#and i was so FULL of indignation like FIRST OF ALL. I have two separate careers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

snackhobi · 4 years ago

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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.

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amjustagirl · 4 years ago

Text

CHAPTER 1 - TAKING FLIGHT

Fic Summary:

The sky Oikawa Tooru’s heart seeks is a world away from the earth yours is buried in. You are a fool to trust him with your heart anyway.

Where Oikawa Tooru does not make it to Argentina straightaway.

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3

Icarus, Icarus, I must be blind not to see you long to touch the sun.

Updates every Monday

Pairing: Oikawa Tooru x you, Oikawa Tooru x fem! reader

Genre / Wordcount : Angst (5.6k words)

Warnings: One non-explicit bedroom scene

Masterlist link here!

Join my tag list here!

“Home sweet home ”, Tooru declares grandly, throwing his hands out with the air of a conqueror bursting with pride at the sight of his domain.

Never mind the fact that the apartment looks like it’s been hit by a tsunami of cardboard boxes and scattered bits of furniture. Or the fact that you’re covered in sweat and grime from lifting boxes and shifting furniture and you’d very much like to lie down and not get up for the next week or two, but you can’t because of the never ending list of things to be done - unpacking your belongings, filling in your enrolment paperwork, attending medical school orientation to attend.

But his words wash away the tide of anxiety lapping at the edges of your mind.

Tooru wept and gnashed his teeth when his parents refused to let him chase his dreams to Argentina, and not a single professional team in Japan even looked his way. Don’t be ridiculous, his parents told him with wagging fingers, especially when Chuo University sent a full scholarship his way.

“It is the top school for volleyball” you pointed out, as he spent yet another hour lying flat on his back, eyes swollen from spent tears. “You could go there and grab everyone’s attention by being their starting setter for the next four years.”

He does not respond. You wonder if he’s waiting for the paint on the ceiling to crack.

“Plus” you add slyly. “I’ll be at Chuo with you.”

This catches his attention. “What d’you mean”, he mumbles, throat still sandy with salt.

“I got into medical school there”, you tell him , the smile on your face growing when he finally hurls himself bodily at you, both of you toppling off the bed and onto the floor.

“You’ll be there with me?” he whispers in disbelief.

You laugh wetly into the crook of his neck. “Every step of the way”, you declare, slipping your hand into his.

You’ve both transplanted yourselves from your childhood home in Sendai to a tiny apartment in Tokyo, a veritable hole in paper thin walls. Your hearth is a pair of rusty iron hobs, and your bed is a cheap mattress on the floor, but sunshine spills in from the windows like liquid gold and Oikawa Tooru’s hand is warm in yours.

You wonder what you’ve done in your past life for the gods to smile down on you, to bless you with a boy you love in a place you can both call home .

You’re not usually this sentimental, but just this once, you tug him down towards you, stealing a kiss from him. “I like the sound of that”, you murmur against his lips. “Our home, Tooru”.

He chuckles, wrapping his arms around you. “Do you love me?” he asks, with a smile that cages your beating heart in his calloused hands.

You are young. You are eighteen. You know nothing of the world. You know nothing of life.

So you reply - “More than life itself”.

He kisses you with languid ease, stealing the very breath from your chest. You tell yourself you have four years to work up the courage to ask if he loves you as much in return.

“Medical supplies are expensive, so stop coming here to ask for cold presses that you don’t need”, you tell Oikawa Tooru, Captain of the Volleyball Club and currently a veritable pain in your ass for constantly hounding you during your shifts at the school’s sickbay.

You resist the urge to sigh when he throws himself onto the cot, groaning dramatically - “How mean! You and Iwa-chan are the same - brutes, all of you! What’s a guy gotta do to get some tender love and care, especially when he’s injured?”

You cast a doubtful eye at the bandage over his right knee. “Iwaizumi said you recovered, but I guess if you’re really still injured…”

Oikawa grins, sensing victory in sight. “So you’ll give me a cold press and let me rest here during class?”

You drop said cold press onto his knee none too gently. “Sure - though..” your voice trails off, you tap your chin thoughtfully. “That would mean you’re not cleared for practice. I’ll send a note to your coach.”

Gotcha.

It’s your turn to grin when alarm dawns on Oikawa’s face, his eyebrows pinching together as he waves his hands at you, pleading you not to mention a word to his coach - pretty please with a cherry on top, he forgot to do his homework cos he was staying up late to watch volleyball videos last night and needs a place to hide, and you’re the kindest, bestest, person on earth if you let it slide this time, his knee is fine, just fine -

You glare at him, unimpressed.

He pouts, with the largest puppy dog eyes he can muster. Even you are not immune to his charms.

“Fine”, you say flatly. “Just once.”

He thanks you, promising never to darken the doors of the sickbay again without cause.

Of course, he breaks his promise the very next day when he sidles in just before practice, dropping a milk carton and a bun on your table.

“An offering to the maiden of this shrine” he answers teasingly in response to the question in your furrowed brow, trying his best to exude arrogance and saunter off, though his efforts are defeated by the pink tint to the apples of his cheek.

Oikawa Tooru, huh. You wonder.

You and Tooru are drawn into the ebb and flow of university life. You wake up with him by your side each morning, kiss him on the cheek before you both head your separate ways. In a fit of fancy, you imagine that your front door is the portal to different worlds - a little like the enchanted door in Howl’s Moving Castle, a movie Tooru used to make you watch with him on repeat. When you step through it, you find yourself in the humdrum world of medical school - anatomy classes, stuffy professors, scalpels and knives. Whereas when Tooru steps through it - like the titular wizard, he bursts like a fiery comet into a wholly separate, magical world of whistles and drills and volleyball practices.

Your worlds never collide in the day, even though from time to time, you sneak into the gym to watch him practice, unbeknownst to him. Typically, you only see him at night. Dinners are prepared together, shoulders jostling over the kitchen counter to cook rice and produce sourced from the supermarket’s discount bin, before you both huddle over homework. More often than not though, Tooru prefers to spend all his time crouched over his laptop, earbuds on, watching endless streams of volleyball matches.

“Aren’t you ever tired of volleyball?” you ask when you see him analyse yet another video - Argentina versus Japan this time.

You already know the answer before your question leaves your tongue but you ask it anyway, amused when he squawks in indignation and knocks over your cup of tea in his hurry to exclaim - Sick of volleyball? Him, Oikawa Tooru? Never!

Of course, you knew that. Chuo University is the top collegiate team for volleyball, so the coaches demand nothing but the best from their players. You watch by the sidelines as Tooru grinds his body into dust at volleyball practice, coming home every night with sore tendons and aching bones. Balancing a full business course load on top of that would stretch anyone to their breaking point.

Anyone normal that is, because Tooru revels in his hectic schedule.

You attend his first match and you’re blown away by how much he’s grown from being transplanted from barren soil into rich earth. The unerring confidence he’s already shown in his high school days blossoms into an elegant ease. His athleticism grows by leaps and bounds, his game sense sharpens, his sets learn true grace.

He claws his way to a starting position with bloodied fingernails, in blatant disregard of anything that might stand in his way. He builds his own wings, starts to take flight, the light in his eyes shining brighter and brighter the closer he flies towards the sun.

He is no longer the simple school boy you fell in love with from Sendai.

“Will you go out with me if I win our next match?” he asks suddenly, lifting his gaze from the video he’s watching from his usual corner in the sickbay.

“Do I look like a prize for some school boy’s grudge match?” You snipe back, head bent over your homework.

“It was worth a try”, he hrumphs.

You hide a smile.

“I would go out with you even if you lose”, you tell him, though you do not lift your eyes from paper and pen.

A laugh bubbles from his chest - surprised, delighted, triumphant.

“I better make sure I win then. So you don’t change your mind.”

He did not win that game, losing spectacularly in the finals in his second year against his fated rival - Ushijima from Shiratorizawa, a specter that still looms unti over every match he plays in up to today.

True to your word, you sat on his doorstep, waiting for him to return home red eyed, throat raw. You let him drop his aching head into your lap, and like a maiden comforting a weary warrior, you pressed a kiss to his forehead as a balm to his wounds. Then you dragged him by the hand to your favourite ramen stall, ordering two bowls of tonkatsu ramen, with char siu, bamboo shoots, spring onions and gyoza on the side. An inauspicious first date, but you consider yourself lucky nonetheless for having him beside you.

Things are different now. You are blind not to see him long to touch the sun.

No one is surprised when Chuo University wins nationals. The only surprise to the media (but certainly not to you or anyone from Miyagi for that matter), is that Chuo University brings home the trophy with Oikawa Tooru as it’s starting setter.

The boy king finally reaches the national stage.

Even then, he is always, always grasping for more .

“You were amazing!” you gush, as he finally breaks through the triumphant huddle of his teammates to swing you into his arms and greet you with his customary kiss. “I’m so proud of you!”

His eyes glitter as he laughs, giddy with delight, face flushed with pride. “It’s just college, princess. Wait til I go pro”.

Like Ushijima, you think, though that name remains unsaid.

Wax feathers had already started to sprout from the knobs of his spine back in high school, budding beneath your fingertips like a cancerous tumour. Back then it was easy to be wilfully blind to them, but now it's become too obvious to be ignored. Oikawa Tooru’s ambition lies spread eagled, naked beneath the blinding lights of the sports hall. He has only just tasted his first real victory, crossed the first hurdle separating him from his dreams of greatness.

“I’m waiting for that day then”, you respond teasingly.

You only realise later that you lied. He's left the confines of your arms in his quest for the skies.

You laughed when Tooru first broached the idea of sneaking out at night to gaze at stars in the sky. ‘What nonsense’, you’d said. What are the chances of seeing stars amidst the light pollution from a city, even a relatively minor one like Sendai?

“You’re being a meanie, just like Iwa-chan”, he pouted. He kept whining until you gave in.

Tooru picks you up from your home past midnight, chuckling when you label his rusty bicycle ‘a contraption from hell’ and ask him archly whether he truly expects you to entrust your wellbeing to the tiny rack meant to function as the pillion’s seat.

“Stop being a princess, it isn’t as if I can magick a seatbelt from thin air” he teases.

“Howl could”, you point out.

“Well, I could strap you on with my bicycle chain if you prefer”, he answers blithely. “Get on, stop complaining”.

He pedals all the way uphill to the deserted park near school, whining all the way about the strain the extra weight (you) puts on his knees (lies, all of them). You’re torn between pointing out that he chose to drag you out in the middle of the night and kicking him off the bike and commandeering yourself home instead. You choose instead to slap the back of his head.

“Ow!” he squeals. “Brute!”

“Hmph”. You fold your arms in satisfaction.

When he finally finds a spot perfect enough to commence his stargazing adventure, he stops the back, spreads a picnic mat and hands you a flask of hot tea.

“I don’t see any stars”, you say, after fifteen minutes of sitting, stiff and cold in the dark.

“Don’t be impatient! The clouds will clear up soon”, he says, squinting hopefully.

The sky remains overcast.

You sigh, the breath expelled from your nose forming your own personal cloud. You are accustomed to Tooru’s quirks, his all consuming passion for volleyball, his love for all things outer space. You decide to indulge him a little, just once.

“Why don’t you pretend we can see the stars and tell me your favourite thing about each one?”

He brightens up visibly.

“You won’t be bored if I did that?”

You prod his nose, but your eyes are fond. “Have you ever bored me?”

His chest swells. “I suppose not”, he crows, and proceeds to trace the constellations with elegant fingers, spinning stories and conjuring random facts about celestial beings you cannot see. You find yourself enthralled, not by his words, but by the lilt in his voice and depth in his eyes.

“Why d’you love the stars so much?” you ask.

“Did you not just hear anything I’ve just said?” his voice teeters dangerously close to a whine.

You click your tongue against your teeth. “I mean – trivia and myths aside. Why are you so fascinated by what are essentially flaming balls of gas and light.”

“The shallow answer is cos they’re pretty.” He says, laughing airily, before turning his gaze to you, the stark intensity in his eyes causing goosebumps to prickle the back of your neck. “But if my lady here is searching for a deeper answer, well. Aren’t stars the ultimate embodiment of the dreams of all humankind? Even as we strive and fail towards our petty goals, the stars are always there to remind us to look up and reach for the sky”

You flick his forehead. “Pretty words, for a pretty boy”.

“Hey!” He scowls indignantly before he perks up. “Wait - did you see that? There’s a star!”

The sky clears just enough for a pale light to peer through a gauzy cloud. You do see it, and it is indeed beautiful, but your attention has already been captured by the boy beside you. And Tooru being Tooru, naturally notices.

“Why’re you staring at me instead of the sky?”

Perhaps you’re drunk on the magic of midnight skies, perhaps you want to uncover the mystery of his smile yourself. Perhaps that explains why your eyes soften and why your words fall short of a whisper.

“Because you are my sun, my moon and all my stars”, you say. “I like you better than anything in the sky.”

His mouth slackens and for a moment, his eyes are tender before his laugh breaks your flight of whimsy, and you bury your face in your hands, hot with embarrassment.

“Forget I ever said that”, you plead.

“Never!” he cries. “I’m going to remind you how cheesy you can be for the rest of your life!”

You end up having to kiss him to shut him up.

In his second year, Sakusa Kiyoomi joins his team. Tooru finally meets someone who meets his impossibly high standards to fill Iwaizumi’s place as his ace.

He’s literally bouncing on balls of his feet when he comes home after the first practice.

“He’s so prickly and unfriendly but his receiving his top notch, and his game sense is fantastic, and best of all the spin he gives to each spike makes me drool - especially when I see the look on the other side’s faces when they try receiving his ball for the first time - ha ha! ”, he talks at you at breakneck speed as you both prepare dinner, side by side at the cramped kitchen counter.

“Mmhm”, you reply, head thinking of the multiple lectures you attended today, the homework and readings you must do tonight to stay abreast.

“-it’s his wrists, they’re so flexible it nearly made me puke when I first saw him stretch them”, he continues for the rest of the night, heedless of your wavering attention.

You meet Sakusa at one of the few team parties you actually attend. You nearly stumble over him when you try to hide in your usual corner with a plate of food in your hand, watching as Tooru flutters around like the social butterfly he is. His nose and mouth are hidden behind a face mask, but even you can tell he’s uncomfortable to be around so many people, so you tug at his jacket sleeve gently to lead him away from the crowd to a seat at the top of the stairs.

You don’t expect him to speak much to you, if at all, but to your surprise, he initiates the conversation.

“He doesn’t take good care of himself”, Sakusa mutters. You nearly miss his words over the pulsing beat of the music.

“Who doesn’t?” you ask - though you already know who he’s referring to.

“It’s unhealthy, the way you push yourself”, you tell Tooru, hands on hips, standing at the door to Aoba Johsai’s sports hall. You hardly intrude here onto Tooru’s sacred space, choosing instead to stay in the library to study until he’s done with practice and you can both walk home together. But practice has long ended, and your patience has run short - not to mention Iwaizumi popped his head into the library to shoot you a worried expression, dark eyebrows pinched into a pained frown.

You are aware of Tooru’s predilection for working himself to the bone. Or to the shredded remnants of the tendon of his knee, to be more accurate. So you tap your feet, looking pointedly at said injury.

“I’m fine”, he tries to dismiss you without even looking your way.

You refuse to let him.

“You’re not fine”, you tell him coolly, taking another step towards the inner sanctum, the volleyball courts. White lines, painted into brown wood. A single ball, six per side, each jostling for their pride and god.

“Tooru -”

“I need to practice so I can win”, he snarls, handsome face mangled by an angry scowl. “Don’t be like one of those whiny girlfriends, you know I can’t stand that.”

You are not so easily hurt by the barbs in his words. “You can’t win if you’re injured”, you attempt to appeal to his reason. “You know and I know and your coach knows that that knee of yours is going to cause you problems if you don’t rest it properly. So you better listen to me, because so help me - I can tell you that you’re not going to be able to come for practice if you keep pushing yourself tonight”.

His anger simmers into a sulk. “You’re not a doctor”, he replies, a petulant whine at the tail end of his words.

“Not yet”, you respond, and at that, he laughs, surprised that your arrogance matches his own.

Your attention snaps back to the present when Sakusa calls your name. “Sorry”, you breathe. “Couldn’t quite hear you - who were you referring to again?”

“Oikawa”, Sakusa says, confirming your suspicions. “Practises even though I know his knee hurts sometimes”.

You thank him for telling you before carefully diverting the conversation to something a little more innocuous, buying yourself time to turn this new information over in your mind.

You hear him hiss as you open the front door- “Iwa-chan, don’t be stupid, I can’t tell her yet!”

It’s not an uncommon sight to come home at night to find Tooru cradling his phone to his ear whilst juggling a book in his other hand. It is the only time slot that he and Iwaizumi have to catch up.

Still, it is uncommon for him to bolt into the toilet the minute he catches sight of you.

“Is everything alright?” you ask him over dinner.

“Peachy”, he replies between spoonfuls of rice. “Never been better”.

He promptly changes the topic after that.

“Not staying home for dinner?” you ask, arms wrapped around yourself as he lets the chilly air into your apartment, sitting by the open door lacing his training shoes up.

“Wanna work in some more practice tonight”, he murmurs, gaze still locked on his shoes. “Serves and all that. Don’t wait for me, yeah?”

“Right. Just...promise me you’ll take care of yourself, Tooru”, you answer, unable to keep the disappointment from leaking into your voice.

He stands up, turns to face you with a cheery smile. “Of course I will. Anyway, don’t pout, princess”, he sing songs gaily. “We’ll spend some time together after the season is over, I promise.”

“Alright”, you say, unconvinced, reluctantly tipping your chin up to let him kiss your cheek goodbye.

“Tooru?”

You feel the mattress dip. “Go back to sleep, princess”, he whispers, pulling the sheets back up to your chin.

“Where are you going?” You mumble, squinting your eyes at the clock by the side of the bed. “It’s four in the morning. The earliest you wake up for practice is five.”

“I just wanted to practice my serves a little more.” You hear him rustle in the bathroom. Sakusa’s words echo in your ears, and you sit up, bleary eyed.

“Tooru?”

“Mm?”

“Are you taking care of your knee? And getting enough sleep?”

He stiffens. “Of course”, he replies with the tight, plastic smile he only ever gives you when he’s trying to lie. “Why’re you asking me this? Who put ideas in your pretty little head?”

For the first time in your relationship with Tooru, you take care not to accidentally tread on the faultlines of his heart.

“I worry about you”, you say, gripping your sheets as he frowns. “I don’t think you’re sleeping enough - judging from the bags under your eyes, and you shouldn’t be over practising because your knee could very act up - “

“Look - I don’t have time to deal with this” he interjects with a snap. “Just leave me alone and go back to sleep.”

“I’m only saying this because I love you, Tooru.” You automatically tack on - “More than life itself.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing out a sigh. “I love you too ok? Stop worrying your pretty head about my health and my knee - we agreed you only get to nag me when you’re a full fledged doctor, remember?”, he adds, with a cheeky smile that does not reach his hooded eyes.

You let him walk out of the house without another word, cotton sheets crumpling in your clenched fists.

You don’t get to talk about it that night because he chatters at you about Sakusa’s tantrum during practice because someone hid his towel, and you can barely get a word in before he slips off to shower and sleep.

He starts to disappear for days at a time, even after the season ends with him not only taking home his second trophy at Nationals, but crowned the best setter in the collegiate volleyball league.

He tells you that there are overnight practice matches and camps. That he’s staying over at his teammates’ flats. You believe him at first. There is, after all, no reason for him to lie.

Still, it is a little funny he refuses to allow you to do his laundry from those trips. You brush away your friends’ concerns that he’s cheating on you - Tooru wouldn’t do that, you assure them with a wide smile that hurts your cheeks.

Tooru would never lie to you.

Then you bump into Sakusa Kiyoomi on campus when Tooru is away again.

It’s night time. Shadows bleed into concrete roads. You’re on your way back home from hiding up in the library all day, reluctant to return to a home without Tooru when you bump into the reticent spiker.

“Aren’t you supposed to be away at practice camp?” you ask innocently, worried that an injury might keep him from playing, though from a quick scan he seems to be fine.

“Practice camp?” He echoes blankly, his face an open book of confusion.

“Tooru mentioned that he’d be away from some practice camp for a few days...”

Your words trail off. Your heart flutters, refuses to accept the truth staring you in the face.

Sakusa frowns. His answer is brutal, direct. “There’s no training camp - hasn’t been in a while”.

“Oh”, you murmur.

Realization needles its way into the space beside your beating heart, drills its way into the marrows of your bones.

“Are you ok?” You faintly hear Sakusa say. It’s your turn to lie.

Tooru comes home the next day, a quarter past two. You’re sitting on the threadbare couch cross legged, a textbook balanced on your lap.

“Where have you been?”

“Practice camp. Didn’t I tell you that?”

You scoff. The page held between your fingers starts to crumple. Your composure frays.

“Really?” Your voice starts to veer into hysterics, straight across the highway into your emotional stratosphere. “Sakusa Kiyoomi told me that there’s no such practice camp, Oikawa. How about you try again with the truth this time.”

He reels back. You can see him trying to formulate yet another lie.

“Princess”, he begins pleadingly, but your temper runs hot and you short circuit at the sound of your nickname from his lips.

You stalk towards him, grabbing the bag in his hand. Like a woman possessed, you wrench the zip open, holding the bag open above your head, emptying its contents out. Dirty clothes, a deflated volleyball, toiletries spill onto the floor. You comb through each and every item in search of a telltale sign - a lipstick mark, a woman’s floral scent, something, anything for you to confirm his infidelity.

What you find, however, is not what you expect.

A red jersey, lying limp in your hands. A contrast to the university’s colours of navy and white.

You flip it around.

The words EJP Raijin are emblazoned across the jersey in stark white.

You look up at him. He stares back.

“Why didn’t you tell me?’

He has the decency to look away.

“Tooru”, you repeat, voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I was afraid of what it meant. For us”, he answers, dropping to his knees in front of you. “You know I’ve always wanted to go pro - and when the Div 1 teams started holding try-outs, I had to go. I tried out for them all except the Adlers, and EJP decided to give me a shot, which was like a dream come true… But I didn’t know if you would be happy if I did take it up.”

“Take what up?” you echo. Your mind is not keeping up with this turn of events.

“Move to Hiroshima to join the team.” He answers warily, ready to flee at the first sign of danger. “You know I’d have to, right?”

You look at him with fresh eyes, this boy you profess to love more than life itself. Wings spread from his shoulder blades, moulded by madness and greed from fire and wax. The reflection of the sun gleams in his eyes. He has left you permanently for the skies.

“What about me?” Your breath stuck in your throat even as you refuse to relinquish the last hold you have on him.

“If you love me”, he begins, reaching out to cup your cheeks and it’s your turn to reel back because you know he’s about to throw back your own words in your face.

If you love me more than life itself - won’t you do this for me?

But you are no longer eighteen. You are twenty one, on the cusp of adulthood. You know a little more about life than you did at eighteen.

You know that your life is here - in Tokyo, among dusty books and lectures and tutorials on anatomy and diseases and germs, and you cannot upend your life and uproot yourself to Hiroshima just to follow someone else’s dreams. You love Tooru, but you do not share his dreams of glory and gold medals, of fleeting victory, of Olympian greatness.

“I can’t”, you say, with a firmness that surprises even yourself.

Again, he does not meet your eyes.

“Then what shall we do?” He asks, lips pressed into a straight line.

For a brief and terrible moment, you are tempted to throw your dignity to the wind, to fall on your knees and ask him to stay in Tokyo with you. But you can no longer turn a blind eye to what’s been staring you in the face for the entire length of your relationship, so you bite the insides of your cheek and grit your teeth.

“We will do what we must”, you tell him, your head held high.

You do not know what hurts more. The lack of pause in his acceptance to your suggestion that you break up, or the painfully obvious relief in his eyes.

He goes to sleep in your shared bed, oblivious to your pain. You do not join him, choosing instead to spend hours seeking privacy in your toilet, knees aching from the cold floor.

You are clinical, even in your anguish.

Wring the liquid grief from your lungs, lay it on the floor to dry. Filter the water from your windpipe, the salt from your eyes. Your organs are scattered on the floor, battered, broken, torn. Save for your heart - you will need to retrieve it, whatever’s left of it at least. You last recall seeing it beneath Tooru’s feet, dashed to pieces as he spreads his wings and takes flight.

You will put yourself back together with steady hands tomorrow, fill the cavity in your chest with the remnants of your organs, secure them in place with stitches and staples. Given time, you think your prognosis is good.

You are young. You will heal.

But now, you are allowed an hour or two to grieve at the very least. To mourn the loss of a relationship you still hold dear, a relationship that you only realise has an expiry date in the short span of a night.

You are a fool for not realising it sooner.

Perhaps he cares for you, but you must now confront the fact that you’ve been wilfully blind to. He could never give you his heart when he’s already given his heart up to someone else - to volleyball, a far more demanding mistress.

You cannot compete with her. You should not have tried.

Tooru files the paperwork to drop out of university. You find another flat, this time for one.

In the weeks before he leaves, you watch him flit about the flat, buzzing with excitement like an overgrown child. His wings nearly suffocate you with its ever increasing breadth and length, but you do not begrudge his happiness. You still love him desperately. You still want what’s best for him.

You write him meal plans, scribble reminders on the proper care for his knee. You help him label his boxes, arrange for them to be sent to Hiroshima via post. You do not tell him how tempted you are to slip yourself whole into one of them. But you start to build a cage for the remnants of your heart, turning a deaf ear even as it pounds against the bars of your ribs.

The time finally comes for him to get on a train bound for Hiroshima. The time finally comes for you to leave the flat.

“Princess”, he says softly, catching your elbow as you stand on the threshold, pulling you flush against his broad chest. You do not trust yourself to speak as he gently tilts your face up to his.

“Thank you”, he breathes against your lips. There is a lingering taste of regret in his kiss.

“For what?” you manage to ask.

His eyes pool with affection, swirl with sadness.

“For everything.” He takes your hands in his, presses a final kiss to your forehead. Your traitorous heart screeches at you to beg him to say. You smother it beneath reinforced walls of steel and bone.

Icarus, Icarus. This is goodbye.

You make him leave before you, watching as he turns his back on you. Then you steal a minute to potter through each room in the little flat that was your home. The bedroom, barely large enough for two. The bathroom, with a propensity for leaking, the shower where Tooru insists on serenading the neighbours, much to their discontent. The kitchen, full of memories of shared dinners, and quiet conversations.

You bid farewell to two full years of happiness, press your forehead against the front door to whisper goodbye to your home.

The lock clicks. You close the door.

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misha-moose-dean-burger-lover · 4 years ago

Text

happy getting hitched day! 1.9k, (sort of) ft. this

Most days of the year, Sam's the optimist.

It doesn't usually fall on Dean to keep the spirits up in times of war anymore. Or worse, loss. And Dean, well, he thinks himself as enough of an in-the-moment kinda guy to not wallow when everything's not going to shit, right friggin' then.

Sam, on the other hand?

Beacon of light when there's a little Hell to raise, harbinger of hope when there's a God to defeat.

And losing his shit entirely when there's an aisle to walk down, leading to the girl of his dreams and the best decision of his life.

"Dean."

Dean fusses around Sam in compact little semicircles fixing his already perfect tux, while his brother panics in a way Dean only remembers from before the kid stopped having to look up at Dean.

But he's looking down at Dean now, wide-eyed and sweaty like the very first time Dean saw him off on a date when he was fourteen — with supple, bullshit eighteen-year-old advice, he bets — and thirty eight year old Sammy is, clear as day, losing his shit.

"Yeah?" Dean channels all the calm he's got into it.

"What if I forget my vows?"

"Well," Dean lifts his eyebrows, and picks up a linen thread from Sam's shoulder that caught his eye. "First of all, would kinda serve you right for writing six pages worth of them."

"Stop being a —"

"Front and back, Sammy. Front and back."

"Dean." Sam glares, more indignant than mad. Dean rolls his eyes, and Sam continues, replacing the look immediately with a troubled one that reflects the dilemma in his voice. "I mean, I've learned them, of course. At least I think I have — I practised twice last night, once this morning — but what's to stop me from fumbling, or forgetting —"

"Your gigantic nerd brain?"

"This is serious." Sam frowns, levelling another look at Dean like he's the one with the stellar proverbial cold feet. "Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean throws back immediately, and pauses in his shuffling around for effect. "Also, no. No, it isn't." And Sam goes to argue with a bitchface already surfacing, but Dean keeps going, sterner, more confident. This is something he's been doing all his life. He can probably talk the kid down from a panic high like this in his sleep. "And you're going to stop being a dumbass, and listen to what I'm saying."

"'M not a dumbass." Sam mutters.

"Yeah, you are." Dean shrugs, completely nonchalant, and Sam laughs in spite of himself, nervous, but a welcome improvement as he waits for Dean to proceed. (Big brother voice never lets Dean down.)

He's still got it.

"Here's what you're going to do. You're going to get out there," Dean continues, smiling now. "You're going to hold Eileen's hand while the minister marries you. And approximately ten to fifty minutes later, when he asks you to, you're going to look into her eyes, and you're going to say your vows. All stupid six pages of them, verbatim, 'cause I know you, and you're going to that's why."

"They're not stupid."

Dean hums in consideration, then smirks. "There's bravery in acceptance. They probably are."

"Cas called them exquisite." Sam crosses his arms, and Dean uses the opportunity to pick up a hair from his sleeve with a disapproving look.

(Dean had offered to give him a haircut seventeen times and gotten turned down, and now Sam was shedding.)

"Yeah, well, he's a walking-talking scrabble board with good manners, what is he supposed to do?" Dean rolls his eyes but instead of the expected response of Sam snarking back at him, bitchfacing him or something, Sam sighs.

The air thickens with something that's probably a bigger deal than having to wing a couple paragraphs of page three of the vows.

Dean watches Sam fidget with the buttons on his cuff.

"How did you know, Dean?" Sam asks, subdued, after a pause. "How did you know that Cas wasn't — that Cas wasn't making a horribly wrong decision."

Dean's almost halfway to making a joke about the other shoe but he stops himself.

Because this?

This, he gets.

This feeling of thinking — knowing — you're not good enough, that you aren't right for the one you love, that you're somehow deceiving everything that your life has stood as proof of, in allowing someone else to bind themselves to you, forever, when you know that everyone who's ever meant something to you has lost, and died, and hurt.

And that is exactly why he also knows what to say.

"Because I trust him, Sammy."

Sam's eyes start glazing over. "I trust her too. I just, I'm just so scared —"

Dean winces at his words.

(That's Sam, but it's Sam in Dean's shoes. It was Dean's job — for better or for worse — to keep him safe. And he's failed, failed repeatedly, and now Sam — well, he's as broken as Dean.)

"I love her too much for anything to go wrong, Dean, and something — no, everything, always goes wrong." Sam grits his teeth, and Dean puts his hand on Sam's shoulder.

Squeezes. "I get it. I swear to you, I do. But I also promise that you might regret the things we've done, and the things that have been done to us, but you're never going to regret this."

Sam nods jerkily, eyes downcast.

"And I get being scared. Hell, I was more scared than you the entire week, dude. But you know how — and why, I pushed through?" Sam looks up again. "Because at the end of all of this, there's something more important than the promises of eternal happiness, and forever, and the Celine Dion lyrics I know you've stuffed in your vows. There's them. The ones we love."

Dean swallows.

"And who love us too, because our fucked up heads be damned, I've seen the way she looks at you, Sammy." Sam's face breaks into a small, wet smile. "So you better believe she does."

"I do." Sam slowly nods, again, eyes brimmed with tears.

(Probably about to start spilling. The only consolation for Dean is that at least his tears don't fall. Means as long as he doesn't mind a blurry view of everything, he might as well ignore their existence like he means it.)

"There, was that so hard?" Dean laughs instead, although it's weak until Sam joins in, surprised, and only then registering the words he just spoke.

"Thank you, Dean."

Is all he says, and anything Dean might've wished to say (or wisecrack) back at him is dismissed immediately because he's being pulled into a full Winchester hug by his door-sized little brother, and all he can do then is hold onto Sam as tight as he's holding him, and hold on.

(Because they made it.

They found free will, they found love, and they found their happy ending.)

Because Sammy's getting married today.

And they don't just get to be okay anymore. They get to be happy.

Sam doesn't pull back from the hug for at least a whole minute, but Dean doesn't mind, because the tears welling up in his eyes are gone when he finally smiles at Dean, earnest. "I'm —" He starts to say, but gets interrupted by Cas walking up to them with a cluster of carnations in his hand, wearing a rich navy blue tux (the same as Dean's) and a wide smile.

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything," Cas beams, knowing exactly what he walked in on, and Sam shakes his head courteously while Dean battles the weirdly overwhelming need to kiss him right there — Cas is almost ridiculously beautiful when he's happy.

(He doesn't, though.

Cause he and Sam may've just had a moment but it's not like that means he'd be any less likely to be a pain in the ass about urgently requiring brain bleach and therapy, if Dean did.)

Cas carries on.

"Actually, Eileen's friend, Cara, brought her flowers and she suggested I should bring some to you."

"A corsage." Dean realizes out loud, beginning to grin at once, while Sam resorts to ducking his head like an overgrown teenage girl on her way to prom. Doesn't mean that Dean absolutely doesn't put on his best chickflick Dad voice (after he's taken over pinning the flowers to Sam's pocket from Cas, cause he was doing it wrong) and pat the corsage when he says, "Get 'er home by ten."

"The dynamics of that are all wrong." Sam points out with a traditional Sam smirk, and yeah, he's okay.

"The dynamics of your face are all wrong."

"Great comeback, yeah." Sam snorts, and Cas smiles. "Points for effort. I think."

"Whatever, you're the one wearing flowers right now."

"Dean, you wore an ascot on our wedding day."

"Ascot trumps flowers!"

"No, it doesn't." Sam bitchfaces, and Dean turns to Cas, and —

"No, it doesn't."

And Sam lets out a victorious "Hah!", and high-fives a (only slightly) confused looking Cas before pulling him into a sasquatch-sized hug as well, while Dean rewards the entire ordeal with a heartfelt eyeroll and absolutely doesn't look on at two of the most important people in his life while he pretends to be bristled about being ganged up against on his special day as Best Man.

Cas and Sam separate sooner than Dean and he did, and just in time for Jack to poke his head out the church door and remind them they're ready.

Then, Cas leaves to get Eileen, with another big smile and a signed Congratulations at Sam, and a fleeting cheek-kiss for Dean.

Then, Sam and Dean get in position behind the door and Sam refixes his tie.

(Then, Dean has to stage-whisper "Jack!" about seven times before the kid realizes he's being cued — the band had just started playing, he makes it a point to try to explain to Dean afterwards — and the great, wooden doors finally swing open to reveal a beautiful white aisle, and dozens of their friends and family smiling from both sides of it.)

And then, Dean finally walks the kid he's raised and the brother he's saved the World with countless times, down the aisle.

(Sam only messes up once in his vows. It's the last verse of Thank You, by Celine Dion.

Rumor has it, it was intentional.

Something about the first time they met.

Dean tells Sam, "You're welcome", the next time he sees him.)

#happy saileen day #dean winchester pov #i just wanted to write a nervous sam before walking down the aisle scene and it turned into an actual fic from dean's point of view so —#saileen wedding #sam winchester being sam winchester #eileen leahy #deancas #background destiel #bluefirecas #userpris #usersila #holmesemrys #tearsofgrace #userstarry #rambleoncas #userdori #oh writing my writing

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hizashis-lil-bunbun · 4 years ago

Text

No Rest for the Wicked- HardDom!Dabi X Fem! Brat Reader

Prompt: Dabi just wants to take a nap but everything goes wrong

I asked a friend in one of my discord groups for a random writing prompt when I was up late. Something about this one activated my inner ✨brat✨

Enjoy!

Word Count: 3.3k

Kinks/Warnings: brat taming, degradation, pain play, spanking, belting, mild dacryphilia, bondage, edging and denial, hints of dubcon

Banner made by the always lovely @ladyshinigami!

••••••••••••••

Exhausted.

That was the best way to sum up Dabi’s mood as he trudged through the bar fronting the League’s headquarters. Shigaraki had sent him out on a mission with orders to “stake out and take out” a small band of up-and-coming heroes. It had been easy enough to find them (newbies can never resist being flashy), but making sure they were all disposed of was another matter. A matter only made more complicated by a few rogue civilians that happened to spot him. It had taken him two full days to track everyone down, leaving him covered in blood, soot, and burns. In short, Dabi needed a break.

“Well, well, well.” Came the nasally voice of their fearless leader, “The prodigal son returns! Took you long enough, Dabi. Hope that means you didn’t fuck up the mission.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Dabi snaps back, too tired and sore to care about his tone. Not that he’d be any kinder to Shigaraki if he wasn’t. “I did what you asked and left no witnesses. Now piss off before I turn you into a smoldering pile.”

Shigaraki didn’t rise to Dabi’s bait, opting to simply flip him the bird before going back to whatever game console he was currently obsessed with. Dabi returns the gesture in kind, glowering as he disappears behind the bar and into the League’s living quarters. Their warehouse provides more than enough space for everyone to have their own room, and the boss even allowed them to decorate and furnish them as they pleased. Wasn’t that generous? Dabi plods down the hallway to his assigned room and kicks open the door only to find it was occupied. By you.

“Dabi?” You question for a moment before your eyes light up with excitement. “Dabi! You’re back!”

As a fellow Stain devotee, you’d sought out the LOV and been initiated as a member a mere six months ago. And two months later, you’d been initiated into Dabi’s bed. You wouldn’t exactly call yourselves “lovers.” Love was few and far between in a hornet’s nest of villains. But you’d certainly become something more than the occasional lay.

He grunts as he stalks into the room, shedding his coat and boots as he went. Dabi was never big on grand displays of affection. And in his current state, that small show of acknowledgment may as well have been equivalent to a bear hug.

“I missed you.” You chirp back, undeterred by his gruff response. “How was the mission?”

“Long and shitty.” Came his terse reply as he strips off the rest of his clothes and grabs a towel from a nearby wall hook. “I need a fucking shower.”

He wraps the towel around his waist before he sets about searching for body wash and a first aid kit. Greedy eyes roam the plane of his toned torso, eager to touch the scarred and stapled flesh you’d spent many a night mapping out. Before joining the League, you’d never had an opinion one way or the other on touch or physical intimacy. You didn’t dislike it by any means; it was just something people did, fuck buddies or otherwise. But now that you’d shared a bed with Dabi, your perspective had changed. His rough touch was your drug of choice, intoxicating in all the best ways. And with him being gone for almost 72 hours? It was safe to say you were jonesing for a hit.

“Oooh, sounds like fun.” You purr, sprawling out on the mattress in a catlike stretch. “Want me to join you? I think we could use a little… quality time together.”

He snorts derisively at that, straightening up once he’d found his supplies and fixing you with a deep scowl. So pretty even when he’s pissed. You bat your eyelashes in return.

“Don’t get cute, dollface. Once I get cleaned up I’m passing out for the next century.”

Before you can shoot off another coquettish remark, he turns on his heel and marches out the door in the direction of the communal showers. You huff and clamber out of bed to follow him, determined that he wouldn’t get away so easily.

“C’mon Dabi!” You whine, trotting along behind him as he stalks down the hallway. “I haven’t seen you in days! Are you really just gonna give me the cold shoulder?”

“Yup.” He snaps back, shooting you a harsh glare over said shoulder before barging through the bathroom door. From the other side you can hear his bark of “Move it, psycho!” followed by an indignant squeak from whom you can only assume to be Toga. You huff and stamp your foot like a petulant child, turning on your heel to flounce off in the direction of the League’s bar front.

“Bastard.” You seethe under your breath, “Who does he think he is, ignoring me like that? It’s his fault I’m so pent up. If I tried ignoring him when he was all hot and bothered–!”

You pause for a moment as a lightbulb goes off in your head. A single impish thought flashes through your mind and it causes your lips to curl into a Cheshire grin. He wants to play games? You’ll give him games.

You continue your trek into the dimly-lit, woodpandeled speakeasy, a renewed vigor in your stride as you make a beeline for the bar top. Kurogiri is standing behind it as per usual, wiping out a pint glass like the faithful bartender he pretends to be. You sidle up to the bar and place both hands on the oaken surface, adopting a sweet, too-innocent lilt to your voice.

“Kuro-baby.” You purr, the cutesy pet name causing the misty specter to look up from his task. “Can I have a glass of water, please? With lots of ice, if you don’t mind.”

Wordlessly, Kurogiri sets down the glass and picks up a shorter one, using it to scoop up a generous portion of ice from the freezer below before filling it nearly to the brim from the tap. If he has any suspicion of you, he’s very good at hiding it. The same can’t be said for Shigaraki, sitting a few stools down from you and still tapping away at the buttons of his console.

“Fucking with Staples again?” He questions disinterestedly, followed by a hiss of annoyance when the game lets out a series of gunshots. He must have gotten himself killed again.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You shoot back airily, swiping the glass from Kurogiri’s outstretched hand and hopping off your own barstool.

“It’s your funeral!” He calls after you, waving you off with one hand. You snicker as you march back into the living quarters, one hand wrapped around the chilled glass and the other flattened over the top to ensure you won’t spill a drop along the way. Soon you find yourself back in front of the bathroom door and, suppressing the urge to giggle, you slowly push through it and into the steamy room beyond. In spite of the hideout’s outward appearance, the place is surprisingly clean and well-kempt (all thanks to den mother Kurogiri). Two sinks stand against the left-hand side of the wall, with two doors opposite them leading to the toilets. Next to the sinks are the showers: three open-faced, tile cubes barely covered by flimsy plastic curtains. Toga is standing in front of the nearest sink, wearing a skimpy pair of Hello Kitty pajamas and washing the blood and goop from her latest transformation out of her navy, pleated skirt. She looks up at you when you enter and you quickly put one finger to your lips, smirking as you point between the glass and the running shower beyond. Toga lets loose a sadistic giggle of her own before hastily shushing herself when you hear Dabi’s bark of “Pipe down out there!”

As you move past her, you can see her mouth the words, “You’re so dead, big sis.”

You can feel a jolt of adrenaline course through your veins as you sneak up to the edge of the tiled wall separating the shower from the rest of the bathroom, the glass in your hand shaking briefly. A small amount of water sloshes over the rim and spatters onto the floor, the sound barely overshadowed by the shower.

“Doll?”

His low, rumbling voice coming from the other side of the curtain sends another shiver down your spine.

“What are you up to out there?” He growls dangerously, as if he has a sixth sense when it comes to you and your shenanigans. For just a moment, the rational part of your brain takes over and makes you question your actions. Dabi’s already in a foul mood, and getting worse by the second by the sound of it. Maybe if you hold off and behave like a good girl–

Your body seems to move of its own accord. The next thing you know, the contents of the glass are sailing through the air, arching high over the plastic curtain rod and landing with a messy splat onto your unwitting victim on the other side.

“What the fu–!” Dabi’s curse is cut off by yours and Toga’s mad giggling as you sprint out of the bathroom and down the hallway. Passing by a very confused-looking Spinner, you dart inside Dabi’s room and slam the door, locking it for good measure. Seconds later, he’s pounding on it, using enough force that you’re convinced it might splinter and break off its hinges.

“Open this door right now and make this easier on yourself!” He roars, furiously jiggling the handle.

You let him pound away for a few more seconds, in part to allow yourself time to catch your breath but mostly to delay the unenviable punishment. With a deep, steadying breath, you plaster on a mildly amused expression, undo the lock, and pull open the door. Dabi is visibly seething, water dripping from his hair and cascading in rivulets down his toned chest onto the towel slung low on his hips. His brows are knitted together in rage, turquoise eyes flashing dangerously while one hand is still raised in a fist.

“Oh hey, babe. Done with the shower al–?”

His hands are around your throat before you can blink, your sassy remark devolving into a high-pitched squeak.

“You little bitch.” He spits at you, forcibly backing you further into the room as he advances. “Was that your idea of a joke?”

“N-no.” You gasp in response, voice slightly raspy from the pressure on your jugular. “I just thought–“

“Thought what exactly?” Dabi growls, kicking the door shut behind him with one foot before giving your shoulders a hard shove and pushing you onto the bed. You land with a slight bounce, the momentum giving you just enough time to prop yourself up on your elbows.

“Well?” He hisses, venom dripping from the word as he glares down at you.

“I was worried.” You start slowly, tone almost loving as you gaze up at him with big, doe eyes. “You seemed so tense when you got back. And don’t think I didn’t notice those new burns on your arms. So I thought, since the mission was so hard on you…”

Your face suddenly splits into a shit-eating grin.

“I thought you might need to cool down for a minute.”

Dabi blinks for a second, seemingly struck dumb by your remark. And then his hands are back on you in an instant, roughly flipping you over to lie chest-down with your legs hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Of all the stupid–“

Your shirt is ripped over your head from behind.

“Immature–“

There goes the bra, clasps and straps lost to a wildfire of blue flames as it falls away from your body in a charred heap.

“Bratty little schemes.”

Your leggings and panties are harshly yanked down, slipped off, and discarded into some unknown corner of the room. You feel cool air hit your legs and backside, moments before a harsh slap lands on your right cheek. With a yelp, you cast a wide-eyed glance over your shoulder at the menacing presence behind you; a pillar of rage and sadistic urges looming over your naked form.

“You wanted my attention that badly, dollface? Well I’m sorry to say you’ve got it now.”

Before you can react beyond a pained, needy whimper, Dabi hooks his right arm under your thighs to haul you up and onto the bed. He lays his full weight across your back and reaches around and underneath the farthest edge of the bed to produce a simple, black cuff, attached to the nylon spreader running along the underside of the mattress. Giving it a few cursory tugs, he grabs ahold of your right wrist and yanks it towards the corresponding corner, attaching the device with practiced speed and precision. You continue to writhe and pant below him, muttering a litany of curses and “no’s” as he does the same to the opposite side. You’re now bound by both wrists, unable to do more than thrash wildly on the mattress in a humiliating, spread eagle position.

“Seems like you need a reminder of who’s in charge around here.” He snarls in your ear, pushing himself off of you and marching over to his discarded pile of clothing. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric, followed by the telltale clink of metal on metal that makes your eyes go wide.

“Y-you wouldn’t dare…” You start breathlessly, just before the first blinding sting of leather greets your exposed skin, right at the juncture where the soft swell of your ass meets the tender flesh of your thighs.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.” Dabi says mockingly, his tone dripping with false pity and saccharine sweetness as he takes his place at the edge of the bed once more. “I don’t have any problems dealing with a mouthy… little… brat like you.”

His words are punctuated by three more vicious blows, this time striking the meatiest part of your ass and sending the pliant flesh jiggling. The metal rivets in his belt only add to the pain, biting into your rapidly heating flesh and causing tears to prick at the corners of your eyes. Shifting your hips in a futile attempt to get away from Dabi and his newfound torture device, you roll partly onto your side and look over at him with watery, pleading eyes.

“S-sir… Dabi, please!” You sputter out, voice already wavering as your resolve crumbles beneath the stinging sensation. But Dabi’s not in the mood for bargaining. Instead, he growls as he wraps an arm around your waist and shoves his left knee underneath your belly, hiking your ass further into the air.

“Hold still!” He barks at you, another crack of his belt sending a fresh wave of searing pain along your already raw skin. You scream in agony, unable to do more than wriggle and squirm against his hold.

“Start counting, brat.” He demands huskily, your only warning before the next punishing spank meets your burning flesh.

“One!” You gasp out, “I’m sorry! Please–!”

Another blow lands, somehow harder than all the others, revisiting the spot where ass and thigh meet and causing you to wail in pain.

“Too late for apologies, dollface. The only thing I wanna hear from that slutty little mouth is counting. Understand me?”

The arm looped around your waist tightens in warning, and you hiccup before sputtering out a shaky, “T-two.”

“That’s more like it.”

He continues spanking you at a steady pace, the only respite coming when he pauses to hear you choke out the next number. By ten strokes, you’re bawling. By fifteen, you’re practically brain dead, unable to quell the sobs that wrack through your body or think beyond the next count. He mercifully stops at twenty, dropping the belt and loosening his own grip on you. All you can focus on is the burning pain radiating out from your tanned backside, sobbing as you bury your face into the pillow below you for comfort. Dabi’s own breathing is heavy and ragged, and he takes a few deep, measured breaths to steady himself. After a few moments, that hand that once held his belt is carefully laid on the curve of your ass, and you gasp both at the gentle touch and the shock of prickly pain it brings. Judging by the way he strokes the heated flesh, you’re sure the silver eyelets have left a series of bruises behind.

“S-s-sir.” You blubber, “I’m... I…”

“Shhhh, quiet down.” He says softly, voice uncharacteristically tender as he runs his hand along the width of your heated cheeks. “It’s over now. You did so well.”

The unexpected praise makes you whimper beneath his affections, devolving into a quiet moan as his hand travels even lower, fingers coming to rest at the entrance to your heated core. He begins to gently massage at your folds, middle finger slipping inside to find you impossibly wet and clenching around the digit.

“You filthy little thing…” He breathes out on a chuckle, “Are you really that turned on by me beating the hell out of your cute little ass?”

His finger delves deeper, pussy eagerly sucking him in as you keen below him. His free hand begins to lightly scratch up and down your back, goosebumps rising in the wake of each careful caress. Without thinking, you shift further onto your knees, fighting through the pain to push against his hand.

“Please, Sir.” You moan wantonly, “More. Please.”

With another dark chuckle, Dabi slips a second finger inside of you and begins to languidly pump them in and out. Pain and pleasure meld together in a sinful symphony, pants and whimpers coming from you as you rock your abused body against his own scarred flesh. He adjusts the angle and crooks his fingers downwards, curling them just shy of that sensitive bundle of nerves you know would have you seeing stars. Your back arches as you hungrily push against him, dignity forgotten in the face of pure, carnal desire.

“Getting impatient, are we?” He growls teasingly, fingers suddenly slipping out from your sopping core and wrenching a high-pitched whine from the back of your throat. He moves off the bed entirely, ordering you to stay put as he walks over to the nearby dresser and opens up the top drawer. Like the cuffs would allow you to do anything otherwise.

“Ah, here we go.” He says after a few seconds of rummaging, striding back over to the bed and taking up residence behind you. You feel the mattress dip under his weight seconds before his hands find your hips, roughly hauling them upwards and forcing your face further into the pillows. You shriek as he grabs ahold of your left cheek and squeezes harshly, pain shooting up your spine like a bolt of summer lightning. Something hard and cool prods at your quivering entrance, briefly brushing against your clit before being plunged inside of you. The sudden stretch feels at once too much and deeply satiating, sending burning, pleasurable heat licking across your oversensitized nerves. Once the toy is sunk to the hilt, Dabi gives a short grunt of satisfaction before sliding off the bed and circling around to lean over your quivering form. You turn your head to face him and he smirks at the sight of your fucked out expression: eyes red and puffy, cheeks streaked with half-dried tears, lips swollen from the bluntness of your own teeth.

“Aren’t you a sight?” He hums lowly, brushing away an errant strand of hair to plant a condescending kiss to your temple. “Such a needy little slut for me.”

With another dark chuckle, Dabi pats your cheek, straightens up, and turns towards the door.

“Wait!” You squeak out, squirming against your restraints as you watch his retreating back. “You’re just gonna leave me like this?”

“That’s the plan, dollface.” He shoots back, casting you a wicked grin over his left shoulder as he pulls the door open. “At least until I finish my shower.”

#bnha #bnha x reader #dabi x reader #Dabi #mha smut #mha x reader #tw: noncon #tw: pain play

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writing-in-april · 4 years ago

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A Snowy Morning After (Part 2)

Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: After being stuck at Reader’s house because of a snow storm after a one night stand, Spencer wants a round two.

Part One

A/N: Hey guys ☺️ This is my fourteenth fic for my 30 fics in 30 days for April!!! This one was requested by @dreatine who asked for a second part to my short fic A Snowy Morning After which ended in a cliffhanger. This ones kinda porn without plot lol- read the first part of you want the plot 😂 I’m curious to hear from all of you- feel free to drop me an ask about anything here. Join my tag lists here! Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Non specific dominant, Oral sex (F receiving) - nothing else really ☺️

Main Masterlist Word Count: 1.4K

You glanced out your window as snow still trickled down out of the sky to add to the blanket of white covering everything in sight. At first you had been afraid of any more painfully awkward moments between you and Spencer while you waited for the roads to clear. Even though you had offered him a cup of hot chocolate you didn’t know where the conversation was headed, or if there was going to be any at all.

It hadn’t been as awkward as one might expect, you both fell back into how you had been last night before you had taken him back to your house. There was a reason that you had fallen into bed so easy with him last night, conversing with him was addicting, to say the least. The way he talked with his hands and rambled on with such passion made you want to pull him right back into bed again.

The conversation you both had been having as you had been sipping on the rich chocolate drink had been seemingly innocent. The words you had both been speaking, asking him casually about his job, then him asking about yours, had no real weight to them. Tension was still thick around you both, the air seeming hot and heavy even though you hadn’t turned your heat on blast because of the cold.

Eventually all the words fell away, trailing off as you both took another long sip. Spencer’s eyes were roaming every inch of your body, completely unashamed about it. Not that you minded, he had already seen everything last night. And, it was fun to tease him slightly by spreading your legs a little to give him a peak at the panties you had slipped on. They were the ones he had almost ripped off of you the night before.

“Are you trying to tease me?” The sudden questioning and flip from an innocent conversation ended in silence to back to how he had spoken to you while you had him in your bed gave you whiplash.

You squirmed in your seat, the harsh tone of voice he had used making your panties dampen. Going off of natural instinct would have made you wither underneath his piercing gaze, but it had you wanting more. So, you spread your legs a little wider. “Yes.”

In a flash his mouth was on yours, forcing you to stand up by wrapping a hand around your waist and tugging you up. He wasted no time in deepening the kiss, grabbing your cheeks to pull you as close as possible.

You already felt hot despite everything around you having a tinge of cold, panting in his mouth while he continued to explore what your lips had to offer just like the night before. His whole body was warm against yours, like he was shielding you from the cold just outside your door as he pressed you into the table.

You pulled yourself up so you were now sitting on the table, propping yourself up with your hands. Spencer was on his own mission, separating his lips from yours to slowly make the descent down. He lingered at your neck for a while while gripping your hips hard, adding to the collection of hickies he had created last night. Tilting your neck to the side gave him full access, then you wrapped your hands around the back of his neck. You ghosted your fingers over the hickies you had left on him the night before, thinking about leaving more on him.

Spencer didn’t give you the chance as he pulled the sweater you put on over your head once he was satisfied with the work he did on your neck. Immediately he wrapped his lips around one of your nipples and began to play with the other in his fingers. His eyes glanced up at you, making you buck your hips towards him, wanting him to touch you where you needed him the most.

When he didn’t move his mouth off of your nipple to place it where you wanted him you whined in indignation. It caused him to pull off of you and chuckle out, “You’re impatient, we’ve got all the time in the world. Those snow plows won’t be around for hours.”

He then moved to your other nipple, sucking and biting until it was at a stiff peak like the other one. Finally he moved his hands to start pulling down your panties, which he tried to do slowly, but you kicked them off out of impatience. You couldn’t help but whimper and curl your toes when he knelt down in front of you. Pulling you to the edge of the table by surprise, you raked your fingers down the wood, causing another unexpected noise.

He separated your folds with his fingers, exposing your clit more to potentially give him more access. His staring at your dripping core made you wriggle a bit, feeling exposed underneath his gaze. Being exposed didn’t make your desire disappear, it only seemed to make you drip down your inner thighs more. You almost wanted to complain again, but you predicted that would just make him go even slower.

When he dove his tongue into your core it was unexpected as he had been fixating his gaze on you for a while without any signs of movement. A clanging noise filled the air along with the soft moans you had begun to produce, causing you to snap your head to the source of the noise. A pool of spilt hot chocolate was by the edge of the table; you must have knocked over your mug when Spencer had unexpectedly begun to feast on you.

Spencer was unfazed by the noise while you groaned at the mess you had just made, and because his tongue had moved down to your dripping hole, circling around it just to tease.

“Please- don’t tease!” You gasped out loud, grabbing his hair to bring him as close as possible. Your other hand dropped down so you were resting on one of your forearms when Spencer pushed his tongue inside of you. Cursing loudly at the new stimulation you then started to grind your hips into his face while keeping your hold on his hair tight.

Spencer’s ability to breathe was undoubtedly obstructed, especially when your shaky thighs began to clamp around his head. Instead of pulling away he became even more eager, if that was possible. He removed his tongue from your entrance to lick a broad stripe all the way up to your clit, then suctioning his lips around it. When he started to nibble slightly at it your orgasm started to fast approach.

Sensing it he moved one of his hands to come between your thighs, you were going to become addicted to his fingers no doubt. Last night you had gotten a taste of the skill he harbored with his fingers, but he had mostly only used his mouth on you. When he entered his fingers inside of you in tandem with his mouth still sucking and nibbling at your clit you cried out even louder than before.

“Cum for me.” He mumbled into your core. The added vibration of his voice against your clit caused your slowly built orgasm to reach its crest, and crash down around you. You pulled on his hair harder than you probably should have while you rode your high out on his face, though he was obviously enjoying it as he moaned when you had yanked on it hard.

After you had come down from your high, you had glanced over to see the pool of hot chocolate that you had made. “We’re going to need to clean that up.”

He smirked, glancing at the spilled hot chocolate, “We’ve got time.”

Your own smirk was devilish even though in the back of your mind you couldn’t stop thinking about when the time ran out. You both had time now, but that time was limited. The snow plows and salt trucks would eventually come, you’d have to make the most of it, “I’d like to use that time to do something else.”

“What do you want to do instead then?” Arousal still swirled deep in your gut, you were definitely going to pull him back into your room for another round. But, his words had made you think about how you didn’t want this morning after to end. And, you didn’t want to just push that thought down, only to have him slip through your fingers when you could have spoken up.

Ignoring the spill, pushing it off till later, you pulled him by the hand, walking him back towards your room, “I want you to fuck me- but I also want to talk about what you want to do tomorrow morning.”

Ask Me Anything

—-

Tag lists (fill out this form to join): A strike through means tumblr won’t let me tag you

All works: @shotarosleftpinky @90spumkin @kyra-morningstar @s1utformgg @boxofsparklingmuses @takeyourleap-of-faith

All MGG characters: @muffin-cup @willowrose99 @princesssmooshie @peterpanouat @anaagraceeberr @spencerreid9

Spencer Reid/CM: @calm-and-doctor @destiny-tsukino @safertokiss @slutforthegubes @onlyhereforthefanfics @jareauswifey @princesssmooshie @peterpanouat

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds x reader #matthew gray gubler smut #matthew gray gubler x reader #matthew gray gubler #mgg #mgg x reader #criminal minds #30 fics in 30 days

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fayeimara · 4 years ago

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Sakusa Kiyoomi || Quiet Corners of Our World

SUMMARY. A busy Sunday becomes something else entirely when your typically routine-loving boyfriend has some unexpected surprises in store.

PAIRING. You x Sakusa Kiyoomi

GENRE. Fluff <3

WARNINGS. Suggestive

Reader Request Part Two | This is a continuation of the story in Small Moments.

It's a small kiss behind your ear that wakes you up, along with a whispered, "Good morning, love." You turn towards the deep baritone, seeking its owner even though you've barely roused. Sliding one hand forward to squeeze in between the cool pillow and cooler sheets, enhanced by the press of Sakusa's head still lying atop it, your other hand finds his cheek even before you've opened your eyes. When you do briefly flicker them open, it's to meet his amused gaze for just a moment before the bright rays streaming in from your windows compel your lids to flutter shut again. There's an enticing aroma in the air and it's not just your boyfriend's aftershave.

Tilting your head up in a silent plea for his soft lips to meet yours, you hear a low chuckle instead before you feel something light brush the tip of your nose back and forth. A butterfly kiss. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth but quickly turns into a pout when he his teasing tone breaks the silence again.

"I'd like a proper kiss, love, wouldn't you?"

You nod with an assenting hum and it seems he'd anticipated your non-verbal answer because he's already continuing. "Then you'll come brush your teeth, won't you? I have a surprise for my little butterfly."

The words are still soft with temptation and your eyes peek open again, this one longer than your first attempt. This time, when you meet Kiyo's deep gaze, it anchors you to him as you fight off the last hazy remnants of your sleep. If only you didn't feel like you could lay there falling into the dark, mesmerizing pools of his eyes instead.

You're tempted to close your eyes again just to regain your equilibrium but it would be quite futile. That, and you're realizing it's Sunday, which means both you and Sakusa have your respective engagements for the day. Your mind wanders back to the previous day, an improvised but perfect lazy date indoors, which already seems so far from reach.

What if the two of you canceled your plans to pursue a whole, lazy weekend? Would the world stop turning? You smirk, tempted to be a little bad and see if you can convince Kiyo to join your sudden scheme.

"What's that little smile about, sweetheart?" You startle, realizing your thoughts have wandered while he continued to study you, holding your unfocused gaze. He has his own little smirk on his face, as though he's actually able to peer right through your eyes and view your most intimate daydreams.

A blush works its way onto your cheeks, you can feel the warmth even if you can't see it but you're definitely aware of his eyes tracking every miniscule change with that beguiling smile still curving his lips. You pretend to stretch out in order to hide your clearly telling expression, hoping to compose yourself again quickly. With your arms hovering over your face you miss his movement, only feeling the slightest shift before his fingers caress the now exposed skin at your stomach and waist.

"Kiyo!" You're jackknifing so fast in order to jump out of the bed as you reach for his wrist to pull his arm away but he's not done with flustering you when you're in your sleepy state because his other arm catches you mid lunge and you're drawn back against his hard body before you can even register that you're trapped.

Kiyoomi's long legs stretch out alongside yours, shepherding them with light pressure so that he can form a cage around you, finally complete when the hand with the wandering fingers enters your line of sight before dropping to your shoulder. Arms criss-crossed around you, one across your waist and the other crossing that space just below your collarbone, he finally leans in with a brush of his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers, "Didn't you want to stay in bed longer? Isn't that what you were just thinking... How you might convince me to stay?"

Even as your stomach flips at his seductive tenor, your face burns as you're caught at your own game before you could even begin to truly consider it. What a dangerously perceptive man you've chosen to call your own. And how like him to torment you when you're caught unaware. He had better be prepared for some payback. Much later.

"Ah..no."

"No?"

"No." You shrug as much as you can in his hold, thankful you're at least facing away as you boldly lie, "I was... thinking about you brushing my teeth."

You might have actually thrown him for a loop as he pauses and then, his flirtatious game forgotten, warily repeats, "Me brushing your teeth?"

Oh no. You can't laugh. But it's difficult as you can quite literally imagine the exact look of distaste on his face at this very moment. He might end up thinking it's an amusing or even cute concept some day but this reaction is pretty typical when he processes new actions that go against his natural instincts. Exactly why you chose this very visual.

"Mhm. You withheld my rightful kisses because you wanted me to brush my teeth first, didn't you?" Okay, so maybe there's a little payback for him sooner than you'd planned. Three birds, one stone. What a feat.

"So... you think I want to brush them for you...?" He trails off, completely unsure where you're going with this.

You shake your head, tone quite glib when you elaborate on your lie, "Not quite. I just imagined you might force me, like a bad puppy or something you apparently think you can order around. That why I was smiling. The imagery and all."

"You were smirking." He corrects with authoritative tone completely ignoring your subtle admonishment. Is that humour seeping back in, as well? "But if you want me to treat you like a pet..."

You jerk forward again, trying to slip his hold as he manipulates the conversation to regain the upper hand. This isn't where the conversation was supposed to flow.

"Not a pet, Kiyoomi."

"Really? If you like that stuff, I guess I can give it a tr-"

"It was a joke!"

"You sure, pet?" His amusement is back full force and you have to roll your eyes at your now failed attempt to regain your composure because, well, maybe you walked into that one by being impulsive.

"It was actually a lie, wasn't it?"

You stay silent, debating if it's better to just refuse to talk until you're completely awake with a cup or two of coffee to fortify yourself from your boyfriend's unexpectedly bold banter today. It seems like Sakusa is in a playful mood but you have no idea why, given that you each will be going separate ways for your respective commitments in less than two hours.

You find yourself suddenly lifted up in his arms, as he effortlessly carries you off the bed before swinging you up like a ragdoll, in a maneuver that ends with his arms cradling you bridal style as he walks you both to the adjoining bathroom. Now you're actually speechless, without deliberate intention, as you find yourself staring up at the elegant lines of his face, hands having wildly grabbed his shirt at the chest and behind his neck when he moved.

His dark eyes are filled with mirth as they connect with yours, "Your silence is incriminating, love. I may just have to follow through with your request in retaliation for ever uttering such a suggestion."

"I didn't ask-" You start of indignant but end up cutting yourself off as a thought occurs to you, "Wait. Do you actually like the idea?"

His eyes narrow down at you, face falling into his classic inconvenienced expression as if you've somehow disrupted his rhythm. Isn't it the other way around? Hey, you should be the one giving him that look!

"Of course not." His voice is clipped and slightly unconvincing.

When he finally sets you down on your feet, you lean on the counter to watch him as he reaches for your toothbrush, neatly squeezing out the perfect amount of paste on its bristles before letting it swing quickly under a soft, brief stream from the tap.

It's when he turns back to you, holding it up holding the instrument up to your mouth and going, "Say ahhh." as if trying to feed a toddler, that you realize he's actually going to try to brush your teeth. You suppose neither of you have been good at backing down from the others' challenge and it's placed you in odder scenarios than this. A giggle spills from your lips at how silly this one is and it's his small answering smile, with a mix of self-deprecation and good humour, that prompts you to obediently follow his instructions.

It's... intimate, to say the least. He's very methodical, probably too gentle, as he makes sure to count out the strokes at each and every side. You find yourself with rare minutes of being able to study him completely unfettered, starting with the tiny dent between his brows from the intense concentration to his task at hand. The way his head tilts and mouth purses between instructions to you is quite endearing.

But as his eyes wander up to yours, the bristles begin to tickle your gums, as if he's applying exactly the wrong amount of pressure, enough to make it unbearable so you're pulling your toothbrush from his fingers to finish the job with ingrained, thorough efficiency.

You notice he doesn't move for his own brush, watching you instead with a silly smile that no one else would believe Sakusa Kiyoomi could produce. When you finish, mouth clean and minty fresh, he leans down to present another butterfly kiss but this time you finally feel the soft melt of his lips onto yours before he pulls away again. Hm.. he's already brushed his teeth before you woke?

You can't help but tease, "So that's it, huh? I suppose my kisses were denied on account of morning breath."

"Not quite." He mimics your own words from just earlier and it has you arching an eyebrow in challenge.

"Mhm.. convenient timing to receive my first kiss of the day, then."

"Love, I would kiss you any time of day or night. There's nothing about you that could push me away."

The absolute certainty with which he says that makes it feel like your heart could beat its way out of your chest just to go claim its space in the undeniable warmth of his.

But.. "Then why use it as a bribe?"

Instead of answering, Kiyo curls his fingers around yours to draw you back into the bedroom as he throws over his shoulder, "It's probably cool by now, so it might be a little late but..."

And with a little gesture, he reveals the source of the heady aroma that you couldn't place earlier, the savoury scents of grilled fish, rice, and miso soup permeating your room, scents which now feel quite familiar and easily placed once you see the prepared breakfast tray perched on his side table.

"Oh Kiyo.. breakfast in bed?"

"We missed it yesterday and I was up early so I wanted to surprise you." He sounds a little disheartened but you've never been one to shirk food even if it's not piping hot.

It couldn't have been sitting too long either, it hasn't been more than ten minutes since he tried to wake you, maybe fifteen. You move back to the bed, careful to fold the soft down duvet to the lower half of the bed. It's a pretty big step for him to bring such spillable and worse, stainable, meals into your room, let alone on the bed.

You look him over carefully but truly can't find a single tell that it's bothering him, so you accept your tray gracefully, seating it on the bed between you both as you notice two pairs of chopsticks. A shared breakfast in bed. While he's long since gotten over his aversion of sharing food, at least with you, it's definitely a monumental milestone and an incredibly romantic gesture in his special way.

It's over this new shared moment that you're tucking away in your memories, that Sakusa give you his biggest surprise yet.

"I've canceled our plans for today." "You ca- our- what?" You're at a loss for words, wondering what's prompted these sudden impulses in your typically steadfast boyfriend.

"I've canceled out plans for today and made us new ones."

You're speechless again, in the calm face of Sakusa Kiyoomi, who has managed to spend the little time you've been awake completely blindsiding you with new experiences and developments. Why is he pushing himself so?

"Baby-"

"Love. Don't question it. Just follow my lead, yes?" His question is so openly trusting, as if the only answer you can give is an affirmative yes, that it takes your breath away. This man..

"...yes."

The first place Sakusa takes you on what you've now realized is a second attempt at your much anticipated but canceled date from yesterday is far more extravagant than the simple park picnic you'd planned. The two of you spent about an hour's car ride before finally arriving at your destination - the breathtaking botanical gardens you're now strolling through.

It's everything you imagined and more, having never had the chance to visit previously, and it's the perfect time to see almost all the flowers at their very peak, in full, resplendent bloom. The air is heavy with the natural fragrance of the vast gardens, the scents tantalizing without becoming overwhelming, possibly due to the natural paths that divert from extremely aromatic sections at just the right pace and lead into refreshing contrast of scents as you weave through each of the different environmental hotspots.

Even Kiyo has his mask tucked down under his chin, the clean air and lack of crowds enabling an easy freedom from his usual concerns. You trail through most of the flower gardens in the southeast portion up to the northeast corner of the sprawling land before spying a maze of many tangled trees, all twisting and twining together in various formations.

As you approach, letting go of your boyfriend's hand to pull slightly ahead, you realize it's actually been cultured to grow as a real, living maze. There are arched entrances made from the same twisting bark, strands about the size of your wrist or smaller twining to cover more surface area in specific spots. You duck through one of the entrances to explore, marvelling at being able to hear Kiyoomi so clearly as he calls to you in exasperation to wait for him.

You don't intend to, of course, because you're delighted to discover this little marvel and that excitement only heightens your urge to tease and play with him a little. You're certain he's picked up his pace, hot on your trail as you duck through many different types of 'doorways' and 'windows', sacrificing your sense of direction to barely keep ahead.

He remains mostly quiet, calling your name softly every now and then, but you're undeniably attuned to his fall of his steps and continue to choose the direction that will take you most opposite him so as to avoid sudden junctions where the gnarled maze might allow him to cross your path in his pursuit.

As the sounds of nature start to dull around you, as if soaking into the depths of the maze, you realize that you too have already traversed further than you intended. It becomes more difficult to identify Kiyo's steps around you, lush grass growing steadily the farther in you seem to progress, even the curled branches seem to soften but you soon catch on to the reason why.

Soft buds are now visible and as you go deeper still, you encounter their full blooms, sprouting in a light pink blush. The path is more linear now, with almost no more forks or diversions to choose from, and before you realize it, you've arrived at the center of the maze. Directly in front, at its very heart, stands an elegant marble gazebo adorned with the same pink flowers yet with a complimentary mix of pale white and even dark red flowers threaded through, their striking petals peeking out as if from behind a latticed shield.

You've stopped entirely, taking a deep breath in as your eyes land first on the layered fountain, also gleaming marble, beyond the gazebo and then quickly shift to what's in between the two structures. Two wrought iron benches sit facing each other so that one only has to turn their head to each side to admire a different view and on one of the benches is what seems to be an abandoned picnic basket. Between the two benches sits a pastel picnic blanket, spread out with more than enough room for two.

You feel Sakusa's quiet presence behind you a second before his arm loops your waist and his smug whisper reaches your ear, "Caught you, little butterfly."

Your mouth drops open as you realized how deftly and thoroughly you were enticed into and maneuvered through this seemingly random maze. He really does know you too well, this beautiful man.

"You planned this?"

"You wanted a picnic, didn't you, love?" You don't have to see that small, satisfied smile of his to hear it in his tone. He's practically glowing with the success of achieving his goal.

You suppose, since you had to cancel the reservation at that special restaurant yesterday, he might have felt compelled to make it up in some way. At this point, however, everything starts to overwhelm you and the light sting at your eyes warns you that one of your rare, emotional moments might just intrude on this small moment.

It's Sakusa, grasping your chin to turn and tilt your face up to his, who answers your unspoken question, the one you need answered.

"Not a single moment for this day was planned from guilt. I just.. wanted to make you as happy as you make me."

"But Kiyo.. are you happy?"

He pauses as if to contemplate his current state but when he answers, he's clear and unhesitant, "I'm so incredibly happy, love. I get you all to myself in our own little corner of the world."

There's something about his words that sparks a memory of a thought you had yesterday, when you made what could have been considered sacrifices for him but was really an incredible, restful day you thoroughly enjoyed yourself from the very moment you'd committed to it. Fair enough then, you trust Sakusa to be unfailingly honest with you and can do nothing more than accept his genuine words. It would be a waste of his careful, meticulous plans to let any doubt ruin the day.

He leads you forward through the beautiful gazebo, moving slowly so you can admire the dedication that has gone into cultivating such a striking space, before helping you down onto the blanket. Once he retrieves the basket sitting idly by on the bench, because it was not in fact an abandoned item but a planned one, he rejoins you on the blanket so that you can examine the contents as you help him lay out the spread.

Incredible, he's somehow got your favourite food and drinks together, from substantial meals for you both, to delicious dessert, and even the drinks have remained chilled in the heat of a midsummer afternoon peak.

Hm.. "How exactly did this get here? You were with me the entire hour it took us to make our way up here and I would definitely have noticed you carrying this."

"I had some help."

"Not going to elaborate?" You give him your most pleading look, you actually think you have an idea but your curiosity is more focused on confirming your guess between several most likely possibilities.

But he just smiles and it's almost maddening when he replies, "No. I'd rather talk about what portions of the gardens you still want to visit. I definitely don't want to rush you but I was hoping to leave before it gets completely dark out."

"That's about three hours, right? "

"Yes, love."

You consider what you know of the gardens for a moment and then with certainty, you answer, "There are only two spots I'd like to see before dark. The butterfly garden and the pools, the ones they say make you feel like you're on some other, magical world."

"That's perfect," Sakusa reviews his mental map of the gardens, "They're both on our way through the loop that'll take us completely through the rest of the gardens. It shouldn't take us more than maybe an hour and a half to finish our tour here once we're done lunch."

You hesitate, something on your mind from his earlier statement about leaving before it's too dark, but decide to say, "There's also a whole section fitted with beautiful lights that turn with the sunset, it's been described to be mystical, like finding fairies playing in the gardens..."

"We'll be able to enjoy that on the way out, love, I've already checked."

"Oh." You pause for a moment in both surprise and appreciation, "You're just so well prepared today, aren't you?"

He arches an eyebrow with indignation, "When am I not?"

"Hm," you let out a chuckle at his expression before clarifying, "I mean, with the finer details of the date, Kiyo. You usually leave that to me?"

"Are you disappointed so far?"

"I'm as far from disappointed as I can be, baby." Without knowing, you answer Sakusa with a smile he's seen countless times today.

It's a stunning one but that's not what's so special about it - it's the very smile he loves to see adorn your face, this expression of complete joy and abandonment. A testament to your free spirit thriving even anchored to his grounded beast, the two of having met in the middle to ruin each other in the best way possible.

The remainder of the afternoon flutters by as you and Kiyo finish your meal before following the plan of action you discussed. The butterfly conservatory and oasis of pools are as breathtaking as expected, creating a multitude of small, precious moments for your memories. The fairy lights quite literally seem to be out of this world, almost as if you've been transported into a beautiful fantasy that's really just another perfect little corner of your shared world.

When you finish up at the gardens with the sun having set, you find out that Sakusa has yet another surprise in store for the day as you both first head home to change into semi-formal outfits. He looks decadent in his black silk button up and you finally get to wear the stunning cocktail dress he gifted to you on your last birthday.

You're moved to tears for the second time that day when you realize where he's taking you for dinner, the very restaurant you had to cancel the reservation for the day before. The same restaurant you both shared your very first date together, back when it was still a little known but elegant spot, long before becoming as popular as it today.

It's there, as you sit on the towering balcony, so unnervingly close to the skies and under a carpet of twinkling stars that you feel you could almost reach out and brush, that Sakusa finds his breath becoming shorter and hands shiver with nerves, as one slips into the pocket of his slacks to brush against the small velvet box that he's carried with him since your third month together.

There have been many small, perfect moments today, ones where his hand slipped in and out of his pocket as he debated if it was the right moment. This weekend has been an unexpected whirlwind of worthwhile compromises but the best example of why he knew, that very day he was drawn to step into the jewelry store, that there would never be anyone else he wanted by his side more than you.

It's at this small moment, in this quiet corner of his world with you, that your eyes meet his with your brilliant, perfect smile painting your lips, and Sakusa's hands suddenly still. His breath evens out, certainty calming his thoughts as his answering smile curves at his mouth. There's no doubt that with you, every moment is exactly the right moment.

A/N: Surprise! It's your date with Sakusa (adorably planned by Sakusa) <3 :D This is partially why completing your request took a little longer - I'm honestly so happy to be able to explore writing a request (so excited that I made it two oop-) and as I've mentioned by now, you were my first lol so I really wanted to make sure it was commemorated with something special. Also, how could I give you only just one or the other with the love of your life? He's literally perfect and has a piece of my heart too so once I thought about how to fulfill your request and landed on the first part, the second just kind of bloomed from it. An expected date turning into a lazy day and now a day that begins lazy but is really the most thoughtful of surprise date days planned by the man who treasures your love... I really hope this was along the lines of what you were looking for and that you enjoyed reading <3

Vibe. Oh, and in case you're curious, I had Daydream in Blue by I Monster on repeat for these :)

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moldisgoodforyou · 4 years ago

Text

home again

wordcount: 7.9k

warnings: brief smut moment, mentions of sexual content

________

Rafe double, triple-checked their plane tickets when they went back home from Rome. They’d bought them separately but somehow he was convinced he’d screwed it up again - when he reached for his phone a fourth time on the train to the airport, Sophie reached over and took it with a shake of her head.

After making it through security and buying two breakfast sandwiches for them, Rafe tucked his backpack under her feet. “Can you watch this for a second?”

“Yeah, where are you going?” Sophie asked curiously.

“I’ll be right back.” He answered vaguely, kissing her forehead. When he returned, he had an entire bag full of Italian snacks and candies, all indecipherable except for a small bag of dark chocolate M&Ms that he tossed at Sophie. Her face lit up as she caught it and realized. “Oh my god, I missed these.”

He grinned and slid into the seat next to her, dumping the snacks into his backpack. “I know you did. I figured we could try these on the plane, for some entertainment.”

“I’m not gonna be able to sleep.” She tore open the packet and poured some into her hand before offering it to him.

He accepted a few, but not too much more. “Good, you said we weren’t supposed to sleep. We’ll be all jetlagged.”

“But I’m tired.” She whined, dropping her head to his shoulder.

Rafe pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lowering his voice. “Maybe you shouldn’t have convinced me to sleep with you last night then. Until 3am.”

She blushed and shot him an indignant glare. “You started it in the shower.”

“You dropped to your knees in the shower first.” He smirked. “This is your fault.”

“Nothing is ever my fault.” She declared. “You’re just too hot, that’s all.”

“Uh huh.” The airport called for boarding over the speakers and he hauled her up, pulling out their passports and walked with her to the line. He paused when she moved forward. “Wait, Sophie, aren’t we sitting together?”

“No, I’m 23A.”

“And I’m 23B - wait, no, shit, I’m not.” He frowned and glanced down at his ticket. “I’ll fix this.”

“Rafe, you don’t have to -”

Her argument fell on deaf ears as he went forward, glancing at people’s tickets. She held back a smile as he put on his best southern drawl and his most charming grin as he talked with the woman in 23B, convincing her eventually - with twenty dollars - to trade seats once they were on the plane. Once they boarded, he gave her a smug smile as he sat next to her, putting up the arm rest so she could lean into him.

“How much did you bribe her with?”

“Bribe? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never bribed anyone in my life.”

_____

The entire ride home, he didn’t sleep at all. Sophie fell asleep on him within minutes, curled into him comfortably, and he didn’t dare move and wake her up. When they made it back to Columbus and James and Colin picked them up - with a ‘welcome back from federal prison’ sign. Sophie just grinned and greeted them both with a big hug, giggling when James kissed her cheek and Rafe socked him in the arm. The whole drive back, she chattered excitedly, filling the boys in on all her adventures while Rafe barely stayed awake, his head slumped onto her shoulder.

They went straight to Rafe’s senior house to relax and she gave herself a tour right away, impressed by the clean house and lack of lewd decor. (It was going up next week, anyways.)

She wasn’t tired at all as she strolled into his room, making a big deal of the newly painted walls and a few plants scattered around on shelves. “Check it out! This looks so good, Rafe!”

He yawned - again - and flopped onto his bed. “Shh.”

“Didn’t you sleep?” She did the same, sprawling out on his bed. “I can’t believe you have a king-sized bed, I’m never staying at my place.”

“No. Couldn’t sleep.” He stretched his neck uncomfortably, groaning. She nudged him over, tugging at the hem of his shirt, and he shook his head. “Nooo. I’m too tired for sex.”

She giggled and tugged again. “It’s not that. Sit up, I’ll rub your back.”

He sat up just enough to tug his shirt over his head and flopped back down to the mattress on his stomach. She crawled onto him and straddled him to massage his shoulders, digging her thumbs into the base of his neck. He groaned, twisting a little. “Lotion. In my nightstand drawer.”

“Ew, is that for -”

“My hands get dry, dummy, get your head out of the gutter.”

She flicked his neck. “Be nice or I’ll leave you alone.”

“No, baby, stay.” He whined, flexing his back a little as she stretched. She smiled to herself, appreciating his muscles and traced a finger down his spine. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

“Watch your hands.”

“I’m just touching your back.” She dug in a little harder into his shoulders, grinning when he groaned in appreciation.

“Yeah, and I know how touchy you can get.” He quipped, closing his eyes and letting her continue the massage. “Handsy.”

She teased his fingertips under the waistband of his shorts. “You’re gonna have to shower anyways.”

It took about two seconds for him to change his mind. “Hmm….fine. But I’m not gonna do any work if you start something.” He yawned. “And you’re not done on my back.”

She rolled her eyes and got back to work, pleased by his little satisfied noises. She was just about to roll him back over and tug down his shorts when James slammed his palm on the door. “Shut the fuck up, Rafe, we don’t want to hear you jacking off!”

“Jesus Christ, James, come in!” Rafe yelled back with annoyance lacing his tone. James came in to see their (mainly) innocent position. “Oh. It sounded like you were doing something else. Hi Sophie, I didn’t know you were still here.”

She giggled, crawling off of Rafe. “Hey. We weren’t -”

“Yeah, I can see that. My bad.” He went to leave and paused, sticking his head back in the door. “You should know, though, my room’s right below his. And we all share that bathroom, so I’d prefer things to be cleaned. Regularly.”

“Get out, James.” Rafe pointed with a glare. James nodded with a grin and left, the door clicking shut behind him. Sophie gave him an apologetic smile. “He’s really just below us?”

“Yeah. I don’t fucking care, I told him I’d buy him a white noise machine. C’mere.” He flipped over and pulled her up to his hips, groaning obnoxiously loud when his hard cock brushed against her core.

She giggled, rocking back and forth on him. “Now you’re just being annoying.”

“Good. He’s been worse, bringing home a different girl every weekend for a straight month before I left. Colin says he’s going through his hoe phase.” He yawned, tugging at her shirt. “You have about ten minutes to fuck me before I pass out in this bed.”

Sophie rolled her eyes, pulling off her shirt. “That’s it? Sure it’s worth it?”

“Angel, please.” He nearly begged, pulling her down to kiss her desperately, grinding his hips against hers.

“Okay, okay, you’re so needy.” She teased. “Let me just take care of you.”

“No, I want -” He started, cutting himself off when she pulled out his hard cock from his shorts and stroked down his length, making him hiss. “Okay. That’s fine.”

She rolled her eyes and ducked down to take him into her mouth, not giving any warning. He nearly groaned again until she reached up and slapped her free hand over his mouth. “Shh. Stay quiet or I’ll stop.”

He let his head fall back so she couldn’t see him and fisted the sheets, bucking up into her mouth. “So good. So fucking good, baby.” He mumbled against her hand, just loud enough that Sophie could hardly hear.

It didn’t take long for him to come, especially with the way she sucked on him and twisted her wrist at the same time. When he did, her hand still clapped against his mouth, he let out a satisfied sigh and grinned down at her. “You’re incredible.”

She removed her hand and gave him a quick kiss. “You’re too easy. I think that was four minutes.”

“Can’t help it. You were all touchy, you know what that does to me.” He tried pulling her close, all sleepy, and she gently swatted her hands away.

“No, baby. I gotta go home and shower, then unpack. And I want to get dinner with Allie and Jules.”

He frowned. “What about me?”

“I’ve been with you nonstop for three whole weeks.” She grinned and gave him another short kiss. “You’ll be okay. We’re gonna have to go back to sleeping apart sometimes.”

“Noooo.” He grumbled, reaching for her as she stood and tugged her shoes back on.

“Welcome back to reality, Cameron.”

“But you - you need your turn -” He tried arguing helplessly and she just grinned.

“I own a vibrator, remember?”

“Fuck. That thing.”

“Don’t worry.” She leaned against the wall with a smirk, arms crossed. “I’ll let you borrow it sometime. Can you drive me?”

Rafe sighed but ambled out of bed, tugging his shorts back up and pulling his shirt on. “This is not how I expected the night to go.”

“We both know you’re gonna pass out in bed the second you get back. Hopefully after a shower.”

“Yeah, probably.” He yawned, stretching. “If I’m not texting you by one in the afternoon tomorrow please check on me.”

She nodded seriously and shook his hand, making him laugh. “You have a deal. Don’t forget you have to pack though, we’re going home in two days.”

“We are home…?”

“Home home. Remember? We booked the flights yesterday in Rome?”

He nodded in recognition, casting a glance at his stuffed suitcase on the ground. “Right. Remind me why I couldn’t just ask for the plane?”

She scowled before she could catch herself. “I thought you didn’t want to see your dad when you were home.”

“Touché.” Rafe noticed her scowl but didn’t mention it, not having the energy to persist. He grabbed his keys and took her hand, bringing her out to the car. “C’mon, my chariot awaits.”

____

The two of them spent their two days before going home very differently - Rafe slept nearly the entire time, woke up at night to go get tacos with the boys, then went back to bed. Sophie decorated her entire room within four hours, set up her senior architecture studio, and had meetings with a professor, an advisor, and the co-president of the alumni mentorship program. (Rafe was exhausted just from seeing her texts about her schedule.)

The girls dropped them off at the airport only forty five minutes before their flight, despite Rafe’s protests that it wasn’t nearly enough time and Sophie’s argument that she’d made a flight with less time on a tiny airline in Spain. Their flight was inconvenient, as always - they had to fly into Virginia and take a 2.5 hour ferry to get back home. When they finally arrived, greeted by the familiar summer humidity and the smell of the sea, her brother picked them up to bring them to Sophie’s.

“Soph!” He yelled out the window from the pickup line. Rafe noticed immediately and straightened up, grabbing her bag as well as his to walk to the car.

She beamed, waving as they came closer, and slid into the front seat while Rafe put their suitcases in the back. “Carter! Hi! I thought you were moving this weekend?”

“I pushed it back a couple weeks, wanted to see you before I left. How was Barcelona?” He glanced back and nodded at Rafe briefly in the backseat. “Rafe.”

“Hey. Thanks for picking us up.” Rafe smiled politely, nearly crammed into the backseat because of how far back Sophie’s seat was. He assumed Carter had moved it before he came to pick them up, but didn’t dare say a word.

“Yeah, no problem.” The rest of the ride was just the two siblings talking, mainly Sophie telling him about her study abroad and the trips she’d taken with Rafe. Carter kept his eye on Rafe in the backseat at a few parties of her story, especially when she stuttered over talking about swimming in Nice and Rafe’s birthday. (Rafe very pointedly looked out the window to avoid his eyes.)

They were greeted by Sophie’s dad when Carter pulled the car up in the driveway. He wrapped Sophie in a tight, smothering hug when she jumped out of the car, the two of them sharing matching grins. “Hey, Sophie girl.”

“Hi Dad.” She mumbled against his shirt, hugging him tight. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too.” He finally let her go and welcomed Rafe in for a hug too, ignoring his handshake. “Nice to see you too, kiddo.”

“You too, Mr. Flint.” He beamed and excused himself from the hug quickly to get both his and Sophie’s suitcases, ever the gentleman in his presence. “Thank you so much for letting me stay here, I really appreciate it.”

Her dad nodded with a smile, taking Sophie’s bag from him. “Of course. Come on, I’ll show you to your spot in the guest room. Soph, your mom’s out running errands, I thought we could all head out to the course for a round if you’re not too tired?”

“Sure, that sounds fine. Dad, did you forward that study I emailed you about using filtered stormwater for the course to the groundskeeper? So it’s more eco-friendly?” Sophie asked over her shoulder, leading the way inside and upstairs.

Jeff sent Rafe a knowing smile behind her back, shaking his head. Ever since Sophie really got into eco conservation in high school, she’d been pushing more and more for the entire family to make small changes. Her efforts got more and more involved as she learned more in college, and she’d had meetings with the groundskeeper at the country club no less than five times - he listened politely as a favor to her dad, but that was all. “I sent it, yes. I’m not sure how well it was received.”

“Oh, well, I can send you some more resources. It’s good to at least provide the options, you know?” She turned back and took her bag into her room, automatically going for Rafe’s as well.

Rafe smiled, subtly pulling it away and tried to redirect her dad’s attention. “Um, which one’s the guest room?”

“Other end of the hallway, just opposite Carter’s room.” Jeff gave him a pointed look and he nodded quickly. “Great, thank you.”

“Dad, you’re not seriously making him stay in there.” Sophie argued, giving her dad a pleading look.

“No, it’s fine! I’m sure it’s perfect, I’ll go make myself at home.” Rafe quickly excused himself, heading down the hall and just barely stayed in earshot of the two.

Her dad regarded her carefully. “Sophie, you can’t really expect me to believe you two had been in separate dorms that entire trip like you’ve been telling your mother, can you?”

She grew embarrassed, leaning against her doorway. “Dad...”

“I’m not oblivious, honey, I just hope you’re being safe -”

“Dad! Please. I don’t want to talk about this with you. Ever.” She told him with wide eyes and red cheeks, backing into her room slowly.

“Alright, just. Be careful. Both of you.” He warned her, patting her shoulder before heading back down the stairs, calling out loudly over his shoulder. “Be ready in fifteen!”

She just groaned and flopped back onto her bed.

“Ready, kids?” Jeff called up the stairs, exactly fifteen minutes later. Sophie was in the guest room with Rafe, sporting a golf tank from high school and a matching skort. The tank was a little tight across the chest and she’d flaunted into his room with it unbuttoned to completely show off her boobs, showing him exactly what was underneath.

“Yes sir!” Rafe called back, a little higher pitched than normal, and shoved Sophie’s shoulder lightly. “Button that up,” he hissed.

“You’re a prude.” She rolled her eyes, buttoning it back up to her neck but adjusted her skort to sit a little higher. (Nothing too inappropriate, but it was just enough to drive Rafe crazy.)

“I’m not - we are going golfing with your father, baby, and you look like several dreams I’ve had in high school. Do not pull something. Fix your skirt.”

She perked up, taking a step closer. “You dreamed about me in high school? What kind of dreams?”

“No. We’re not doing this.” He told her, but she didn’t miss the way he reached in his pocket and grimaced for a moment. “Behave.”

She grinned and practically skipped downstairs, with Rafe following close behind. “We’re ready! Dad, can we just play 9 today? I wanted to go hang out on the beach with Rafe later.”

“Our reservation’s for the full 18. What, you don’t want to play a full round with your old man?” Her dad teased, but she could hear the tiny tone of hurt underneath.

“We can go to the beach another time, the full 18’s perfect.” Rafe interjected. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up with you though, Mr. Flint, I haven’t really played since last year.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine, I saw your form earlier this summer.” Her dad replied cheerfully, not noticing as Sophie mouthed “suck up” to Rafe behind his back.

They all drove to the course and split into carts, her dad in one and Rafe and Sophie in the other. As they rode to the second hole, Sophie kicked her feet up on the dash, ignoring the golf etiquette standard. “Hey, Rafe.”

He instantly reached over and shoved her feet off, casting a glance toward her dad to make sure he didn’t see. “Yes ma’am.”

“You think we could pull off a quickie tonight?”

He fixed her with a glare, unamused. “Sophie. Do not.”

She just smirked as she skipped off the cart to the hole, club in hand. She didn’t quit the entire rest of the game, murmuring little dirty things into his ear on the cart or pretending like she was going to flash him, bursting into giggles as he nearly wrecked the cart trying to lunge across the seat to keep her shirt down. Rafe was entirely distracted the whole game, trying to stay as civil as possible around her dad while also keeping Sophie in check.

Her competitive streak kicked in around the sixth hole, when she was losing by just enough. Jeff kept pointing out little imperfections in her form - her arms were bent too far, her hips didn’t rotate enough, her head wasn’t down for long enough - and Rafe winced nearly every time. Sophie took it all in stride though, and he had to remind himself that criticism from a parent was fine when it was paired with constant encouragement after she improved.

Her dad was a little more sensitive to how Rafe responded to criticism, starting everything with a compliment first and then phrasing the critique as a suggestion. At the end of the game - despite Rafe barely losing to Sophie, Jeff coming in first - he nudged Rafe and gave him an encouraging grin. “You’re looking good, kid. Might beat this one if she wasn’t so annoying.”

“Dad!” Sophie exclaimed. “I didn’t do a thing -”

“I raised you better than to whistle on the golf course, Soph.” Her dad pointed out as he poked her in the leg with his club. “Breaking every single etiquette rule out there.”

“It’s a simple distraction technique.” She protested with a sheepish grin. She had whistled at Rafe when he bent over to place his ball on the tee - twice - and thought her dad hadn’t noticed either time.

“If you’re using distraction to win the game, maybe you aren’t good enough.” Her dad retorted, laughing as Rafe’s eyebrows shot up at the same time as Sophie’s. “Go drive the carts back, I’ll meet you two at the car.” As Sophie grinned and started toward her dad’s cart, he called after her again. “No racing! Not again!”

She just ignored him and Jeff turned to Rafe with an exasperated grin. “I’m not sure how you kept up with her for that long in Europe.”

“I’m not entirely sure either, sir.” Rafe told him with a smile.

____

When they came back to the house, all a little sweaty, her mom had a tray of lemonade and snacks set out for all of them. “Mrs. Flint, hi. Thank you for this.” Rafe thanked her immediately, wiping the sweat off his brow.

“Rafe, it’s good to see you, thank you for keeping an eye on my child the past few weeks.” Her mom greeted with a teasing grin. “Sophie, Angie is coming over with the twins any second now, can you two watch them for a couple hours?”

Sophie scowled, flopping back into her chair and only straightened up instinctively when her mom tapped her shoulders. “Rafe and I were going to -”

“No, that’s fine, we don’t have plans.” Rafe cut her off quickly, nudging Sophie’s foot with his. “Who’s Angie?”

“Angie’s my older cousin, she just had her babies around February.” Sophie informed him. “They’re kind of cute, I guess.”

“They’re very cute, and it’s just so Angie and your aunt and I can go shopping for more baby clothes. You haven’t met them yet, you should be excited to see them.” Her mom chastised with a shake of her head. “You’ll have your own soon enough, so this’ll be a learning experience.”

Sophie nearly spat out her lemonade, affronted. “Mom!”

“Don’t be dramatic, Sophie.” She tutted and went back inside.

Sophie gaped after her, shaking her head. “Ignore her. Go shower, I’ll shower when you’re done.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that exchange, always a little confused by her mom’s well-intentioned insults. “I thought the kids were coming…?”

“Yeah, I can handle them and then we’ll swap.” She grinned, lowering her voice. “Or we could shower together and it’ll be faster.”

Rafe practically scrambled out of his chair to go shower, pointing accusingly at her. “Stop that.”

“Stop what.”

“You know - that.” He gestured wildly at the way she’d leaned forward, undone a button and bit her bottom lip. “You’re teasing. Just wait until we’re back in Ohio, please.”

She just smirked and leaned forward to kick his ass lightly. “Go.”

____

When she came back down after her slightly-too-long shower with damp hair, she stopped in her tracks at the base of the stairs. Rafe had one of the babies napping in the play crib and the other asleep on his chest, tiny fingers curled around his pinky as he carefully rubbed her back. Sophie took a quick photo before he could notice and approached quietly, combing her fingers through his hair affectionately.

He lifted his head to smile at her, whispering. “She fell asleep like this, isn’t she sweet? I think this one is baby Ava.”

She laughed quietly, shaking her head. “That’s Amelia. Ava’s in the crib, she has more hair.”

“Oh. Look at her tiny fingers, Sophie.” He murmured, so proud that he was able to get them to stay asleep. When Angie had arrived, she’d brought in both car seats and set up the crib, then handed off both still-sleeping babies to him with only a short introduction. She’d nestled Amelia on his chest, telling him she slept better that way, and thanked him profusely before leaving with Sophie’s mom.

“Babies are so weird.” Sophie replied, a little too loud. “At least they’re starting to get cute.”

He shushed her immediately with a glare. “They’re not weird.”

“How are you so good at this?” She cocked her head, considering picking up Ava from the crib but not trusting her skills.

“Dunno. I like kids.” He traced small circles on Amelia’s back, quietly shushing her when she cooed a little. After a few moments, he glanced up at Sophie with a smile. “How many do you want?”

“I’m not giving you a baby any time soon.” She told him pointedly, leaning into him a little. “But I guess if you really want, I could start calling you daddy…”

He shuddered, his whole face scrunching up into a scowl. “I hope that’s not a kink of yours because I’m really not sure I could entertain it.”

She giggled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’m just kidding. Um, I don’t know that I’ve thought about it. I’ve only ever thought as far as my job.”

“Wait, really? Never?”

She shrugged. “Nah. I liked having Carter growing up though. You’ve thought about it?”

He nodded confidently. “Yeah. Two or three’s perfect, I think. Not too much of an age gap in between. A good mix of girls and boys. I want to...yeah.”

Sophie furrowed her brow, turning to face him. “You want what?”

“I want to be a good dad. To do it right.” He told her, a little shy. “I’m not sure I could, but -”

“You will.” She interrupted him, firmly. “I know you will.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, baby. You’re going to love our kids so well -”

“Our kids?” He interjected with a small grin, making her blush as a matching blush crept up on his cheeks.

“Sorry, did you plan on having kids with someone else?” She raised her eyebrows.

“No. ‘Course not. Just didn’t know you planned on having them with me.” His grin grew to split across his cheeks, beaming.

She shook her head, feeling herself grow bright red. “Well, yeah. Later, but yeah. You’re it for me, Rafe.” She told him, her voice going a little soft.

He nodded, reaching out to grab her hand and kiss the back of it, the most movement he could make without disturbing the baby. “Good. My favorite.”

“My favorite.” She echoed softly, leaning back into him. As the garage door opened and both babies startled, Ava starting to wail, she scowled and stood to pick her up, holding her out at arm’s length as she began to scream. Amelia began to wake but stayed quiet, her little fist tightening around Rafe’s finger.

“Actually hold her, Soph.” He told her with a skeptical glance at the way she was clearly uncomfortable around the baby. She moved her grip to be able to rock the baby but Ava kept screaming, sensing Sophie’s lack of experience.

Just as Sophie was about to place her hand over Ava’s mouth, Angie came in with an exasperated sigh. “Oh, baby, it’s okay, did the garage wake you?” She cooed, immediately soothing her daughter.

Sophie’s mom followed, smiling at the sight of Rafe completely comfortable with Amelia quietly on his chest still. “Look at that, you’ve got the natural instinct.”

“Oh my god, can I take you home with me? Sophie, I’m stealing your boyfriend.” Angie joked, winking at Rafe.

He laughed, getting up carefully so he didn’t shift Amelia too much and carefully placed her back into the crib. “I wouldn’t mind a little babysitting, but I’ve got to go back to Ohio for our senior year at the end of the weekend.”

“Right, of course.” Angie nodded, giving him a grateful smile.

Sophie rolled her eyes at Rafe behind Angie’s back. “Thanks for letting us watch them for a bit, Ang, they’re adorable, but we kind of have plans…”

“But you'll be back after dinner?” Her mom asked. Sophie resisted a scowl while Rafe just gave her an eager smile. “We’ll be back for dinner, no worries.”

“Okay, see you later!” Sophie practically dragged him upstairs, pulling him into her room and shutting the door before he could protest. He immediately reached for the doorknob, but she grabbed his hand and leaned up to kiss him, hard.

Rafe kissed her back for a few moments before he was reminded where he was and pulled back quickly. “Soph, we can’t.”

“I just want to kiss you.” She argued with a pleading tone, pouting a little.

“I thought we were leaving? Going to the beach?” He dodged another attempted kiss from her, easily slipping out from where she had him pinned against the door and stepped away from her.

“Right. I have to change.” She pulled off her shirt and bralette in one fell swoop, then kicked off her shorts too before he could blink.

He gaped for a moment when he realized she was completely naked, his voice lowering a little. “Baby.”

“Yeah?” She strolled over to her dresser, pretending to rifle through her drawer of old swimsuits, and settled on a hot pink string bikini. She’d bought it in high school and kept it in her car to change into for pool parties, because if her mom ever caught her in it she was sure she’d be transferred to a Catholic boarding school immediately. She knew for a fact Rafe had seen it before, even complimented her in it back in high school, and was hoping he’d recognize it.

He did.

Right away.

“Soph, not - not that one.” He implored, voice cracking. He could feel his throat going dry as he fought every urge in his body telling him to go over to her and have his way with her right that instant, trying to remind himself that her parents were literally right downstairs.

She held back a grin as she shimmied into the bikini, tying it up behind her neck. “What’s wrong with this one?”

“I’m getting you back for this. All this teasing today. I swear. I - I -” He couldn’t even come up with a decent half-hearted threat as she strode closer, letting her hair down from her claw clip, and a big whiff of her shampoo overloaded his senses.

“You’ll what.”

“You’re going to regret this.” He told her, and she swore she could hear the way his voice was shaking.

“What are you gonna do? Punish me? Tie me up?” She teased, and the hint of a laugh in her voice was enough to break his spell.

“Sophie, please. No more. I’ll do whatever you want the second we’re back in Ohio, but I am really trying to make a good impression on your family.” He pleaded, eyes trained intensely on hers - though she was pretty sure it was just so he wouldn’t be able to look down at her tits.

“Okay, okay.” She grabbed her shirt from the bed and pulled it on over the swimsuit, her shorts following. “You don’t have to try so hard though, you know?”

“I know, I just. I want to do this right.” He relaxed a little once she got dressed, but was still mainly tense. “Can I, uh, use your bathroom?”

Sophie sat back on the bed, sending him a confused glance. “No one uses the one out in the hall by the guest room, just use that.”

“That one doesn’t have a shower.”

“You just showered - oh.” She realized as soon as Rafe’s slightly pained expression set in and she noticed the bulge in his shorts. Sophie grinned, satisfied. “I could take care of that faster, y’know.”

“I think I’d still be hard after.” He confessed with a shake of his head, quickly letting himself into the bathroom and ignoring her giggles as he locked the door.

____

They were only out at the beach for a couple hours before they had to return home, but it was like she could see the tension literally unraveling from Rafe’s body when he wasn’t under the pressure of impressing her parents. They laid out their towels with a little overlap and she had her head on Rafe’s arm as they sprawled out on the beach, uninterrupted. When his phone chimed, he nudged her a little. “Can you grab that?”

Sophie sat up to get his phone from her bag at their feet. “Your dad texted.”

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know your password.”

“You did the Face ID thing for it in France, remember?” He didn’t move a muscle, halfway to falling asleep out in the sun.

She cocked her head, surprised when the phone unlocked. “I thought you would have taken it off, thought it was just for traveling.”

“Nope. I have nothing to hide.” He nudged his sunglasses down and squinted up at her. “What does it say?”

“Oh, right.” She opened his text, frowning a little. “Um, he said he saw you leaving the country club the other day and wants you over for lunch tomorrow.”

“Fuck.” He muttered, sitting up with a sigh and took the phone from her to read over the text to see if there were any undertones of him being in trouble. “Okay. You’ll come, right?”

“What - me? I don’t know if that’s really necessary -”

“I’ve been with your family all weekend.”

She frowned more, tucking her knees up to her chest. “I thought you wanted to stay with my family.”

“I do, I do!” He backtracked quickly, reaching out and skimming his hand over her arm. “But I want you to come with me.”

“Rafe…” She started, hesitant, but gave in once she saw his pleading look. “Alright. I’ll go, but I doubt he’ll want me there.”

“He’ll be fine.” Rafe shot off a quick reply to his dad, satisfied when Ward liked the message in response. “It’ll be fine. It’s just lunch.”

“Mmhmm.” She didn’t bring up how he sounded like he was reassuring himself more than anything. She stood, offering her hand. “Come on, swim with me.”

He kissed the back of it before taking it and hauling himself up. “I love you. You know that?”

“I know, baby. I always know.”

_____

Later that night, Sophie sat across from her dad as they got dinner ready. She’d informed him she and Rafe were going to Ward’s house tomorrow for lunch and her dad had merely replied with a noncommittal hum, asked her how she felt, and nodded again when she replied with a wary shrug.

“I never liked the idea of you dating.” Jeff told her as he sliced up watermelon for their dinner that night. Rafe paused around the corner, sent to the garage to grab charcoal for the grill, not wanting to interrupt.

“Dad.” She whined a little, embarrassed, but didn’t move from her spot across the kitchen counter.

“I didn’t, you’re my little girl. But I like Rafe, a lot. He’s a good kid, Sophie, keep him around.”

“I’m planning on it.” She murmured.

“You love him?” Jeff inquired, pausing his cutting of the watermelon for a moment. She merely nodded to respond with a blush and a smile and Rafe nearly walked out then just so he could see the look on her face, desperately craving the confirmation.

“He makes me...I just…” Sophie tripped over her words a little, tugging at the loose threads on her jean shorts. “I feel safe with him. With Luke, or Peter, you know, I -”

“I try not to remember them.” Her dad quipped with a smile, making her roll her eyes. “Go on.”

“Just, with them I didn’t really see much past what we had. But with Rafe, it’s different. Like, I know he’ll stick by my side. For...a while.” She decided, giving her dad a shy but eager smile.

“Well, when that time comes, I’ll be happy to have him in the family.” Jeff told her decisively.

“Me too.” She murmured, then hopped up from her chair. “I’m gonna go find him, he’s probably still rooting around the garage for the charcoal.”

Rafe carefully stepped back a few steps, just enough to quickly shut the door to the garage loudly and stroll in with a sense of purpose like he hadn’t just overheard the whole conversation. “Found it! Sorry, took me a second.”

“I thought you got lost.” She beamed at him, seeming to regard him in a different light for a moment.

He stood taller under her adoring gaze, smiling back. “Nope. Where do you want this, Mr. Flint?”

“Backyard’s fine. Know how to work the grill, Rafe?” Jeff set down the knife and pushed the watermelon toward Sophie so she could take over.

“Uh, not sure, I’ve only ever used electric.”

“C’mon then, let me show you how it’s done.” He clapped a hand on Rafe’s shoulder as he passed to lead the way out to the backyard.

____

Sophie was hardly able to sleep all night, so she crept into Rafe’s room around 1am, careful to only open the door just enough so it wouldn’t creak. “Rafe?”

He was awake too, just barely, and rolled over to greet her, whispering. “Hey. Why are you still up?”

“Can’t sleep.” She mumbled and crawled into his bed without invitation, laying on top of him and placed her head over his heart. He hesitated for a moment but eventually wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. “Me either.”

“Are you nervous?” She asked.

“For lunch? A little, yeah. But I don’t sleep well without you anyways.” He confessed, playing with the ends of her hair.

“That’s no good.” She traced little patterns on his chest. “Your dad hates me. Right?”

“I don’t think so.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, not bothering to add that he wasn’t sure she was even enough on his radar for Ward to consider hating her. “You need to sleep, sweet girl.”

“So do you.”

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

She raised her arm with her watch aimlessly. “I set an alarm for six. I’ll go back to my room then.”

“Okay. Sweet dreams, angel.” He kept playing with her hair until he heard her breathing slow and deepen, and only let himself fall asleep an hour after, once he was sure they wouldn’t be caught.

_______

Later that day, after anxiously pacing the house all morning, Sophie was squeezing the life out of his hand as they walked up to his front door. He pressed a kiss to her temple before letting them in. “Soph. It’s okay.”

“Your dad hates me.” She told him with a straight face.

“He - I don’t think that’s true.” He faltered, punching in the code to the front door and toed it open when it unlocked. “This isn’t fun for me either, can you please help me out and not break my hand?”

“Right! Right, sorry.” She let go of him right away, letting him shake out his hand. “Here, let me -” She reached up to fix his hair and he jerked away, startled.

“He says it looks better gelled, don’t -”

“I’m not, I’m just fixing -” She carefully pushed a stray strand back into place and he gave her a grateful smile when he felt it. “Okay. We’re okay?”

“We’re good. Go ahead.” She nodded and followed him in, taking his hand when he reached out for hers.

Ward spotted them first, coming in from the kitchen with two wine glasses in his hands. “Rafe! Do you want wine? Um...Savannah…?”

Rafe’s face fell and his shoulders dropped as he clutched her hand a little tighter. “Her name is Sophie, Dad. I’ve only told you that at least ten times.”

“It’s okay.” She excused quickly with an overly polite smile. “We’ve only met once, at your Christmas party.”

“Right, right, I remember.” Ward nodded and set the glasses down at the table. “I’ll get you both a glass, hold on. Rose!” He called out, going back into the kitchen.

Rafe gave her an apologetic glance and she shook her head quickly. “It’s fine. Doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

“Yes, well, it’s fine. Are Sarah and Wheezie here?”

“I already asked, Sarah’s back at school and Wheezie got out of this to hang out with some friends.” He had texted them the night before for support, but had no luck.

“Okay.” She reached up and stroked her thumb over his cheek, whispering. “Relax your shoulders for me, baby.”

“Right.” He nodded, but stayed tense. Rose returned with Ward a few moments later, with the whole bottle in hand and two empty glasses. “Rafe, you’re here. Sophie, hello, are you still jetlagged from your trip?”

“Um, no.” Sophie replied curtly. “We’ve been back for a few days now.”

“Oh, you just looked a little tired. Maybe it’s the lighting.” Rose gave her a sweet smile and gestured around, although the entire dining room was filled with natural light.

“Maybe.” Sophie forced herself to agree, sitting after Rafe pulled out her chair for her. All their plates were already set out with individual portions, and she noticed there was more salad on her plate than anyone else’s, but didn’t dare say a thing.

“Tell me about your internship, Rafe. You didn’t leave early for the trip, did you?” Ward asked, starting to eat and Sophie took that as an invitation to start as well. When she reached for the wrong fork, Rafe tried to subtly reach out and push the other one toward her.

“No, I finished it then went out to Spain. The internship was good, I learned a lot. I have a job offer from them.”

“You’re not accepting, of course.” Rose replied, then raised her eyebrows at his pause to answer. “Right? Aren’t you coming home after graduation to work with your father?”

“I have a couple options.” Rafe replied vaguely, taking a larger sip of wine than what was considered polite.

To his surprise, Ward nodded in agreement. “You can explore a few things before you come home, it’ll give you more experience for joining the board. A year or so after graduation, that’s fine.”

“You’ll let him swan around instead of doing his job?”

“A couple years won’t hurt anything. He’s in supply chain, Rose, it’s relevant work.”

Rafe had a small smile as he picked at his food with the fork, then lifted his head. “What if I didn’t get a job in supply chain? To start?”

Ward fixed him with a stern gaze. “If this is about your minor, I don’t want to hear it.”

His smile dropped as quickly as he’d found it. “No, yeah, supply chain is smart.”

Rose glanced between the two of them, then cocked her head at Sophie. “What are you studying?”

“I’m in architecture.” Sophie replied, tensing a little.

“Oh. That’s cute. I’ve been looking to hire someone to help decorate our parlor, actually -”

“It’s, um, designing buildings, not interior decorating. It requires a master’s.” Sophie cut her off, with a little more edge to her voice than necessary.

Rose nodded. “Right. What’s the starting salary, around 30k? It’s a good thing you’re with Rafe, you won’t have to sacrifice for a tiny apartment once you graduate.”

Sophie flinched, stabbing her fork into the salad harder than necessary. “It depends on the firm.”

Rafe stayed silent, staring at his wine glass. They all sat there quietly as the clinks of their forks and their glasses echoed in the room for a few moments as they all ate, or pushed around the food on their plates.

“Rafe.”

His head snapped up at Ward. “Yes sir.”

“Are you still wanting the plane and the house for your fall break?”

Sophie didn’t dare look up to show the surprise flash across her face.

“Yes, sir, if that’s alright. It’s just a small group.” Rafe replied, nodding quickly. “I’ll do that remote work like you asked, call into the meetings if you need me to.”

“That’ll work.” Ward nodded. “You haven’t taken Sophie down there, just Brooklyn, right?”

“Mm. Yeah. That was a while ago.” Rafe sighed. “I haven’t dated her in over a year.”

“You’ll love it, Sophie,” Rose smiled at her. “It’s the best, so luxurious. You’re probably not used to it so it’ll be a treat.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. “Right.”

Rafe glanced down at his watch as he briefly squeezed her knee under the table. “Thank you for having us over for lunch, Dad, Rose, but we have to catch our flight tonight and haven’t packed up yet. Sophie’s dad is driving us to the airport.”

“Alright.” Ward rose from his chair at the same time as his son, nodding. “Call me, okay? Check in once in a while?”

“Yeah, Dad, of course.” Rafe relaxed into the hug with his dad, pulling away with a broad smile. “Maybe you could come up for parent’s weekend this year.”

“I’ll check the calendar. Sophie, it was nice to see you again.” Ward walked them both out and she was unbelievably stiff as she shook his hand, her jaw set. When they walked out hand in hand again to her dad’s car, parked at the very end of the drive, she stayed quiet.

Rafe slid into the car with her and gave her a grin, like the weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “That wasn’t bad, right? I expected much worse!”

“Yeah.” She nodded weakly, staring ahead at his house out the window. “Can we go?”

He started the car with a frown, reaching out to place his hand on her thigh but she shifted away. “Sophie. What’s up?”

“Let’s just get home.” She offered a fake smile that he saw through right away, but he didn’t press it.

The rest of the drive was quiet as Rafe turned the radio up and tried to ignore her leg jittering anxiously and how she kept switching her ring from finger to finger, a constant nervous habit of hers. When he pulled into the driveway at her house, he reached out again and stilled her leg. “Sophie.”

“You didn’t say a thing.” She murmured to herself, not looking at him.

“What do you mean?” He frowned and reached out to take her hand.

Sophie pulled back a little, but turned to look at him. “Nothing, it’s fine. I’m glad it went well with your dad.”

“But…”

She leaned forward and gave him a short kiss and a smile to match, shaking her head. “You said it yourself, we have to go pack. Come on.” She got out of the car and didn’t give him a second glance backward as she strode into the house.

Rafe sat there and watched, dumbfounded and unsure of what he’d done.

taglist: @whoeveniskendall @kkmaybank @karsinner @outerbanksbro @outerbankspreferences @randomficsandshit @jailcalledlife @tovvaa @moniamaybank @illbesafeforyou @dontjinx-it @freddymaybank @jjmaybankzz @g4bster @oopsiedoopsie23 @babygal-babygal @thecuthoney @babeyglo

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfic #obx fanfic #outer banks fanfic #rafe x sophie #college rafe #frat rafe #mine #ok rlly needed to get this out but i need to concentrate more on the big conversation so cliffhanger sry!!!!#actually no i'm giving you almost eight thousand words i'm not sorry. i take it back

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