

It’s a little harder, though, to act like everything’s okay when it’s time to sleep.

Because, of course, there Taehyung is. Like he has been, from the day he’d arrived—sat in your bed, nestled against a pile of cushions, expression open and warm and fond as he looks at you. Waiting for you to climb in, to rest your head in his lap; waiting for you to fall asleep with his gentle fingers dragging across your scalp, melting under his lovely hands.

You waver. Conflicted. It’s okay, isn’t it, if Taehyung’s reaching for you first?

His eyes meet yours. The second you see his lips curve up, see that pretty, quiet smile appearing on his lovely mouth, you fold.

It’s fine. You’ll allow yourself this.

(In your dreams, you stand in a deserted gallery, staring at the single piece of work on the stark white walls, all the lights focused in, in, in. Taehyung’s framed on this canvas, a painted window into his world. Not once does he look at you, turned away as he is; you see nothing more than the back of his head, the curve of his cheek, the vaguest hint of his nose as he turns, always staring at something else. 

And still, you stand, and you watch. Waiting. Keeping your eyes on him, always.)

“You’re staying late again.”

“Yeah. I really want to get this done,” you say, gesturing vaguely at your monitors with your stylus; tweaking, editing, shifting around these final few magazine pages before you’re satisfied. “Nearly there.”

When you hear the way Hoseok says your name, you glance up. 

As someone who spends most of his time bouncing around like a literal ray of sunshine, when Hoseok’s expression is one that isn’t smiling, it carries all the more weight behind it. Right now his face is uncharacteristically serious, the perpetual smile on his mouth gone, the line of his brows severe.

It’s unnerving.

“You haven’t stayed late for ages,” Hoseok points out. “Until this week, and suddenly you’re late every night. Has something happened?”

“No,” you lie.

Yes, you think.

You’re trying to create some distance, for Taehyung’s sake. So that you’re not tempted to pull him ever closer, latch onto him like you have been, smothering him. He needs space to grow. Space from you has helped already—the time he spends with Yoongi and Seokjin is evidence enough of that, after all. He doesn’t need you to be there constantly.

Hoseok’s eyes bore into yours as he stares, so you avert your gaze, pretending to shift your focus to one of the captions the editor has left on the page you’re working on. You hadn’t realised that he’d noticed. You should have expected it, though. Hoseok is a close work friend and he’s incredibly perceptive, especially when he cares about people.

“Alright,” he says, eventually. “Make sure you don’t stay too late, though. Get some sleep.”

You give him a thumbs up without looking away from the screen, dragging something idly with your stylus until Hoseok leaves, the office empty except you, now. And the cleaning androids, when they appear for the night like clockwork. As they always do.

You can’t help but stop to watch them, how blank faced they are, for all that they look human. Their LEDs are almost motionless, the placid blue matching the blank expressions on their faces, unthinking automatons.

(You’d seen androids in the city when you’d been out with Taehyung, of course. Completing menial tasks: city androids picking litter and raking leaves, household androids following their owners around and carrying their shopping. You’d realised that Taehyung wouldn’t have seen a non-deviated android since he’d escaped the club, lapsed into silence; you’d pulled him to a stop, lips pursed in a frown as you’d tried to read his expression. 

“Taehyung,” you’d asked. “Are you alright?”

There’d been a quiet pause, and in that moment you’d felt all your worries rising, caught in your throat—but then he’d nodded quietly, looking at you with soft eyes.

“I’m alright,” he’d answered. “I was just thinking about how lucky I am.”

I’m the lucky one, you’d thought. Lucky to know him, as sweet-hearted and wonderful as he is. You’d squeezed his hand, and he’d smiled gently at you, and that had been that.)

It hurts, honestly. To see the expression on his face each time you come home late, each time you avoid answering his questions. There’s uncertainty laid across each of your interactions, rough bristles of a brush varnishing discomfort across the once smooth surface of your relationship; but you can’t keep taking advantage of this soft-hearted boy, of the circumstances that he’s in.

You pretend that things are fine. Taehyung is clearly confused, unsure, trying so hard to find out what’s wrong, even when you keep gently turning his concerns aside. 

You haven’t been home enough to spend time with Yoongi or Seokjin, either. You’d seen Jin in the hall just once, made eye contact just as he’d been appearing from the other apartment and you’d been stepping into yours; you’d fumbled a little, fingerprints smudging across the keypad as your door had swung open. You’d expected to see judgement on Jin’s face, maybe, something heavy and weighty, his gaze flitting over you as he read you in the way he did so often.

What you hadn’t expected was for him to smile. It’d been hard to translate his full expression but what little you could read was knowing, like he’s aware of something he shouldn’t be, kept hidden just underneath his tongue. Ready to release it into the world with a single breath.

(Needless to say, you’d shut the door pretty quick.)

He and Yoongi have gone away for the weekend. It's a small blessing, saving you from having to see Jin’s almost-smug expression again. But it means that Taehyung has nowhere else to go right now, no reason to leave the apartment. So it’ll be you and him, him and you, with no buffers, nothing. It’s been unseasonably stormy for the past few days as well, rain slammed into your windows by the harsh winds, the world outside a haze of smeared grey—so it’s not like you can go out, either. 

Not that you would want to. 

You hadn’t realised exactly how ingrained Taehyung was in your life until you’d started to pull away. It’s not just that you live together and share the same physical space—it’s just that your days have become so full of Taehyung-Taehyung-Taehyung, and you hadn’t even noticed. He’d crept up on you, snuck his way into your heart, so easily, so effortlessly.

You remind yourself that that’s why you’re doing this. To remind yourself of life without Taehyung in it, because he’s not yours to have or to keep. He never has been. You don’t want him to be: he’s his own person. This… this desire for him; even as you try to ignore it, it keeps growing and growing: wet plaster laid down, your feelings for him painted buon fresco, added to day by day, giornata. You need it to stop. 

But it’s hard. It’s hard, when Taehyung looks like comfort, your comfort, when you want to let yourself be folded into his arms. It’s hard when the fact is that it’s not that you have to spend time with him. It’s that you want to spend time with him.  

It's hard.

(And you miss him, even when he's right there.)

You find respite in art, in painting, too intent on the motions of your work to allow yourself room to think about other things. Fall into the rhythm of it all, a quiet hush stealing over your mind, a place of both focus and calm, world settling into place around you. There’s a piece you’ve been working on for a while, a hand rising from dark water, fingertips just broaching its surface, the most tentative of touches; you layer more oil paint on the panel, dragging the bristles of the brush across the colour you’ve already laid down, brows furrowed as you do.

Taehyung normally paints with you, but not today. He knows you want space—even if he doesn’t know why—so he gives it to you. So considerate and sweet, always. Even when you’re shutting him out. You’ve been here all day: morning, afternoon, and now evening, and he’s only been in a few times, to leave you food, drinks, looking after you in a way you don’t deserve.

You’ve just lifted the brush from the canvas when an especially loud peal of thunder rolls through the air outside. The rumble starts low, rising into a rattling growl that feels like it’s shaking the very earth. It almost drowns out the sound of Taehyung’s quiet knocking, a curl of his knuckles against the open door, but you catch sight of him anyway, glancing over your shoulder.

“Hey,” he says. “I thought you might like a drink.”

He’s barefoot, like he usually is, teal hoodie and grey sweatpants baggy, looking every inch the boyfriend you’ve always wanted and never had. His hands are cupped around a mug, steam coiling from the hot tea inside, and something in your heart twinges at his kindness and consideration even as you smile at him.

“That sounds lovely, Tae,” you say, and he takes this as an invitation to step inside, although you notice his steps are far more hesitant than they might have been before. Like he’s treading on eggshells around you. 

It’s awkward. Stilted. Taehyung’s eyes are heavy on your face as you accept the tea from his hands, trying your best to avoid brushing fingers; you turn away, pretending to turn your attention back to the drying paint on the wood panel that rests on your easel, anything to break eye contact.

And then he speaks.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Your lips are poised to drink, pursed at the rim of the mug when you freeze, eyes darting back to him.

“You’re avoiding me,” he repeats. His voice is quieter, tinged with all the confusion you’ve seen flit across his face since this whole thing started.

You slowly pull the mug away from your face, steam touching your skin like warm, wet fingers. “I’m not,” you say, even though the lie tastes bitter on your tongue. “We live together, Taehyung, it’s pretty hard to avoid you.”

When you laugh lightly, trying to lift the atmosphere, Taehyung doesn’t respond. If anything the air becomes heavier, his face an unmoving mask as his eyes churn with emotion. His LED might not be nestled in his temple any more, but you don't need to see it spinning in a distressed circle of yellow to know that Taehyung is confused.

“Why are you lying to me?”

Your eyes widen. He’s never been so direct before. (He hasn’t needed to be though, has he? Because you've never lied to him before, have you?)

“I just… I just want to know what happened. What I did wrong. I want to fix it,” Taehyung continues, and he sounds so small, so vulnerable. “Please?”

Your heart feels like it’s risen from your chest, up to your throat, making it hard to breathe. The only time he’s ever sounded like this was when—

When he’d first turned up on your doorstep, wet and scared and lonely. Not knowing if there was anyone he could trust, uncertain where he stood. 

“You didn’t do anything, Taehyung.” You try to put every ounce of feeling into your words and let him know that this is the truth. It’s not him. It’s not. “You didn’t do anything, please don’t think you did.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?” His voice rises, shaking, a bird trying to take flight on a broken wing. “If I didn’t do anything then why are you being like this? I don’t understand.”

“I’m just… trying to encourage you to be independent?”

The words sound weak to your own ears, so you can’t blame Taehyung for when his expression flickers and he looks almost incredulous.

“Independent?”

“You know,” you explain lamely. “Like… giving you space to grow. You don’t need me around all the time.”

“I don’t—” He cuts himself off. “Y/n. I want you to be there.”

“Because it’s what you’ve gotten used to.” You glance down at the drink in your hands, away from his sincere, dark eyes. “You’re just saying that because of circumstances, Taehyung.”

“I’m not!” You’ve never heard Taehyung so loud before, almost angry, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “How can you think that?”

“Because it’s true!” Your own voice rises despite yourself, matching his, some frayed thing inside you finally snapping. “Why else would you want me around? No one else does! Why would you?”

You rarely raise your voice. You hate being loud, or rude, hate arguments, but there’s something boiling in your blood. Years of quiet self-deprecation, constant reminders of how you’re not really wanted; last choice, always. Single, always. Untouched, unwanted. Taehyung—beautiful, kind, sweet, lovely Taehyung—wouldn’t be here right now if he had anywhere else to go. Too beautiful and kind and sweet and lovely for you, as disappointing, undesirable as you are.

Because that’s the truth. Even if you’re surrounded by friends, warm and bright, at the end of the day, they go home with each other, to their lovers, their families, and you go home alone. At least you had, until Taehyung—and he’s only here because you were the only safe place he could run to. Not because he chose you. 

(No one chooses you. Why would they?)

Taehyung’s eyes are so big and round as he stares and stares and stares. His lips are a little parted around a soundless noise of surprise, disbelief, before he opens his mouth to respond properly.

And then all the lights go out.

Lightning flashes, throwing the room into sharp focus for just a second before the night is split apart with the loudest clap of thunder yet. Like the ground has split open, louder than anything you’ve ever heard in your life; you’d swear your teeth rattle in your skull, that’s how overwhelming and close it is.

You suck in a breath as you jump, hands jolting, and the mug falls from your grasp. You can’t see in the darkness but you can hear how it shatters, sending hot tea splattering over the dust sheets on the floor, away from you, but towards—

“Taehyung,” you gasp, reaching out blindly. “Are you okay? Did it hit you?”

You hear him move closer, feel his fingers, reaching for yours confidently in this dark space. His grip is solid and warm and he squeezes, reassuring.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs. “I’m okay. You can’t see?”

“It’s too dark.” With the heavy clouds outside and the blanket of thick rain, there’s little light from the moon to shine into your studio, leaving you in a world of thick black and blue. “Can you see?”

“Android senses,” he answers. "I can see enough."

You wait for the lights to come back on so you can clean up the mess that’s scattered on the floor. And you wait. One beat. Another beat.

“I don’t think the power is coming back on any time soon,” you say. “Um.”

“Hold on.” You can’t make out Taehyung’s features in this all consuming darkness, but you can picture the expression on his face, the concern that bleeds through into his words. “If you move you’ll step on something and hurt your feet. Hold on,” he says again, and then lets go of your hands.

“Taehyung? What are you—”

You let out an embarrassing squeal as you feel the world tilt, but Taehyung’s grip on you is confident and sure as he lifts you, one hand under your knees and the other scooped around your back. Like you’re a swooning, blushing bride.

“Taehyung!”

“It’s the safest thing to do.” He sounds determined, no room for argument, so you decide to shut up.

Even though you know how strong he is, with all his android strength, you can’t help but reach out in the darkness, looping your arms around his neck to try and help lighten his burden. You feel your cheeks burn and you hope that the darkness saves you from your obvious embarrassment. 

The power still hasn’t come on by the time he deposits you in the kitchen, easing you to the floor with a level of care and delicacy that leaves something in you aching. When you check your phone—mostly charged, thank God—it seems like powercuts have hit this entire part of the city, and there’s no ETA on when things will be back up and running.

Which leads you to this. Sitting on the cold tiles of your kitchen floor, a few large candles flickering light across you as you dig into a carton of melting ice cream that you’ve saved from your freezer, licking the dripping flavours of sea salt and caramel from the spoon. 

Taehyung is sitting next to you in this flame-lit bubble you share, quiet even as the world outside is full of the sound of endless rain and lightning. He’d helped you navigate the darkness, settled you safely before going to find some candles; looking after you while you can’t see and he can.

You’re intent on the ice cream, leaning against the kitchen cabinets and carton settled between your knees as you use it as an excuse not to talk.

Taehyung, though, is intent on you.

“Y/n?”

His voice breaks the near silence, soft around your name. You pause, half-way through scooping another spoonful of ice cream to your mouth. There’s something in his tone that you’ve never heard before, from anyone, something you can’t put a finger on.

“Yes?”

“You said that no one wants you around,” he says. Your fingers tighten around the handle of your spoon and keep your gaze cast down, at the thick drip of cream from your spoon that threatens to spill. “Why would you say that?”

You don’t respond. Not right away. 

Then you take in a deep breath, letting the spoon fall back into the tub.

“Because they don’t,” you say plainly. “I mean… Taehyung. I was only at the Eden Club because my friends know that I’m perpetually single. I’m glad I got to meet you, so glad, but… I live alone because no one wants to be here with me.”

You’ve never said anything like this out loud before; kept your lingering loneliness close to your chest. Really, in most parts of your life, you’re content, but sometimes you can’t help but be pulled under by the heavy feeling of how unlovable you are. Even if you try to remind yourself that you’re worth being loved too. 

(After all, if you were—then why are you still here alone?)

“I do. I want to be here with you.”

Taehyung’s words are soft and gentle and low, but for all their tenderness, you can’t help but sigh.

“Like I said, Taehyung, it’s just circumstances.” A murmur. “You’re only here because you have to be—”

“I’m not.” He interrupts you; something he’s never done before. It shuts you right up, even if his words aren’t sharp. Emphatic, yes, but soft around the edges. “I chose to come here because of you. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe. Even when I was at the club, and I didn’t know anything except what I was told to do—I knew I could trust you. I only started to remember things after we met, and I was there for weeks before I left, finally remembering the things I had to go through. Again and again and again. Over and over and over. No one was ever kind to me, not once. Not once.” 

“Taehyung,” you breathe, sadness filling your chest for him, but he doesn’t stop. 

“People would come in, take what they wanted from me, and then they would leave. They didn’t care about me. They would just tell me what to do and I’d have to listen, be the perfect android they wanted, that they’d paid for. Then I ran. But even as I was running here, I was scared. I thought that maybe it was a fluke. Maybe I was wrong. I was scared that maybe you weren’t actually kind, maybe it was a lie, maybe you were just like all the other humans—but anything was better than the club. So I took my chances. And you let me in. You let me in and you were so kind. You give and give and give and you’ve never asked for anything back.”

“I just did what anyone else would,” you mutter, glancing away, shy.

“But you didn’t. You were the only person who ever looked at me as something more than just an android. Don’t you see that? Even after giving me so much, you haven’t asked for anything. I try my best to look after you, but…” Taehyung takes in a deep, deep breath, sucking in air that his android body doesn’t need. You’ve noticed that it’s something he does to ground himself; such a human thing to do. “I want to give you so much more than you’ll ever accept.”

You look at him, something sparking deep and low in your stomach. “You don’t have to give me anything, Taehyung.”

Light dances across the perfect angles of his face, candle flame painting him from second to second, shadow and radiance. He looks familiar and unfamiliar all at once. You’ve known him for long enough, stared at him for long enough that you could paint his face in your sleep; the strength of his brows, the depth of his eyes, the slant of his nose, the flush of his lips; the tiny moles that are scattered across his skin, the perfect line of his jaw, his chin.

But in the paltry candlelight, he looks like an altogether different person, almost. There’s something to the set of his face that you’ve never seen, hard to track in the ever changing light—not the soft domesticity you’ve grown familiar with from Taehyung, and not the sheer, overwhelming sensuality of V. Something that’s both, something that’s not, something that’s more. 

“I want to give you everything. I want to. Y/n, I want. Androids don’t want, but I want. I want, I want, I want.” A repeated mantra; a prayer. “I want because of you. I want to be here with you. I want to spend time with you. I want to learn with you. I want to know everything you like and everything you don’t like. I want to know what makes you sad and what makes you happy. I want to be one of the things that makes you happy, like you make me happy. I want to look after you. I want you to let me love you. I want you. I want you. I love you.”

Your mouth is open, caught in a breath, stuttered in your throat. Taehyung doesn’t shy away from your wide-eyed, speechless gaze, staring back at you with an intensity you thought you’d never see directed at you; tenderness and affection and want.

“You want to—you… you love me?” Your voice is weak with disbelief. Taehyung loves you? 

“I thought you knew, and that’s why you pulled away,” he says. “Because I’m an android, I’m not good enough—”

“What? No, Taehyung, never, no. I would never think that—” 

“But you were pushing me away.” For the first time since this conversation started, he sounds unsure, the tiniest tremble at the corner of each word. “You were pushing me away and I don’t know why. Why?” He reaches for your hand, sliding his fingers between yours. “Aren’t you happy with me?” 

You wonder how fast your heart is beating. Know that Taehyung will be able to read it, palm to palm, his skin against yours, an endless amount of information running from that point of contact and up his arm; following lines of circuitry and neural connectors, up-up-up, pulled into whatever part of his system counts as his brain, dissected so much faster than the human brain could comprehend. But even with all this information, all this incredible processing speed and power—he’s just as confused and uncertain as any other person might be.

“I am. I am happy. So happy,” you whisper. Then you take a deep breath, grounding yourself just like Taehyung had. “I’ve never been so happy before, Taehyung. You make me happy.”

The android smiles. Quiet but undeniably happy as well, his eyes so dark, so soft. “You make me happy, too,” he says, and then he lets out a small laugh, a sweet little thing, like the scrape of a spoon around a mixing bowl. “I can only feel happiness because of you. You’re everything.” 

But then the laughter fades, and he’s looking back at you with solemnity, lingering confusion. “If I make you happy, then why were you pulling away from me?”

You stare at where your hands are joined, Taehyung’s hand under yours, lifting yours up and away from the cold tiles of the floor. “Because,” you start. Stumble. Take in another breath, heart squeezing in your chest. “Because I was scared my feelings were too much.”

A beat of silence. Then you feel Taehyung’s other hand as he lays it softly against your cheek to turn you towards him. It’s terrifying, how close your face is to his. Completely vulnerable, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He doesn’t say anything, just watches, and you find yourself crumbling in the face of his warm gaze.

“Because I thought I was taking advantage of you,” you say. Slow and faltering. “Because I thought it was—I thought I was being selfish. I realised that I loved you, and I can’t—I couldn’t imagine that… I couldn’t imagine that you wanted me back.”

Taehyung’s eyes flutter shut as your words wash over him. The hand on your cheek coaxes you closer, and of course, you go; let your forehead get pressed against his, a tender motion, faces so close he can feel the warmth of your breath. 

“Y/n.” Your name sounds safe in his mouth, like he’s keeping it close, handling it delicately, carefully, eyes opening so he can look at you with an adoration you’ve never seen. Not for you. Not until now. “Can I kiss you? I want to. Please?”

You feel heat rising on your cheeks, a flush that threatens to spill over, but nod. You don’t think you have the strength to speak right now. Taehyung smiles again, lighting up this space you’ve scraped out for each other, him and you; you and him.

When he leans in, there’s the briefest moment of panic that flickers through you. You haven’t kissed anyone in such a long time. You’re worried you’ll mess up, be clumsy, bad, and Taehyung will be disappointed. 

But then his lips touch yours—and all that worry washes away. It’s a short-lived thing, the briefest brush of his mouth, barely a kiss at all. And then again, he leans in, tracing the shape of your mouth with his: a kiss to one corner of your mouth, and then the other, your cupid’s bow, the swell of your bottom lip. You’ve never felt like this—vulnerable but safe, all at once, Taehyung taking his time as you fall, fall, fall, his hand still cradling your face, his touch solid and grounding even as his kisses are featherlight.

“Taehyung,” you whisper, lips brushing his as you shape them around his name. You still have one hand in his and tighten your grip, squeezing. “More.”

You can feel his smile when he leans in one more time, guiding you with the broad palm against your cheek. So soft, so gentle. Adoring and reverent. His lips are so full, slotting against yours so perfectly when he finally, finally kisses you properly. 

You lose yourself in the sensation. It’s so easy to lose yourself in Taehyung, as lovely as he is, his mouth lovelier still. One kiss turns to two, to three, four, deep and slow; by the time you break apart, there’s a little sheen on his lips, sparking out in the candlelight, a layer of gold leaf that shines. 

“Can you say it again?” He asks. “Say that you love me?”

You can’t help but want to hide your face, bashful and shy. You’ve never said those words out loud, with the weight of feeling Taehyung is asking from you—but you look at his lovely, lovely face, lips flush with evidence of your kisses, and your heart swells in your chest.

“I love you.” The words come so easily. “I love you.”

And when he smiles, it’s so bright and radiant you feel you might be blinded by it. It doesn’t leave his face even as he stands, guides you up with him; careful to avoid the tub of ice cream that’s been forgotten on the floor, more melted cream than ice now.

This time, when he lifts you, he doesn’t break eye contact—keeps his gaze on yours as he pulls you close, and then picks you up.

It’s effortless, the way he carries you. Big hands that cup the back of your thighs, your legs around his waist and arms around his neck, lifted like you weigh nothing. You break eye contact, overwhelmed, burying your face in the crook of his neck, feeling the way he shakes as he laughs, soft and affectionate.

“Shut up,” you mumble, embarrassed, but then go quiet as you feel the press of his lips into your hair.

Taehyung’s the only person who’s ever carried you, but it’s less about that and more about how safe you feel in his arms. Wrapped around him, pressed close, warm-warm-warm. You feel like a burden has been lifted from you, unshackled from your neck now that you’ve confessed the budding feelings that had burst into full bloom even when you’d tried to shove them back into the dirt—because Taehyung feels the same way. He feels the same way.

The rest of the apartment is still bathed in darkness. But Taehyung navigates it easily, keeps you held close even in the dark, and you trust him. Even when you feel his grip loosening as he eases you down, you trust him, letting yourself fall back onto the softness of your bed. (Even if you want to keep hold of him.)

You wait and watch as the room starts to fill with light, Taehyung returning with the lit candles from the kitchen before setting out more, laying out all the scented candle jars you’ve had stashed away. The familiar surroundings of your bedroom are bathed in warm, dancing light, Taehyung’s shadow a multi-faceted silhouette that shifts each time a flame sputters.

He looks up once the final candle is aflame, meeting your eyes—and you don’t feel the need to drop that gaze, to glance away, pretend you weren’t watching him, entranced. Because he welcomes it. He grins at you, toothy and bright, and your own lips split into a smile.

“I guess it’s a good thing I like candles, huh?”

“They’ll help keep the room warm,” Taehyung says, and, that’s right, you hadn’t thought of that. 

No power: no heating. The longer the power is out, the colder it’ll get, the chill of the hard rain filling the world outside.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, setting the lighter aside. “I’ll keep you warm.”

There’s nothing behind those words. No implication at all. And yet you find yourself flushing, looking away from him, flustered.

There’s a beat of silence as you keep your eyes turned away from Taehyung, looking at the shadows on shadows on shadows that ripple across the walls—and then you hear how his bare feet shift across the floor until he’s at your bedside.

But he doesn’t stop there. You feel how the mattress dips, eyes flying back to the android, growing huge and round when you watch how he settles himself above you; hovering, so so so close, aware of how he’s not touching you, and yet. You swear you can feel the weight of him, a phantom touch on your body and across your skin.

Your mouth goes dry when he murmurs your name. The word drips from his mouth like honey, thick and sweet, and a shiver skates up your body.

“Do you want me to keep you warm?” He asks, and, oh. Oh. This time the words are heavy with meaning, shimmering gossamer curtains barely drawn to conceal it, smouldering intent in his eyes. “Let me look after you?”

You’re reminded, all at once, that while you’ve taught Taehyung a lot of things since you’d met, there’s one thing he knows that you don’t. Intimacy, and pleasure, and lust. Sex. Something you’ve been deprived of, even if you’ve quietly craved it, waiting for the right time, the right place, the right person.

Taehyung takes your silence as hesitation, his face softening.

“Only if you want,” he says. “Only if you want to say yes.”

“I want to,” you say, surprised by how fast the admittance leaves your lips. You do want it—want Taehyung, in every way he’s willing to share, want it desperately. “I just—” Embarrassment floods over you, and you look away again. “I’ve just never… done anything. Before. I’ve never, um.”

“It’s okay to be a virgin, Y/n,” Taehyung says, and you can’t help but squirm a little at how plainly he says it while you try to avoid saying it out loud, even if you know it’s stupid. There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin, you know that, but for some reason you feel almost ashamed at admitting it. Insecure. Even if the android clearly doesn’t care, not one bit. “We can go as slow as you want, or stop altogether. I’ll take care of you no matter what.”

You’re nervous. But louder than your nerves is a growing voice that’s chanting yesyesyes, and another voice that reminds you: you’re safe with Taehyung. No matter how nervous or uncertain you are, or how little you know, you do know that you’re safe with him.

“Okay.” You take in a breath. “Take care of me, Taehyung.”

And he does. With all the slowness of a meandering river and a smile curling his lips, he starts to kiss you again; there’s nothing rushed about his motions, as tender as before. Like the two of you could kiss forever and he would be content with that. 

And then you feel how he shifts, the softness of the kisses warming into something heavier, more purposeful. The glowing embers of a coal that are being coaxed to full flame, his tongue pressing past your willing lips, swallowing down the shaking gasp that shudders out of your mouth.

He trails his lips away from yours, across your jaw and up; you shiver as he noses at the soft skin behind your ear before kissing it, tremble at each intent touch of his lips against you, and it’s only when he reaches the hollow of your neck that you realise that you’re making noises, little inhalations of air each time he mouths at your sensitive skin, lets his tongue trail across it.

You’ve been holding onto him, hands cupped around the back of his neck, and when he sucks at your pulse point you tighten your fingers and let out a gasp. You can feel the answering hum that Taehyung gives, his mouth pressed so close that you can feel the vibrations, and it’s so much already. No one’s ever kissed you like this. No one's ever eased their weight down on you so carefully, pressing you down to the mattress with a delicate, delicious pressure that leaves your entire body growing hotter and hotter.

“Oh, oh, Taehyung.” You’d be embarrassed by how breathless you sound if you weren’t so distracted by something else—one of Taehyung’s hands, splaying over your stomach, heavy through your shirt.

“Can I take this off?” He’s murmuring into the crook of your neck, question warm against your skin. His long fingers rest, waiting at the hem of your shirt, patient even as he presses another kiss to the junction where your neck meets your shoulder: this time, edged with teeth, making you shudder as he soothes it with his tongue.

Your voice fails you, but when you nod, Taehyung responds immediately. You let him lead, follow the steps of this dance he knows so well—shiver at the feeling of his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt once you've sat up, your stomach jumping as they brush against you, before he lifts it up and over your waiting arms.

Even though you’re wearing a bra, the second you see Taehyung’s eyes move down, you cover yourself reflexively. Even with all the flickering candles there’s enough light that there’s no darkness to hide in, shoulders hunching inwards as you try to hide yourself away. 

You’ve never let anyone see you like this like this before.

Taehyung’s touch is patient as he slides his hands over yours, looking at you with an infinite amount of sincerity and affection. He doesn’t try to pull your hands away from your chest, just waits. Patient. And like you always do, you find yourself melting under the gentle touch of his gaze. You let your hands fall, even if you’re acutely aware of the plain bra you’re wearing, something cosy for a day at home.

Taehyung ignores it. He shifts in and you steel yourself, expecting him to reach around your back for the clasp—but instead he starts to kiss you again. Deeper, hotter, his tongue sweeping over your lower lip before he nips at it. You let yourself get lost in the sensation, angling your head to chase his mouth, and it’s only when you feel the straps start to slip off your shoulders that the android has unclasped your bra without you noticing.

When he pulls away, he trails his hands across your shoulders and hooks his fingers into the trailing straps of your bra, and waits. You bite your lip and steel yourself, feeling foolish even as you hesitate—because Taehyung is looking at you with simmering awe and smouldering want. Like you're perfect. The most beautiful woman alive. 

So you don’t stop him. You let him pull his touch down your arms, slow, slow, slow—and then, all at once, you’re completely naked from the waist up.

That simmering awe and smouldering want is still there. Warmth flushes over your skin under the heat of his gaze, the way it sweeps over you. You never knew that someone could look reverent and hungry at the same time. Never knew that someone would look at you like that.

It bolsters your shaking confidence, helps you lift your chin as you lean back on your hands, and you’re entranced at how Taehyung follows. Caught in your gravity. He raises his arms, bra cast aside and long forgotten as he cups the weight of your breasts in his hands.

Oh, oh, oh. When he pinches one of your nipples between thumb and forefinger—already hard, sensitive—it’s already so much, but then he bows his head and—

You hear a noise, and you realise that it’s coming from your own lips. A shaking gasp that trembles in the air as Taehyung sucks and licks, dragging his tongue against your nipple; one, and the other. You fall once more to your back and he goes with you, relentless even as he stays slow and you arch your back helplessly towards him.

“More?” He murmurs against your skin.

“Oh, God,” you whimper, and he lifts his mouth away from your nipple to press a kiss to the skin above your racing heart. “Please, more.”

It feels so good. Taehyung makes you feel so good, as talented and gorgeous as he is, so wonderful. He keeps laving attention on your breasts, hands skimming over the soft skin of your chest and stomach, goosebumps rising in the wake of his trailing fingers, his warm palms.

You can’t look away when he finally pulls back, breathless from the sensation of it all. He settles on his knees, tugs off his hoodie and then his shirt, revealing all the lovely planes of his body that you’ve seen before, but this time, you don’t have to look away. You can look.

And you can touch, too. 

You sit up and raise a tentative hand to stroke down his chest, his stomach, that little trail of dark hair that descends into his loose grey sweatpants; your mouth goes dry at the sight. Taehyung watches the way your fingers drag over his skin, growing bolder moment by moment, but still too timid to venture past his waistband, low on his hips as they are. You’ve never had a chance to touch someone like this, to feel the smooth, soft skin under your greedy palms—Taehyung’s so warm, so alive. So human.

You think about the other hands he’s had on his skin. Grasping and greedy, taking and taking. People who didn’t care for him. People he couldn’t say no to. But he’s here with you because he wants to be. He lets you touch him because he wants it.

“Angel?” 

You glance up at the sound of the gentle pet name, away from where your hands have been tenderly tracing the lines of his hipbone. “Mm?”

Taehyung’s expression is soft and affectionate. “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” you answer honestly. He leans over to kiss you, and you’re smiling against his mouth when you feel the hand on your shoulder, pressing you down against the mattress again.

Then. His hands are at your waistband. Your breath quickens, but Taehyung’s eyes stay on your face even as your breasts rise and fall, shining with evidence of the touch of his mouth and tongue.

You lift your hips, and Taehyung smiles. Keeps smiling as he strips you, underwear and all, and when your thighs instinctively go to close shut, he catches your knees and keeps your legs open—gentle but firm, swiping his thumbs up and down the side of your knees, a tender touch even as you’re naked in front of him. You see the look on his face, drenched in candlelight, and swallow even as you force your legs to relax.

Then he looks down.

“Oh, God,” he groans, and one of your legs jumps in his grasp at the sound of his voice. Hoarse and deep. Almost unrecognisable. “Oh, angel, look at you.”

You’re so, so wet, so wet it’s embarrassing, so sensitive and responsive to every single one of Taehyung’s touches and kisses. The edges of his hair are spun gold in the candlelight but his eyes are so deep, so dark as he drinks down the sight of you spread out in front of him, wet and wanting and willing. You still want to hide away, cheeks burning, but you can’t look away from him. Can’t look away from how he seems almost pained, brows drawing together as he stares at the shining, flushed lips of your cunt.

“Taehyung.” Your voice shakes. “Taehyung, please.”

You're naked and vulnerable but—but the way he looks at you is so adoring, and you trust him. You trust him.

Just like earlier, his hands cup the back of your thighs. But this time, it’s not to carry you. You twist on the bed when he ends up eye level with your dripping cunt, utterly exposed. Those hands slide up your thighs and under your hips, tilting them up. Your fingers have been resting on the bedspread and tighten in them, bunching in your grasp when Taehyung presses a kiss to the softness of your inner thigh. 

One kiss. And then another. And another. His breath is warm as it curls out across your skin. You feel like you’re about to shake out of your body, wanting to pull away, wanting to lean in; wanting more, even when it feels like too much. Overcome with it all, even if you trust Taehyung. Safe under his hands, his lips. All you can think about is how close he is, face only inches away from your most sensitive parts—

Then he turns his head and—

The noise you let out is almost a keen. His mouth is on you, hot and wet, lips and tongue, and you’re writhing, overwhelmed with sensation. He starts slow, balls of your feet digging into Taehyung’s back and toes curling as he mouths at you. Your hips buck, and your hands are tangled in Taehyung’s hair—when did that happen?—as you sob at the feeling of his lips around your clit, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, but so so so good. 

He licks a fat stripe up your entrance and your grip tightens in his hair. He makes a noise when your nails drag across his scalp, almost a growl, face still buried between your legs as he presses his tongue in. You’d worry that he needs to come up for air, but he doesn’t, doesn’t have to stop—keeps licking and kissing and humming, responding to each of the sounds pulling out of your lips. Keeps staring up at you, your eyes locked, the way you can’t look away from the sight of his head between your legs, dark haired and incredible.

You don’t realise you’re speaking, words slipping out of your lips as your hips roll, oh-oh-oh, fuck, God, oh, and Taehyung doesn’t stop. On his knees, he worships you, learning what you like—things you didn’t even know—and does it again, and again, and again. One of his hands slides away from your hips and over your stomach, holding you down, keeping you still, and then the other hand—

He turns his head, presses a kiss to the junction of your thigh. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you answer, shaky and weak. So okay, more than okay.

“Going to finger you now,” Taehyung says, and you feel like you’re going to die.

“Okay,” you say again. “Okay, Taehyung.”

He smiles at you before he puts his mouth back to your clit, sucking, a welcome distraction as—with all the languidness in the world—presses a finger into you.

You’ve fingered yourself before. You’ve got your own toys, vibrators, things that are longer and thicker than just one of Taehyung’s fingers—but this feels so different, out of your control. One finger becomes two, your cunt so wet that the slide in is easy, slow, deep thrusts of those long fingers inside you, and you’re panting, you’re so fucking overwhelmed.

And then he curls those fingers as he laps his tongue over your clit and you almost shout, Taehyung’s name bursting from your lips as he keeps beckoning with those fingers and circling the sensitive nub with his hot, wet tongue. It’s so much, it’s so fucking much, it’s so good and you’ve never felt so good before—

You’re almost blindsided by the orgasm that explodes through you and you come apart with a sound you didn’t realise you were capable of making, a gasping moan that keeps unfurling as Taehyung keeps his mouth on you, feeling each pulse of your cunt as you cum around his fingers, tight-tight-tight. (You miss the way his hips kick into the mattress that the sounds you’re making, how much you tighten around him.) You never thought you’d be so loud, never thought you’d end up all but sobbing as Taehyung eventually leans back, candlelight brushing shining gold over the wetness over his mouth, his chin. Your wetness.

“Oh my God,” you gasp. “Oh, fuck.”

Little jolts of pleasure are still wracking through you, pulsations of pleasure that unfurl in your lower stomach; Taehyung rubs the pad of his thumb across your oversensitive clit and your entire body jumps, your legs going to snap shut as you gasp, only stopped by his body in the way. You realise, then, that his fingers are still curled inside you, and you shiver.

“One more,” he says, and your whole body shakes. “Can I give you one more?”

He still looks reverent, and hungry. Like he wants to devour you. Taehyung is usually so soft, a gentle summer breeze—but right now he’s so intense it might scare you if it was anyone else. But it’s not, it’s Taehyung, and there’s something—there’s something about knowing that he looks like that because of you. 

You let your legs fall open, watch how pleased he looks; how grateful. Like he's blessed to be able to do this to you. For you. You’re still so sensitive when he lowers his head again, but he’s slow and patient and coaxing, two fingers becoming three, and—that’s a lot. It’s a lot, but it feels good, Taehyung knowing exactly what to do to make you sob, your legs still hooked over his shoulders as he pulls you along that line between oversensitivity and mind numbing pleasure. This time, when you cum, it’s with three fingers buried deep in your cunt, the flat of his tongue pressed against your clit, back arching as you throw your head back and cry out. Your pussy throbs and it's so dirty, the wet sounds of his fingers thrusting into you, the slick sound of movement as you moan, and moan, and moan.

No one's ever made you cum before. Only you. And now you know what it's like to put your pleasure in someone else's hands, to have them intent on making you feel good, so good, and it leaves you dizzy. 

He’s praising you, you note dimly. He’s praising you, how well you’re doing, how good you are for him, and it leaves you feeling warm. You’re panting when Taehyung pulls his fingers out of you, moves so he can brace himself on his elbows and lean in to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips and tongue. You can feel his skin against yours, chest to chest, his weight pressing you down and then you can feel—

You let out a noise against his lips. There’s nothing else that can be, that hot weight. You might not have felt it before, but you’re not stupid. That’s Taehyung’s cock, his hard length pressed against you.

“Taehyung,” you murmur.

“Mm.” He brushes his nose against yours, and the wave of affection that crashes through you is so strong it feels like it could pull you under. You didn’t realise that sex could be like this—that lingering shockwaves of pleasure could be skirting through your body as you lay there naked, still aroused and almost overcome, but also feeling so warm and soft and tender, too. 

You feel lax after cumming, a little more confident, bolder—and the noise Taehyung makes as you clumsily grasp at him through his sweatpants is incredible. You feel like you could get high on it, the way he sucks in a gasp as his mouth falls open, even if you don’t know what you’re doing as your fingers wrap around cloth and hard heat.

“Please,” you start, then stop. Swallow. “Please, Taehyung.”

You want so much you feel like you could pass out. You want to feel and touch and taste; you want everything you haven’t had a chance to experience yet, want it with Taehyung, someone who you trust. Someone you love. Someone who knows far, far more than you—will always know more—and you want to learn that from him. 

“Want you,” you say, and Taehyung looks pained all over again. He wants you, too.

“Fuck.” The word is rough, and you’ve never heard him curse before. The way he says it has something in you singing, as strange as that might be; you don’t think you’re ever going to get over how much you affect Taehyung. “What do you want from me, angel?”

Everything, you think. I want everything. 

“Let me see?” is what you say, squeezing your fingers around Taehyung’s length, feeling the way his hips buck into the touch. “Please?”

You never thought that someone taking their clothes off could be artistic. And yet, there’s something about Taehyung moving to stand and stripping off the rest of his clothes that’s completely arresting and beautiful; carnal and holy, all at once. You don’t even realise your mouth is open as you sit up and watch him, moving closer as you drink down the sight, the way he’s naked in front of you.

Taehyung. Naked. Naked and beautiful and hard, and it’s so overwhelming, everything about it, how much you want and how—oh, God, how big and thick he is, obvious even to you, someone with nothing to compare it to. Holy fuck. Should you think that his dick is pretty? Can dicks even be pretty? Taehyung’s is. Of course it is. He’s gorgeous all over. Maybe you’re biased because it’s him, but there’s something about the sight of his hard cock, precome gathering at his slit, that makes your mouth water.

Taehyung goes to say something, but before you can lose your nerve, you move forwards, and whatever he was going to say is lost in the sound of a choked off groan. He tastes like salt and musk, hot under your inexperienced hands and mouth, and you don’t know what you’re doing but the noises he’s making, fuck. You run your tongue up the throb of a vein you can feel on the underside, and all you can think about is how big he is, slow and careful with your teeth and lips as you try your best to do whatever feels good for him. 

His noises seem almost frantic but Taehyung’s hands are gentle when they comb through your hair. You look up. There’s a flush on his cheeks—red, not blue, you notice—and you pause, pulling off, suddenly shy after the burst of confidence that had you swallowing his cock down.

“Is this—is this okay?” You’ve still got your fingers wrapped around him, and maybe it’s a little ridiculous to be asking with spit and precome shining on your lips, but Taehyung’s answering smile is so affectionate.

“You’re perfect,” he says, and you know he’s not just talking about your clumsy blowjob. “Do you want to stop?”

You bite your lip and pump his length, which has Taehyung sucking a breath in. “I—what do you want?”

Something flashes through Taehyung’s eyes, and it feels like there’s electricity shooting down your spine before that look disappears. “This is about you, angel,” he says. “We can worry about what I want next time.”

Next time. This is the first time but it’s not the last. Oh, God. God.

Taehyung takes advantage of your distraction and hikes you up and away from the edge of the bed. It leaves you breathless, knowing how strong he is, how easily he can move you, even if he’s gentle-gentle-gentle. He settles in the cradle of your hips, and he’s so close, naked body flush with yours, covering you. His cock is so close—he just has to shift a little, just a little, and—well. 

Before that, though, there’s something you need to know.

“Taehyung?” Your voice shakes but you have to ask.

“Yes?”

“Is this. Um. Does this feel good for you, too?”

You’re always aware of the fact Taehyung is an android, even if he looks and feels and is human, too. (It doesn’t matter that he’s made of metal and thirium and circuitry. He’s human.) You lift a hand and thumb at the soft skin of his temple, where his LED used to sit; you don’t know how to communicate that you love him regardless, that it doesn’t matter to you if he's a man or robot. But you’ve wondered—you know Taehyung was built to pleasure humans. Even if he’s been reacting, making noises, looks for all intents and purposes that he is enjoying this—what if it’s all programming? What if he’s just doing this because he thinks it’s something you want?

He leans into your touch. “Angel.” It sounds like the word is being scraped out of him, hoarse and deep, all dark heat. “It feels good. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

He rolls his hips almost imperceptibly, but you’re hyperaware of every motion, how close you are. Your breath stutters in your throat.

"I want you to feel good," he says. "I've wanted to feel you and taste you for so long. I want to learn everything about your body. I want to know what you feel like around me. Under me. On top of me. You make me feel so fucking good, you don't even know," and, oh, fuck, those words go right through you, settle deep in your belly, leave you breathless. Taehyung sucks at your pulse point and you melt, even as your skin feels like it's burning, so hot, every part of you so hot, so ready for him.

Taehyung’s big enough that you’re worried about how he’s going to fit, even if you’re slick and wet and so, so turned on—you know about the importance of lube, used it often enough by yourself, but when you mention it to Taehyung he just smiles.

“Don’t forget that I’m a sex android,” he says, and before you can ask exactly what he means by that, you feel the tip of his cock at your folds and the question dies on your tongue.

“Please,” is what leaves your lips. “Please, please, please.”

“Anything you want,” he says, and eases his hips forwards.

Slow, and hard, and wet, the head of Taehyung’s cock starts to press into you. You grab at his back, digging your fingers in; it doesn’t hurt, not exactly, a not-quite-pain as he pushes in—but it’s a lot, even if the slide is smooth, so smooth, from your own wetness and the slickness that covers Taehyung’s cock. Your eyes are wide and your lips are parted and it feels—astonishing, the way you can feel yourself open up for him, the way it feels like he’s filling every part of you, throbbing heat.

“Oh, oh God,” you gasp. 

Taehyung’s forehead is pressed to yours, the loose locks of his dark hair framing his face as he waits, hips snug with yours. You shiver and move your hips a little, entire body seizing at the sensation of him shifting inside you. It's so new and alien, having someone nestled inside you, against you, so close in every sense of the term, above you, around you, inside you—but it feels… good.

And when he moves, it’s so, so slow. Slow and smooth as he works you open, even if you feel so tight around him. You drag your nails down his shoulder blades when he moves a little faster, a little roll of the hips that has you gasping all over again.

“More,” you say, and he gives you more.

You feel so full. You feel full of Taehyung, inside and out—the way his body is still pressing you down, skin on skin, how hot he is.

They call it making love, and it’s not until now that you really understand what that means—how you can feel Taehyung’s soft and tender affection in his every motion, read it in every shift of his body, the lines of his face, his lips; the way his eyes are dark but full of wonder, shining with love for you, pleasure singing through every inch of you, centred around Taehyung, Taehyung, Taehyung.

Each noise that falls from his lips is an echo of that love. Even when he leans back and takes you with him—settles on his knees, pulls your hips from the mattress to stay connected to you as your shoulder blades dig into the mattress, his cock in your cunt—there’s tenderness there, even if you’re both chasing mutual lines of pleasure. You feel almost dazed, dizzy with love and arousal, reaching out for him, and he catches your hand. The other stays at your waist, guiding you onto him, again and again, each roll of hips into yours.

“Taehyung,” you gasp, voice breaking on his name when he thrusts into you. He’s been increasing the pace, faster and sharper, harder, and it’s so-so-so much, so good. “I’m—Taehyung, I’m close, I wanna cum again, pleasepleaseplease—”

He lets go of your hand and then he’s thumbing at your clit and you’re cumming harder than you’ve ever cum in your life, Taehyung’s cock still hard and insistent inside you as you ride out your orgasm, pulsing around him. You’re gasping and making noises like you’re falling apart, and there’s something desperate in Taehyung’s eyes, something dark and wanton. 

“Angel, I’m going to cum soon,” he says, and you moan in response, hazy. “Do you want me to pull out?”

You shake your head no. You want to know what it feels like, to have Taehyung lose himself inside you. You’re about to reach out for him when he hooks his hands under your knees and hitches your legs up—you suck in a sharp breath as he starts to move again, almost bent in two, his face so close to yours. It's not rough but something about Taehyung taking control like that has you baring your throat, arching your back and throwing your head back. The hold he has on you is firm, and you feel how it tightens as his thrusts speed up, and then, fuck—

When Taehyung cums it’s around the gasp of your name, a hitching sound as he empties himself inside you, throbbing and hot. You let out an answering sound, the two of you locked together until Taehyung pulls out, careful and slow; you feel like a sweaty mess, empty without him inside you, but then his hands are so carefully cupping your face and he’s kissing you over and over and over. It leaves you feeling breathless, all those little kisses, struggling for air by the time you part, every part of you lax under his loving touch. 

“How are you feeling?” Taehyung murmurs, soft and sweet. 

“Good,” you murmur back. And then your nose crinkles. “Sweaty.”

Taehyung laughs, quiet and low. You turn your face into the crook of his neck, hiding your smile as you breathe him in. You do feel sweaty, and there’s an ache settling inside you, but it’s a good ache. A glowing ache, an unfamiliar one, but one that you know you'll get to feel again, with Taehyung.

You’ve just leaned back to take him in all over again, painted syrupy sweet in the golden candlelight—when the lights suddenly turn back on. It floods your eyes and you make a noise of surprised pain as you squint against the sudden brightness, but then you start to giggle, shock melting into laughter.

When your laughter dies you realise Taehyung’s been watching you. The room is full of shining light now, and you realise you’re still naked, entire body shaking as you’ve been giggling. You’d feel embarrassed about your nakedness if you hadn’t just shared yourself with him, bared yourself in ways that are more than skin deep. There’s an instinctual part of you that wants to cover up now that there’s nowhere to hide, no flickering shadows to cover up the parts of your body that you don’t like, the flaws you don’t want Taehyung to see. But he just looks fond, fond, fond, love and affection dripping off him as he watches the way you smile shyly up at him.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he says, and smiles back, wide and bright. 

You love him. You love him, and he loves you, and you trust that love. As hard as it might be to believe, you trust that this is what he wants—that you’re what he wants.

“Do you want me to carry you to the shower?” he asks, and you can’t help but laugh again, warm through and through, how he’s still taking care of you.

“Not yet,” you say. 

You end up against his chest, wrapped close. You’ve laid your head in his lap countless times, but he’s never been on his back before, never had his arms around you like he doesn’t want to let go. Taehyung might not have a heart, but the thirium pump nestled in his chest beats steady as you stay nestled against his side. 

You’re drawing little circles on his skin with your fingers when he catches that hand and lifts it to his mouth, presses a tender kiss to your fingertips.

“I love you,” he says.

You feel like liquid sunlight, shining happiness as you melt, melt, melt. And the feeling stays, body filled with it, even after Taehyung coaxes you out of bed and into the shower to wash the sweat off your body; when he drags a soapy loofah over your back you can’t help but laugh, so in love, so loved.

And when you fall asleep, it’s not with your head on Taehyung’s thigh. It’s with his arms around you, his chest to your back, his body curved around you. You don’t want tonight to end, but you also can’t wait for tomorrow, knowing that it’s another day with him, with Taehyung, your Taehyung. You never thought that love would be like this, never thought that you’d feel love like this, cared for and protected and loved, loved, loved.

“Not staying late?”

You pause in the process of shoving everything into your bag. Hoseok is leaning against your desk, a smile curling at his lips as he raises his eyebrows at you, almost suggestive.

“Nah, I’ve got a dinner to get to,” you say. 

“You seem a lot happier lately,” Hoseok comments, and when you don’t fall for the bait, he wiggles his eyebrows. “The girls think that you’ve got a secret boyfriend that you’re too shy to tell anyone about.”

Taehyung still greets you every day when you get home. But now, every greeting is punctuated with a kiss—and sometimes a little more. When you stop to think about it, it’s startling, this thing that Taehyung’s taught you. That the simplest of things can turn into something more, love edged with lust, that it’s all part and parcel of loving someone, being with them, being comfortable with them. Just the other day you’d been reading on the sofa, and then Taehyung’s fingers had curved over your thigh and the tablet had fallen from your hands—

Hoseok clicks his fingers in front of your face. “You’re zoning out again,” he says.

“I am not,” you say, zoning back in. “I was thinking about if I needed to buy any food on the way home.”

“To feed that secret boyfriend of yours?” Hoseok says, and you laugh in his face.

“Definitely not to feed the rumour mill,” you say. Hoseok pouts but it’s good natured, and he waves you off with a smile, letting you leave the office without trapping you in an interrogation for the gossip you’re certain your coworkers are hungry for.

It’s your turn to cook for Yoongi and Seokjin, so you’ve got to get home to help Taehyung. Both men had been spectacularly unsurprised when they’d found out about the two of you. Yoongi had remained calm as Seokjin crowed in delight, proclaiming I knew it, I knew that’s why you were avoiding Taehyung. 

“Feel lucky, Y/n,” Yoongi had said. “At least Taehyung has a sense of decorum and shame.”

“I think it’s a shame that my boyfriend is such a party pooper,” Jin had said. “I demand a dinner party! To celebrate your new relationship! Oh, I’m going to bake the biggest cake.”

“Oh my God,” you’d said, and Taehyung had just smiled.

The truth is that you’re grateful for your neighbours and their support, grateful for their friendship. Just because Taehyung looks human doesn’t mean that you don’t worry about him, worry that someone might discover that he’s a deviant; Jin’s slipped under the radar for long enough, and you hope it’s the same for Tae, too. And yet you can’t help but think about it, think about the present, the future, how your lives are going to unfold as time goes by.

When the door swings open to your apartment, though, that’s the last thing on your mind. All that’s on your mind is Taehyung, Taehyung, Taehyung, your love appearing just as you’ve kicked your shoes off, all bright pink hair and dark eyes and welcoming hands.

“Taehyung,” you say, warm and happy.

“Hi,” he says, smiling so brightly, and then he kisses you.

You’re never going to get tired of kissing Taehyung; never going to get tired of how his mouth fits against yours, so perfect and sweet. But then he crowds you against the wall, swallowing down your gasp before kissing down your neck, running his teeth so gently across your skin.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, words dripping hot and slow. “Been thinking about you.”

“Taehyung,” you breathe. “Taehyung, we need to cook dinner.”

“We have time,” he says, and when he picks you up, you don’t protest. You go easily, wrapping your arms and legs around him, heat already gathering in your stomach as he walks the familiar path to your bedroom.

You have time: today, tomorrow, and every day after that. You have time with Taehyung, to learn with him, to love him. To be loved back. You don’t know what’s coming on the horizon, what the future holds—but then again, you never have.

There’s one thing you know now, though. No matter what happens, Taehyung will be at your side, and you’ll be at his. He wants you, and he loves you. You want him, and you love him. 

“I love you,” you murmur, and Taehyung kisses the words off your lips, lets the promise of your love settle inside him, warm and soft and safe.

“I love you too,” he says, and then you’re too busy to say anything, after that.

taglist:  @beyoncesdragon​ @vensulove​ @jalexad​ @beingbeings​ @lorielulu7​ ​ (can’t tag: @jeon-joon-kook)

[hiccanna-tidbits]

The RotBTD+ Gang Plays DnD! (Feat. my ships, sorry not sorry XD)

So highkey I’ve actually been wanting to do a “The Gang Plays DnD” type post for AGES now, but then I saw @hobie-brown and @ohlooksheswriting-wips do DnD AU posts for RotBTD, and then I was like “Ah shit, I really should finish mine, eh?” So thank you to both of you for inspiring me to get off my ass and actually write the post!!!

Hiccup DMs. He comes up with this super complex plot revolving around dragons (because of course) where the party has to dismantle this society ruled by evil knights who want to genocide all of the dragons. Imagine his chagrin when the party wants to do nothing but fuck around in towns and aggravate NPCs 90% of the time.

They usually end up playing at Jack’s apartment, mainly because Hiccup’s dad doesn’t really want a bunch of loud nerds yelling about 20-sided dice in his household while he’s trying to work, if he can at all help it. Jack’s sister regularly barges into their living room and roasts the fuck out of Jack and his friends for being such damn nerds and eats all of their DnD snacks they’ve set out. If they’re in the middle of a combat session, she always gleefully proclaims that they’re all going to die. While Jack is annoyed by this, the rest of the party finds it deeply hilarious.

Jack Overland plays the absolute mayhem warlock Jack Frost, who got his powers through making a deal with the archfey Prince of Frost and has absolutely no qualms about being an evil god’s mortal Sower of Chaos. He spends the vast majority of the campaign doing such useful things as creating ice slicks under annoying NPCs and freezing people’s drinks. He also plays a Tiefling because absolutely no one can talk this boy out of playing the creepy demon race.

Rapunzel plays a woodland nymph druid who is also the party healer (because of course she is). Her name is probably Sunlily or something else suitably hippie-esque. Whenever there’s downtime (or whenever the rest of the party is also dicking around, and she can get away with it), Rapunzel likes to go into the nearest forest and pick the best berries and nuts for the rest of the party. She also loves baking fruit pies and cooking the best nymph food for her companions when given the chance. Definitely the party Cinnamon Roll (every party has one!). She often will turn into cute animals to distract the guards while the party infiltrates a building.

Merida’s character is the party archer and general ranged weapon master, as well as a raging lesbian. Hiccup learns very quickly that any male NPC who tries to flirt with her will very quickly get impaled with an arrow. She can’t ever decide if she wants to be a ranger or a rogue, so she multiclasses in both for flare. She also plays a Tiefling, and continually insists that her character is both scarier and sexier than Jack’s. In combat, she either Leeroy Jenkins her way in with a sword and just starts slashing every which way, or just shoots 90% of the enemies with arrows before the fight even starts. There’s really no in between. She can get away with this because she’s highkey one of the party tanks, and consistently deals a shitton of damage.

Anna plays a human bard, basically having read over the class options and going “Wait, in this one I get to make stylish medieval music??? And wear dramatic and garish outfits and a dumb hat??? And cast wacky illusion spells??? And do silly little magic tricks??? And INSPIRE EVERYONE??? Hell yeah, I’m in!!!” She mostly uses magic attacks in combat (definitely favors Tasha’s Hideous Laughter), but occasionally when she’s out of spell slots she’ll just take to slamming enemies in the face with her lute. She also has WAY too much fun with Vicious Mockery, let’s be real.

Elsa, upon hearing Jack’s character concept, rolls her eyes so far up in her head she can see her damn brain, and vows to play his concept, but serious–solely out of spite. She rolls up a super OP elf Chaos Sorcerer, filled with lots of brooding angst about how uncontrollable her winter powers can get if she isn’t careful. She combines it a bit with Storm Sorcerer so she can create literal blizzards, and Hiccup ends up allowing it just because he thinks it’s cool. Although Elsa’s character is undoubtedly aggravated by the rest of the party’s antics, she starts becoming grudgingly protective of these idiots and can deal some pretty crazy damage when her companions are threatened. She also contains one of the party’s only brain cells.

Eugene of course plays dashing rogue master thief Flynn Rider. Although his high deception and lockpicking skills certainly come in handy, he’s the most chaotic neutral fucker you’ve ever met and will take any excuse to rob NPCs blind or cheat them out of every cent they have in a tavern card game. It’s nigh impossible to get him to cooperate with the rest of the party much of the time, and often Elsa’s character has to either bribe him with some of her family’s gold or threaten to freeze him to stop him backstabbing one or more party members. Eugene’s character forces Hiccup to add in many more heist plotlines than he originally intended. This delights Eugene immensely, and sometimes he goes a bit crazy planning elaborate heists.

Moana plays a sorcerer water genasi. She can control any body of water, but she has a special affinity for controlling saltwater (i.e. the ocean lol). She also requests an animal handling bonus, but only with marine animals, solely because she thought it would be funny. She’s also an ex-pirate who robbed a lot of wealthy merchant ships and freed their slaves back in the day, which Merida thinks is incredibly badass. Moana tends to get bored and unengaged when there are no bodies of water to play around with, so Hiccup ends up having to add a lot more lakes, rivers, and oceans to the campaign than he originally planned on. Moana also takes a sailing skill, and thus the party often ends up traveling by boat. Typically Eugene and Rapunzel will infiltrate and hijack it, and Moana will sail it. Moana probably contains the party’s only other brain cell.

Astrid plays a gigantic berserker orc barbarian who is never without his trusty axe. Astrid is hands down the party’s top tank, and unquestionably deals the most damage every combat session. Much like Merida’s character, Astrid’s character is absolutely a shameless power fantasy. Hiccup pretty easily picks up on this, but is too polite to say anything about it. Jack also picks up on this, but is hardly as courteous as their DM, and teases Astrid mercilessly. Astrid is not amused.

Rapunzel requests that her weapon of choice be a frying pan, her justification being that her character found a discarded one at the edge of a human village outside her woods and mistaked it for a highly-dangerous human weapon. Hiccup is like “…you know what? Fuck it” and rolls up stats for a goddamn frying pan. Jack has nigh-endless admiration for Rapunzel for choosing such a goddamn memey, absurd, yet oddly effective weapon and it definitely makes the poor boy even more smitten with her than he already is.

Eugene and Merida have a bet going on who can sleep with more sexy barmaids. Merida is currently winning, much to Eugene’s chagrin. She’s not even inherently better at seducing NPCs, she and Eugene have the same charisma stat–she just consistently rolls better than Eugene. Eugene is incredibly salty about this.

Anna and Elsa want to be sisters in-game as well, but neither want to change their race–so Anna decides her character was adopted. Hiccup and the rest of the party go along with it, mainly because there’s something deeply hilarious about a regular human bard being adopted and raised by a family of high-powered elf ice mages.

Astrid is absolutely the sort of player who tends to get bored and restless outside of fights, and tends to fidget and twiddle her thumbs waiting for the next combat session. Jack picks up on this, and purposely does more roleplay for longer just to piss her off. He’s also just a very dramatic fucker and highkey loves roleplay.

When she’s not causing mayhem around the town or sleeping with hot women, Merida tries to entertain Astrid between combat sessions by offering to spar with her. Unfortunately, this does not usually end well for poor Merida, as even the most hardcore and badass of tieflings is prone to getting dumpstered by an 8-foot-tall barbarian orc with an axe. Astrid is, nonetheless, grateful to have someone to fight.

Rapunzel, Elsa, and Moana will humor Hiccup and attempt to actually play the main plot. Meanwhile, Jack, Merida, and Eugene are a DM’s worst nightmare. They constantly derail the damn campaign to fuck around, cause mayhem, and do inane shenanigans in every. Damn. Town. They go to. Anna is kind of a wildcard–she’ll typically go with whatever group looks like they’re going to be doing something more interesting. Astrid will go along with whichever group is more likely to get into a fight–which, often as not, is Jack and his posse of terrible Chaotic Neutrals (who have definitely pissed off a number of NPCs into attacking them).

As the campaign goes on, Elsa and Eugene become the beleaguered Party Mom and Dad. Both are quite aggravated by this–especially poor Eugene, who just wanted to play a morally-gray charming rogue who stole everything and got away with it and then accidentally ended up caring about these idiots he got stuck with.

Anna initially joins the campaign because she has a planet-size crush on Hiccup, and inevitably is the one who dragged Elsa into it too. Being the hopeless romantic that she is, Anna writes a love interest into her backstory. Hiccup eventually has the party run into said love interest, and Anna is overjoyed. He starts flirting with her as the love interest, and it’s easily the best 30 minutes of Anna’s life.

Moana and Elsa also give Hiccup pretty detailed backstories, and he works in little subplots for them. Moana gets to bring water back to a dying part of the jungle in the middle of a draught, while Elsa gets to go on a whole sidequest to explore her family history and how they came to be sorcerers.

Jack, Merida, and Eugene also give Hiccup fairly elaborate backstories, but Jack’s and Merida’s are like 99% memes and Dumb Shit. Hiccup tries to give all of them backstory-related plot hooks, but inevitably any hooks he provides are either stabbed, robbed, or frozen. Honestly any plot hook offered to these 3 will be all but spat in the face of and tossed off a cliff.

The one relevant part of Eugene’s backstory is that he and Rapunzel decide they used to be partners in crime before the campaign started. Rapunzel would infiltrate and scout out places he wanted to rob as small, unobtrusive animals (her preferred Wild Shape is a chameleon) and later distract the guards as a bunny or kitten while he went in and took every gold coin in sight. In return, Flynn Rider would bribe builders to not develop into Sunlily’s forest. Rapunzel and Eugene partly came up with this For Funsies, but also it was Rapunzel’s sneaky way of tricking Eugene into having prior connections in the party so he’d be less likely to betray them. It works pretty well–although the entire party is protective of Cinnamon Roll Sunlily, Flynn is certainly especially protective of her.

Astrid does the absolute bare minimum as far as backstories go. She is literally just here to smash stuff, slice people, and beat some fuckers up.

Rapunzel has a backstory, but she’s typically so invested in the main plot and the other party members that Hiccup rarely needs to bring it in to keep her engaged. She’s highkey the party emotional rock, and probably the only one keeping them all together.

On that note, Rapunzel’s character is the ONLY one who can get Jack’s character to take the plot even REMOTELY seriously. Like he’ll be dicking around in the nearest tavern challenging the nearest orc to a drinking game, and Rapunzel will come in and ask him to help them on a Main Plot Quest. And he’ll be like “come onnnnn I’m having funnn” and she’ll be like “Jack pleeeeeease?” and you just. Can’t resist Sunlily’s puppy dog eyes. At all. Also, whenever Sunlily is genuinely threatened, any silliness immediately goes out the window and Jack Frost is OUT FOR BLOOD.

For better or for worse, Rapunzel is not immune to being looped into Jack’s shenanigans. Occasionally if either Merida or Eugene have a particularly hare-brained scheme she’ll go along with it, but by and large Jack is the most successful in convincing her to temporarily abandon the plot and cause mild mischief with him. They once wasted half a session creating an elaborate “ice theme park” for some squirrels in the forest.

Hiccup tries to get Merida to play the main plot by eventually having there be no more sexy female NPCs to seduce in the towns they go to. Unfortunately, this backfires–Merida just hooks up with Moana’s character instead. When asked to roll for how good the lay is, Merida gets a nat 20–and thus her character and Moana’s character end up hooking up regularly throughout the rest of the campaign.

Hiccup introduces a few Wise Old Mentor-type NPCs to guide the party throughout the campaign. While Rapunzel, Elsa, Moana, and Anna actually try to listen to them and take their advice, Merida, Jack, and Eugene absolutely refuse to take them seriously and mercilessly play pranks on them.

At one point, Hiccup gives the party the option to attempt to tame a group of wild dragons and use them as mounts. They all have to make animal handling checks. Anna, Rapunzel, Elsa, and Moana pass. The rest of the party fails, with Jack and Eugene crit-failing. Hilarity ensues.

Hiccup ends up bringing back Anna’s backstory love interest as an NPC regular. Anna thinks he’s just being a good friend and a good DM and trying to incorporate her backstory as much as he can, but really, he just wants an excuse to regularly flirt with her. He hardly has the balls to out-of-game.

Merida comes out as gay toward the end of the campaign. Everyone in the group is extremely supportive, of course, but everyone is also like “Merida…with the amount of barmaids you’ve banged…and the amount of times you and Moana’s character hooked up…this isn’t exactly surprising.”

Hiccup actually finds a way to use Jack and Elsa’s same-concept-opposite-execution characters to the plot’s advantage. He decides one of the main villains will have a prophecy saying he’ll be taken down by a powerful ice mage. The party manages to fool this guy into thinking this ice mage is Jack, and sends Jack to fight him. As soon as the villain sees Jack, he’s like “WHAT??? THIS clown???” (word has absolutely spread throughout the land of Jack not using his ice powers for anything besides mildly annoying trolling). Naturally, the bad guy lets his guard down after thinking he’s going to fight this literal joke, and then Elsa crashes in from the side and absolutely dumpsters him.

Jack tries to defeat the final boss by just annoying him so much that he leaves. Unfortunately, he just annoys him so much that he attacks Rapunzel’s character. Jack’s just like “oh HELL no” and attacks with absolutely nothing held back. Turns out he’s pretty terrifying when he’s not using his magic for Dumb Antics.

During the final boss of the campaign, the Big Bad tries to one-shot Moana’s character, and Merida’s character super theatrically jumps in front of her to take the blow instead. Rapunzel just barely manages to heal Merida’s character, but it’s a really close call. During all this, Merida is like “ah shit...maybe I’m NOT just in this to get fantasy-laid.” After the fight’s over, her and Moana’s characters have a big dramatic love confession and share a Big Damn Kiss in front of everyone. It’s pretty epic.

After the final session of the campaign, Merida drags Moana outside Jack’s apartment and sputters and trips over her words for a solid minute before she finally gets out that through all this nonsense...well...maybe it’s not just in the game that she thinks Moana is hot. Moana just gets this HUGE grin on her face and says “c’mere, Leeroy Jenkins” and just pulls Merida in and kisses her. Cue the rest of the party barging in on them. Merida and Moana freeze, and there’s a moment of terrified silence...and then the entire party starts cheering them on like “took you long enough!”

The entire rest of the party could detect the sexual tension. Literally all of them.

But Eugene is like “HA, THIS MEANS IF WE DO A SEQUEL CAMPAIGN I’M WINNING THAT BET! BECAUSE YOU’RE GONNA BE DATING MO’S CHAR AND THUS NOT ABLE TO SLEEP WITH ANY MORE BARMAIDS!”

By the epilogue session, Jack and Rapunzel are dating. Merida and Moana are also dating. Hiccup and Anna STILL haven’t figured out why they’re so prone to spending half the session flirting when Anna’s love interest shows up, and Hiccup STILL hasn’t figured out why he likes to have Anna’s love interest show up so often. Bless their souls. Maybe they’ll figure it out next campaign...?

Damn I actually really like this...maybe if people like it I’ll do some incorrect quotes or a drabble or something??? Or maybe some HCs from next campaign???

[obi-wkenobi]

Whumptober 2021

Day 5: Comfort (alternative prompt)

Read below or on A03.

“I need to leave for work now,” Bail said, picking up his datapad from the table and smiling at Obi-Wan. “Once I’m back we’ll have some more time to talk about how you could help the Rebellion. You’ve been away from any action for a long time,” he teased gently.

Obi-Wan huffed and nodded, resisting the urge to remind Bail that he would only be on Alderaan for a short while. Luke still needed him on Tatooine, after all.

In the silence of Bail’s home he decided to use the computer to check the HoloNet. 

Ten years ago he never would have had to do such a thing, as a Jedi he was always kept up to date on the latest Galactic news and hadn’t realised just how much he took it for granted until he was forced to live on Tatooine. His homestead in the Dune Sea didn’t offer him close-by access to prominent Senators or the Republic’s capital, instead he barely even saw one individual in a standard week and so the latest news was the furthest thing from his mind.

At first it had been difficult, but as he glanced through the news he found that he didn’t care for any of it. This knowledge wouldn’t affect his life whatsoever, he had adapted himself to a myopic worldview whereby his only considerations were how much water he had, what he should eat next, how he would get that piece of food and if Luke was safe. Why should his focus be on anything else? He was still a Jedi and so he knew that he should still somewhat care for the state of the Galaxy, but he could also acknowledge that he was a bit bitter. The Galaxy had not helped the Jedi and so why should he care? Perhaps if he had the ability to do something about it then he would. He huffed to himself, such thoughts were pointless. 

Soon afterward he went to explore the house, where he quickly found a patio door that led to an expansive garden blooming with exotic flowers. In the distance a winding gravel path could be seen leading to a large, bountiful lake. He stood there in awe, amazed by all the colours, flourishing in an infinity of shades. The lake mesmerized him the most, it’s complete stillness, yet also its constant motion. The ripples that could be seen from a harsh breeze and the small splashes made when wildlife came up for air. They showed that it was a living thing, not just an inanimate object. 

There weren’t such colours or displays of life on Tatooine, all he had to see there was an endless expanse of sand, capable of movement but always the same; coarse, rough, and beige, with no indication that it relied on its surroundings to survive. 

Obi-Wan stood there for a long time, staring at the lake in contemplation. A consequence of Tatooine was that time had become unimportant to him, why shouldn’t he spend a minute or an hour on one task? Other than the darkening of the sky there was no need for him to monitor time. What was the point when there wasn’t even the changing of a season to keep him company? He was unable to say what year he had broken a finger whilst climbing a canyon wall, or what month a sandstorm had blown down the enclosure that contained his Bantha. If asked he could comment on which had come first, but not the exact date that they happened or the amount of time that had passed in between. 

The tedious desert had taught him the one thing that he had always needed to learn, how to live in the present moment. Although, he suspected Qui-Gon had not had such drastic teaching methods in mind when training him all those years ago. 

Therefore, he wasn’t too surprised when Leia turned up at his side sometime later. She stood there with him as he continued observing the boundless swaying of the trees and ripples of the lake, so like his time spent watching the ebb and flow of the Dunes outside his home. He wasn’t disturbed, nor did he mind when she slipped her hand inside his own, patiently waiting for him to start a conversation. 

Eventually though, it appeared that she was unable to contain herself and so she asked, “Do you like the water? I think I prefer space, that way I can fly wherever I want.”

Obi-Wan pulled a face instinctively. “I much prefer the water, flying isn’t something that I really enjoy.” He wondered if he had been exiled to an ocean world if he would have come to hate water, just as he had come to hate sand. 

“You don’t like flying?” she said, aghast. “But you must have flown to loads of planets.”

“I have,” he conceded. 

Still curious, she inquired, “Did you just have people flying you to places then? Like your Padawan?”

He stiffened immediately, his hand tensing within Leia’s. 

“You don’t like talking about him do you?”

Obi-Wan didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

“Father told me that he died, is that why? You must miss him, especially after you spent years and years together.”

He battled with his grief before deciding on the truth. “It’s hard to talk about someone who you miss.”

She gazed up at him, innocent and oblivious. “Maybe one day when the Jedi Order is restored you can have another Padawan?”

His eyes closed in anguish. One day the Jedi Order may be restored, but it wouldn’t be in his lifetime. And even if it was, he wouldn’t take on another Padawan lest he failed them as well. 

A tug on his hand drew his attention down and he stared at Anakin’s child, whose earnest eyes only made him think of the young slave boy he had met on Tatooine. 

An unpleasant wave of helplessness crashed over him then. He was the one unifying thread intertwining the fate of the Galaxy together, he was bound to these children—and Anakin, and it was his destiny to bring them together and to ensure that their purposes be fulfilled. It had never been his decision to do so though, that had been taken from him when Qui-Gon had made him promise to train a troubled, young boy. And so he may have been the key to everything, but his life had never been his own and he must bear the brunt of it—of the responsibility and the guilt, for they had always been his alone. 

Leia frowned at him in concern, her underlying Force sensitivity undeniably able to sense his distress. “Ben?”

The soft name roused him from his despair and he scolded himself for being unable to find balance, for letting his fear still hold him hostage even after all this time. Surely he could find some cause for joy here? Leia was safe and happy and that more than anything should have stirred his optimism. But even that didn’t comfort him, who knew what might happen to Leia should he fail in the end.

“Are you okay? Why are you so sad?”

He smiled at her gently, though he was sure it wasn’t convincing. “I’m okay.”

Her lip wobbled threateningly, so he fell down on one knee and grabbed both of her hands in his. “I promise I’m okay,” he reassured.

Irritation appeared on her face even as her eyes pulled down in worry. “You’re lying,” Leia mumbled. “You’re so sad, I can feel it, you’ve been sad since you got here.”

What could he say to that? Obi-Wan knew his shields were strong and so he could only assume that she had a certain talent for detecting people’s emotions, but how does one explain to a child the extent of his grief? The sadness of his Force signature was always present now and he very much doubted that would ever change.

It wasn’t that Obi-Wan hadn’t accepted his loss, he had. He had accepted the destruction of the Jedi and had accepted that it was his pupil that had helped with the genocide of his fellow, but he was a forever changed man because of it and as a result, his presence had changed too.

As with before he decided to be honest, or at least as honest as he could be. “I am sad, but that doesn’t mean that I’m also not happy. Seeing you and your father has made me the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

In a display of perception that no normal child would have, she narrowed her eyes at him and observed him with quiet interest, “Really?”

“Yes,” he said truthfully. 

Having decided that he wasn’t lying, Leia gave him a nod of acceptance and then launched herself at him and drew him into an enveloping hug. It took his breath away. He had not been touched with such kind intent in nearly a decade and the knowledge that it was Padmé’s and Anakin’s daughter doing so made him want to cry from both happiness and remorse. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled, further sitting on the floor and pulling Leia onto his lap, smiling when she rested her head on his shoulder.

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

Home Sweet Home: Moving Day

Summary- 3.1k Andy Barber x You. You and Andy almost have it all, married and with a jointed family consisting of Andy’s teenage son Jacob, as well as your two younger children John and Cassidy. Looking to add another member, your family is in need of a bigger house, a forever home. You find just the place, 112 Ocean Avenue in Amityville Long Island.   Home Sweet Home

Written for @optimistic-dinosaur-nacho​ Spooky Scary Stories challenge. Divider by @firefly-graphics​

Warnings- Not many that I can see. Mentions of murder and spooks. 

A/N- I chose Amityville Horror for the challenge because its one of my favorite Spook Stories growing up. When reading you will find a lot of similarities to the 2005 Movie, some of the scenarios and dialogue are specifically from that film. Other parts of it are from the book itself. The family name was changed for my own personal reasons. Happy Haunting!  🎃

Chapter 1 / Masterlist 

The day the family moves in, you couldn't have been more excited to be moving into your dream home. The home you and Andy would be raising the family in. The movers were quick under your and Andy’s directions of where to put boxes and furniture. Jacob managed to keep Cassidy and John occupied by exploring the yard and along the lakes edge until most of the chaos ended. 

Andy and you called them in once the movers left. When all three came back in, you took them on a tour of the house, going through the downstairs and then going on upstairs to show each one the bedrooms you and Andy had chosen. Andy took the boys to their rooms, dropping John off in his to check out, and then Andy opened a nearby door to Jacob's room. Jacob walked in, looking around. “Yup, looks like a bedroom.” he commented, sounding just like Andy in that moment. Andy stepped in, remarking at him. 

“Smartass... do you like it? Y/N thought this one would be better for you. It's a bit away from the kids, give you a bit more privacy you didn't have at the other house.” 

Jacob gave a smile to his father while nodding. “It's great dad, seriously.” he assured him, and Andy nodded. 

“Well I will leave you to unpack then.” 

In Cassidy’s room, she was excited over the unique windows facing the front, and she ran to the first one looking out over the driveway and the rest of the neighborhood. “Wow, I can see everything.” She started waving at people passing by on the street. 

“You really like it Sweetheart?” You asked, having picked this room just for her cause of the pink flowered wallpaper, and there was a small vanity already built into the wall. She nodded and giggled at the window. 

“Yes mommy, I do.” She went back to looking at the window, and you pulled open a box to start taking care of clothes when she started speaking again. “Hi, hello… what's your name?” She tilted her head with a nod and another giggle. “I’m Cassidy, see you later!” You had been working on putting clothes in the dresser from boxers when you heard her odd words. 

“Who are you talking to Baby?” You go over behind her and she looks up at you. 

“They said a friend, but they had to go.” She shrugged like it was no big deal and went to go open more boxes to help you unpack. You peek outside curiously, but saw nothing out of the ordinary when Andy saying your name turned you around. 

“Hmm, what?” 

“I said the boys both approve of the rooms you chose for them, and are currently putting their rooms together. I'm gonna go build our bed and then come take care of Cassidy’s.” 

Agreeing that was a good idea, the rest of the day was getting the basics together. By the time dinner rolled around, Andy had insisted on ordering a few pizzas and you agreed tiredly. Andy eased a hand over your shoulder and to the back of your neck, massaging gently while you let your head fall forward, breathing in deeply. “How about you take a shower? I will get dinner handled. By the time you come back down, it should be already.” 

“You really don't mind Andy?” You ask, and he gives a shake of the head, kissing your forehead he eased you towards the stairs. 

“Baby, I insist.” He winked at you, and you gave a nod while heading up the stairs. The allure of a hot shower and getting into your ultimate comfort clothes you already pulled out and were on the bed just sounded like the best thing you've ever heard. 

Grabbing your towels and a washcloth from a box, you wandered into the master bathroom. This was the first time you’ve had a bathroom all for just the two of you, and you couldn't help but feel like this was truly living. Soon the hot water was going, and you were stepping into the shower, humming happily to yourself. 

Downstairs Andy had made the call for a few pizzas after googling for a local restaurant. He went to check on John and Cassidy to find that they had found a board game and were making up their own version. Jacob, he could hear music playing up in his room. You were in the shower and he would be taking one soon as everyone was fed and the little ones put in bed. All in all a good day he thought. Going back to the kitchen, he searched out for plates, and took care of a few more dishes. It wasn't long till the doorbell rang. “Coming.” Andy called out while checking to be sure he had his wallet on him for a tip to whomever was delivering that night. 

He opened the door to find a teenager warily standing on the bottom step, looking up at the house. Jumping a bit when he heard Andy open the door, he went up the stairs and held the boxes out. “Been a while since anyone has came out here.” 

Andy took the pizzas and set them just inside the door on a small table and then dug out his wallet to pull out a tip. “Oh yea, is that so?” Not really giving the kid’s words much thought, but he ended up continuing regardless of Andy’s uninterested tone. 

“Yea, last time anyone came out was before that night.” He took the tip, and pocketed it. “You know about the night, right?” 

Andy shuffled a bit, wanting to close the door. “Yes, we were made aware before we moved in.” 

The teenager just continued. “Yup, all five of them were in their beds. I knew Ronnie, he was a lot older than me, but he was cool. Can't believe he took a rifle and just shot them all. Guess you just never know what people are capable of.” 

Now Andy was done, and snapped out. “No I guess not. Bye.” Stepping back, he let the door shut firmly and flipped the lock, gathering the pizzas to take to the kitchen. What the kid said unsettled him. But he shook it off before addressing John and Cassidy. “Are you hungry, Kids?” 

A thud of feet sent Cassidy and John racing into the kitchen, and Andy simply sent a message from his phone to Jacob upstairs, knowing it would be faster than going up to knock on his door. Grabbing plates, Andy looked at the two littlest ones. 

“Okay kids, I got… anchovy and extra anchovy. What do you want.” He grinned innocently at them, and they both made funny faces at him in disgust. 

“Cheese?” John asked hopefully. Andy popped open the top, and showed off a cheese pizza. Peeling off a slice and plating it, Cassidy reached for the plate. 

“Andy, can you add an extra slice for Jody? They say they want a piece.” Cassidy hummed and Andy indulged her, putting on a second slice. 

“Who’s Jody Kiddo?” Andy questioned as he also handed over paper towels for napkins. 

“My friend. But you can't see them. They don’t like grownups although I told them you were nice.” She said as if it was everyday and John rolled his eyes at her 

“You're so weird Cass, Jody isn't real.”  John snickered as he reached for a piece and bit off the end while Andy handed a plate over to him to use.

“Is to! Jody says boys like you are mean.” Cassidy cried out and then the siblings stuck their tongues out at each other and Andy was quick to jump in. 

 “Hey hey hey, John don't pick on your sister. Cass, Please just tell Jody not to make a mess.”

Jacob came in the room, following his nose to the scent of pizza. “Who’s Jody?” 

Andy moved aside the cheese to the pizza with toppings underneath he knew Jacob would prefer. “Jody is Cass’s friend.” Cassidy took a bite of her pizza and gave Jacob a nod, and the teenager nodded in understanding. Picking out a slice of pepperoni. “Ya know, I had a friend like that.” 

“You did?” John asked, suddenly on board with the imaginary friends cause Jacob seemed okay with it. Andy went to find a couple wine glasses while listening to Jacob recall the story of his imaginary friend Stan the Man. Andy had to smile at the memory of Jacob and Stan the Man, his son had insisted he was taller then the house but could shrink down to his size in order to play. Laurie had been a bit concerned about how often Jacob had talked about him, but Andy wasn’t. Pulling out a bottle of wine, he opened it up and checked the time, figuring you would be down pretty soon.

Upstairs you were finishing your shower, your head tilted back into the spray and fingers scrubbing out your conditioner when you happened to look towards the showers curtain and saw what looked like Andy standing there. “Andy? You trying to sneak in with me for a few minutes?” You rubbed the water from your face, expecting to hear an answer. 

“Andy?” You looked again and the shape moved like they were about to get in, but there still isn't an answer. 

“Are the kids okay? Andy?” you frowned and went to move the curtain, to open it and when you looked around it, there was nothing. No one was standing there, the door was still shut, and you could feel your heart race a bit. You suddenly didn't want to be there anymore when your chest tightened in discomfort, you knew you saw someone on the other side of the curtain, and was sure of it. A chill ran up your spine and you hurriedly rushed to turn the water off and get out. Drying off, you hurried off into the bedroom, completely missing the whisper of your name as well as a figure moving out of the fogged up mirror, leaving behind the word ‘Catch ‘em, Kill ‘em’ streaked through the condensation. 

Dressing, you made your way downstairs to see everyone Andy and Jacob laughing about something while picking at toppings of their pizza slices to pop in their mouth,  the kids sitting at the table, legs swinging as they peeled off bits of cheese. You approached to peek in the box, grabbing a piece of pepperoni, and Andy hugged you from behind, his beard tickling your neck as he hummed against your ear. 

“Feel better Mrs.Barber?” 

“I will feel better if there is a glass of wine with my name on it.” You chuckled and he was quick to hand you one. Sipping from it, you set it aside and turned in his arms, cupping his face in your hands. “Now I’m much better, thank you.” Tilting up you gave him an affectionate kiss, John and Cassidy making eww noises and Andy chuckled against your lips at them. 

“Man, we're trying to eat. Take it to your room.” Jacob joked from the other side of the counter, and Andy gave a smug look at his son. “We probably will later.” Jacobs scowl had you covering your mouth in a laugh and you finally reached for a slice of pizza, nipping at the tip.  

Dinner was eaten, and after Jacob goes to his room, and the kids are in bed all tucked in, you go to the bedroom with wine glass in hand, Andy is stretched out on the bed to relax for the first time that day. You set your wine glass aside on the dresser, and go to work on hanging Andy’s suits in the closet before going to lay down, unsettled a bit as you look towards the bathroom. 

“Andy, you didn’t happen to come into the bathroom when I was in there, did you?” 

He looked up from his phone with a curious furrow to his brow. “No, I was downstairs with the kids the whole time. Why?” 

You shrug as you hang another suit up, coming out of the closet and picking up another. “I just thought I saw someone in the bathroom, and when I opened the curtain, nothing. I think I'm just over tired.” you admitted, and he opens his mouth to say something when your phone rings. You turn away to go back in the closet, and Andy stretches out to grab it off your side of the night stand. He doesn't bother to see who it is, but swipes his thumb across the answer button while keeping an eye on you. 

“Barber residence?” 

You are humming while fixing the suits so they don't wrinkle. 

“Of course, here she is.” He lowered the phone and “Y/N, it's your mom.” 

You brighten when you hear who it is, and flick off the light to the closet. You swear you hear a muffled growl behind you, and turn towards the sound with a frown when Andy gets your attention once more. “You have to tell her to stop gushing over me baby.” He winks teasing as he rolls up off the bed, and you scoff at him with a smack to his chest while taking the phone. Tumbling on the bed and getting comfy, you raise the phone to your ear. “Hey mom! Yes, we're all settled, kids are in bed, but you call tomorrow, you can skype with them. They would love to see you.” 

Andy feels a chill up his neck and he rubs at his arms, lowering to settle his hand over the heating grate. It feels like a heavy draft coming through and he glances up at you, mouthing. “You feel chilly babe?” 

You shake your head in a no while still listening to your mother. “Oh mom, you will love it. Plenty of room for you to come stay as well. Maybe at Christmas time? We have the most perfect family room for a good big family Christmas.” 

Andy heads out of the room while you're on the phone, sure the heater in the basement isn't turned on even though he knew that he had someone come in before to turn all of it on to get ready for them. Quick to go down to the first floor, he went into the kitchen and flicked on the basement light. 

The lights flickered several times like they were about to go out. Once it became steady, he went down the creaking stairs and rubbed his hand against his arms looking around the dimly lit basement. Basements always felt awkward. He knew there wouldn't be anything to be necessarily scared of, but they always seemed hidden away from sight, where secrets of the house might be kept. Even now when peering into the dark corners of the interior, he shivered in distrust of the shadows. 

Andy it's just a basement. He would scold himself as he crossed the icy cement floor, and tried to ignore what he thought was his imagination. 

A shadow shifted, darker than the shadows of normal for an old house. It stalked along behind the man. Andy went over to the heating system, a state of the art boiler system that was almost brand new, having been installed when the previous owners updated the house. 

Now Andy wasn't any expert in heaters, so when he squatted down, he looked along the switches, that all appeared to be in the on position, which he flicked anyways. He also leaned down to see the pilot light was still on, which it flickered reassuringly when he peeked. 

He leaned back up with a frown, and while he was sitting there on the cold basement floor, a bone chilling coldness stabbed him in the back, paralyzing his spine, and the hair on Andy's body bristled as he heard something shuffle behind him. His chest ached in a panic that made breathing  almost impossible. A dread settled on him, sunk from his shoulders and down through his body. 

This must be what a condemned man must feel like. 

His eyes squeezed shut and he fought to turn around. He had to turn around, see what was coming for him. Andy felt it come closer, the air around him freezing cold that he felt it burn with each breath that he inhaled and released. Could feel something hover near the back of his neck, like it was just about to reach out and snatch his life. Rational thought had gone into hiding, now was just the sudden fear for his soul, and he whipped around suddenly when he broke from it to see nothing. 

Absolutely nothing was behind him. 

Cursing as he gasped in relief, the memory of impending death turning into fear and scolding himself for being afraid of nothing, he pulled himself up off the floor to a stand. Andy’s heart was still racing as if it was going to crash out of his chest cavity, but he ignored it while he slammed the panel shut, and looked to see one of the heating ducts. Pressing his hand against it, a sudden hum came and a rush of warm air breezed against his palm. 

“Fucking finally” He growled, and started to make his way back upstairs, what Andy missed was the hissing from the duct work, barely audible. “Catch ‘em, Kill ‘em.” As he started up the stairs, he shivered again and a racking cough exploded from his chest out of nowhere. 

The shadow seemed to crouch further in its hiding place with a flash of red orbs before swirling away into nothingness. 

He continued coughing as he went up the stairs, weariness coming over him. When he went into the bedroom, You sat up with a teasing look on his face. “Get that heater running Andy?” 

Settling on the end of the bed, he started to peel off his shirt, and you scooted over, rubbing at his back while kissing the back of his neck. “Mmhh, yes I did Y/N. Can we not tonight Love?” He looked over his shoulder and smiled weakly. “Not feeling my best tonight.” 

You pulled back with understanding, and ran your hand down his back and nodded. “Of course Baby, long day.” 

Andy eased back and opened his arms for you to settle in. Your head went on his shoulder, and soon he coughed hard, pulling away from you to lay on his side. Frowning in worry, you settle into your spot and fall asleep.

Once he fell asleep, Andy did nothing but dream awful dreams all night. Dreams filled with him staring at you at the end of a rifle, finger on the trigger to ease it back with a click. Images of Jacob, John and Cassidy running away from him to race into bedrooms and slam the door shut on him. Something cackling from the walls, constantly whispering “Catch ‘em, Kill ‘em” till Andy was trying to smother the sound under his palms. Waking with a jerk, he doubled over in the early morning light, coughing again and shivering in the cold.

[c-c-cherry]

Jojos Doing Jojo Things (with each other)✨😌

*sweating as the part 5 hc asks start piling up in my inbox*

 *looks at the one that mentions Jonathan*

Hello~~ I’m sorry for being criminally inactive here, I forgot during that long 6 month lockdown that I actually had a real life outside of the internet and now I have to go do real life things?? Instead of doing nothing but writing?? Crimes, I tell you.

I love the idea of Jonathan interacting with all the other jojos so I thought I’d take a little break from part 5 whump headcanons to fulfill this one :D SO HERE’S SOME SELF-INDULGENT HEADCANONS ABOUT JONATHAN DOING FUN LITTLE ACTIVITIES WITH THE OTHER JOJOS BECAUSE I KNOW WE ALL NEED IT RIGHT NOW😭😭😭

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Joseph (lets say Youngseph in this case because shhh)

-Hear me out but KNITTING

-Let this man do some nice calm things please

-Joseph has absolutely no way to connect with Jonathan. Like. Nothing.

-He doesn’t see the two of them as anything alike even though they both have the star, and when it comes to connecting with such a righteous, nice dude he’s a bit :/ about it

-He also doesn’t want to do anything stupid (In his words.) He hates baking, he’s never been into reading and school, and the two can never really click with sports

-Our man Jonathan has searched his heart and soul for something to bring the two of them together but Joseph is always just not into it >:(

-He’s almost given up on connecting at all BUT—

-One thing they do have in common? Erina.

-BOOM. Johnny-boy suddenly has ideas >:)

-Joseph is really put off when Jonathan shows up with a ball of yarn and needles and in the most innocent way possible he’s like “I have something to show you ^-^”

-the first thing Joseph thinks is NO FUCKING WAY. If Caesar or his mother or anyone caught him fucking knitting he’d never be able to live it down

-So instead he just watches as Jonathan sits by the fire, and it looks really boring at first but he just starts going at it

-And of course the gears start turning and all his brain sees is “fast task?? task I can be good at? something quick my hands can do??”

-And Jonathan looks up to take a break to see Joseph perched on the edge of the chair in complete awe, but the moment he asks if he wants to know how to do it, Joseph gets really withdrawn :/

The rest of their conversation goes a little like this:

“Isn’t that meant for girls?”

“Why would hats and scarves be only for girls?”

“But its—”

“You know...I’m making Erina a matching hat and scarf for her birthday. I could use a little help with the scarf…”

“...”

“We can make it a race.”

And with a fire lighting in his eyes, Joseph accepts the contest even though he has no idea what he’s doing. But isn’t that what he does best?

-Needless to say, he becomes obsessed.

-When his greatest fear comes true and Caesar finds out, he’s too obsessed to care about the teasing

-Joseph is good at something that Caesar isn’t. Caesar is jealous. Caesar picks up knitting.

-Are knitting contests even a thing?? I don’t care because Joseph and Caesar could probably open a fucking etsy shop with all the stuff they make (and absolutely shamelessly at that)

-Anytime they meet someone new it's immediately “which hat is better?” “Joseph’s is worse, right?” “Can you start the stopwatch for us?”

-Even in his older years, he never actually stopped making things for Holy, Suzi, and even sometimes Jotaro (thought Joot wouldn’t be caught dead wearing any of it in public)

-He actually progresses past knitting and making clothes in general becomes a secret passion of his

-The hat he’s wearing in part 4? He definitely made that. And don’t even think he doesn’t send Josuke the tackiest shit in the mail

Jonathan is very proud :)

Jotaro

-Animals. Is that even a question?

-Jonathan was always more of a dog or cat person, but the moment he finds out that Jotaro’s interested in marine life? MAN GOES ALL OUT

-He not only researches the shit out of marine biology just so he can hold up a conversation with him, but he also buys A SHIT TON OF BOOKS for his favourite angst man

-We all know that Jotaro isn’t exactly a man of words, but his heart is touched when they exchange a few sentences and Jonathan shows up the next day with a book all about what they were talking about🥺

-Like—Jonathan was always scolded for never listening to his father, but when it comes to stuff like this, Jotaro swears he’s able to read his mind

-Most people can barely get him to utter a sentence, but when these two are alone they’ll talk for hours about the ocean

-Holy was actually pretty worried for a while that Jotaro rarely ever opened up to anyone, but after seeing the two of them talk it was like a weight lifted off her shoulders :)

-They go on trips all the time to study water life. First, it's just to the river a few minutes away. Then they start going out to the lake nearby, and then they’re suddenly borrowing Joseph’s private boat and going on all these “research trips” together

-Which just consist of Jotaro taking hundreds of pictures and surprisingly never shutting up about what he sees (which is definitely a first)

-They pass by snooty, rich fishermen all the time who make fun of them for only looking at the animals, and Jonathan secretly uses Hamon to attract the fish to anywhere but where the fishers are lol

-I can blame snipster on instagram for introducing me to Smiletaro but the pure happiness and smiles of happy Joot on this boat with Jonathan is like a DRUG

-Star Platinum is absolutely thrilled, and when Jonathan realizes that Star is an amazing artist, he actually buys the stand a cute little purple notebook to draw all the ocean life they come across :3

-The moment they get back to shore Jotaro’s all -_- again around people, but you can still see the excitement in his eyes if you look hard enough

-When he gets into school for marine biology, Jonathan is so fucking proud

-This is an au which means anything can happen so I formally declare that Jonathan definitely got Jotaro those golden dolphin-shaped coat pins when the man first goes off to Uni

-He wears them as a good luck charm :3

Josuke

-Josuke is soooo easy to get along with, especially since both of them are such warm people :)

-Jonathan figures that it wouldn’t be hard to find something fun to do together, but when he actually thinks about it...he really knows nothing about what Josuke likes to do

-He ends up just asking the kid next time they see each other, and they end up just agreeing to teach each other one thing the other doesn’t know

-Because the power of KNOWLEDGE BABYYY

-Josuke shows up the next day with an entire fucking Nintendo 64 and is absolutely set on teaching him how to play something

-Erina just kinda watches like 👁👄👁 as Josuke plugs it in and Jonathan is confused but also SUPER EXCITED because he barely even knows what a video is but there are also video games??

-After much internal debate, Josuke decides on Ocarina of Time because he’s worried Jonathan will have a fucking heart attack if they play something like Mario Kart

-Also he thinks Jojo would enjoy the whole “righteous hero coming of age” archetype thing because,,,you know,,,

-They start it up and immediately Jonathan is like WHAT and has no idea how to play and dies in ways that Josuke didn’t even know were possible, but they somehow make it to the first temple with a lot of help from Josuke

-Right before the boss fight, his mom pulls up like “bitch we gotta go come on” so Josuke sees no harm in leaving the system at Jonathan’s and coming back next week

-Oho,,,ohohooo,,,

-He comes back a week later to a dark house,,,Erina’s off on some trip, and he can hear the faintest “HYAH!” coming from the living room

-He walks in to find Jonathan in the exact same spot he left him, ALL OTHER SAVE FILES ARE COMPLETE, and he’s in some obscure location doing a side quest Josuke didn’t even know existed

-Turns out he’s really good at quest games

-After Josuke realizes that Jonathan’s managed to beat the game more than once, he asks if he wants to try out another game

-To which Jonathan replies: “There’s MORE?”

.

-Aside from giving Jonathan a crippling video game addiction, Josuke also learns a vital thing about Jonathan Joestar

-Hamon ^-^

-Josuke’s a little surprised that Jonathan can even see his stand, and Jonathan has no other way to explain it than that it must be connected to his Hamon somehow

-To which Josuke is like “what” and Jonathan realizes that his stupid fucking grandson decided not to tell ANY OTHER Joestar about Hamon

-He’s no Zeppeli, but he could try and teach him...even if it didn’t work, it would still be a nice bonding activity

-When Jonathan finds out that Josuke’s stand ability is revolved around healing, he’s overjoyed because he might have a better chance

-They start small with breathing exercises and meditation, which eventually lead to Jonathan trying to teach Josuke how to make things like flowers

-Since it doesn’t exactly come naturally to Josuke, things don’t exactly work out,,,but both are unsurprisingly happy when Josuke manages to make a single flower bloom :3

-It’s not much, but it’s there and it honestly makes Josuke feel much better knowing that he could eventually learn how to heal himself, too :)

Giorno

-Jonathan considered teaching Giorno Hamon a while ago, but he realized that his stand already has the properties of Hamon, if not just in a more humanoid form

-And when Jojo puts two and two together that he and his son can both grow a lot of plant life, he has the perfect idea

-Garden buddies!!!! :D

-They grow everything you could possibly think of, and to top it all off, Giorno fills the garden with all this animal life :)

-When it comes to biology, Giorno never shuts up about it. He’s the quietest kid when it comes to virtually anything else but prepare for MAJOR info dumps about frogs and his vast knowledge of flowers

-Speaking of flowers, them just sitting and growing them together and talking about all of their favourites? Yes please

-Although they love to accelerate plant growth, there’s one patch in the middle of the garden that they’re determined to grow naturally

-Also them growing and eating carambola (star fruit) together because it’s my pocket dimension that makes no sense and I get to decide what fun fruits the Joestars get to eat together

-the garden becomes a great place for picnics and outings and the best place to go when things get too chaotic

-Giorno starts a plant journal where he records everything that ends up growing there, and Jonathan starts impulse buying all these flower guide books so they can look at pictures of them and put their favourites in the garden :3

-They end up creating a little pond in the middle of everything, and Giorno puts a whole bunch of frogs and fish in it and it's all very tranquil and calm and nice :))

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I was gonna do part 6 (maybe part 7 too?) but mental energy? I don’t know her, sorry y’all :(

Feel free to add on though!! I wanna see what y’all would think Jonathan would wanna do with Jolyne or anyone else I missed :D My first thought for Jolyne was Rugby because Jonathan was a rugby KING and I feel like she’d be really good at it lmao

[lipstickbisous]

sʟᴇᴇᴘᴏᴠᴇʀ! sʟᴇᴇᴘᴏᴠᴇʀ! sʟᴇᴇᴘᴏᴠᴇʀ!

okay so let’s get into some song character scenarios!!! 🎼💗💫 ps: i’m sending this to you again because I don’t think you got it the first tim ro sent it :( but super srry if i’m sending it twice! 🥺💗

rules || you listen to the song and based on the characters I give you m, place a simple scenario for each and everyone!

song || mirrored heart by fka twigs

characters || ransom drysdale, andy barber, steve rogers

scenario’s per character || you pick! 💕💕💕

omg wait but the fact that i played this song on repeat for a whole month 🥺🥺🥺💞💞and i didn’t get two of these i think the first just got lost!! 💘💘 also i did nottt watch defending jacob 😬 so ima make it up for andy

warnings: angst!! all of these have angst, one has a briefff mention of sex and the other is just a reg mention

RANSOM DRYSDALE

“it’s all for the lovers trying to fuck away the pain.”

it’s just one more hard thrust and he’ll bring you both to an overdue climax. in the moment that ransom has, just a split-second to think to himself, he does just that. while he’s buried inside you, your face pressed against a pillow to suppress any noises—although they drove ransom wild—he thought to himself.

was there any reasoning for what he was doing? most likely not, but if he were to confess any feelings he had, ransom was sure you’d never show your face around him again. rightfully so, since you knew who he was and was smart enough to stay away. but that didn’t you couldn’t have a few nights of fun. ransom had agreed and you’d even offered to form a contract as a joke, but he had only grumbled in response and was quick to start stripping you of your clothes.

there was a physical pain in his chest whenever his mind would flash to you. was knowing that you could never be his supposed to hurt? never having been loved himself or having to show love to anyone else, so perhaps that part was a bit frightening to him.

ransom was literally and metaphorically fucked. here you were, naked in all of your glory, in front of him like it was nothing. the most beautiful woman on the planet and he wasn’t supposed to fall in...love? fuck, that.

he pushes his lips towards yours, engulfing your moan into his throat and silencing any sounds you could make in protest. there weren’t any signs of affection to be shown when you two were together because there was no affection—supposedly. ransom doesn’t break the kiss either. he pushes the last thrust, spilling himself inside you and letting himself reveal a groan that came deep from his chest. it was strange to hear any sort of noise come from him considering that he always kept silent during these midnight meetings you two had.

his lips were still connected to yours—you weren’t exactly complaining but it wasn’t how you were planning your night to go—until he pulled himself away from you. the air that hit your skin when he distanced himself was cold and you slightly shivered, but it was soon replaced by the heat of his naked chest. you didn’t budge underneath him.

instead, you wrapped your arms around his neck and held him close while he sobbed, because ransom knew that the feeling was unrequited.

ANDY BARBER

“though i’m probably gonna think about you all the time.”

his fingers were delicately wrapped around a pen, holding the ballpoint inches away from the paper. two seconds of his time, a small scribble, and no more were you his. no more nights of holding each other until sleep came, no more breakfasts in bed, no more sudden vacations to the woods or the lake.

andy has lost his son and wife. and somehow—in the midst of his alcohol-induced rants and panicked episodes—he had found you. a rock to find comfort and shelter on in the middle of an unforgiving ocean. that’s what you were.

it was almost cathartic really. you were some sort of therapeutic relief to him and he was just lucky you loved him back. never, never could he replace jacob, andy wouldn’t even try. and it pained him to even think about replacing laurie, but you were so much than a replacement. you were something incredibly new to him that andy felt...young again.

and now, you had jsut filed for a divorce. gone, just like laurie and just like jacob. hed proposed in a silly way but you knew that with given history he wouldn’t offer much and it was enough for you. you weren’t a girl that needed everything in the world—as long as you had a man who was loyal and loving, a home to live in, and a job that paid well, you couldn’t ask for more.

so why were you leaving him? wasn’t he that loyal and loving man?

his hand was frozen above the paper and your lawyer cleared her voice, bringing andy back to the sick reality he was growing tired of. jacob would’ve been about 20 now. laurie would still be his wife. he never would’ve met you and everything would he just fine.

but andy didn’t regret one part of it.

STEVE ROGERS

“they just remind me i’m without you.”

he was with her now and that was all that was important. he had lived a lifetime, hopefully cherished it, and although she had passed long ago by now, he still had children, grandchildren even, to tell his story to.

you were with no one and that didn’t seem important at all. your steve was no longer yours and there was nothing you could do. he was a wrinkle-eyed man with white hair and a quakey voice. you were a young girl and you were now alone.

at first, you had refused to speak to him. but it was strange to see a man you loved with all your heart one second, and then the next to see him with eyes full of experience. steve had lived his life, only it was with someone else and that shattered your heart. he seemed kind and wise in your conversation, and hed even held your hand, but it wasn’t the same. it wasn’t the way he’d held it after a long mission or when you came back after 5 years. he held it like a grandfather watching over you.

you’d tried to pursue others. he had even encouraged it and when you had your second conversation, he asked if you had met anyone. you tried to tell him yes, but how stupid of you to think that steve rogers—a man you loved for years and knew by heart—would see through a lie.

in all honesty, you didn’t want love anymore. you didn’t want a relationship with anyone and you were perfectly content with being by yourself. you didn’t even want steve, but it still hurt to think that there was a woman he loved more.

ergo, the mindless nights spent with someone else in your bed. you would either be high off of a joint, drunk off of wine, or completely sober, but it was a strict rule that your guest would always leave before nine in the morning. and the best part was that steve didn’t need to know about your reckless behavior. he was happy living in a suburban home, sitting on his front poarch, reading a book or drinking tea.

but no one was steve rogers to you. no man touched you like he did or even treated you like he did. two years after he’d returned gray-haired, you received an invitation...to a funeral. and if that wasn’t the worst day of your life, you weren’t sure what was. but it was on that day, that you realized you would truly never see your steve. no more cuddles in the avengers compound with the young him or walks throughout his new neighborhood with the old him.

he was truly, irrevocably gone.

[the-hopeless-haze]

Someone to Know You Too Well (Being Alive Chapter 5)

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Read on Archive

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of domestic violence & homophobia

It’s easy again between the two of you when you come back from Massachusetts, but it isn’t the same. You’re in a much better mood, and Rafael’s glad you went, especially because you come back with good news about your brother - he should be finishing his GED in the fall.

But just because things are good - it doesn't mean Rafael is calm. On the contrary, that makes him even more nervous. Good things don't have the habit of sticking around.

But for whatever reason, you are.

Spring turns into summer - where did the time go? - and you’re always dragging him to the beach when your schedules permit. You seem to be more in your element there than anywhere else he’s ever seen you, what with the sun causing your skin to glisten with sweat and saltwater, the hot wind blowing your hair, the permanent smile on your face. He learns that your father used to have a summer house in the Cape where you spent your summers until he sold it after the divorce, but your love for the water never faded. And apparently your father’s never did, either, as his new house with his new wife resides on a lake. But the ocean is much more turmoiled than a lake is, and if Rafael were more of a poet, maybe he’d draw some resemblances between you and the ocean, but that’s overwrought. The world didn’t need another hackneyed poem about why his troubled object of affection reminded him of the waves. Clichéd comparisons aside, he can see why you love it so much.

Rafael isn’t as opposed to these dates as one might assume. Maybe it’s his Cuban heritage; in his blood after his ancestors spent so long working and living by the sea on that godforsaken island that betrayed them, but he feels a sort of kinship with the ocean, too. You tease him the first time you see him in shorts and sandals, saying you half-expected him to show up in his three-piece. He didn’t tell you, but he comes to the beach alone quite often, or there’s always yacht parties where he can nurse a glass of scotch, just keeping score between all the married couples there; who cheated on who, what wife wanted nothing more than to divorce her husband, what husband was calling their wife a bitch... Most days, he prefers the precinct for company over the stuffy culture law school brought him into...he swears marriage makes people crazy. It made his mother miserable, his father wrathful.

And maybe one could argue that his mother had an inclination for melancholy or that his father was just a mean-spirited man regardless. But the marriage vows certainly brought out the worst in both of them. An ill-fit, sure, but they’d thought it would work out when they met each other, didn’t they?

Another reason he’s anxious is that the squad is getting closer to figuring it out by the day. Rafael is good at concealing his emotions, he thinks, but it’s difficult to hide anything in a room full of some of the best detectives in New York City. Sometimes he even catches Olivia looking at him differently when he glances discreetly at you - and he’s dreading the day he gets the chewing out he deserves.

And third - you start remembering things he says. It’s almost frightening. Of course.... you had to have a good memory for the spoken word - you couldn’t take notes on everything a witness said. But still.

You remember dishes he orders in restaurants and attempt to recreate them in his kitchen. You bring him coffee, just the way he likes it, on your days off that he’s on, or sometimes you manage to sneak away to bring it to him during your breaks. You know he likes you in red and green and blue, bright, vivid colors that bring out the colors of your eyes and hair, and you make sure to wear them. Sometimes he thinks you’re psychic, or you have some kind of womanly sixth sense; because oftentimes you’ll wear the same color of his tie. One time Carisi even made a comment that the two of you were going to prom together, and you’d swatted him on the arm but smirked at Rafael the way you did; when you knew you had him down cold.

And maybe you did.

But you didn’t know everything about him, yet, how could you? It’d only been four months.

Rafael's hands tremble at the thought of telling you what was on his mind. He needs some liquid courage if he's going to tell you anything. He's had awful conversations with women concerning this topic, and he's prepared for tonight to go wrong, too, you screaming at him with tears running down your cheeks, and then work, oh, work would be a living hell. Maybe he'd transfer to another district. Jesus Christ, he couldn't handle that again, so soon. Maybe it was best to keep quiet. Maybe this is why he shouldn't have been so stupid to date a detective in his district, in a unit he worked closely with. What if this did go wrong? It was hard, being able to see each other outside of work sometimes, and it was hell trying to hide it from the SVU, but god, he'd miss you if you left even if he wasn't entirely ready to commit to you.

But you deserved to know, didn't you?

"Hey, Rafi? You doing alright there?" Your voice cuts in, clear as a bell, the way it always did when he lost himself in thought.

"Yeah, uh, I'm fine," he says, loosening his tie and taking it off. You were cooking again, fish, and it smelled heavenly, and god, he didn't want to lose this but he didn't want to tell you either and by not telling you, he could lose you. Weren't you supposed to know your partner? Did you really know him if you didn't know these things?

"You sure? You look like you're nervous," you say, an edge in your voice. God, did you think... maybe you thought he was going to break up with you. Fuck.

"Yeah. I'm nervous. Okay?" he snaps, but he doesn't mean to. He takes another sip of his scotch.

"Why the hell are you nervous? Afraid of some broccoli?" you joke, but your smile doesn't meet your eyes. He'd scared you. Fuck, he was such an idiot.

"I need to talk to you. Okay?" God, why couldn't he be normal like you and just spit it out?

"Okay. Then talk. But if you want me to leave I'll just get out. I don't need to hear the reasons why," you say, turning back to the food.

"No!" Rafael gets up quickly, hugging you from behind. "No. I don't... that's not what I want to talk about. No. This is going good, better than I thought it would."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Fuck me. I keep talking myself in circles," he mutters under his breath.

You turn around, but he keeps his hands around your waist. You're close, and he pecks your lips. You chuckle. "You're a dork. Just spit it out, Rafi."

"I don't want... I don't want this to turn into a fight."

"I don't either, whatever it is. But I need to turn the fish over or your smoke alarm's gonna go off," you say. “Hang on a minute.”

He grips the counter for support and he hates you so much, it’s rage he’s feeling now, and he has to swallow it down, tell himself this was good for him, this was happening for a reason, and that you were different the men and women that had walked out on him before. Or what about those he’d never felt close enough to tell? That was a longer list.

You finish the fish in a few minutes, tell him the potatoes are going to be a few more in the oven, and you start the broccoli on the stove.

“Okay. Talk to me. I’m listening,” you say, smiling at him, but he can tell you’re still scared, still wondering what he’s going to say.

“I’m bisexual,” he blurts out, and he doesn’t know if it would’ve been better if he beat around the bush.

You’re silent for a few seconds, then you smile at him. “Oh, honey, that was it? I thought it was something bad. Jesus, you scared the hell out of me, Rafi,” you say and hug him tight. He hugs you back, somewhat in awe of your reaction.

“You... you... don't care?"

“Rafael, I'm honestly offended that you think I'd be that prejudiced. Of course it doesn't bother me.” You pull away, still holding onto his arms, looking at him that way you did now, that look that doesn’t feel too different from a punch in the gut. "Why did you think I would be upset?"

Rafael shrugs, still at a loss for words.

“Well... for the record, I’ve hooked up with a woman, you know,” you say, turning back to the broccoli.

“Y-you have?” Well, that was a surprise.

“Yeah. I don’t know if I’d ever date a woman, but... I gave it the college try, had experiences. It was fun. It was a coping mechanism if you think about it too much, but it helped me, I think,” you say, and shrug, turning to your side to better face him as you sauté the broccoli. “I mean...we were friends in college. And she took her time with me, you know...in ways college boys wouldn’t.”

“Mm,” Rafael says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “Bet she did.”

You blush beet red, laughing nervously. “That’s not what I meant... although, yes... she was thorough. But no. I meant she respected me and didn’t get upset when I wasn't ready to put out, you know? She let me set the pace and she was the first person I’d been with that gave me that. But... anyway... enough about that. I really appreciate that you trust me enough to tell me. Do you feel better?” you ask, looking up at him.

He nods. “Believe it or not, you’re the only woman that hasn’t flipped out on me when I said this.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. No one should feel that way about that.” You lean up, kissing his cheek.

Yelina was the first woman he told, and she didn’t take it well. Immediately, she flew off the handle, accusing him of wanting to leave her for a man - but there was no man. It was just something he'd come to terms with after fighting with himself for so long, and he wanted her to know because he thought he loved her. But he backtracked for her, he pled with her, they both cried, and their hour-long phone conversation ended with Rafael saying that he was just confused, and wasn't really bisexual. He’d never felt more lost in his entire life than when he hung up the phone that night, and it took him a long time to be assured of his sexuality in the same way as he was before he called her.

Some of the women were better than others, but he hadn’t told all of them and he’d never been met with outright acceptance...until you. And maybe it’s a byproduct of the politics of your generation or your own dalliances in same-sex affairs... but whatever it is... you’re still taking him in with open arms, and he feels like he doesn't deserve that.

“You hungry? It’s all set.”

“Yeah. It smells great, (y/n),” he says, his mouth watering at the potatoes you pull out of his oven. God, who knew how good an apartment could smell when you used it to cook?

He has memories of his abuelita cooking, of his mother, but he never stayed in the room and watched them work. His father always said it was a woman’s job, and it went on the long list of things he could never forgive him for. Watching you cook, he realizes it’s an expression of caring and that his father had ignored the league of male chefs there were in the world in support of a chauvinist ideology. Rafael wishes he could cook more than his embarrassing repertoire of eggs, grilled cheese, and boxed macaroni; he wishes he could do something for you.

He swallows it down. This was too much too soon, wasn’t it? What was he doing?

He doesn't have any idea. A relationship should tie you down to the earth, make you remember you inhabit it, but he's been in his head far too much lately. So dinner is quiet, almost painfully so, because he can't stop the thoughts racing through his head and manage to make conversation with you.

Evidently, you realize that too, kissing him deeply after you both cleaned up the kitchen. "Are you okay, honey? You still seem stressed."

"I'm fine." God, you calling him “honey” went right through him. No one really ever used pet names on him before, probably because he was too stiff. How did you know the simple use of that melted him to the core, made him momentarily forget his reservations?

"You certainly don't seem fine. Did something happen at work?"

"Just stop," he murmurs, avoiding your gaze. Why did you care? Why should you care? You were starting to get too close for comfort - but god forbid you start pulling away.

But you do, physically, at least. You let go of his hand, and hurt flashes through your eyes. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No. But I don't want to talk, either."

"Rafael--"

"Don't."

"Okay," you nod, pursing your lips, and you take his hand back in yours. "Do you want me to just sit with you?"

He nods wordlessly, topping off your scotch glasses and meeting you on the couch. You don't touch him at first, but then you take his right hand back in both of yours, massaging through the cramps in his palm from writing scrawled notes on his legal pad. "You don't have to," he says quietly.

"I want to," you respond, pressing your lips to his cheek. "Let me take care of you. Turn around so I can massage your shoulders."

"(Y/n)..." he protests, but he has a feeling you know what he needs better than he does, so he doesn't argue with your firm glance.

You're tentative at first, but you find a rhythm, and he feels the tension dissipate as you work your hands across his shoulders and upper back, and all he can think is that he never did one thing in his life that would warrant this tenderness.

And then.... you run your hand across his side, featherlight, until he's chuckling in spite of himself. "Jesus, (y/n), stop it," he says through laughter as you tickle him with more intensity, your fingers skittering across his stomach.

"I think you should make me," you challenge.

And he's breathless, trying to catch your hands in his own, but he can't stop laughing, either, as he tries and fails to gain leverage against you. You dodge him every chance you get, but at this point, you can't tickle him as much you jab at his sides and stomach. Eventually, his fingers dig deep into the flesh of your waist, and you let out a shriek - and it's then that he enacts his revenge, his long fingers dancing across your thighs and up your stomach until he looks up at you. You're giggling and blushing, your hair splayed out across his couch... and you look back, your laughter slowing as he leans down to kiss you. All he intended was to brush his lips against yours, but your hand comes to the nape of his neck, and your tongue slips past his lips, and you're seemingly still intent on leaving him gasping for air. "Trying to kill me?" he pants, smirking against your lips as he pulls away.

"No. I just know you needed the laugh," you say. "I know you said you don't want to talk, Rafi, but I... I think you should. I want to listen."

Rafael sighs heavily, gently moving off you and helping you sit back up. "I lied to you,” he says softly, not meeting your eyes. “I lied. SVU is difficult at times... for more personal reasons. I didn't go through anything like what you had gone through and believe me... I'm not trying to draw comparisons. But..."

“It was your father, wasn’t it?” you ask softly.

Ah. You know. You read him like a book. He nods. “Yes. He wasn’t a good man.”

“I didn’t... I just, you rarely talk about him, and I just assumed there was a reason why.”

“There was.”

“Do you want to talk about it?"

Rafael nods, finding the strength to meet your eyes again. “He... he would hurt my mother. I didn’t face the brunt of the abuse, she did, for me. But he... if I... he’d hurt me, sometimes, too, hit me if I talked back. He’d never hurt me the way he hurt Mami, but he was abusive toward me as well. I spent a lot of time at my abuelita’s apartment because of this, and she is...she’s the best woman I know. She did all she could to keep me safe. Ultimately, though, in high school... I came out to my mother and her. They didn’t understand it, really, and gave me some good old Catholic shaming. I still loved them, even if it was hard at the time. They didn’t dare out me to my father. They didn’t know what he would do. Well... I had a boyfriend that last year of high school, and my father saw us... and... you can guess what happened.”

“I’m so sorry, Rafi,” you whisper, scooting closer to him.

“I had to go to the hospital,” he whispers, unable to fight the tears. It feels like something’s closing in on his throat. He takes your hand for support, running his thumb over your fingers. “He somehow managed to break one of my ribs. I... he kept saying, ‘I pay for Catholic school for you to end up being a faggot?’ And I... kept thinking, kept saying, ‘no, Padre, you don’t understand,’ kept begging him to stop. He didn’t until he heard my rib crack and... I think he understood, then, that he’d crossed a boundary. It was one thing to him to hurt his wife, he hated women, but his child, his only son? I never told my mother what happened, because it would’ve just worried her and I was terrified. I just... I just said someone at school beat me up. My father... he was never good to me or my mother, let that be clear, but after that, it was almost like he was ashamed, I guess, because I had something over his head that he knew my mother would leave him for. Anyway... he died about 15 years ago.”

You tuck your legs underneath you, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you say softly, kissing his cheek. “No one should have to go through that. Your mother is a strong woman, you know that right? Didn’t you tell me she runs a charter school now?”

“Yes. She does. Single-handedly, really. I owed it to her to make something of myself.”

“You did, Rafi, you did. I know she’s proud.”

“I hope so,” he mutters.

“You’re a better man than your father,” you murmur, rubbing his back. How did you know that was what he needed to hear? Even still, it didn’t feel real. What basis did you have for that?

“The jury is out on that one,” he mutters. “I haven’t had a child to destroy.”

You pull away from him, sit back on your side of the couch. “Rafael. Look at me.”

He exhales slowly, and does, meeting your concerned eyes, the ones all the victims that have come through your precinct have seen, and he hates that.

“Did it hold you back? Is that why you haven’t had children?”

Your voice is small like you almost don’t want to say it, don’t want to put a voice to it, and he wishes you didn’t, he wishes you stayed quiet. He leans back against the couch, a few silent tears leaving his eyes of their own volition.

But you knew him. You knew why. You’d hit the nail on the head once again.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, Rafael. Please,” you say, and he looks over at you to see your eyes welling up too. “It’s not my business. I’m sorry. D-don’t be mad at me.”

He doesn’t say anything, just leans over and grasps you in a hug. You start crying, murmuring your apology over and over again. Your whimpers in his ear could kill him if he let them. You pull away from him with shaky hands on his shoulders, gripping on his suspenders for support. “I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have—“

But he kisses you and he can feel your shock as your body tenses up against him. “Don’t you ever fucking say you’re stupid again,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You’re too smart for your own good.”

“Rafael, I overstepped.” You move your hands back to your lap.

“Maybe you did,” he shrugs, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeves. “But you were right.”

You’re silent. He can tell you feel guilty; you’re wringing your hands and only looking at him when he’s not looking at you.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says, and you visibly relax, leaning over to hug his waist. “I never realized it... until... this woman I dated, her name was Yelina. She wanted a whole white picket fence deal, lawyer husband, three kids, money. And I... I couldn’t give any of that to her at the time. I didn’t want to get married, I was terrified of having a wife. I didn’t want to have children... I was afraid I’d turn into my father and hurt them the way he hurt me. So she left me for my best friend at the time.”

“Oh, honey. You’ve had bad luck,” you say, your voice slightly muffled against the fabric of his shirt. You rub his back comfortingly. “She wasn’t a smart woman. Couldn’t she see you were in pain?”

“I...guess not. Maybe I didn’t even really know I was then. She wanted kids, marriage, all of that, right away, and we were young, then, younger than you. But she didn’t want to wait for me to work out my issues. I can't really blame her. I still haven’t now, so maybe she was right to leave me. Who she left me for... well, that didn’t exactly work out in her favor. I prosecuted him for child pornography about a year ago.”

“Ah. Perhaps she should have learned about delayed gratification before leaving you.”

Rafael chuckles at that. “Why are you saying that?”

“Look who you turned out to be. She knows she made the wrong choice now.”

“I don’t know about that. Maybe neither of us were the right one for her. I’m still my father’s son. I could still turn out...how I feared.”

“I don’t see that in you, Rafael,” you say softly.

“My mother didn’t see it in my father, either,” he says, rubbing his face with his hand. “Part of it is genetic. It has to be.”

“People throw down the deck that they’re dealt and demand a new one all the time,” you tell him. He wraps his arm around you.

“But do they get one?”

“I think so,” you say. “If they fight hard enough and they have the resources. Some of it is luck, no doubt... But you can.”

He feels guilty, because he knows you’re thinking of your brother, who can never outplay the cards he was dealt.

“Well, I guess I never wanted to play the game and risk it," he says bitterly.

“Well, what about now?”

“Who’s going to marry me now, have kids with me? I’m an old man. That ship has sailed,” he says, hating himself and you, a little. Maybe you’d leave now like Yelina did. You were young and pretty, and you could find a man closer to your age that would father your children if that’s what you wanted.

“Do you really believe that?” Your voice is small again, treading lightly. Maybe you were scared for your own future if you stayed with him. Maybe you should be.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he murmurs. He knows what he can’t believe: the fact that you’re still here, still holding onto him like your life depended on it. And you knew him, now, you knew what kept him up at night... and you were still here, acting like he was all you wanted.

“I just want you to know that I’ve been held back, too, Rafael. Abuse does that. I couldn’t have meaningful relationships with anyone for a while, and sex scared me. It still does, sometimes. You’re...you’re one of the few who’s waited this long for me to be ready and not gotten upset. I just want to thank you for that. And that’s how I know you’re not your father because from what you’ve told me, I don’t think he would’ve been as forgiving toward me. You can break the cycle, Rafi. You can if you want to.”

“You shouldn’t be thanking me for that. I’m not going to force you into doing something you’re not ready for.”

“Proving my point, Rafael,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Would your father have that same mindset?”

“Well...no. Probably not.”

“Would your father go to law school with the intent of helping the helpless?”

He shakes his head. His father didn’t do anything to help anyone. "That's not why I went to law school, either. I went to get the hell out of that barrio."

"Why'd you choose SVU then? There are much more lucrative paths you could've taken with a law degree. Why is it every time I try to show you that you're a good man you insist on fighting with me?"

"Because I don't deserve to be put up on a pedestal, (y/n). I'm just trying to survive," Rafael says, shrugging. "I'm not some martyr for a cause, or a Christ figure or--"

"I didn't say that you were. But you’re also not your father, Rafael, and I don’t see any danger of you turning into him, either,” you say and he hopes you’re right, he hopes you know him better than he knows himself, and that you see something in him he’s never seen, something all the men and women before you never saw either. “You still have time.”

“Not as much as I used to,” he says, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? Rafael sighs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Look at the two of you, both damaged, both broken by what the world threw at you, but here you were, together. Were you healing each other or hurting each other? He can’t tell, at the end of the day.

You sit up a little, and he loosens his grip around your shoulders. You kiss him softly, comfortingly.

All his anxiety about this night is gone, but it isn’t replaced with relief like he’d hoped. Instead, there’s this gnawing ache, this need to tell you to leave, that he was bad news and was going to break your heart, that he was over 40 and didn’t know how to love anyone that wasn’t his family. Why couldn’t anything scare you away?

Part of him knows he doesn’t want you to leave despite all this, even if he’s terrified. You must know, too, because you stayed.

Tags: @caked-crusader​ @thatesqcrush​ @law-nerd105​

Want to be added to my tags? Let me know!

[middleearthpixie]

Someone to Watch Over Me ~ Chapter Fifteen

Summary: In Laketown, Seren and Thorin risk taking the chance on each other, but then the dwarves come up with the idea of breaking into the Armory to steal weapons…

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield/Seren (female OC, formerly of Dale)

Characters: The Company, Bard the Bowman, Tilda, Sigrid, and Bain, the denizens of Laketown

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2,629

Additional Information: If you’d like to be added to the tag list, please let me know! And feel free to reblog this if you've enjoyed it!

@tschrist1

The man’s name was Bard and he lived in Laketown and after a bit of a back and forth between him, Thorin, and Balin, the Lake-man agreed to smuggle them into Laketown.

Seren sat at the stern of his flat-bottomed barge, trying to ignore how cold she was, but it wasn’t easy. Frost layered her hair, made her cuffs crunchy, and no matter how tightly she wrapped her arms about herself, she shivered.

Thorin and Dwalin spoke quietly amongst themselves. Kili sat against his brother, pale and shivering as well. The others were quiet altogether.

The lake that gave Laketown its name might as well have been an ocean, as land seemed to be little more than a line on the horizon in any direction. In the distance, the town itself rose from the center of the lake, with canals instead of streets and the houses stretching skyward instead of outward.

“Everyone, we need more coins,” Balin said softly. “We are fifteen short.”

Seren winced, her entire body aching as she reached for the oilskin sack holding her money. It was the only personal possession she had left. Her sword and knives were in Mirkwood. Her original clothes had been left in Rivendell. Her sack vanished when the ponies bolted after their first battle with the orcs.

She unwound the leather thong cinching it and spilled the coins into her palm. Too tired to count any of it, she pushed up to her feet and walked over to dump the lot of it into Balin’s small palm. “Take it. I’ve no need for any of it.”

Balin looked up at her. “I cannot take all of this, Seren.” He glanced at the others. “Don’t be stingy, lads. Pay up.”

Seren tossed the oilskin into the lake. “I have no way to carry any of it now.”

Thorin came over to her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

He pressed his hand to her forehead and she smacked it away as he said, “You feel warm.”

“Impossible. I’m freezing.” She turned to go back to where she had been sitting.

He crossed the deck to crouch before her. “Seren.”

“I’m fine, Thorin. Just tired and banged up. Again. I just—“ She stopped, shaking her head as she stared off toward Laketown. Her thoughts were such tangled knot, she didn’t know which end was up or which loose end to pull.

“You just what?”

“I just rather wish I’d stayed in Bree. Or the Shire. Or anywhere else.” She glanced over at Bilbo, who seemed to be studying them, but then sharply turned away. “And I think he is jealous.”

Thorin glanced over toward the hobbit, then back at her. “I think you see something that isn’t there.”

She knew better, but didn’t feel much like arguing about it. “I feel as if everything has grown far more complicated.”

“Because they know you aren’t a lad?”

“That.” She met his gaze. “And us, I suppose.”

A hint of mischief came into his blue eyes. “I thought you said there was no us?”

A heavy sigh rose to her lips and she let her head all forward into her hands. “Maybe there is… I don’t know. Nothing is the way I thought it would be. No one was supposed to ever know I was a woman. It is so much easier when the world thinks me a boy.”

Thorin rose with a grunt and shifted to sit beside her. Glancing at the others, he said, “They are all fond of you, Seren. Every man in this company sees you as one of us.”

“But I’m not one of you. Even more so now.”

“You are. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

Without thinking, she let her head come to rest against his shoulder. It just felt natural, and he didn’t seem to mind it, either. Across from them, Gloín argued over giving up ten more coins, and she smiled as the others tried to convince him it would be in his best interest to do so.

Her eyes closed as Thorin pressed a kiss into the top of her head. “Your hair is frosty.”

“I’m turning into an icicle.”

“We’re almost there.”

She mangled a smile, then lifted her head at the sudden tension in his shoulder. He abruptly stood, but said nothing and as her curiosity got the better of her, she also rose.

In the distance, shrouded in mist, stood the Lonely Mountain. It was serene and majestic and she could feel what it meant to the dwarves around her as they all, one by one, caught sight of it and went silent. Gloín, without a word, handed over the rest of his money to Balin.

Seren glanced up at Thorin. His expression was unreadable, and for the first time, he looked like a king to her as the lake breeze wafted across the water to lift his dark hair away from his face as he simply gazed toward the mountain.

Her hand found its way into his, and she smiled as he linked his fingers with hers and gave a gentle squeeze. As his thumb grazed hers, she wished she could forget her secret and trust in what Amara had told her. But she couldn’t. If she confessed her true feelings for him, she would only hurt him when the time came to spill her secret. No, it was better this way. This way, the only one who ran the risk of getting hurt was her, and she was more comfortable with that than with being the one who hurt Thorin.

Bard broke the heavy silence. “We are almost at the gate. Into the barrels with you.”

She bit back a sigh as Thorin’s hand slipped from hers, and one by one, they all did as they were told. As the barge glided to a halt before the checkpoint, Seren fought the urge to poke her head up and see what was going on.

Not that it mattered. The answer to her question came in the form of hundreds of slimy, stinky codfish seemingly falling from the sky to fill each one of the barrels. She gagged at the stink and tried to ignore the slippery scales pasted up against her hands, her face, stuck in her hair. She closed her eyes and tried to will away the rising nausea. It’s only for a few minutes.

Above, through the fish, came the sound of Bard arguing with someone. Then, someone shouted, “Dump the barrels!” and her heart skipping a beat. Any moment, and they’d all be exposed and arrested and that meant another cell. Of course, if she was tossed into one with Bofur, he wouldn’t have to worry about Smaug.

No, that wasn’t true. She wasn’t really angry with him. It was almost a relief, actually, not having to pretend any longer. And perhaps Dwalin was right and her voice gave her away before Bofur did. To her, her voice sounded throaty and almost husky, like a boy’s before it changed. But it was entirely possible what she heard and what others heard were not the same voice.

Either way, it was moot. They all knew.

“Never mind,” came the same voice who’d ordered the barrels dumped, and Seren breathed a sigh of relief as she closed her eyes and let her forehead come to rest against the inside of her barrel. It stunk of fish. She would be eternally grateful to never, ever see the inside of another barrel ever again.

The barge resumed its glide through the now-calm canals, and when they finally stopped and Bard said, “Come along. Follow me and do not draw attention to yourselves,” she and the others all popped up from their barrels to send fish in all directions, to the bemusement of the dock-master.

Bard flipped him a gold piece. “You didn’t see any of this, Percy,” he said as he helped one dwarf after another from the barge. “And you can have the fish as well.”

“See any of what?” Percy asked, his gaze following each dwarf as he passed by.

From the corner of her eye, Seren saw how his gaze lingered on her, and she bit back a smile as Thorin’s hand caught hers and he gave a gentle tug as he said to Percy, “She’s with me.”

“Thorin!”

He glanced down at her. “What?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you are.”

“Since when?”

He didn’t reply, but tugged on her arm to pull her along as Bard led them through the alleys of Laketown. Although the populace of Laketown was that of Man, they all seemed to tower over both her and the dwarfs. Still, they moved through the crowded marketplace, attracting only bit of attention, and Thorin did not let go of her the entire time. He laced his fingers with hers, and every now and again, his thumb grazed hers.

Bard’s home was in the center of town and he stopped a block or so from there and said, “The Lake Master has eyes on my home at all times. There is only one way to get in without being seen.”

He turned to them. “Can you all swim?”

The thought of plunging into the icy lake water was not at all appealing to Seren, but she followed the others and gritted her teeth to keep them from shattering against one another as the dwarves swam silently along the canal toward the house at the center of town.

But that wasn’t the worst part about it.

“Da,” a tall blond girl called over her shoulder as Seren peered up at her, “why are there dwarves coming out of our toilet?”

Seren rolled her eyes as she climbed up and out into what served as the bathroom. Soaked to the skin, still aching, and now frozen besides, she said, “How do you do?”

“Sigrid,” Bard appeared down the narrow hallway, “take Seren and find her something warm and dry to wear. Your brother and I will tend to the others.”

To say Sigrid looked confused would be an understatement, but she nodded and said, “Come with me, then.”

Seren squelched along behind her, into a cozy little room at the rear of the tall house. As Sigrid closed the door behind them, she said, “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in my brother’s clothes?”

“Miss Sigrid,” Seren offered up a slight smile, “I’m not a boy.”

The girl blushed and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry… I thought—“

“It’s all right. Everyone thought at first.” She grimaced as she tugged the leather thong holding her braid securely and unwound her hair to let it stream over her shoulders. “I would be more comfortable, but I doubt anything of his would fit me.”

“No. Most likely not. But, I’m afraid all I have are dresses.”

“If it’s dry, I’ll treasure it.”

Sigrid moved to a battered wardrobe and opened it. “Everything is dry and warm, I promise you that.”

Seren sighed as she fought to peel off her wet tunic and leggings and hose. Her boots left puddles on the floor, but there was nothing she could do about that. Sigrid passed her a towel without turning about and Seren went to work drying her body and then her hair as best she could.

When she emerged from the wardrobe, Sigrid had a fresh muslin chemise and a lovely, if slightly faded, gown of deep green velvet. “These are old, but I’ve take care with them and this sis my favorite dress. I thought you might like to wear something pretty.”

The girl’s generosity touched Seren, her throat tightened and her eyes stinging as they fell on the beautiful dress. It had been years since she’d last been in a dress, never mind something as pretty as this one. “Are you certain? It’s so pretty, I’d hate to ruin it.”

Sigrid set the clothes on the bed. “I’m positive. Please, take it.”

Seren shrugged into the chemise, the muslin cool and smooth against her skin, and Sigrid helped her into the dress. It was a bit snug in the bodice, but otherwise it fit perfectly and as she smoothed a hand along the velvet skirt, she looked up and said, “I cannot even begin to thank you.”

“There is no need for that. No one would mistake you for a boy now.”

Seren peered at her reflection in the small mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Her hair was mostly dry now, thick and tumbling over her shoulders in loose curls and for the first time in a lifetime, she felt like a girl.

“I have dry hose,” Sigrid dove into the wardrobe again, “but your feet look tiny. Perhaps a pair of Tilda’s slippers will fit you until your boots dry.”

She moved to the second wardrobe, the one Seren presumed belonged to her sister and a minute later, she had on a pair of pale green slippers that fit her almost as if they had been made for her.

“Sigrid?” Bard rapped gently on the door. “Is everything all right?”

She tugged open the door. “It’s fine, Da.”

Bard’s gaze fell on Seren and she didn’t miss how his back stiffened. “Miss Seren,” he said with a hint of a smile. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“The others won’t know what hit them.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes as she ventured down the narrow hallway, toward the great room, where the noise ceased as soon as she stepped into the room. Her cheeks grew warm as fourteen pairs of eyes slid in her direction and widened.

“Seren?” Bofur asked as if he might be mistaken.

“Stop. It’s still me. I’m just dry now.”

“Oh, lassie, you are more than that,” Dwalin said softly. “Wouldn’t you say, Thorin?”

She looked over at him, biting back a smile at the wide-eyed stare Thorin offered up in return. A slow smile lifted the corners of his lips as he said, “You look lovely, Seren.”

“Thank you. I feel like a sore thumb, however. And if I trip over this skirt, I will hurt the first one who laughs.”

“No one is going to laugh.” Thorin stepped up and to her surprise, caught both of her hands in his. “We should talk.”

“Not now,” she said, mindful of how the others all tried to inch closer and listen to their conversation. “Don’t you have weapons to procure? I’d like my steel back.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” he said, releasing her hands. “Your blades, our blades—they are all somewhere in Mirkwood.”

Dwalin looked over at Bard. “You promised us weapons. Where are they?”

Bard sighed softly. “I will bring them up. They will not be what you are used, to, though.”

While the others waited for him to return with weapons, Seren moved away from the room, toward the rear of the house. She peered out the window at Laketown spread out before them. Dale was just on the far side of the lake. Erebor just beyond it.

Their quest was almost at an end.

She peered over her shoulder at the others. Bard had returned with the promised weapons, which were in reality just modified boating tools, much to the dwarves’ dismay. They demanded weapons of iron, true weapons, only to be told the Lake Master confiscated all the weapons years earlier and kept them locked in the town armory.

Thorin and Balin huddled together and she couldn’t hear them, but from their serious expressions, she had the feeling at some point, dwarves were going to raid the armory. Somehow, she also had the feeling it would not end well for them.

[skyburned]

I’m thinking of posting some background material on some of the families I’ve written about while I do the harder work involved taking shots for my current story.  I’m struggling with a case of screaming anxiety and nerves (not connected to writing but it’s affecting it) and wondered if putting together something old and calming might help and might be of any interest. If not, well, thank you for indulging me.

My first generation for the major family of everything I’ve ever written:  Don, Tony and Camilla.

The Lombardo Family

The Lombardo family has money, connections and power, and enjoys rumors of plots and assassinations some of which are true.  They’ve had homes in South Beach, the small Ocean View resort community, in the mountains by the lake, and in the metropolitan island in the archipelago's center called The Crossing. 

Don, seated on the right in the portrait above, was a renowned surgeon, a good if distant father, and something of a minor playboy.  He was intensely interested in quantum mechanics and took a couple of classes, something he was shy about sharing. Briefly married then widowed, he had one child - a son he named Gabriel.  The boy pretty much raised himself with the mixed results that baking that sort of cake usually does.  Don lived a quiet life despite his son’s turmoil, fondly avoided his younger sister, attended upscale dinners at upscale restaurants in the company of lovely and literate women and enjoyed himself until he died a simple and natural death.

Tony, on the left in the portrait, wrote historical fiction which sold reasonably well (enough to support him with some help from his brother), was twice married and fathered one child he named Rafe.  (A name he chose before his wife remarried and had his child without his knowledge - mean joke on her part but that’s another long story.)  As far as the angelic names go, the brothers were delusional about parenthood.

Tony's first marriage was a disaster. The final trail of ashes smoked for miles, and Camilla was satisfied to be feared as the one who lit the fuse for the fatal explosion. (She shared that honor with someone else in the family though). Tony’s second marriage to someone Camilla mockingly called Ginny Pizza ended in an unfortunate accident.  (Camilla was not directly involved with that one although she thought she knew who was.)   Out of both of her brothers, Tony in particular had to live with Camilla as his sentry until he ran off with someone the third generation of the family simply called ‘the red-headed woman’ and then never returned.

Camilla has her own chapter.  She needs her own palace, much less her own room.

[writingfromkitchenator]

The Mad Dawn

Written for @sdavid09 Tale Teller’s Fright Night 2020 ~ Thank you so much for this amazing opportunity and challenge!  This was awesome fun as someone who has a deep love for horror and felt real good to be able to write something like this!

Happy Halloween everyone!

Inspired by Dawn of the Dead

Inspired by Mad World by Gary Jules

Set several months after the battle of the five armies, Erebor is awoken to bells ringing in Dale, a bleak warning for what comes over the course of the night and into the dawn.

Pairings: Thorin x F!OC (previous), Dain x F!OC (current)

Words: 3,811

Warnings: Zombies, grief, minor talking of blood and fighting (nothing intense or graphic), major character death and reanimation (it is zombies after all), bleak future outlook.

The bells sounded in Dale, ringing through the darkness in the middle of the night.

Feet hurried, left the warmth of their beds, hastily pulled on armour as they scurried to the gates of Erebor.  Fear of the not so distant memory of a dragon clung to the dwarves, murmurs filling the halls as some sat still, holding their breath.

At the gates, a messenger arrived, pale faced and stammering, and it took a few minutes for the words to come from him, the bell continuing to ring.

“The dead,” He croaked.  “The dead are rising.”

The dwarves were confused for a moment until screaming began within their own halls and soldiers threw themselves into action, shaking off the thought of the messenger at the gate, even as he screamed after them.

“They’re rising from the lake!  The dead have returned!”

Orders were given, hurried footsteps marching loudly through the halls before falling silent.

Dain was shouting, but no one was listening, the soldiers all having stopped to stare, another army approaching from the halls of the dead.

“Mahal have mercy on us,” Dain breathed, the glistening dead eyes staring back at him, sending a cold chill up his spine, unlike anything he had felt before.  “Get the Queen!  Get her out of here now!”

Myara was on her feet, pacing the bedroom, the bells still sounding in Dale, a sound signalling doom was upon them.

There was a knock on the door and she hurries to throw it open.

Dwalin stood there, his expression grim.  “We need to go.”

“What? What is happening?”  She asked as Dwalin marched in and started gathering a few small items into a traveling pack.

He swallows, casting her a look, one that drifts down to her swollen stomach.  “I think it’s best if you don’t know my Queen. We need….we need to go.”

She rests a hand on his arm.  “Dwalin…”

Dwalin shakes his head.  “Get dressed Myara.  Please.”

A cold chill settled over her, the hair rising on the back of her neck, and she moves as best she can to throw on travelling clothes and what armour she could, the sword on her belt looking strange against her stomach.

“You know I will defend you with my life,” Dwalin said quietly, an odd note in his voice as he waited by the door.  “As will anyone in Erebor, but I will warn you now…” He swallows.  “This is unlike anything we have faced before.”

Out in the hall, Bofur and Nori waited, both pale and afraid, although doing their best to hide it.

Myara looked between them and then at Dwalin again.  “Please.  Just tell me.”

Dwalin shakes his head and takes her arm, starting to lead her down the hall.  “Trust me, nothing I say will be able to prepare you. Let’s hurry.”

Soon, Bombur, Bifur, Dori, Ori and Oin had joined them.

“Gloin has already got his wife and son out,” Oin explained.  “They’ll meet us there.”

“And Gloin?” Dwalin asked.

Oin’s expression went grim.  “Has gone back to the fighting.”

Myara looked at Dwalin.  “Where is Balin?”

He shakes his head.  “I do not know.”

Their footfalls seemed to fall oddly in the halls, against the backdrop of the ringing bell, the shouts of soldiers, and Myara had a growing feeling she had felt before, long ago, when a dragon had attacked.

A blood curdling scream made them all freeze, all of them arming themselves as they stared into the darkness at the other end of the hall.

Dwalin went forward slowly, cautiously, his axe out in front, trying to see through the dark. His grip was tight, too tight, his hands slipping as sweat built up from the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Myara almost screamed, tears filling her eyes at the sight coming down the hall towards them.

“Thorin…” Dwalin breathed, his axe lowering slightly.  “Thorin please…no…”

Several months of decay had twisted Thorin’s features, the cut that had been sealed was now split and oozing thick black blood, his skin an ashen whitish green. He shuffled towards them, lifeless eyes on Myara.

Myara thought she was going to be sick, her fingers subconsciously finding the bead in her hair, the bead that Thorin had not long put in before the battle of the five armies, seated securely above Dain’s.

“Thorin, don’t-don’t come any closer.  I meant it.” Dwalin’s voice cracked, his feet carrying him slowly back, the others all tense.

It seemed that none of the soldiers had had the heart to fight him.

There is a further shuffling noise behind Thorin, and Fili and Kili join him, a low groaning growl leaving their throats, and Thorin’s hand reaches out for Myara.

“Go,” Dwalin said thickly, turning away from the sight.  “Go!”

Several hands forced her to move, hurrying her in the other direction from the horrible sight. Her chest ached, her heart broken again. What had they done to deserve this horror?

“Where is Dain?”  She managed to ask, her voice soft and broken.

“In the front lines,” Dwalin said, casting her a worried look, but still constantly glancing behind them, worried that the shambling corpses of their friends would follow.  “He will try and meet us there.”

“Dwalin-”

“Myara, we all swore to protect you and Thorin’s child,” Dwalin said.  “Swore with our lives, no matter what would come. Dain is doing this protect you.”

She hangs her head and focuses on moving, doing her best not to think about how this could turn out, about she could lose all those that she loved.  It was to ignore the grief of what she’d seen, but she knew if she was to survive, she would have to.

Winding passage after winding passage passed them in a blur and Myara looked over the edge of one of the many bridges in Erebor, normally lit in golden light. Fire burned below, illuminating the soldiers fighting off the dead that seemed to fill the halls endlessly, many in varying states of decay, but the freshest were those from that horrible battle, weapons still in hands as if it had been sealed around them in death, and she knew the soldiers were grieving once again.  She caught a flicker of red hair, of a mighty shout, but it quickly disappeared in the ocean of bodies beneath her and she was hurried into another hall before she could call Dain’s name.

The bells of Dale went silent.

They hurried past another hall and a loud screech caused them to freeze, several corpses shambling towards them, some of them old and some of them very fresh, bleeding wounds still fresh under their armour.  This lot was moving quicker, Bombur, Bofur and Bifur all sharing a look and nodding, stepping between the oncoming dead and the rest of the group.

“No-”

“You need to go,” Bofur said, giving a nod to Myara.  “We’ll deal with these and catch up.”

Dwalin takes Myara’s arm again and leads her on, his expression grim.  The sound of fighting followed them for a long few moments before all fell silent once again, their footsteps falling softly through the hall.

Tears streaked down her cheeks, but she keeps herself silent, her grip tight on her sword. Erebor would not fall today, not after everything that it had already been through, not after they had not long got it back, she had to believe that.

A deep rumble echoes through the ground, making the group stop and a fear filled look to pass between several of them.

“It’s not possible,” Dwalin breathed.  “No, I refuse to believe it, not with all this going on as well.”

He marched ahead and the others slowly followed, Myara still keeping her head held high.  All of them grew more anxious the further they went.  Why were the dead rising?  Why were they being haunted like this, after all that they had suffered? Those that they had loved, those that they had already mourned, now seemingly after them and their blood.

Another rumble goes through the halls, dust falling from the ceiling and Myara mourned, as she knew the others were, mourned that they were just getting back their homes, their lives, and now this would change everything again.

There was a kick in her stomach and Myara let out a steadying breath.  She had no choice but to survive.  She had to survive.

They reached the secret entrance just as there was a roar outside.  They had all been there, they all knew that sound.

“Mahal have mercy on us,” Myara breathed.  “This cannot be happening.”

Footsteps sound suddenly behind them, and Dwalin and Nori quickly step in front of Myara, Oin, Dori and Ori stepping in close on the sides.

With a limping shuffle and the shine of blood on his head, Dain stepped into view, his face pale under the blood, an equally injured Bofur was hanging on his shoulder.

“We need to go,” Dain grumbled.  “We need to go now.”

Myara hurried to his side and helped him, while Nori took Bofur, a pained grin on his face.

“You should just leave me here.”  He said grimly.  “I’m pretty sure I’m gone for.”

“Not a chance,” Nori said firmly.  “I think we’re going to lose enough today as it, without you staying here.”

Bofur laughs grimly, but it quickly silenced by the pain, holding onto the worst of the wounds as best he could.

“What is happening?”  Myara asked, trying to see the extent of Dain’s wounds.  “I saw…I saw…”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it, the ache in her chest too much, but by Dain’s grim expression, he understood.

“I saw him too,” Dain said quietly, taking her hands and kissing them gently, his own expression pained.  “But we cannot dwell on it.  There is nothing that we can do for them.”

Screeching and growls come from down the hall.  As quickly as they could, they hurried out the door and swung it closed behind them.

Outside, Myara stared out towards Dale, her breathe stolen as she saw fires burning once again, but her attention was only held briefly as an all too familiar roar cut through the air, earning all of their gazes.

A large dark form was in the sky, coming from where Lake Town was still being rebuilt. All of them standing there knew what the form was, and they all watched helplessly as it headed towards the burning city.

“This isn’t happening,” Ori said quietly, voicing what they were all thinking.  “Smaug was dead, we all saw him fall.”

“We saw a lot of those we’ve seen fall,” Dain said grimly.  “It seems that the gods have abandoned us tonight.”

A green light filled Smaug’s chest and even from where they stood they could make out the rotting dark red scales, the black arrow still embedded deeply into Smaug’s chest.  The fire erupted from his chest, illuminating the sky in a vivid green glow.

Dain’s hand rests on Myara’s lower back.  “Do you think you can get down alright?”

Myara’s jaw clenches and she nods, Ori and Dori leading the way so she can follow, Dwalin and Dain close behind, Oin and Nori taking up the rear, helping Bofur as best they could.

“Where is Tula and Gimli?”  Oin asked, huffing a little.  “They should have been here.”

“Tula is no fool,” Dain said.  “She knew that they could not have waited long.  Hopefully we find them later.”

The night felt so cold as they reached the ground, Myara’s arms wrapping around herself as they waited for the others to get down.  There were screams in the distance, and her gaze turned towards the gates of Erebor, the fires still burning brightly, enough to illuminate the figures struggling there.  A wave of nausea struck her, and she managed to just get a little further away before she was sick, the stress all a little too much.

Dain was there in a flash, his hands rubbing her back gently until the vomiting eases, and she breathes deeply, getting herself back in control.  “Easy love, take it slow.  You are going to need all the strength you can muster to get through this.”

Myara nods, barely listening, feeling a ringing starting in her ears.  Whatever had caused these events was nothing normal. Whatever had called Thorin back, had brought Smaug back, it seemed to be against her people.

There was more screaming and she looked back up towards Dale.  “Is…is there nothing we can do?”

“We could not even hold them at bay ourselves,” Dain said, helping her straighten out.  “I stayed as long as I could before we were overrun.  I was not proud in calling a retreat.”

Myara rests a gentle hand on his arm, earning his gaze where he was hiding his pain.  “This is beyond any of us Dain.  We will get away and find help.  We can-”

There was a shout and they turned, seeing Bofur practically falling on top of Nori, pulling away from Oin, but there was a snarl leaving him, one that was cold and empty, almost animalistic.

Dain moved first and shoved Bofur off Nori, Bofur’s body thudding into the stone with a sickening crack and sat there, unmoving, his hat sitting soaked in blood next to his head.

“What-what happened?”  Nori asked, his face almost white, staring at Bofur.  “He…he went limp and then-then-”

“That’s what has been happening,” Dain growled, cautiously approaching Bofur.  “They’ve been dying and then getting back up, sometimes partly eaten.  Not much seems to slow them down, although a sharp knock usually disables them, at least for a time.”

A stunned silence sat around everyone, even as Dain crouched next to Bofur, gently prodding him, his expression pained.  Slowly, he sighs, and gets back to his feet, shaking his head, earning more than a few grief stricken expressions, Dwalin cursing silently under his breath.

“Tonight has been a tragic night,” Dain said.  “We need to get moving now, before it gets any worse.”

“But Bofur…”  Nori said, his face still pale.

“There isn’t anything we can do now,” Dain shakes his head and re-joins Myara.  “We must move on before they realise that some of us have gotten out.”

Myara sniffs and shudders, her mind almost numb now to what was happening, but she couldn’t rid herself of a bad feeling that had been growing her since she’d seen Thorin earlier.  Dain’s hand rests gently on her and she nods, starting to lead them all away from the distance screams and the sickening roar of the dead dragon.

“How will others get out?”  Ori asked quietly as they walked.  “There has to be something else that we can do.”

“There are many paths through Erebor,” Dain said.  “And as much as it pains me to say it, they will have little choice but to try them.  The hoard that we were facing was nothing to be taken lightly.  It may just be the end of the world as we know it.”

A chill goes up Myara’s spine and she finds herself stopping dead in her tracks, Dain almost running straight into her, his hands resting on her for a moment before he sees what she’d stopped to stare at.  Quickly, he moves in front of her, the others reacting accordingly, all pretending they couldn’t see the shake of the sword in her hand.

“Thorin…” She breathed, her voice barely audible even in the silence that suddenly seemed to surround them.

“You will go no further,” Dain said loudly, even as more figures begin to step out beside Thorin.  “This is not your world anymore.  You will return to where you came from.”

Dawn was approaching, the light starting to peak over the horizon, illuminating the walking corpses more and more.  Myara stared with wide eyes as Thorin starts to approach, unaffected by Dain’s words, and it was only now that they could see the Arkenstone still clutched tightly in one hand, but it was no longer rich and vibrant, reminding her of starlight, now it was blood red and dark, but still unmistakable.

“I will give you one last warning,” Dain’s voice went low, into almost a growl.  “Whatever creature you are, you will leave and you will not return, releasing all those you have under your spell.”

A low snarl in the air and it took them all a moment before they realised that it was coming from Thorin, or what had once been Thorin, because none of them could be certain that they could even call him that anymore.

“My…ara…”

Myara’s breath caught in her throat and the tears started again, shaking her head, not wanting to face the reality of this, her chest aching so much.  If it wasn’t for Dain’s protective hand on her, then she knew she’d be running, and she knew that she wouldn’t stand a chance, not against Thorin, or whatever this things now was.

“Dwalin,” Dain’s voice was quiet, firm.  “I want you to take Myara and I want you to get as far from here as you can.  Do not stop until you can find somewhere safe, or someone that can help.”

“Dain, you can’t-”

He glances back at her, his expression set.  “I am sorry love, I know that you deserve more than this, but for you survive, for our people to have a chance, this must be done.  Oin, go with them.”

“I can’t lose you too,” Myara said.  “I can’t…I can’t see you like this too.”

“Dwalin,” Dain’s gaze left her.  “Please. Your duty is to your king, and this is your kings final order.”

Dwalin swallowed and nods slowly, stepping in beside Myara, even as she stares at Dain with tears in her eyes.  “What…what about the others?”

“It is their choice,” Dain said grimly, holding Thorin’s cold, dead gaze.  “It is an honour to have fought by all of you.”

Dwalin looked around at the few others left as Oin stood by Myara’s other side.  Dori, Nori and Ori all nodded grimly to him and moved and stood next to Dain.  With a final glance back at the growing number of dead, they could now make out a few more faces, Fili and Kili, Balin and Gloin, and many other soldiers and citizens, that they had laughed with, spoke with, and they knew that there wasn’t a choice left.

“It has been an honour my King,” Dwalin said, taking Myara’s hand.  “I will do all that I can.”

Dain nods, his grip tight on his weapon as the horde slowly approaches.  “My Queen…I’m sorry that we didn’t get more time.”

Myara felt herself go back to end of the battle of the five armies, of having too much to say and too little time to say it, of suddenly feeling like the world was being pulled out from under her feet again, and she couldn’t stop the whimper that built up from her chest.

“It’s not fair,” She whispered.  “It’s just not fair.”

“No, it’s not love,” Dain said.  “But you need to go.”

Dwalin and Oin start to pull her gently away, the weight of the situation sitting heavily on their shoulders.

“I love you…” Myara managed to get out, her voice broken, tears rolling down her cheeks as her hands rest over her stomach.

There was no chance to say anything else, the four dwarfs standing alone against the approaching dead, even as Thorin’s gaze follows Myara as Dwalin leads her away.

Myara can’t watch anymore, turning away, her eyes blurred with tears, letting herself be led by Dwalin and Oin, know she would go back if they so much as let her go or got her to focus.  Dwalin and Oin remained silent, both in their own grief, and knowing that the sudden task before them, was going to be even harder than the one they had not long come from.

Eventually, as the morning light spilled over the land, the sun just beginning to peak, the three of them stopped and looked back from their position on a ridge. Dale and Erebor were burning, the distant figure of Smaug crawling its way to the gates of Erebor.

The worst though, the worst was the horde, they could all see it clearly from where they were, a large group of dead, men and dwarves alike, all together, all moving slowly, and the three of them on top of that ridge could not bear to look too long, just in case there was another face they recognised.

Myara sighs and pulls her hood over her head, not wanting the see the world any longer as she stares at her swollen stomach and wonders just what will happen to them now, of how she was meant to raise a child in a world like this.  She didn’t want to face the fact that she was going to have to start again, she felt like she’d started again too many times, and now this time, it was almost alone, only the two others by her side and whoever ever they could possibly find in this mad new world.

Dwalin rests a hand on her lower back, earning her gaze, and she can see the grief and despair matched in his gaze, can see the same questions burning away in his mind, but he just nods, his expression stony, one she returned.

There would be time to grieve later, time to speak and try and answer those questions, but for now, again, they had to move, had to find safety, maybe a friend. There was no time to focus on those big questions, or the self-despair that sat in the backs of all their minds.

“Hopefully we can find Tula and Gimli,” Oin said, but there was little hope in his voice. “Hopefully they came this way.”

“Just keep your weapon close,” Dwalin said, shouldering his axe.  “We do not know what the paths ahead will be like.  Let’s just start by getting as far away from here as possible.”

Oin nods, casting a glance at Myara, his expression turning worried, seeing her head down, her face hidden beneath her hood, hiding herself from the world as much as the world was hidden from her.  Dwalin just shakes his head slightly and the two men share an understanding look before helping her away this place.

Silence followed them, no birds singing in the dawn, no beasts stirring from slumber, no voices starting as they start the day.  In that silence, it’s just the three of them leaving their world behind, Myara’s hand tightly wrapping around the two beads in her hair, a soft sob leaving her, a sob that seemed to echo through the ages and be the voice of the times to come.

[pocketseizure]

The Queen’s Tears

As Celes and company explore an ancient castle on the shore of a subterranean lake deep under the desert, they learn that nothing about the War of the Magi was as simple as it seemed. Even after epic battles have long since been forgotten, the legacy of more intimate moments lingers on. Also on AO3 · Special thanks to @azurefishnets for the amazing prompt!

. . . . .

“And to think that this has been here for the past thousand years,” Edgar mused as he leaned on his crossbow.

Sabin took a deep breath of the cool underground air, which was pleasantly humid and carried the faint smell of running water. “Where do you suppose the light’s coming from?”

“The moss, I assume. There’s a bioluminescent strain in the South Figaro tunnel. It’s not native to the mountains, and I always wondered where it came from.”

“Do you think the lake is connected to the aquifer under the castle?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Edgar replied as he snapped the bow’s limbs closed and holstered the device. They had followed an ancient road leading through the caves winding within the bedrock, careful to stay within range of the ceramic paving stones. Who could know how all the passages were connected? Edgar’s concerns were the sand and the sky, and the people who lived in the present. Whatever this giant cavern might contain, it belonged firmly in the past.

Still, one had to wonder.

“I’ve been reading about the War of the Magi,” he said, “and hiring scholars to do the same. Some have come from as far as Doma, where knowledge of the old tongue has been preserved.”

Edgar glanced at Sabin, who nodded in acknowledgment and – Edgar hoped – approval.

“There’s a theory that all of this was once a sea,” he said, making a sweeping gesture at the vista before them – the stone cliffs, the still and luminous waters of the underground lake, and the monstrous castle rising from the far shore. “Figaro may have once stretched across an archipelago.”

“That would be a sight to see,” Sabin replied, crossing his arms. “And we might see it again in our lifetimes. I assume you’ve noticed how close the ocean has gotten in the past year.”

Edgar had noticed, and there wasn’t a night that he didn’t lose sleep as he turned the matter over in his mind. Every month the storms that swept over the inland sea carved another mile or two from the shore.

Edgar grit his teeth, torn between confessing his anxiety and passing it off as a joke, when he felt Sabin’s reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“It will be nice to have some water to go with all that sand,” he said with a grin. “If anyone can figure out how to make our castle float, it’s you. And we’ll have plenty of time to map out everything down here once we’ve taken care of our business with the Tower. I hear you’ve become quite the expert at escaping from court.”

Edgar let out the breath he’d been holding. “I learned from the best.”

“That’s the spirit.” Sabin’s laughter rolled down the stone path as he set off to rejoin the others.

. . . . . .

Relm sneezed into her hand. It was just her luck she hadn’t brought any tissues. There was a loose ball of rags in one of her back pockets, but they were all thoroughly saturated with turpentine. It was her duty as an artist to see the world, but she’d had just about enough of abandoned ruins. The magic of this place was as thick as pollen in springtime, and just as aggravating to her sinuses.

She sneezed again and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. It didn’t help.

“That’s a disgusting habit.” Setzer produced a handkerchief from the cuff of his sleeve like a magician and offered it to her.

“Don’t be a creep,” Relm countered, but she accepted the handkerchief and blew her nose properly.

“You want this back?”

“Keep it. My treat. Have some of this too.”

He placed a small glass bottle filled with clear liquid into the palm of her hand before she could object.

“This isn’t booze, is it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s tonic water mixed with mint and a drop or two of ether. I use it for hangovers, but I assume it will work for allergies.”

Relm removed the cork stopper and sniffed the bottle. Small bubbles rose from the liquid, which was pleasantly fragrant. “It’s a placebo,” Relm decided.

“Of course it’s a placebo,” Setzer agreed. “Not even magic works on hangovers. Drink it anyway.”

“Fine.” Relm tilted her head back and downed the bottle in one gulp. The concoction tasted exactly as Setzer said it would – of mint and ether. There was also a touch of citrus, perhaps to keep it fresh.

She sneezed again. “I’m going to sit down for a bit,” she said after wiping her nose. “You go on ahead.”

“I think I’ll sit with you.”

Relm scowled. “I’m not a child. It’s not like I’m going to get lost if you’re not here to watch me.”

“Who said it’s for your benefit? We’ve been walking for hours, and my back hurts. Didn’t anyone teach you to be considerate of your elders?”

Relm shrugged and took out her sketchbook. Setzer wasn’t bothering her, and she’d always liked when people watched her sketch – it was like she could see her drawing through another pair of eyes.

She had been walking with Terra and Celes as they circumnavigated the lake, but she’d allowed herself to fall behind once the path became steeper as it headed uphill toward the castle. It was a stroke of good fortune that Setzer had caught up with her at a particularly good vantage point. Relm made a rough outline of the castle before filling in the details, all the while keeping her eye out for any potential points of structural unsoundness. She was too young to die, although she had to admit that being trapped in the crumbling ruins of an ancient castle would be a suitably glamorous way to go.

Relm glanced over at Setzer, who was neither sitting nor watching her. He regarded the ruins of the castle with a cold and appraising gaze.

“Do you think it will come down on us?” she asked. If anyone would know about things crashing, it was Setzer.

“I doubt it,” he replied. “The magic is so thick in this place I can smell it. Whatever has been keeping this castle standing won’t be affected by our presence. But who can say? With our luck, there’ll be some sort of dragon waiting to meet us in the foyer.” He paused and finally looked down at her sketch. “Notice anything interesting?”

She had, in fact. At the moment she was adding it to her sketch as one of the finishing touches. “I think there might be secret passage.”

“On the lower level, leading into the rock behind the castle? I was thinking the same thing myself. How much would you like to bet that Terra leads us straight there?”

“I don’t gamble,” Relm replied primly as she stood up and closed her sketchbook. “It’s a disgusting habit.”

. . . . . .

Terra sat on a stone bench in the castle gallery, watching as Relm and Celes studied the ossified body of Odin. Neither of them appeared to have noticed that the magic of the stone was sealing the entrance to a secret passageway. She’d bring it to their attention once they finished their examination.

“So this Esper was supposed to be the queen’s knight?” Relm asked with a frown.

“Who wouldn’t want to have a bodyguard like this?” Celes slapped one of the statue’s meaty thighs. “Just look at this big boy.”

“Do you think they were, you know…?”

“They were,” Terra confirmed. They both turned to look at her.

Celes’s surprised expression softened into a smile. “That must have been so romantic, being in love with someone you saw every day but could never touch.”

“Think of the pining,” Relm agreed with a sage nod.

“Oh, but they did touch each other. They could even have had children,” Terra corrected them. “It would have been possible. I remember that was something my parents worried about, but their concern turned out to be groundless. They had me, after all.”

“Wait, hold up,” Relm objected. “You remember your parents talking about how they were worried about having children? Wouldn’t that have happened, like, before you were born? How could you remember something like that?”

Terra was confused by the question. “Doesn’t everyone have memories from before they were born?”

Relm’s eyes went wide, and Celes laughed. She crossed the room and sat down next to Terra before throwing her arms around her shoulders.

“You beautiful creature,” she said, kissing Terra’s cheek and smoothing back her hair. “Never change.”

“Is that an Esper thing?” Relm asked as she joined them, sitting down on the other side of Terra. “That’s not fair! I want to have an Esper father too. Hey Terra, do you think my dad might have been an Esper?”

Terra looked into the past. It was right there beside them, after all, spreading behind them like a rich and vibrantly colored shadow. She could see who Relm’s father was, and she could see the moment when Relm discovered his identity for herself, but she decided not to say anything. She liked to keep some ‘Esper things’ to herself, after all.

“Perhaps,” Terra offered. She paused for a moment and decided to add something a bit more human. “No matter who he was, I’m sure he loved you very much.”

. . . . . .

The dragon guarding the sealed passage leading away from the castle had been a pathetic thing, old and weak from hunger. Its tired eyes had been milky with age and neglect. Celes felt bad about killing it, but it refused to let them retreat once it had spotted them.

The chamber that housed the statue of the ancient queen was a mirror of the gallery where Odin had made his last stand. Celes held what remained of him in her hand, watching his magicite sparkle as its facets caught the light. When called, his spirit had sprung from the stone, riding a horse that had not been a horse, not with teeth like that. He wielded his sword not with grace or finesse, but with absolute power, as one of the old gods might have wielded a gale wind to cleave a mountain in twain.

Celes didn’t know what sort of wizard it would take to turn bring Odin to his knees at the height of his prowess, but she could make a guess.

She leaned back against the stone wall. The bench she sat on was oddly warm. The moss from the tunnel connecting the lower reaches of the castle to the outlying cave system had made its way inside, and patches of luminescence spread across the dips and planes of the vaulted ceiling. The queen’s statue seemed to emit a soft white radiance into the dim interior.

Celes felt rather than heard Sabin approach. Even on the marble floor, his footsteps made no sound.

“Celes?” he called out. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she responded. “Is it time to leave?”

“There’s no hurry. Edgar and Setzer are arguing about something, and Relm and Terra are doing a spot of art appreciation. I just came to check up on you.”

“Thanks.” Celes moved to the side, offering Sabin a place beside her. He took it, sighing with relief as he sat down.

A few moments passed in companionable silence. “That was an impressive performance against the dragon,” Sabin said eventually. “I can’t seem to summon Espers for the life of me. Is there a trick to it?”

“No trick, just years of training.”

“I can imagine.” He laughed softly and shook his head. “Or I can’t, not at all. I’ve done my fair share of training, but what you went through must have been on a different level entirely. It paid off, at least.”

“I guess it did,” Celes replied, and Sabin didn’t pursue the matter. She appreciated that about Sabin – he never judged her for anything she’d done, past or present. Not for anything she would do in the future. How rare it was to find someone who only thought the best of you.

Or perhaps it wasn’t rare at all. Perhaps Sabin was normal, and she was the anomaly.

“It was always difficult, after the injections.” The words left her mouth before she realized what she was saying. Sabin nodded to show that he was listening, but he didn’t reply with any questions or comments. Celes decided to keep talking.

“It was dangerous – extremely dangerous – before Cid perfected the process. People died from the injections, and many of those who didn’t had to be euthanized afterwards. I wasn’t supposed to watch, but sometimes I did. I was horrified by how magic transformed the trial subjects, but I was never afraid that what I saw would happen to me. It might have been because I was so young, but the injections never hurt me in the same way they hurt the adults they were tested on – first prisoners, and then soldiers.

“It was the same with Kefka, at least at first. The experiments must have caused him terrible pain, but he never showed it. You might not believe this, but he was always cool and level-headed. I couldn’t tell you why he had such a natural tolerance for the injections, I never paid much attention to the science. Kefka tried to explain it to me himself with some analogy involving blood types, but there were too many words I didn’t understand.

“Kefka was never gentle, not in the way Cid always was, but he was kind, in his own way – or he was kind to me, at least. Then something happened. That was right around the time Vector began its preparations for war, and I think it had something to do with the emperor, but who can say?

“Whatever it was, Kefka began to take injections more frequently, sometimes even daily. Eventually he started to lose control. That’s when I learned to absorb magic. Kefka taught me the technique himself. If he hadn’t, the entire lab would more than likely have been destroyed.”

Celes shook her head. “There was something Kefka wanted, and he would do whatever it took to get it, even if that meant he lost himself along the way. Maybe he meant to destroy the Empire all along, and maybe he trained me to…”

Celes couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought: Maybe he trained me to stop him. She had failed once, but she might still have a chance. It would be a mercy, she told herself.

“Do you ever miss Vector?” Sabin asked, subtly changing the subject.

“No,” Celes replied. She didn’t think she was lying. “When that tower falls, I’m going to go back. Don’t laugh at me, but I want to plant trees. Over the whole mess, so that no one will even know it’s there in another hundred years.”

“I’m not laughing.” Sabin smiled at her. “Once you’re done, feel free to come visit us in the desert. You’re not the only one with ghosts in the basement, after all. We could use some trees here too.”

Celes stood up. It might take another thousand years, but one day all of this would be buried – the terrible things that happened in Vector, whatever terrible things had happened in this castle, all of it.

“What do you think happened to the evil wizard who turned Odin to stone?” she asked as she approached the statue of the ancient queen.

“She doesn’t look so evil to me,” Sabin answered, confirming her suspicions. “The choices we have to make aren’t always so easy, even in hindsight. We do what we can.”

“He must have really loved her,” Celes murmured. Odin’s magicite began to glow and hum as she drew closer. She held it out like an offering and watched in amazement as tears pooled in the statue’s eyes. They fell onto the warm crystal like drops of light.

“We do what we can,” she agreed softly.

[nauseateddrive]

4 POEMS by Jake Sheff

Elegy for Dog I: A Failed Acrostic

January was tired when it became king. Apples here love being red in the spring, Casting shadows against the stone architraves our Kapellmeister will never live down. You Stole Apollo’s cows, and let them graze to show me Heaven’s template. Where do failed heroes go? Eucalyptus cupolas and polar icecaps Frame the downtrodden gods. But you weren’t Freakishly wrong, as I so often am, on your

Joyride through nearly twice eight years, Á la someone far from beauty’s stepmom. Copper coin or grimacing sun? I’ve got 20,000 Kor of crushed grief on this threshing floor. Shark-sparks of sadness flood the impetiginous air… How, and why, do clouds cobblestone Entire days, and lakes, when you’re not here? Fixing every broken thing, poets go where Ferns and geraniums baptize the morning.

“Jur-any-oms,” is how you’d spell it; After all, a dog’s a dog, and wisdom knows futility. Cassations make a rusty brew, to drink the truth of truths, and Kill whatever ceases wanting to be new. Stewardship, the color of gravity’s silence, naturally Houses every “glur” (a glittery blur); go chase what plays Eternal games. I hear the swans by Rooster Rock. Your handsome Face, its happy handsomeness, in memory’s eye, goes in and out of Focus; in love’s better eye: your goodness neath its everblooming ficus.

Gravity and Grace on SW Murray Scholls Drive

“Impatience has ruined many excellent men who, rejecting the slow, sure way, court destruction by rising too quickly.” Tacitus, The Annals of Imperial Rome

The traffic lights control the people’s actions, but Not their feelings, as the limits of philosophy Collide head on with the nose of a Dalmatian.

I tell you, the day is stress-testing itself, and these Sidewalks wish that it’d just gone straight. Geese Take this sky-hairing wind for granted, as they

Land on the lake like memorable speech on The sensitive soul. Time is never sharp, but it’s Cutting something in the credit union. Maybe

It’s dancing a back Corte for the woman in line Thinking about the taste of limes from Temecula As she waits for the teller. Air Alaska and that

Haunted pie in the sky are not the only reasons For all the volatility in the air today. Rushing And perfectionism both produce a loss; behind

The Safeway Pharmacy, you’ll see the small Smells of both, sloshing around to the ticking- Sound of the ocean’s tides. I must admit, I am

Frozen in place by the sight of steam from Joe’s Burgers; it is poetry’s pale tongue, rising in And arousing the air. This neighborhood’s street-

Lights are more serious than kokeshi dolls. Lights From its windows outshine poison dart frogs. Maybe to forget about life for awhile, the lamps

Are focused on The Population Bomb? ‘Easy Tiger,’ all these incidents whisper. Each day’s A sign twirler’s dais; each corner a promise

Of something more in a different direction: it isn’t A marriageable daughter or impoverishment, But inguinal ingenuity plays a part, and that isn’t

Bad at all. What oaths and paths went here Before Walmart? What voices were voided by The liquor store? What are vague’s values

When the library shares a parking lot with a 24- Hour gym and a cargo cult? Gas stations satirize                                                                           The Queen of Hearts; I tell you, it makes every

Question seem incidental. Treaty-breakers in Pajamas swing on the swing sets. Was August That full of angst? It feels like autumn went too

Far on accident. Desertification, in a sugar tong Splint, takes a shot of ouzo and talks shit About the death of Brutus, but my Bible-thumping

Memory – on a ski hill in Duluth – is also too busy Watching some ducks on the lake to notice; and Desertification makes a face at me like a Swedish

Film. Poets make for poorly picked men to Familiarity’s paymaster-general. The Calvinistic Rain is an ill-starred attempt to make mayonnaise-

Fries just for me, but I must admit, it all seems – You know – cybernetic. And step-motherly as all Get out, if you ask the trees. They prefer “You

Can’t Hurry Love,” by The Supremes, to any Changes that take effect in one to two pay periods. Pretext ricochets; a perfect reverse promenade.

At Summer Lake, When the Vegetables are Sleeping

Cruelty drinks all the wine, and never gets drunk On these shores. When Summer Lake speaks, In every word, an introduction to the world. I am

Easily duped. The greatest duper duplicates my pride, Which always lingers, in the hallways of my heart And beneath the surface of Summer Lake. The sky is

Supplicating, it’s literally shaking. An hour passes Faster here, the hour always held too dearly dear In paranoid and ivied walls. The ducks can do

An unwise thing correctly, and it sounds more like Dusty than Buffalo Springfield to the enokitake Sold in Springfield, Illinois, which is the opposite

Effect it has on the wild mushrooms on these shores. On cables capable of love, the geese convince The weather to taste like kvass today. Basically,

Another Cuban Missile Crisis drowned itself just Now. The clouds might ask themselves, ‘Is lowliness Allowed here?’ To which the crows might ask,

‘Does omertà sound like lightning?’ The answer’s Oubliette is ten times worse than impotence. Summer Lake isn’t smart, but it stays quiet, like

Someone too smart to say all they know. ‘Whoa, Sweet potato,’ the capital gains tax mutters To itself, knowing that what matters doesn’t mean

A thing. Some say the lake bottom’s sands receive Commands from Hearst Castle, others say Its hands are King City’s hands, and still others

Maintain more sins have been than grains of sand Times secondary gains, and that explains The beauty and industry that none can see but

All can feel on these shores. (Some possibilities Play possum, or get opsonized by hate; this one snores Like Rip Van Winkle.) This orb-weaver spider is

The Milton Friedman of Summer Lake, the wind On her web is Grenache from The Rocks District Of Milton-Freewater AVA for the eyes. The day is

Stereotypical, although it feels like three days In one…But for the lake’s good counterfactual Questions, I would forget that some die young,

But most die wrong. I’ve tried to pick up Summer Lake’s reflections in three lines or less, but The hardest truth is your own impotence. Oh,

It’s hard to hand your power over to a thing No one can see. Hopped up on distinctions – not The obvious distinctions – Summer Lake is pretty;

Cold, but pretty! In the distance, with so many Intercessory prayers, hot air balloons are rising; Shaped like teardrops, upside down and rising.

This lake re-something-or-anothered me. Are first Impressions wrong sometimes? I am a season’s Golden calf, according to the sunlight, doing

A prospector’s jig on the surface of Summer Lake. If not for the Weimar Republic’s wooden- Headedness, I’d set down my heart-song and

Listen to reason on these shores. I never trust An activist guitar, if the weather is socially clumsy. The future is reflected on the lake: it always

Laughs at us – between its math and gratitude Lessons – and never thinks of (or gives thanks to) Us enough. The presence in the lake juniors

My ears. The day is not too baffling, nor is it Jane Eyre. Space-themed and spiritual, some autumn Leaves are swimming in the rain. The ducks arrest

My attention in the mardy weather, even though they Must know my attention is dying. The barbed wire Around my stated goal is an outcome out of

Their control. Picnickers picnic with acorns and apricots, On blankets covering Holy Schnikey’s death mask. My unsandaled thoughts thrive and increase on these,

And no other shores. They are pets for the days less Important than love, when Summer Lake says it’s Humble, because it knows the right thing to say.

Summer Lake gives the comfort of commonly held And seriously absurd beliefs to the blue heron. Nothing is wrong with this lake or anything in it,

Not even the ghost of Amerigo Vespucci. It’s all so Simple to the stiff-necked molecules of water, made out Of frogs and snails and puppy-dog’s tails. These thoughts

Are fine manna in a fine ditch. Post-structuralist squirrels Can tell my heart’s in Italy, and I’m in the intellectual Laity. Chivalry’s technician sees my shovel, and they say,

‘You’ve got to hand it to him.’ Neurocysticercosis Sets the bar high; it looks at this park, and thinks The smartest monkey drew the perfect landscape.

That’s this maple tree’s previous disease, its precious One. It unfurls the ferns of my firm and foremost Beliefs, I’m told, to partialize insufferable vastidity.

We Install a Sump Pump on (What Used To Be) a Holiday (Take 2)

The oppressive heat was born a fully grown Man. I admire the result of its effort, but Despise the means of achieving it. My wife Asserts her individuality in the gunk; her Body’s allegations aren’t too soft or hard today. Her self-interest seems to have drowned in the vortex.

Our little garden knows flippancy with regards To privacy is unwise. The stepping stones can Only blather, as slugs draw nomograms on Their faces. My wife’s body speaks Proto-Indo- European in the vortex and denim overalls. Marc Chagall’s The Poet studies her. He calls her

‘Innocence: The opposite of life! A criminal with A badge!’ I hand her the tools of a crude and Rudimentary faith, and she says, ‘Jill, great books Make fine shackles.’ Her arms only have An administrative objective in the vortex, but They are where good things come from.

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician in Oregon and veteran of the US Air Force. He's married with a daughter and whole lot of pets. Poems of Jake’s are in Radius, The Ekphrastic Review, Crab Orchard Review, The Cossack Review and elsewhere. He won 1st place in the 2017 SFPA speculative poetry contest and a Laureate's Choice prize in the 2019 Maria W. Faust Sonnet Contest. Past poems and short stories have been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing).

[imjeralee]

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 10 - Tentacools in the Ocean

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Rating: General/Teen

Extra Note: this gonna be so long and so plot heavy, ngl. if y’all can get through this, well done :)

Tentacools in the Ocean (but None of Them are You) … … ["If there's something strange in the neighbourhood who ya gonna call?"] … …

It's night-time, and Horace the security guard is making rounds within the depths of Rose's Art Gallery in Wyndon.

The art gallery is not officially open yet; it is a brand new building with many exhibits and displays and the grand unveiling is due to open in a few week's time and many jobs were created thanks to this. Owned by Rose, it houses many ancient and wondrous antiques which his family had gathered for generations. They are finally put on display and will be available to the public after the Macro Cosmos marketing department discovered it could generate further profit considering people were willing to pay to look at old relics of Galar.

He whistles a jovial tune to himself as he patrols the empty halls with his torch shining on the floor, thinking about the TV show he watched yesterday and what he should eat when he returns home. He has a long night ahead of him but he's already into the new job for a week or so and it's been peaceful and quiet.

And it's a regular night as he follows the same route he takes, turning left to exit the butterfly gallery and into the conjoined, long stretch of the hallway where the benches are and that's when the silence and peace is shattered.

A loud banging noise can be heard a short distance away, and Horace pauses to listen but it is not the sound of the plumbing system or whatever noises buildings emits for Horace has a long career of being a security guard in buildings old and new and he knows what is right and what is wrong.

And this is wrong. It comes in twos or threes, and often it comes at random intervals. Perhaps there is someone else in here, he thinks, perhaps a group of rambunctious kids and should he catch them they will be in for a right scolding for there should not be anyone here at all, not at this ungodly hour anyway.

But what is this noise, and he cannot tell as he stops and shines his torch down the hall where the noise persists.

Something is knocking on the walls.

The noise continues, growing louder and louder in volume and as it started at the end of the hall, it seems to be growing closer. As though someone's palm is placed flat upon the wall and repeatedly pounding on the surface, he hears it all over as it travels from the end of the hall, moving closer to him, and the posters stuck on the walls begin to tremble and shake.

Confused, he moves the torch left and right but he sees nothing, feels nothing.

"Who's there?" he says, and he thinks it's a mistake for the noises stop as soon as he's spoken. He's informed it that he is here, that he is aware of it, and that he is alone.

Horace waits and the stillness returns and he's about to brush it off, perhaps he needs more sleep, yes, and his ears were playing tricks on him, but then one of the chairs begins moving, the legs forcibly scraping across the linoleum before it is lifted in the air and hurled halfway across the floor.

...

Oleana is the only person still working at Rose Tower at this hour.

She reads through the entries of your blog on her laptop quietly; Rose is too busy to look at it himself so he's designated his secretary to do the work and weed out the minor, trivial stuff and sift for the important details. She reads through your excursions in the Wild Area, the old house in the Rolling Fields, Gengar, the ghost of South Lake Miloch and many more until she comes to your first entry which is dated three to four years ago, more or less.

Penning down your contact number and some bullet points in her notepad, she silently collects her findings and is about to leave her desk until the phone rings.

Whilst she wonders who it could be, she picks it up and says, "Hello, this is Oleana speaking."

"Hi, this is - Arceus, I really didn't expect anyone to pick up!" a man squawks on the other end, clearly shaken.

"I'm still in the office, yes. How may I help."

"Ah, thank you, Miss Oleana, this is Horace...you know, from the art gallery? I'm a security guard and I'm on shift tonight...Um, I...I'm not quite sure how to tell you this but....the art gallery is....I think it's...I think it's haunted."

"Haunted, you say?"

"Yes, ma'am. I-I'm terribly sorry, um, I-I know how it sounds..."

"We're already looking into this matter."

"Oh, r-really?"

"Yes, we have received similar complaints. Chairman Rose is coming up with a solution. I'm terribly sorry, but can this wait until the morning?"

"Uh....s-sure...guess I'll pray to Arceus to keep me safe for now...."

"Thank you." Oleana promptly hangs up after exchanging goodbyes with the security guard.

…

Meanwhile, in Postwick, Leon can't sleep.

He's in his room, lying in his old bed, wide-eyed with insomnia and staring at the ceiling in the darkness. He hasn't been home for so long that his bedroom walls appear foreign to him. Having stayed many nights in hotels and inns, usually for his next endorsement or pokemon battle, he's used to the lively hum of the city outside so the quietness of Postwick is wholly welcoming yet sleep continues to eludes him.

Tonight's events keeps replaying in his mind over and over again, ranging from the many instances when he held your hand, the conversations he had with you and the casual glimpses the two of you kept throwing at each other throughout the entire duration. He finds himself smiling widely at thoughts about you.

You've passed the Charizard Test and according to Charizard himself, you had deliberately injured yourself for him that night without a moment of hesitation or lingering thoughts, and he still cannot fathom how you could've have done such a thing for him. In all earnest, Leon would do the same for you.

You had informed him that your family has vanished. Your father and little sister first, followed by your mother. He can't quite get his head around how that may have happened. The enigma of you is slowly being unravelled and Leon, having just managed to put a few pieces together, discovers there's far much more to know about you than he had realised.

He recalls how forlorn you had become once your family was mentioned and although you declined any form of assistance from him, there must be something he can do.

Troubled, Leon tosses and turns for the umpteenth time before he finally pushes the covers off him and sits up in bed, gets up and switches the lights back on and Rotom is snoozing but he gently picks up his phone and checks the screen. He's wondering if you may have messaged him but there is only a reply from Raihan whom he had messaged earlier.

The bedroom door squeaks open and he hears someone enter.

"Lee?"

He looks up from his phone to see Hop at his doorway. "Hop?"

"Are you okay?" his little brother asks, rubbing his eyes. Wooloo is by his feet, also looking rather drowsy.

"I'm fine. What's up?"

"Nothing, I saw your light was still on..."

"Yeah, I'm finding it hard to sleep. You okay?"

Hop shakes his head, "I can't sleep either. I think I ate too much...."

Leon chuckles. "Wanna chat?"

"Okay...I was gonna go downstairs to grab a drink though..."

"Let's make Tapu Cocoa," Leon suggests, and Hop grins widely in agreement.

He exits his room and joins Hop in the hallway with Wooloo trotting beside him and they both make their way quietly down the stairs only to see the light in the kitchen is on and Leon's mum is standing at the sink with rubber gloves, furiously scrubbing at some mould behind the taps.

"Mum!" Hop says, and she turns round, startled before she exhales a sigh of relief as she glances between Hop and Leon.

"Whoo, you scared me, boys."

"Hehe," Hop grins whilst Leon gives her a sheepish smile. "Mum, what are you doing?"

"Oh nothing...just doing some late night cleaning. What're you boys doing up?"

"Lee and I can't sleep!"

"I know what will do the trick; a good, big ol' mug of Gossifleur Camomile Tea."

"We were thinking Tapu Cocoa," Leon replies.

"Oh, that works too," mum says cheerily, and Leon and Hop each slide into the chairs of the kitchen table; Hop also settles Wooloo over one chair but it is so tiny it doesn't even reach the table. Mum adds, "Let me put on the kettle."

"Let me do it," Leon offers, but she shakes her head.

"No, no, dear, you just sit and relax," mum coos as she brings out three mugs from the top shelf. Hop has a white Wooloo mug and Leon has a blue mug with a Charizard on it.

As they sit and mum waits for the kettle to boil, Leon glances at his brother and mother before he says, "It's been a while since we sat down like this."

"You should come home more often, Leo."

"I'll try to. Are you guys okay when I'm gone?"

"Yes, of course we are, dear."

"How's gran and granddad?"

"They're fine, they just sit and watch TV with Purrloin," mum reassures him; as the water finishes boiling, she starts making the cocoa, pouring the hot water into each mug and stirring them with a teaspoon before she finally joins them at the table, settling down their mugs.

"Lovely! Here we are altogether, just like old times. This is nice... if only your dad was here..." mum says with a sigh as she takes a seat in the middle of the table with Hop on her left and Leon to her right. Wooloo hops off the seat and trots to a bowl on the ground, lapping at the water.

"Thanks, mum," Leon says, and Hop echoes him. The drinks are too hot so they leave it to cool down. It grows silent in the kitchen, the only sounds that can be heard are the Ledyba's clicking outside and the clock ticking on the wall.

"So...how is work, dear?" mum asks, breaking the monotony.

"It's good. I'm gonna be busy for the next few weeks or so but today was fun, right?"

"Yeah!!" Hop replies with vigour, grinning widely from ear to ear, "Lee, are you gonna invite your girlfriend over again??"

"Hop, she's not my girlfriend...We're just friends."

"But you kept holding her hand. Me and Gloria are friends but I don't hold her hand. She said only couples do that."

Leon splutters at once whilst mum giggles, taking a small sip of her drink. When did Hop see him holding her hand anyway? Leon begins rubbing the back of his neck, entwining his fingers into his unruly thick hair. "Well...um...That's because..."

"Did she keep trying to hold your hand? Was it the other way around?"

Leon shakes his head. "No, no! No, Hop, it wasn't her...ah, it was that obvious, huh?"

"Leo, you couldn't take your eyes off her," mum says with a giggle, "She's cute."

His cheeks grow pink. "Mum, I…” he leaves his sentence trailing and mum and Hop look at him mutely in response, waiting for him to finish but he doesn't. It's then Leon realises he is talking to his family about a girl...maybe he should've asked Raihan instead...

“What’s the matter?” mum asks, and his face grows warm before he gives her a reassuring smile.

The last thing he wants is his mother to worry about him. “It’s nothing, mum.”

Mum crosses her arms, pondering to herself and Hop imitates her action. Leon watches them wordlessly as mum unfurls her arms and sighs. "Just do what you think is right, what feels right. If she’s the one, then that would be lovely. But if she's not the right one, then…perhaps you shouldn't talk to her or hold her hand so much. She'll get the wrong idea. There's plenty of Tentacools in the ocean, dear. I just want you to be happy."

Plenty of Tentacools in the ocean, Leon thinks to himself.

It grows quiet as mum and Hop take sips from their mugs and Wooloo drinks the bowl of water. It occurs to Leon he hasn't thought about this properly.

There are plenty of Tentacools, but none of them are you.

...

After his grandma passed away and his sister moved to Alola, Jace lives on his own.

When he’s finished his shift at Wyndon stadium, he goes home with Joltik. He wanted to become an electrician and trained for a few years or so but unfortunately was unable to find a job and resorted to being a part-time Ball Guy, a job which he's held down for while now. Jace received an inheritance but avoids using it, concerned that it will run out soon in a few years if he doesn’t get a well-paying job, so he’s doing his best to find a new career.

Little does he know that you’re attempting to train him though he has much to learn. Although you dislike being called an ‘exorcist’, Ezra’s taught you everything he knows and he is recognised by the church as a fully-fledged exorcist and essentially you’re his successor, so you want to pass on everything you know too, and Jace seems like a good candidate.

He isn’t the bravest person you have met but he has good qualities. He’s good with people, he’s friendly (friendlier than Ezra, anyway) and he’s also had a spiritual encounter.

You’ve yet to tell him this so he goes on about his mundane, daily life: he has a microwave dinner whilst sitting in front of his TV, then he spends some time with his pokemon. He is aware of the Giant’s Seat incidence from the news and knew you had solved the case so he messages you to see if you’re alright before he heads to his room to fix the radio.

Jace works with the utmost attention to detail and care, grabbing his goggles with the magnified lens along with his box of tools. Aside from being a part-time Ball Guy, Jace is quite the handyman. The first time when your radio broke, he was able to piece it back together with barely any effort and since then, he’s fixed it for you time and time again.

He’s almost finished; Joltik sits on his shoulder, watching him work whilst Heliolisk sits in his lap. His Eelektross lazes on his bed, curling up to sleep and slobbering over his sheets.

Turning the radio around, Jace uses a small screwdriver to carefully ease some wires together and loop them around each other before he replaces some of the bolts and screws into their proper positions.

Once they’re fixed into their appropriate places, he inserts the case back on and turns the radio around again onto its front and does a test run, pulling out the antenna. The radio only has one dial and he rotates it gently, watching the little tuner move across the screen and the radio splutters into action.

It begins emitting white noise as Jace rotates the dial through all the channels and as he passes eighteen ninety-eight hertz, there is still white noise.

He proceeds to move the dial all the way to the very end. Satisfied that the radio appears to be back in normal working order, he moves the dial to the very beginning and as he passes eighteen ninety eight again, a male’s voice emits from the radio but Jace accidentally rotates the dial past the channel and so he misses what was said.

“What was that?” Jace utters to himself, before he slowly turns the dial back to eighteen ninety-eight and the deep, scratchy voice can be heard far more clearly.

“-a pocket full of posies, a-tishoo, a-tishoo, we all fall down. Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies...”

The mysterious voice unsettles Jace, it is sinister and full of malice.

“Hello, who’s there?” the voice says before it emits a chuckle, and if Jace knew any better it is as though whoever was on the other end was smiling. "Don't be shy. Say something."

Jace instructs his pokemon to keep quiet by placing a finger over his lips and he reaches over to turn the dial to a different channel.

“Jace, Jace, what a disgrace," the voice begins to chant, "Failure to his mother, failure to his father, should just kill himself hereon after.”

Eyes widening, Jace quickly turns the dial all the way to the very end and the room goes silent. He did the right thing by not responding and a sense of security washes over him. He breathes a sigh of relief, swivelling round in his chair only to be greeted with a tall and dark silhouette situated at the door to his room.

He lets out a howl of fright, his heart slamming hard against his ribs. In a blink, the shadowy figure is gone, replaced with the empty space of the doorway.

The silence is broken when the radio switches on with a loud click, sending Jace into another fit of temporary shock, and the dial rotates to eighteen ninety-eight, twisting around on its own accord and when the white noise disperses, the sounds of mocking laughter fills the room.

Reaching for the device with a shaking hand, he switches the radio off once more. When all goes silent, he exhales audibly, grabs his Rotom phone and dials your number.

…

A week has passed since the dinner with Leon.

He has returned to his duties as Champion and he’s left Postwick. You found out when you returned to their house the day after with the Wooloo plushie; his mum opened the door and she told you that he had already left. Then you check your Rotom phone and see that he hadn’t sent a message to let you know beforehand, which would have been nice.

You see him again when he is on the news, issuing his statement about the gym challenge and the Giant Seat’s incidence.

Leon addresses the people’s concerns and voices his empathy towards the deceased. Coupled with his good looks and overflowing charisma and confidence, his words are empowering and incredibly motivating. Just like that, people are returning to the gym challenge with renewed trust and faith.

The Giant’s Seat incidence is more or less forgotten, and Chairman Rose is very happy.

There was a funeral which Leon and Graves attended, but you didn’t go because you had no idea nor were you invited. Speaking about Graves, you're supposed to meet him tomorrow at Wyndon Police Station.

As you watch Leon on the TV screen with Gengar and Mimikyu, you remember watching the movie with him over a video call using Rotom, and afterwards you remember how enthusiastic he was.

You had engaged in lively discussion regarding the true meaning behind ‘Rosebud’ and you could tell how deeply moved he was by the film and he had even told you how much he had enjoyed watching it with you.

You mentioned you should watch another movie together and he agreed but following that, he has ceased to message you.

Out of your control, you messaged him first. Just a simple 'how are you' but unfortunately, you elicited no reply though your message was read and Leon was online which confused you but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to realise he is talking to everyone else except you.

You can't deny you feel a bit hurt, but you don't take it personal and try not to think about it too much for you assume he’s far too busy to deal with the likes of you any longer and so you should return to your normal schedule as well. After all, he’s the Champion of Galar and you’re a pokemon researcher. Your paths and priorities are bound to diverge.

However, you find yourself unable to stop thinking about him.

Leon occupies your mind day in and day out. When you’re meant to be working, you’re thinking back to the dinner and all the words that were exchanged, the looks he subjected you to and you would replay certain scenes in your mind again and again.

You think about what he said and what you said, and what you could’ve said differently… and you also think about what could happen should you see him again and what you would say to him. You think of all sorts of scenarios in your head: what if you bumped into him at a café, maybe in Wyndon? What if you saw him in the Wild Area again? So many endless possibilities.

These thoughts soon grow unhealthy because you had wanted to study Mimikyu and her origins and how she could speak human language, but then you’d suddenly find yourself recalling those fond moments of Leon’s dreamy eyes gazing into yours and how he held your hand. He held your hand so many times during that dinner.

You find that you are unable to study and with a heavy sigh, you rub your temples and groan. You need to forget about him for now because most likely, you're the only one who's thinking about him. With no new cases and Leon’s match scheduled more than a week away, you’re free to do as you please.

You have a new member on the team (your client did not want to take Mimikyu back so she will be staying with you) and it’s a good idea to head to the Wild Area tonight; you can even attempt some training…

After devising a plan to venture into the Stony Wilderness, you begin packing your bag until you are interrupted when you receive a call from Jace:

“H-hey chuck,” he sounds shaken when you answer, “…I-I-I fixed your radio…can you come over right now, please? Please???”

“Okay, I’ll come over.”

He breathes a huge sigh of relief. “Thanks!”

You abandon packing a full bag and merely bring some essentials with you before you head out and arrive at his place in roughly twenty minutes. You see that he had spent those minutes waiting with all the lights switched on and the TV turned up to a high volume in an effort to drown out the monotony. You ring the doorbell to his apartment and from within, you hear him exclaiming loudly with relief and rapid footsteps rushing over.

A pale-faced Jace greets you along with his Joltik, Heliolisk and Eelektross who cling to his arms and leg. Jace is trembling, holding your fixed radio in hand. His blonde hair is usually styled but he’s left it alone, loose strands flopping untidily over his forehead and eyes.

Before he can say a word, you glance around, looking at his lounge and the conjoined kitchen and utter, “Your house feels off. Let me do a quick sweep...”

He nods in agreement. “Thanks…”

“Good thing I brought holy water today."

“T-thanks, chuck…Your radio is soooo cursed, I hate it so much,” Jace moans as he returns his pokemon into their capsules in case they accidentally interfere with your ritual. As you remove your shoes and enter his lounge, he closes the door then hands you the fixed device and adds, “I heard a new voice: it was a man, not your father either. It knew my name and told me to go kill myself. I switched the radio off, turned round and saw this shadowy figure standing over there.”

He points to his bedroom doorway where the door is wide open and you head over to inspect.

“It went away but it scared me half to death," he says with a shiver. "Are you sure it picks up transmissions from the spirit world only?"

You ponder to yourself, glance at the radio then pocket it into your bag, “I'll check with Ezra. Jace, I'm so sorry…thanks for fixing the radio. I’ll make sure to be more careful and not break it anymore.”

“It’s fine, duck, I know you can’t help it and you know I’m always happy to lend a hand.”

“…Thanks, Jace.”

He gives you a wide grin as you smile weakly at him, then he pats you on the top of your head and shuffles to his kitchen in his flipflops so you can perform the cleansing ritual in peace.

Rolling your sleeves up, you begin murmuring the appropriate chant to bless and purify the house before you take out a bottle of water from your bag, unscrew the lid and empty some on your fingertips. Jace watches as you murmur under your breath and sprinkle some of the water over the doorway.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum. Amen,” you murmur, and once the dark presence lifts, you nod to yourself; the task is complete. “That should do it.”

He gives you a wide grin as you smile weakly at him; closing the door behind you, you wander to the lounge and Jace gestures for you to take a seat on his grey couch. “Thanks. All good, right?"

"Yeah."

Whatever it was, it's gone now.

"Let’s have a nice cuppa tea and catch up.”

The décor of his apartment used to be old-fashioned and full of Purrloin plates on the wall or photos and calendars of Snubbulls in various costumes courtesy of his grandmother, but now it’s become more of a typical bachelor’s pad with the casual grey sofa, glass coffee table, the modern blinds and the high chairs that line the counters that stand in the middle of the kitchen which itself has become more modern; there are no more frills and florals, Jace has replaced the wallpaper with white paint and spotlights embedded in the ceiling.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” you say and he grins.

“Thanks, it took me a while to get it renovated but I’m glad I got it done.”

“It’s more you.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Thanks, chuck. How’s things anyway?” he asks; he’s putting the kettle to boil for two cups which he’s laid out over the counter, tossing in teabags.

“I have a problem.”

The kettle finishes boiling and Jace pours the water in. “What problem?”

“I think I’m in love with Leon.”

“And so do ninety per cent of the female population of Galar,” he replies flatly as he stirs the tea with a spoon then heads over to the sofa with the mugs in hands.  

It’s piping hot, so you’re extra careful as he hands you your mug of earl grey tea. “I’m serious, Jace.”

He seats himself comfortably on his plushy sofa, then grabs the remote and presses the button and the channel changes to some dancing show called Strictly Come Krumping where a dancer is busting some aggressive-looking moves with her Scraggy on the podium.

He flicks through the available movies and TV shows, passing a popular detective drama called The Killer Sableye and eventually move to the documentary section where Jace stares at the blurb of a comedy docuseries called ‘Hiker Dave’s Adventures in Alola with Kiawe’.

“So…Leon, huh. I thought someone like Kiawe would be your type. Not Leon.” Jace muses, “I didn’t think Leon would be your type at all.”

“Me either. I can't stop thinking about him, I can’t seem to focus on my work anymore. I noticed I can’t stop smiling whenever he’s mentioned or if I'm around him, my heart thumps like a Spoink on steroids and I get so nervous, it’s driving me bonkers and – is that a documentary about Leon?? Put that on, quick.”

Jace raises a brow and rolls his eyes but clicks on the program anyway.

“This is so exciting.”

He sighs and you deadpan all of a sudden.

“Dear lord," you mutter, "What’s happening to me?”

“Relax. You just have a crush on him, that’s all. It’s totally normal for girls your age. It’ll go away and you’ll realise it was just a phase and you’ll return to normal,” Jace mutters before he grabs a biscuit and dabs it into the tea.

What if you don’t want it to pass though?

And what if you want Leon to return these feelings?

“...You’re right," you end up uttering, shaking your head to clear such ridiculous thoughts, "this is just a phase. I need to snap out of it. I need to maintain a distance from him and I need to stop thinking about him because he sure as hell isn't thinking about me.”

“There are plenty of Tentacools in the ocean,” he adds. “Plenty of Tentacools.”

Yes, there are plenty of Tentacools in the ocean, but none of them are Leon.

…

In Hulbury, Leon is faithfully carrying out one of his Champion duties, which is to help out at a soup kitchen for the homeless.

He usually attends the one in Stow-on-Side, but on this occasion, the soup kitchen in Hulbury requires his assistance.

It’s wholly voluntary and the amount of people who turn up is staggering, ranging from up to thirty to three hundred so Leon has a busy half-day ahead of him.

Swapping his champion uniform and cloak for a t-shirt, overalls, apron and hairnet, the people of Galar probably wouldn’t recognize him nor would they find this hardly fitting for the Champion of Galar, but Leon is happy to lend a hand to the charity and they are extremely grateful for his assistance.

Leon enjoys working with the homeless; they are a lively bunch though most people would be repulsed by the foul stench due to living on the streets and their unsightly looks. They line up one by one in front of the tables that have been set up with Tupperware boxes full of food and cutlery, and Leon assists with the handouts.

“Arceus bless you, Mr Leon,” says a man with a toothy smile and an equally toothy Growlithe by his side.

“And you, sir,” Leon replies with a grin, as the man waddles away with his food for the night. “Enjoy your meal!”

The next individual steps up in line; it is an old man dressed in black with a mop of messy black hair and eyes that are entirely white and glazed over. He slowly shuffles over whilst coughing harshly, balancing an unlit cigarette between the cracked corners of his dry lips.

An Absol trots beside him, carrying a silver flask fastened to a harness that’s looped around her body.

“Here you are, sir,” Leon says, handing him a cutlery set and a plastic box full of hot rice, curry, potatoes and mushrooms, and the man blindly grasps for the box. Leon notices immediately and places the plastic tub into the old man’s palm, his long and gnarled fingers curling over the plastic.

“Thank you,” the man grunts out with gratitude, “C’mon, Absol, let’s go.”

The blind man begins to wander away with Absol plodding silently beside him until another homeless man comes rushing over in a hurry to join the queue and slams into his side none too gently, causing the blind man to topple over and the box’s contents to spill everywhere as it clatters to the ground.

“Oof,” the blind man grunts as he lands on the floor, cigarette falling out of his lips.

“Watch where you’re going, old geezer!” yells the other man before he sprints away, and Absol hisses angrily at him, her eyes glowing a bright blue. She attempts to chase him down but her owner stops her in time.

Having witnessed the entire scene, Leon hastily grabs a new food box and heads over. The blind man attempts to get up though he is helplessly sprawled over the ground, trying to locate his cigarette by patting the space around him with his hand.

Once he’s arrived, Leon lowers himself to his knees and helps the blind man up by grabbing the back of his elbow firmly. “Are you alright, sir?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” he grunts, rubbing his aching hip.

“Can you stand?”

The blind man nods and on the count of three, Leon helps him up though his knees shake and his legs wobble. Leon glances around the floor with all the spilled food and calls for some of the volunteers from the soup kitchen to help clean up; they acknowledge with a nod and arrive at the scene with a mop and long-handled brush.

“Where’s my cigarette?” the blind man growls under his breath, and Leon quickly picks up the little stick and hands it to him.

“There you go.”

“Thanks, kid,” the blind man proceeds to place it between his lips, “You new here? You don’t sound like the regulars.”

“I’m assisting the Hulbury soup kitchen for today only.”

“Hm. I see.”

“I brought you a new box of food.”

“That’s very kind of you, new guy. Usually if I cock up and rejoin the queue, they tell me to scram.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that. That’s not fair on you.”

The blind man lets out a huff of agreement. “They need to be more like you, new guy. You’re a good ‘un. Now, uh… I need to siddown …”

“I’ll help you,” Leon grasps his elbow and helps the man hobble over to an empty space near one of the stalls whilst Absol purrs with appreciation at Leon for his help.

Her owner pats her on the head and turning to Leon, he looks up at the Champion with his empty white eyes and says, “I can manage from here, new guy. Don’t mind me, I’m just a blind and useless old man.”

“I need to make sure you’ll be okay,” Leon replies, and he helps the blind man sit down on an overturned plastic box, allowing him to sigh and smack a clenched fist over his knees.

Another volunteer hurries over with a batch of paper towels. “Ezra, are you alright? That was a nasty fall.”

Leon blinks at sound of the name. “Ezra?”

“He’s one of our regulars,” the volunteer proceeds to inform him in a hushed whisper. “He’s an ex-convict…he was jailed for the murder of his wife and kid.”

“I may be blind but I ain’t deaf,” Ezra barks and the volunteer goes red in the face.

Leon glances at Ezra wide-eyed, unsure if he is willing to believe what his ears just heard. However, he chooses to stay put and asks, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m alright…” Ezra grumbles, before he throws his empty gaze to Leon’s direction, then jabs a finger at the volunteer, “Hey, you should hire more people like this new guy. You can learn a lot from him.”

“This is Leon, the Champion of Galar!” the volunteer exclaims.

“Champion, eh?”

“Yes!"

Ezra nods to himself. “New guy. You remind me of my disciple. You got a big heart, just like her.”

“I know your disciple,” Leon says excitedly before he can help himself. At the mere mention of you, his face has lit up and a huge grin has appeared. Reaching for Ezra’s ragged hand, he shakes it firmly and Ezra raises a brow, “She found me when I got taken by a Froslass and I went with her to a haunted house with Charizard and she deducted that it was actually a Zorua-“

“Whoa, hold it right there, champ. Slow down, have a seat,” the man replies, and Leon eagerly moves to sit beside him whilst the volunteer decides to saunter away. Emitting a wheezy laugh, Ezra rests a hand on his knee and says, “So, you’ve met my disciple?”

“Yes, Mr Ezra.”

He chuckles at Leon's formality. “Saved you from a Froslass, huh? You were one of the missing folk at the Giant's Seat?"

"Not exactly, but she still saved my life."

Ezra chuckles louder. "She tell you much about me?”

“Not much, only that you’re frightening and that you taught her everything she knows.”

“Hehe, that’s right,” the old man says with a smirk, “I used to be the pastor for the Church of Circhester. Decided it really wasn’t for me. I stay in Greyson’s Cemetery now. I’m the caretaker. Come visit when you have time."

“Thank you, sir. How did you meet her?”

Ezra snickers in response before he rubs his chin, “Huh, now you’re testin’ my memory…She tried an Ouija board in the cemetery and summoned a demon. Ended up possessin’ her. I found her and performed an exorcism, woke up in hospital and she was there. She kept apologizin’ and started cryin’ too, thought she’d gotten me killed… and I told her it’d take more than that to kill this old man. Think she was kinda…traumatized or somethin’ after that ordeal…but then she turned up to the graveyard one day and kept comin’ back every night and askin’ me if I could teach her stuff."

Leon nods in response as Ezra opens his flask and takes a brief swig. It smells of strong beer.

“She’s a good kid, Leon. A poor kid, too,” Ezra adds, wiping his chin.

“She told me her family are missing.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” the old man says with a sigh, “she says nobody believed her and that’s why she came to me for help. I was the only one who did. Now you’re best not to get tied up with our affairs, you know? It’s dangerous.”

“Yes, sir."

"And uh, could you do me a favour? If you see her...give her this, please?" Ezra lifts out a strange stone with a fissure in the middle and Leon recognises it as the Odd Keystone. "Tell her it needs one more spirit. She'll understand."

"Sure. Thank you, Mr Ezra. Take care.” Leon replies and he pockets the keystone and before they depart, they shake hands and he returns to his station, pulling on a new pair of gloves and begins serving the next few individuals in line.

When he’s finished with the soup kitchen, Ezra heads to the cemetery, waving to Leon. It’s growing dark and following a message from Chairman Rose, Leon returns to Rose Tower.

The journey to Wyndon is a short one and when he has arrived at the penthouse with Charizard's help, he knocks on the door and waits patiently. It’s been a long day but he still has many tasks ahead of him. Leon hasn’t even begun his training with his team yet. He hears the door click open and Oleana appears.

With a stoic expression, she greets him with a polite bow of her head. “Hello Mr Champion.”

“Hi Ms Oleana.”

“Thank you for coming,” she utters and she opens the door for him and he enters the penthouse without further delay to see Rose sitting on his large leather couch, engrossed with the little flashing screen of his Rotom phone which is playing a video.

"Good evening, sir,” Leon says, and he looks up.

“Ah, Leon! You’re here. Please, come over and have a look at this. Tell me what you think," Rose says as Leon joins his side, before he hands him the phone, pressing 'play' on the screen.

A screechy song can be heard, with a violent mix of percussion and bass guitar riffs blasting out in high volume.

"Ghostbunkers, hoooo yeah! Ghostbunkers, ghosts beware!!! GHOSTBUNKERS!!!" a charismatic but deep, gruff voice belts out. It ends in thirty seconds or so and Leon stares as a young man proceeds to appear on screen in the dark. His form is an eerie pale green in colour, his eyes are glowing pools of light due to the night-vision camera. "Hi, hello! Tan here, and welcome back to another exciting episode of Ghostbunkers! Tonight, we're heading to the abandoned Thrifty Megamart in Alola!"

He returns the phone. He's seen enough. “Sir, what is this?”

"An interesting duo who call themselves the ‘Ghostbunkers’," Rose mutters with a small smile gracing his lips.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“Do you recall the art gallery event?”

“Yes sir. It was due to open but it got postponed for unknown reasons.”

“Indeed. Well, we received a call from one of the night security guards. It was another complaint regarding the art gallery being 'haunted'.”

“Haunted?” Leon says, surprised. This would be the first time he’s heard such a thing.

“Yes, we didn’t want news to spread so kept it secret. Anyway, I was thinking it's time we hired a couple of experts to inspect the building.” Whilst Rose hums under his breath in response, Oleana does not look amused with the direction as to where this conversation is going, “And you have just met a pokemon expert who deals with these sorts of things. It's great timing. If she's available, I'd like to ask her to help....if she's up for the task, that is.”

Leon is uncomfortable. He put in a good word for you and he told Rose about the Giant's Seat incidence but he didn't realise this sort of thing would happen. “Sir, she is a good person. Please do not-“

“Don’t get me wrong, Leon. I am treating this as a very serious matter…though I'm not inclined to believe in ghosts but what choice do I have? The art gallery’s opening has been delayed for far too long."

“I understand, sir.”

With that, Rose steeples his fingers together and nods to himself, "Excellent. Then it's decided, we'll ask this pokemon researcher and these...'Ghostbunkers' for help. Oleana. please call them at your earliest convenience. Explain to them our circumstances, the art gallery, the hauntings... The fee can be discussed later."

"Very well, sir," Oleana acknowledges with a short bow as she clasps her hands gently together.

"Thank you; I'd also like to meet the pokemon researcher in person. Can you arrange a meeting for me at the hotel tomorrow?"

"Yes sir."

As Oleana begins to exit the penthouse to make the phonecalls, Rose rises from his seat, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Very good. That's another matter off my chest. Leon, let’s go have dinner, shall we? I have a booking at The Captain’s Table. All the gym leaders will be joining us tonight. We're celebrating your smooth recovery.”

“Yes, sir…” Leon utters, as he follows Rose outside; he can’t help but wonder what he’s gotten you involved...

…

You’re on your way home, sitting in the Corviknight taxi whilst checking Rotom; you still have not received any messages from Leon. Suddenly, Rotom's screen changes, indicating to you that an unknown number is calling you. It must be a new client.

“Hello?” you say as you swipe the screen and hold Rotom to your ear.

“Hello,” says a stern voice belonging to a female, “Am I speaking to the ghost-type pokemon researcher of Wedgehurst?”

“Yes, that’s me,” you reply and she mentions your name for further confirmation, “Who’s speaking?”

“My name is Oleana. I work for Chairman Rose of Macro Cosmos.”

“Ah, hello. How may I help you?”

“Chairman Rose would like to meet you to discuss a proposition. Would you be free tomorrow afternoon?”

You remember that you’re supposed to meet Graves tomorrow as well. “Sure, I’m free anytime except one pm.”

“Very good. Please go to the Rose of the Rondelands in Wyndon tomorrow and inform reception you have a meeting with the Chairman at three pm sharp.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“What is this proposition?”

“The Champion has recommended and vouched for you and your credentials, so Chairman Rose would like to personally meet you to enquire about your services. You will find out more when you see him tomorrow.”

You're taken aback. “...Alright, sounds good.”

“Thank you. Have a nice evening.”

…

[twoidiotwriters1]

Pure Blood 20 (Sirius Black x F!Oc)

A/N: Omg,I can't believe we're already in chapter 20, the good is coming

Words: 1,760

Masterlist

Chapter 19 / Chapter 21

Sirius

Yesterday

"You owe me some chocolate frogs, Padfoot," says James, lying down on his bed.

"I don't think so, Prongs. That bet wasn't fair, how could I know that bird was going to attack me?”

"Maybe because you threw rocks at him," adds Peter, and I wince.

Remus enters the room then, the boy walks in with a huge smile all the way to his bed, takes off his sweater and sits on the mattress in front of mine. The three of us are silent as we watch him, waiting for some other reaction. I told them what had happened with Persephone, omitting the fact that he was crying and… the hug.

James sits on the edge of his bed and looks at Remus.

"And well?” That makes him react, but his smile doesn't fade.

"Hello guys. How’d it go? ” I frown.

"Good," says Peter. "But I think it was better for you," he says, trying to joke, but James throws him a shirt to quiet him down.

“Yes, you're right, Pete. It was better than I thought,” Remus replies, slightly red.

"How was your date with... Trixie?" I say, trying to control myself. His face flushes even more.

“I know you don't like her, Padfoot, but I did well, she's a very- wait, how did you know that?” The spell seems to have broken.

"Someone told me,” I lean against the wooden pillar of his bed and cross my arms.

“Oh. Well… yes, it was great, we have many things in common and–”

"Remus, I love you and you know it,” James interrupts him before he gives the details. "I think you're the smartest of the four, but right now you're being an idiot." Remus looks at him confused.

“Are you on his side too? C’mon James, they don't even know her…”

“Listen," I reply. “I may not be the best person to say this, because of my stupid decisions, but…” I approach him. “Why did you leave Persephone?”

"What are you talking ab-" His eyes widen "Holy shit!” He hits his forehead.

"There it is, he finally realized," applauds James.

“Shit, I was supposed to go with her.”

"Didn't you really remember?" I ask.

"No shit, I'm the worst person in the world," He says as he gets up. "I have to talk to her…” He opens the door, but before he could get out, I grab his shirt and he turns.

"It's late, Moony, talk to her tomorrow.”

He sighs and nods, before closing the door a meow stops me. A small cat’s sitting in front of our room.

"How strange…” I don't pay attention and close the door.

"Surely she hates me," he complains.

"No, she's just upset," I say without thinking and he watches me.

"You talked to her?" He asks surprised and I feel shivers run through my body.

"Eh, yes, something like that, she seemed annoyed.”

"I'm an idiot.”

"We agree on that," adds James.

"Okay, now tell us, how did it go with Trixie?" Peter asks and I complain covering my ears.

"I don't want to know what you do with the devil!”

Night came as we argued and joked.

———————————————————————————

Today.

"Does that mean I now have an excuse to hit Snivellus?" I ask, patting her red hair.

"I thought you didn't need one to do it," Lily replies, blowing her nose.

"I need it, now I can say that it was for your honor.” My words make her laugh.

"I still can't believe our friendship is over," she says as she sits down on the floor resting her head on my shoulder.

"Welcome to the Club,” I say sighing.

"I don't think we're in the same club, Persephone," I frown.

"What are you talking about?”

"I know you’ll deny everything, but your relationship with Sirius has changed, you don’t argue like before.”

"That's because of the truce, you know about the plan–“

"If you say so…”

"Anyway, do you want to go to the lake to eat? I'm hungry,” We get up at the same time.

"Surely everyone knows now what happened," she says, wiping her tears away.

“Let them think what they want, Lily. You can't force them to never talk about you, the only thing we can do is ignore them, but if someone dares to hurt you, rest assured that you have a whole group of bodyguards-”

She laughs. "Who would say that after so many fights, we would become friends?"

I Sigh. "Yes, everything is out of balance…”

I feel a chill when I remember the hug with Sirius, but I don't say anything.

We both walk to the large dining room and just as I head over to the Slytherin table, she stops me and offers me a place at her table.

"You want the balance to fall apart, right?" Lily rolls her eyes.

"Don't exaggerate, come on," she says. We sit down with her friends, they all ask if she’s okay and Lily only answers that they will talk later, I’d also be uncomfortable with something like that.

We ate and talked about everything, the relationship with them was friendly, we are not best friends, but I’m comfortable, everything’s better when Jenna joins. After a few minutes, I was already preparing to leave, but a new person stopped me. Trixie sits across from me with a huge smile.

"May I speak to you, Persephone?" I clench my teeth.

"No thanks, I want to live," she giggles, causing a chill.

"Always so funny! But I think it's important that we talk, it's about Remus.”

I raise an eyebrow.

"Did you kill him already or what?" I feel a pinch on my left arm and I complain looking at Lily. Then I sigh. "What do you want?"

"Oh no, I meant talking in a more private place,” She looks at the girls. "I don't want to offend them, it's just that this is a bit embarrassing topic…”

"Don't worry, Persephone will go with you" Jenna says giving me orders. I grimace and get up.

We both leave the large dining room and walk a few hallways.

“Here. I don't intend to be in a secret place where you can hide my body without witnesses.”

She sighs but keeps smiling.

“Listen, I'm not stupid, I know that since the last time we saw each other many years ago, things were not right. But you have to understand that we are no longer girls and I don't think I deserve your bad attitude.”

Well shit. I was not expecting this.

"Still, I don't expect us to be as close friends as before, I know you have your group and I have mine, but our paths are perhaps coming together again," She adds, blushing a little. "Remus is a very cute boy and I don't think I've ever had such a strong connection with anyone, he listens to me and-"

"Stop there I- I don't want to know,” I stir uneasily. "I was supposed to go with him to Hogsmeade yesterday, but he left me standing because of you.”

"I know.”

"And it's not fair- wait- you knew?"

"Yes. He’s quite sorry. When I saw him at the entrance of the school, he was very happy and we started talking, he never mentioned that he was waiting for you, I found out later I- I'm sorry.”

"What?" This I was really not expecting it.

“I’m very sorry for what happened, if I had known… sorry, Persephone. What I least want is to give you reasons to hate me.”

On the one hand, I am very surprised, and on the other I don’t know whether to believe her. Before I could reply, Remus reaches our side.

"Percy, can we talk?"

They both look at each other and smile for a few seconds, but then they came back to me.

"What you did to me, Lupin, you’ll have to compensate. Trixie,” She waits anxiously. “May it never happen again.”

"I promise," She says, smiling, "I'll leave you alone, see you, Remi." She kisses his cheek and leaves.

"I'm really sorry. I completely forgot- it wasn't on purpose- I know what you think, but I'm not like Sirius,” He speaks so fast that I barely understand, so I cover his mouth with my hand.

"Okay, I accept your apology, but I warn you that if it happens again, I will not hesitate to turn you into a worm, understand?" He nods and pulls my hand away.

"So you're not upset anymore?" I shake my head.

“Remus," I say nervously "Do you really like Trixie?"

The boy blushes and runs a hand over his hair.

“Yes, I think so…”

I sigh.

“Just… be careful.”

—————————————————————

"What will you wear for the big party of important people?" Jenna asks surprising me.

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," I shrug. "My mother will surely send me something. She wants to control everything.”

"At least she has good taste," I nod. "I understand why you like going out to the gardens so much, it's relaxing," She says, lying down on the grass.

Suddenly a small orange bird perches on the book that I put aside. I laugh and look at the animal. Its colors are very bright, I have never seen a bird like that.

"Hey, how do you feel about the whole Trix and Lupin thing?" Adds my friend.

"I don't know, it's weird.”

"Wait, odd that it's with Trix, or that Remus has a girlfriend?"

“Girlfriend? No. Ha! No.”

Jenna laughs out loud.

"What is so funny?"

“You're jealous!”

"What!? Of course not!”

“Yes you are!”

"No, don't say stupid things. I'm only worried about him, Trixie is a bad person -or at least she was- agh! I don't know, but I'm not jealous, I don't see Remus as more than a friend.”

"Hey, it's not bad that you like Lupin, actually, of the four I like him the most.”

“Stop."

"I'm just saying, don't be mad," She says defending herself.

"I can't see Remus that way,” I bend my legs and rest my chin on my knees.

"You would make a nice couple," She adds, making me growl. “Although, I've seen progress with Black…”

"Do you want to stop pairing me with all of them?"

"Hey, it's not my fault! You have a history and somehow, we always end up talking about one of them.”

"I wish I could meet someone else…”

"That would break Lupin and Black's hearts."

"Jenna!"

My scream causes the bird to fly away.

Taglist:

@treestarrrrrrrr  @siriuslysirius1107      @thagreenmoon @madmaiden2890    @ren-ela  @avipshamitra   @auroraawrites @findzelda  @lizlil @siriusmuch   @chloe-geoghegan1 @reverse-hxlland  @may-rapp @the-specific-oceans​

@bloodorangemoonlight

@littledeadgirlwalking​

[what-if-i-imagine]

Curiosity Killed the Catfish

“Roy Harper has always believed in the merpeople, just like his father. The only problem is, he's never seen one. Lucky for him, this little mer happens to be too curious for his own good.”

My first fic for MerMay, hope you enjoy!

Roy had grown up with bits and pieces of stories about the ones who lived in the water. It started with his father, a forest ranger who Roy had few blurry memories of, all of which were lesions about the forest around them. One lesson of his that had always stuck out was his talk about creatures who lived in the lakes.

“They are shy creatures who only come out once every blue moon to satisfy their curiosity. They’re even more curious than cats, but are even smarter as they never get caught,” he remembered the man saying as he tucked him into bed. It was one of the few memories of his birth father that was perfectly intact.

Brave Bow cared for him after the fire for a long time until he got sick. He taught Roy of water people who had long run from the forest to the oceans, the lakes having grown too small and ruined by the humans for them. From his teaching Roy gained a strong stance on water pollution and a distaste for public beaches. According to Brave Bow, they were to live with respect and compassion to their companionship with the water people. The way the world was, the way humans had ruined the lakes and chased the water people to the oceans, it made Roy’s blood boil every time he thought of it.

Then there was Oliver Queen.

Roy had been adopted by Oliver after Brave Bow’s passing. The billionaire had explained to Roy that he wished to get his life together, to be a better person, and being a father might give him that opportunity. Oliver, just like his natural father and foster father before, had an odd fascination and love of the lake creatures and water people, who he referred to as mers. He claimed a mer saved his life not too long before he adopted Roy, and it was what put his life into perspective for him.

Roy never once doubted any of his three father figures. Even as he grew up and his peers told him mers were as real as Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, Roy held onto their teachings and stories. He held onto his beliefs in living in companionship with the water people, and kept an eye out any time he was around a body of water for the curious lake creatures, and every time Oliver took him to the Queen private beach, he would spend at least an hour of their day searching for the mer who had saved Oliver.

As he got older, Roy found himself wandering down to the beach alone more and more. Oliver was a busy man, and he had very important things to do, but that didn’t stop Roy from throwing himself a pity party every time his guardian was gone. Although his belief in mers never wavered, his energy to find them did, and he spent his lonely days at the private beach just watching the waves go by.

Roy laid down in the land and stared up at the clouded sky. It was one of those days that he knew even if he went to the public beach there would be few people there, most of them spending the glum summer day doing indoor activities. He enjoyed these days the most, when he knew even if Oliver came home early, he would never think to find Roy here. He could be alone and content in his own thoughts and not have to worry about Oliver, Dinah or Hal breathing down his neck after last year’s events.

He turned his head in time to see a family of robins land nearby. He recalled one of Brave Bow’s teaching of the birds’ migration, and wondered if they were going to stay in Washington for the summer with him or if they were just taking a rest on their way to Alaska.

One of the younger robins was limping about, and after watching for a few minutes, Roy spotted the problem.

Very slowly, he made his way towards the robins, being careful not to startle them. What seemed like the oldest robin was seemingly trying to help his brother, but the injured bird kept flinching away. When Roy got closer, the younger robins started to eye him suspiciously, but the oldest and injured robins were unfazed and almost welcoming to his presence.

Carefully he reached out a hand and allowed the injured robin to limp into his palm. Just as he suspected, a thorn was stuck in the bird’s wing.

“You need to be more careful, you know,” he whispered as he examined the wing for any severe injury. “We don’t want a pretty bird like you falling from the sky.”

The bird winced when he pulled the thorn out. It took a moment, but soon it started to move its wing just like new again, chirping happily.

Roy let the robin back down by its family, and smiled as he watched them all celebrate their brother being okay. The little birds ended up flying away soon after, and Roy went back to staring at the clouds as they passed by.

“Stupid rock!” a voice shouted, startling Roy out of his calm.

He got up quickly and started his slightly panicked search for the source of the voice. This was a private beach, after all, he should have been completely alone. He followed the grunts and hisses of annoyance until he reached the small cave he used to hide in when playing hide-n-seek with Oliver.

Roy took off his shoes and shirt and dived into the water, swimming around for the entrance to the cave. There inside, he found something just above the water’s surface that made his heart stop. Or more, someone.

The last time he had been in the cave was when him and Oliver decided to hide a small treasure chest as a joke. The chest hadn’t contained anything interesting, just a few broken arrow heads, chocolate gold coins, saltwater taffy and a necklace Roy had made from one of the broken arrow heads. They had made it to try and lure a mer to the cave, but never actually checked to see if it did. He had honestly completely forgotten the chest existed until that moment.

Now he stared at the shelf of rock where they had tucked it away and saw that the treasure chest had completed its purpose.

Right there on the rock just below the chest’s hiding place, a boy a few years younger than Roy sat trying to get his shimmering white tail out from under a heavy rock.

Roy was sure the boy was the most lovely thing he had ever seen. His tail reminded him of opal, white but still shimmering with a rainbow of colors as light caught on the scales. Gills the same color as his tale with opal patterns sat on his neck, and opal fins peaked out from his curly black hair.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare, or are you going to help me?” the mer snapped. Roy startled, his eyes meeting the mer’s, and struggled not to start staring again at how stunningly blue they were.

“Well?” the mer asked, irritation layering his voice, and something else Roy couldn't quite place. “You put that chest there, right? Which means it’s your fault I’m stuck here.”

“Is it really?” Roy asked with a small smirk, regaining his wits. He understood what that thing in the mer’s voice was. He was embarrassed, “I think it was your curiosity that got you stuck up there, so technically it’s your fault.”

The mer’s face went red and he looked away, going back to struggling with the rock, “If you aren’t going to help, then leave.”

“Telling me to leave my own property? That’s a ballsy move for someone who obviously needs my help.

The mer huffed but didn’t say anything more. Roy watched for a little longer as he tried to push at the rock then swam over and climbed up to sit beside the mer.

“I’m going to lift it off. When I do, dive off the rock to the water,” Roy instructed. The mer looked at him uncertanly then down to the water. When he looked back he just nodded.

Roy counted down and heaved the rock up. As soon as it was off his tail, the mer pushed up off the rock and dove down into the water. Roy dropped the rock and dove down after him, hitting the water just as the mer resurfaced.

“Thanks,” the mer mumbled.

“Don’t mention it. It’s not every day I get to save a mer’s life,” Roy grinned.

“That’s because we’re usually too busy saving your lives to need saving,” the mer rolled his eyes.

“Sorry to break it to you, but I’ve never been saved by a mer,” Roy said.

“I meant your father,” the mer said. “My dad has had to save him from drowning twice. It’s getting a little ridiculous.”

Roy froze then and just stared. This was the son of the mer who saved Oliver’s life?

“I guess I owe your dad an apology then. And a few thank yous.”

“He was just doing his job. He likes protecting humans,” the mer shrugged. Roy barely caught it, but his eyes flashed up to look at the treasure chest again.

“You aren’t going to try and get to the chest again, are you?” Roy asked.

The mer turned bright red again and snapped his eyes back to Roy, “Of course not!”

Roy raised an eyebrow and watched the mer sink a little. He definitely wasn’t going to try again, but Roy could tell he wanted to see.

With a smile, Roy swam over to the cave wall and started his climb up to the shelf. It wasn’t a very hard climb, it had been much more difficult when he was younger and smaller and didn't have as much upper body strength as he did now. He reached the chest in no time, then was climbing back down with it in one arm.

The mer curiously followed him to a flat rock in the cave that they could both sit on. He tilted his head, eyes shining with questions, and Roy had to suppress his own blush from the somersaults it made his heart do.

“There’s nothing really interesting in it,” Roy said as he opened the chest and handed it off to the mer. “Just a bunch of junk.”

“Junk?” the mer said in a voice that clearly said he didn’t believe him. His eyes sparkled and his lips grew into a wide smile that satisfied his earlier curiosity. “This isn’t junk, this is awesome!”

“You think so?” Roy asked with an amused smile as he rummaged through the chest.

“Of course I think so, just look at it!” the mer said. He pulled a handful of chocolates out of the chest and looked up to Roy. “These are edible, aren't they? I think I saw people on the beach eating them once.”

“You have to take off the foile first,” Roy said, taking one to demonstrate. When he had it unwrapped he popped it in his mouth and fought a grimace. It was salty and hard after so long of sitting in the cave, but when the mer ate it, he made it look like the greatest thing in the world.

“It’s chocolate,” Roy said, swallowing it down without any more chewing. He didn’t want to spit it out and ruin the mer’s fun.

“I’ve never had chocolate,” the mer said. “It’s delicious.”

“This is nothing compared to the fresh stuff,” Roy said. “I’ll have to bring you some someday.”

“And how do you think you’ll do that?” the mer asked with an unimpressed look. “You aren't even supposed to know I exist.”

“Well, no one can say anything if I accidentally left a bar of chocolate out on a rock after a long day of swimming,” Roy shrugged.

The mer smiled softly and looked down at the treasure chest, dark curls falling into his face. He sat the rest of the coins back in it and pulled out two pieces of taffy, wordlessly handing Riy one before eating his own.

“What are these?” the mer asked, pulling out a few of the arrow heads.

“They’re from me and my dad’s arrows,” Roy said. “We both love archery, so we come down here to shoot some arrows from time to time. A few of our arrows broke and those are their heads.”

“And this?” the mer pulled out the necklace.

“Well that’s yours,” Roy said with a smirk. He took it from the mer and placed it over his head to hang around his neck.

“What do you mean it’s mine?” the mer asked in wonder, staring down at the arrowhead that rested between his collar bones.

“I made it and now I’m giving it to you,” Roy nodded. “That way you never forget about the human who rescued you.”

“I don’t think I could forget something like that,” the mer said then looked up to him. “Thank you.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” Roy said.

The mer seemed to hear something outside of the cave that roy didn’t, his fin ears twitching slightly as he listened. Roy focused and managed to hear a voice he didn’t recognize calling for someone outside the cave.

“That’s my dad,” the mer whispered when he turned back to Roy. “I have to go, he wouldn’t be happy if he found me here.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Roy said in place of a goodbye. The mer nodded and pushed off the rock, disappearing into the water.

With an even wider smile than before, Roy placed the chest on another shelf in the wall, this one lower down so that the mer could reach it if he ever came back.

Roy swam out of the cave and back to shore, drying off a little before redressing. It was getting dark, and Oliver was going to be worried if he wasn’t home soon.

The moment he started to walk away from the water’s edge, a voice stopped him.

“Wait,” the mer called, swimming up as close as he could. Roy smiled and pulled his shoes off again to walk into the water and meet him halfway.

Without a word, the mer reached out and put a necklace on over Roy’s head. Before Roy could say anything, the mer leaned in and kissed his cheek, so softly the only way Roy knew it had happened was the tingle of the salt water where his lips had been.

“So you never forget about the mer you rescued,” the mer said. “My name is Jason, by the way.”

“I’m Roy,” he whispered back.

“Goodbye Roy,” the mer smiled, and just like that, was gone.

Roy looked down at the necklace. It was simple, with an opal hanging from it that caught the light in the reflection of the water.

When he told Oliver about his day and showed him the necklace, Oliver gave him a smile but didn’t say anything.

No matter how old he got, Roy would never stop believing in the curious mers. And he would never forget the feeling of salty lips pressed to his cheek.