#and i was so FULL of indignation like FIRST OF ALL. I have two separate careers

[pin-k-ink]

CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR ⋆✦⋆ sakusa kiyoomi

synopsis ➸ you and sakusa have always hated each other, but when atsumu suggests it’s all just sexual tension, it forces you both to rethink everything—and now your arguments take on a whole new meaning

tags ➸ enemies(?) to lovers, making out, masturbation, dry humping, grinding, biting, dirty talking, degradation, hair pulling, implied atsumu x reader, unprotected sex, blowjob, face fucking, deep throating, throat bulge, fingering, orgasm denial, creampie, praise kink, pet names, squirting, manhandling, begging, atsumu is tired of your shit

wc ➸ 12k

"Say it again, Omi-kun. I dare you."

Your voice positively dripped with challenge as you leaned across the dining table, glaring daggers at the smirking figure lounging opposite you. Sakusa Kiyoomi regarded you evenly through those heavy-lidded eyes, handsome features arranged in an expression of haughty nonchalance.

"I said," he drawled slowly, relishing the way your fingernails dug grooves into the wood, "that your pitiful attempt at laundry left everything drenched in bleach. Again."

A muscle in your jaw ticked with barely restrained fury. You opened your mouth to unleash the torrent of vitriol building in your chest when a loud clatter from the kitchen interrupted.

"For fuck's sake, you two!" Atsumu groaned, stomping into view with his hands buried in his hair. "Can't ya give the bickering a rest for just one goddamn hour?"

You and Sakusa both ignored the blond's outburst, locked in an intense staring contest from across the table. The air crackled with unresolved tension, neither of you willing to be the first to back down.

"Well?" Sakusa eventually prompted, lips curving into that maddening little smirk he knew got under your skin. "Gonna try to tell me I'm wrong again?"

That did it. You shoved away from the table, the chair clattering to the floor as you surged to your feet.

"Why you arrogant, condescending prick! Like you'd know the first thing about doing your own laundry!" you spat. "That stick so far up your ass must be why you're constantly—"

The rest of your retort dissolved into wordless sputtering as Sakusa rose to his full, intimidating height as well. He leaned forward, elbows propped on the table as he pinned you with that heavy-lidded stare.

"I'm sorry, did you have a point or were you just enjoying the sound of your own voice again?" He spoke slowly, each word dripping with disdain.

Fire licked beneath your skin and you stepped forward without thinking, fists clenched by your sides. "That's rich coming from Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Constipated over here! At least when I speak, it isn't just to revel in my own ego for once!"

Beside you, Atsumu groaned again and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not this shit again...am I gonna have to get the hose or something to break you two up?"

Neither you nor Sakusa paid him the slightest mind, too busy sizing each other up in a heated battle of wills. Adrenaline hummed in your veins, face flushed with righteous indignation at Sakusa's unrelenting arrogance. You itched to wipe that stupid smirk off his infuriatingly handsome face.

"Well?" you demanded when he just kept staring at you silently. "Nothing else to say now that you're called out, huh? Typical coward."

Something dangerous flashed in Sakusa's gaze. He took a single step forward, now well within your personal space as you held your ground defiantly.

"Be very careful what you wish for," he murmured in a low tone that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. "You might just get it."

Your breath hitched at the implicit threat simmering in those words. But before you could formulate a retort, Atsumu hurriedly inserted himself between the two of you. He planted his hands against both your chests, forcibly separating your bodies as he shot looks of sheer exasperation in each direction.

"A'right, that's enough outta the two of ya horny bastards!" he huffed. "I can't take another second of watchin' you two go at it before things get legitimately X-rated in here!"

You blinked dumbly at Atsumu's outburst, barely registering the dismissive scoff from Sakusa behind you. Your roommate pinned you with a pointed look that brooked no argument.

"Omi-kun, you're leavin'. No more tormentin' my roommate tonight." He then swung his severe gaze to you. "And you! Take a cold shower or somethin', yeesh! The sexual frustration is chokin' the whole damn apartment at this point!"

You opened your mouth to retort but Sakusa leveled you with one last burning look before turning on his heel and stalking towards the door. Atsumu gave you both a warning look before following to show him out.

Left alone in the tense silence, it finally started to sink in what exactly your supposedly oblivious roommate had been implying. Surely he couldn't think there was...that you and Sakusa...

As if on cue, a vivid flash of Sakusa leaning over you resurfaced in your mind's eye - all intense gaze and parted lips whispering those cryptic words. The image sent an undeniable thrill skating over your skin like a physical touch.

Across the apartment, the front door slammed shut and Atsumu reappeared, pinching the bridge of his nose again. You glanced between him and the empty space Sakusa had occupied, perturbed realization dawning.

"Oh..." You breathed the word on a soft exhale.

Atsumu snorted indelicately. "Yeah, welcome to my own personal hell, Roomie. Told ya you were both horny idiots."

For once, you found yourself rendered utterly speechless as certain puzzle pieces finally clicked into place with searing clarity. And though the implications should have struck horror into your heart, a tiny, secret part of you couldn't quite quell the spark of salacious interest now burning brighter than before...

You tossed and turned restlessly, sheets tangled around your legs as vivid images from earlier tormented your mind. Every time you closed your eyes, memories of Sakusa's smoldering gaze and the dangerous timbre of his voice resurfaced with alarming intensity.

"Be very careful what you wish for..."

His murmured words echoed in your head, stoking the embers of a treacherous curiosity you'd been ruthlessly suppressing for who knows how long now. Because if you were being truly honest with yourself, the antagonistic spark between you and Sakusa had stopped feeling like genuine animosity ages ago.

No, what fueled those heated exchanges and barbed insults was something else entirely - a slow-burning friction that ignited every nerve ending and left you breathless for reasons beyond just anger and frustration. You squeezed your eyes shut as flashes of Sakusa's powerful build looming over you infiltrated your mind again, heat blossoming low in your belly.

You couldn't deny the undeniable pull of attraction simmering beneath the surface, no matter how often you masked it with irritation or acid-tongued taunts. Deep down, on some primal level, your body craved the delicious friction of Sakusa's presence in a way that had nothing to do with combativeness.

The realization came with a dizzying rush of arousal that left you squirming between the sheets. You tried to dismiss it, chalk it up to a sleep-deprived lapse in judgement after an eventful night. But as the minutes ticked by, visions of Sakusa's chiseled features and unholy smirk persisted in tormenting your senses.

You gave in with a low whine, chasing the forbidden images as your hands wandered across your overheated skin. What would happen if you stopped retreating from the tension between you? What if you finally let yourself lean into those heated exchanges with abandon instead of biting your tongue?

Perhaps Atsumu had been onto something about scratching a certain itch. You shuddered at the thought of finally submitting to the magnetic pull drawing you towards Sakusa, of letting go and allowing instincts to take over instead of fighting tooth and nail against this undeniable chemistry.

Your fingers dipped past the waistband of your shorts, circling your swollen clit with a practiced rhythm as you pictured the man himself. You imagined what Sakusa's hooded gaze would look like if aimed anywhere lower than your face. How his voice might drop into a sinful growl of approval as you gave in fully to your salacious urges right in front of him, consequences be damned...

A twisted moan escaped your lips as you worked yourself higher with each fevered thought. Yes, you realized dimly. You were well and truly addicted to the slow torture of this constant foreplay between you, hooked on that tantalizing friction no matter how much you'd pretended otherwise.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow when Sakusa inevitably showed up and resumed your sensual battle of wills, you decided right then and there that you'd abandon the pretenses entirely. Just to see what would happen when the spark you'd been smothering finally ignited into an all-consuming blaze.

The thought spurred you towards a shuddering orgasm, back arching off the mattress as you rode out the waves of release with Sakusa's name staining your lips in a breathless keen. Only then did you finally relax again, boneless and tingling in the wake of relinquishing your stubborn denials to the oblivion of sweet surrender.

Because win or lose, you realized there was no longer any escaping the pull of this slow-burning inferno you'd both helped fan to roaring life whether you wanted to admit it or not.

The following morning dawned bright and clear as you reluctantly roused yourself from the tangled sheets. An odd sense of anticipatory tension thrummed through your veins while you went about your usual morning routines.

You kept picturing all the various ways you might be able to rile Sakusa up today - subtle touches and low-hanging innuendos he'd never seen coming from you. A sly grin tugged at your lips as you recalled his scathing insults and thinly veiled disgust from last night. How quickly those disdainful expressions would drop the second you disarmed him with a little bold flirtation instead of sputtering recriminations.

Just the thought of his domineering gaze snapping wide while you trailed fingertips over his chest or leaned in to murmur something filthy had your pulse racing. Maybe you'd casually brush up against him, sway your hips enticingly and see how flustered the normally stoic Sakusa grew. Make him finally admit there was more behind his contemptuous facade than—

"Morning, Roomie!" Atsumu's overly chipper voice cut through your heated musings. "Nice of ya to finally join the rest of us today."

You startled slightly, blinking at your roommate as he deposited a plate of toast dripping with butter on the table. He shot you an amused look over his shoulder.

"Whoa, someone kill your favorite puppy on the way over? What's with that 'cat who ate the canary' look first thing?"

Heat flooded your cheeks as you realized where exactly your thoughts had wandered. You shook your head vehemently, refusing to take the bait or acknowledge your brief lapse into an entirely different fantasy.

"Shut it, Blondie. I just had a good night's sleep for once now that the human embodiment of tension headaches wasn't around."

The reminder of Sakusa prompted a flicker of last night's...revelations to niggle at the corner of your mind. You suppressed them ruthlessly, trying to cling to the irritation you'd used as camouflage for so long instead. After all, he'd be arriving at any moment and you needed to be on guard against letting anything slip—

"It'll take much more than your simple attempts at deflection to fool me, [Y/N]," a low, familiar voice drawled in your ear.

You jolted again, whirling around to find Sakusa suddenly looming over you with that infuriatingly smug look plastered across his features. How the hell had he gotten so close without you noticing? More importantly, what exactly did he mean by—?

"Although I must admit," he continued in that same arrogant purr, eyes raking over you lazily. "Judging by those lovesick puppy looks you keep tossing my way, it's clear even you've realized the little game we're playing here now."

A muscle twitched in your jaw and you straightened fully, squaring off against his proximity and heated gaze with defiance even as your heartbeat kicked up a notch.

"Game?" you echoed flatly. "What the hell are you on about now, Omi-kun?"

His nickname dripped with acid as you enunciated each syllable. Rather than react with his usual disdain or irritation, however, Sakusa simply smirked wider and leaned closer until you could practically taste his clean, minty scent with every inhalation.

"You know exactly what I mean," he murmured, all predatory heat and sinful promise as his gaze dipped lower. "This little dance of denial you've got yourself caught up in, trying to convince yourself you aren't hopelessly afflicted with the same inconvenient cravings for me that I've been—"

The rest of his whispered taunts dissolved into a startled grunt as you lunged forward mindlessly. Only vaguely aware of Atsumu's choked curses from behind you, you seized fistfuls of Sakusa's crisp button-down as he instinctively caught your hips to brace you flush against his powerful frame.

"You arrogant prick!" you hissed, glaring up into those hooded onyx eyes roiling with sheer masculine possession now. "What makes you think I'd ever crave—?!"

"Woah! Hey hey hey, break it up assholes! We're not doin' this here!"

Atsumu wedged himself between your bodies, glowering at you both as his hands connected with both your chests to shove you apart with surprising force. All at once, you became aware of just how tightly clenched in Sakusa's unbreakable grasp you'd been mere seconds ago, and a dizzying rush of heat flooded your senses.

"I swear to God, you two are gonna give me gray hair before I'm even 25 at this rate," your roommate groused, pinning Sakusa with an exasperated look. "Sakusa, kindly take a cold shower 'cause my poor roommate can't handle whatever filthy material you're whispering about again."

He then turned and took you by the shoulders, steering you bodily towards the front door even as you sputtered half-formed protests.

"And you!" Atsumu huffed without slowing. "You're goin' for a nice little walk around the block to cool off before you try jumpin' that constipated weirdo's bones or something, capiche?"

He bundled you swiftly out the front door with a none-too-gentle shove. You whirled back to him in outraged confusion, mind still whirling from the sheer hunger in Sakusa's fiery gaze you'd been drowning in just moments ago.

"Wait, what the hell, Tsumu?! I need to teach that arrogant jerk a—"

"Tsk tsk," Atsumu chided, that severe expression melting into one of fond exasperation as he shook his head. "I gotta keep you two horndogs separated until you actually deal with all that pent up tension properly. I ain't dealing' with a screwin' match on my livin' room floor."

You felt your jaw drop at his blunt words and transparent implication. He sighed heavily at the look on your face and placed his hands on his hips.

"Look, not that I don't enjoy watchin' you guys torment each other until one of ya literally jumps the other out of sheer desperation," your roommate continued, "but there's a time and a place for that kinda stuff, ya know?"

He arched one eyebrow at you pointedly and you felt the heat in your cheeks rising once more under his exasperated scrutiny. Of course because no matter how you tried denying the reality of what just happened, or the nights spent fantasizing feverishly, Atsumu could see right through you—

"Like Bokuto's birthday in a couple days?" he supplied, jarring you from your whirling thoughts. "Surely you dolts can keep it in your pants and behave for that, yeah?"

Oh. Right. The event you'd been simultaneously dreading and looking forward to ever since the invites went out. Bokuto's annual raging party guaranteed to be a complete shitshow on top of all the usual chaos of his social gatherings. With you and Sakusa's rising friction now exacerbated by Atsumu openly confronting you...yeah, things were likely to implode.

"Tch, be a little easier if your weird ass friend would stop intentionally trying to goad me into destroying him in public," you shot back defensively.

Atsumu sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly before fixing you with a long look.

"Just...try to chill for a bit, alright? Cool off, think long and hard about whether you want to actually pursue where Omi-kun's leadin' things now. And if you do decide to go there, for the love of God, do NOT spring it on him publicly at Bokkun's—"

The sudden wail of a cell phone cut your roommate off and he grunted, digging into his pocket to scowl at the screen. He shot you one more look before swiping to answer the call.

"Yeah, yeah I'm on my way," he griped, turning to head back inside. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Omi-kun hasn't killed my idiot roommate...yet."

You watched as he slipped back inside, leaving you standing alone on the sidewalk to gather your scattered thoughts. Frustration and residual heat still swirled through your veins, fanned anew by Sakusa's unsubtle taunts and the scorching image of his intense gaze. But underneath it all, Atsumu's knowing words and sly insinuations stoked fresh questions you weren't sure you were ready to examine properly.

Did you really want to give in and embrace this undeniable tension instead of battling it any longer? And if so, what would that mean—especially with the chaos of Bokuto's bash on the horizon?

You groaned and raked your hands through your hair, already dreading whatever fresh hell awaited you with that upcoming powder keg just waiting to explode. Either way, you sensed this little game between you and Sakusa was about to reach a fever pitch you could no longer run or hide from.

The music thumped through the car like a physical force as Atsumu pulled up to the curb outside Bokuto's place. You eyed the clusters of people spilling in and out of the front door apprehensively, the bassline vibrating through the soles of your shoes even from this distance.

"Looks like the party's already in full swing," you remarked, twisting in your seat to shoot Atsumu a sidelong look. "Think Bokkun will even notice when we roll up fashionably late or what?"

Your roommate scoffed and killed the engine, slinging one arm over the back of your seat as he turned to face you properly. His gaze was unusually severe, golden eyes narrowed beneath that swoop of blond bangs.

"Listen up, beautiful," Atsumu began without preamble, leaning closer. "I'm only gonna say this once before we get inside and all hell inevitably breaks loose."

You swallowed thickly despite yourself, feeling heat prickle along the back of your neck under his intense stare. Atsumu rarely took on such a no-nonsense demeanor in casual settings, and his solemnity made your stomach twist anxiously for reasons you couldn't quite place.

"You and Omi-kun have been dancin' around this..." He waved a hand vaguely, "this unresolved thing goin' on for way too damn long now, ya hear? All the flirtin' and teasin' has reached a boilin' point."

Your heart began thudding painfully in your chest as Atsumu pinned you with an inscrutable look. He knew. Of course he knew how badly you'd been craving release from these simmering tensions with Sakusa - especially after last week’s explosive confrontation and subsequent...personal reflections.

"So I need ya to promise me," your roommate continued, voice pitched low and gaze unwavering. "Whatever happens between you two crazy idiots tonight - and ya know as well as I do that somethin' is gonna give - just...try to keep it under wraps around the others, alright?"

Heat flooded your cheeks as indignant protestations bubbled up instinctively. But before you could release the torrent, Atsumu held up a hand to silence you.

"I ain't judgin' or anythin'," he stressed with surprising gentleness. "I just...ya know how batshit Bokuto's parties get. Wouldn't want you two finally lettin' off steam to end in a situation that can't be easily, uh...rectified later."

He arched one eyebrow meaningfully and your mouth snapped shut with a sharp click. Because really, what could you even say to refute his point? Between your rising provocations and Sakusa's indisputably unresolved attraction, there was only so much holding back either of you could sustain before fracturing entirely.

Letting out a heavy exhale, you reached for the door handle and pushed it open. You paused and glanced back at Atsumu over your shoulder, offering a tight nod of acknowledgment.

"Don't worry," you rasped out after a beat of weighted silence. "I'll...try to keep things low-key as possible."

The corner of Atsumu's mouth kicked up in a wry smirk at your careful non-answer. He shook his head wryly but waved you off with a theatrical flourish.

"Good enough for me. Now let's go get shitfaced and hope for the best, yeah?"

You couldn't help but snort at his return to his typical snarky cadence, the anxious knot in your gut loosening fractionally. Sliding from the car, you were immediately swept up in the roar of Bokuto's raging party as whoops and laughter echoed around you.

It was easy to get caught up in the madness at first - bodies pressed close together as you jostled your way inside. Random acquaintances and half-remembered faces called out greetings and raised glasses in drunken salutes as you passed. By the time the writhing knot of people finally parted, you were face-to-face with none other than the man himself.

"[Y/N]-CHAN!" Bokuto bellowed directly into your ear, big arms sweeping you up in a vice-like bear hug. "You made it! I was beginning to think you got lost on the way!"

A startled laugh bubbled up as you fiercely returned the embrace, familiar affection swelling at Bokuto's typical enthusiasm. Before you knew it, he was dragging you further into the melee with an iron grip around your shoulders as he called greetings to every acquaintance in range.

Familiar faces and conversations swirled around you in a headier rush than even the drinks being pressed into your hands could account for. You laughed and joked and danced, losing yourself in each friend's anecdotes or salacious gossip offered up for entertainment.

But no matter how raucous the music grew or how many distractions presented themselves, a tiny sliver of hyper-awareness lingered in the back of your mind - always tracking the nearby crush of bodies for a particular head of artfully mussed curls and a towering, brooding presence that could command any room with scant effort.

You knew Sakusa was here somewhere, likely tucked away in a quieter corner with Atsumu and the other teammates they still tolderated regularly. And though you continually told yourself to relax and simply enjoy the party without complications tonight, that same insatiable itch that tormented you constantly in his presence prickled stronger with every passing minute he went unseen.

It didn't help that flashes of last night's lurid imaginings and lingering heat kept resurfacing unbidden behind your eyes. Your wandering gaze sought Sakusa out almost instinctively, half dreading and half yearning to feel that heavy stare sear over your skin from across the room soon.

So attuned were you to this frenzied frequency, that when a familiar lithe figure finally broke through the human current nearby, you keyed in on his presence immediately. You froze mid-laugh, mouth parting around a startled exhale as your eyes drank in the sight with ravenous hunger.

There he was, striding through the crowds with his usual self-assured grace. A fresh cocktail dangled from his fingers with leonine disregard, eyes hooded and lips twisted in that same arrogant curl that always made your insides flutter deliciously.

Without conscious thought, you found yourself breaking away from your drunken companions and weaving a path right towards him through the masses. Sakusa's gaze, keen as ever even in chaos, snagged on yours instantly - twin sparks of heat and challenge igniting in their depths as your locked stares collided.

Some magnetic, unstoppable force drew you both together like filings to a lodestone. You didn't even realize how rapidly you'd closed the distance until Sakusa loomed directly over you, an immovable mountain of dark intensity radiating dizzying auras of poise and primal power.

"Well, if it isn't the neighborhood pest come to harass me yet again," he drawled in that razor-edged purr still tinged with amusement. "Color me surprised."

You stared up at him defiantly, chin tilted and jaw set even as your heart ratcheted higher in tempo. He was doing it again - pushing and needling like always with those arrogant words that got your blood boiling every single time.

"If by harass you mean have the good fortune of running into your pretentious ass at a party, then guilty as charged," you shot back, tone dripping with acid. "But don't give yourself too much credit, Omi-kun."

Rather than look affronted or irritated, however, Sakusa's eyes simply danced with dark mirth. He cocked one hip and lifted his glass in a sarcastic toast, leaning just close enough for his cologne to tickle your senses with sudden intensity.

"My, my. Such sharp wit as always, pet," he practically purred. "Although if memory serves, you were the one utterly tongue-tied and fawning over me this time last week."

Heat flooded your cheeks as vivid recollections of your late-night reverie starring Sakusa threatened to unhinge you completely. He knew. Of course he knew exactly what he was doing, pushing you until you snapped again like that morning.

Before you could collect the necessary vitriol to spit back, however, a drunken partygoer collided with your elbow from behind in their haphazard dancing. You startled and stumbled forward, the precarious contents of Sakusa's glass directly in your trajectory as you flailed.

It seemed to happen in slow motion - your forehead connecting with his chest in a blunt collision, his tumbler upending with a splash of amber liquid that sprayed across his crisp button-down in rivulets. You froze in open-mouthed shock as the soaked fabric clung revealingly to Sakusa's sculpted form, droplets slowly trailing beneath the waistband of his pants as the heady tang of spirits cut through the crowd's musk.

"W-Woah," you stammered instinctively, coming back to yourself in a sloppy rush. "Omi-kun, shit I'm so sorr—"

"So what else is new?" he cut you off with a sneer of clear disdain, raking a dismissive glance over the mess you'd caused before his inscrutable gaze snapped to you once more. "I swear it's like you were born without functioning motor skills or brain cells sometimes."

Your jaw clicked shut with an audible snap, renewed heat flooding your face that had nothing to do with earlier embarrassment. No, Sakusa had ignited the familiar, smoldering embers of belligerent fury you always felt in his presence with those contemptuous barbs.

Before Atsumu's stern words of warning could even register in your whirling thoughts, your lips curled in an acid simper as you tipped your chin up further to meet the onyx storm roiling in Sakusa's heavy-lidded eyes.

"Don't worry your pretty little head, Omi-kun," you growled in a biting coo meant to get directly under his skin. "I'll make sure to replace your precious drink immediately since I know you need it to wash down that enormous stick shoved up your—"

"Woah hey!" Atsumu's panicked voice cut through the music abruptly, hand clamping around your elbow in an iron grip as he wedged himself between your snarling forms. "Easy there, kiddos. I think we could all use a refresher, yeah?"

He leveled you both with the same imploring, strained expression that just begged you to back down before things escalated any further. On your other side, Sakusa's free hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist as you glowered at each other over Atsumu's shoulder in a heated stand-off.

This wasn't over, your screaming instincts howled even as your roommate inserted himself as a buffer once more. Not by a long shot. Not when you tasted rapturous victory over Sakusa's insolent slights so close you could practically inhale it already.

Without warning, you plastered on a tight, saccharine smile and stepped back from Sakusa's bristling frame - offering an exaggerated shrug for Atsumu's benefit.

"You know what? You're absolutely right, Tsum-Tsum," you cooed without breaking eye contact with Sakusa's intense glare still boring into you. "We could all use a fresh round right about now. One sec and I'll get my friend Omi-kun's sorted out pronto!"

You winked at Sakusa then, all bared teeth and challenge as you pivoted on your heel towards the makeshift bar stations. This had stopped being about keeping things under wraps or sticking to protocols long ago. Because after that last scorching slight to your pride?

Sakusa Kiyoomi had once again set the bar for mutual destruction in motion entirely. And you had absolutely no qualms about leaning into each gloriously unholy crest and fall anymore - all under his smoldering scrutiny and gleeful provocation at long last.

The bartender passed your order across the sticky countertop and you snatched it up before whirling on your heel to head back towards the writhing dance floor. A triumphant grin split your features as you surveyed the crowds for that artfully tousled mane of dark curls, mind already whirring with plans for payback.

Sure, leaving Sakusa stewing in his own self-righteous agitation was immensely satisfying on a petty level. But where was the fun in simply walking away after he'd goaded you with those scorching taunts of his yet again? Especially when you already knew exactly which buttons to mash to send the usually stoic spiker into a spiral of indignant fury.

By the time you located his towering silhouette still flanking Atsumu in a quieter corner, the twisted smirk was plastered across your face - brimming with perverse delight at the prospect of sparking whatever delicious meltdown awaited. You wasted no time slipping through the press of partygoers until you stood directly before his chiseled form once more, drink outstretched with an air of saccharine innocence.

"There you are, Omi-kun!" You called sweetly over the pulsing music, watching those hawkish eyes zone in on you with a mixture of wariness and brooding intensity. "I went ahead and got you a new cocktail since you seemed so devastated over losing the last one."

"Tch...like I need favors from a clumsy, ill-mannered cretin such as yourself," he growled out flatly. But despite his venomous tone, Sakusa's gaze tracked the tumbler with poorly concealed interest betraying his parched thirst.

You pouted exaggeratedly, swaying your hips in a movement you knew would draw his lecherous study whether he admitted it or not. Sure enough, his dark eyes sharpened infinitesimally before flicking back up to meet your taunting smirk.

"Aww don't be like that now!" You scolded in a rich coo brimming with challenge. "It's a peace offering from me to you, Omi-kun. I even put a little...extra somethin' in there special!"

Sakusa's brow furrowed at the clear invitation behind your words, lips parting as he drew a sharp inhalation. Atsumu was wise enough to extricate himself from the brewing confrontation and move to join a cluster of rowdy teammates, leaving you and Sakusa alone at last.

"The hell are you blatherin' about now, pest?" Sakusa rasped at length, eyeing the proffered drink with unconcealed suspicion and a hint of intrigue. "Did you spit in it or something to try continuing your vile routine?"

Rather than deflate or offer denials, however, you felt a fresh thrill careen down your spine at the unspoken challenge hanging between your bodies. Yes, of course he'd deduced what fresh torment awaited behind the gesture - he knew you far too intimately by now for it to go unnoticed.

"Well," you began in a sultry murmur, tongue darting out to wet your lips theatrically. "Why don't you take a nice, big sip and find out for yourself, Omi-Omi? I was simply trying to be...considerate for once."

You stepped closer, breaching his personal space until the weight of your shared heat charged the scant distance into an electrified field. Sakusa eyed you for a long, tense heartbeat through lowered lashes stained in blatant consideration. Then, with agonizing leisure, he plucked the glass from your fingertips and swiped his tongue over the rim in a filthy glide - never once dropping your stare.

Your breath stalled out completely at the brazen gesture, heat blooming low in your abdomen at the sinful promise laced through every unhurried motion. Sakusa tipped the glass back and drained the liquor in two deep pulls, throat undulating with each swallow as you keened silently from between parted lips.

Only when the final drops vanished past his swollen mouth did he finally lower the empty tumbler and inhale a shuddering breath. And rather than erupting into disgusted fury like you'd expected, Sakusa remained unnervingly composed - eyes half-mast but gleaming with something darker and more ravenous than mere irritation as he regarded you.

"Well?" You managed to rasp out after several charged beats. "I'm sure it tastes exactly how you expected, doesn't it?"

Sakusa remained perfectly still, coiled and predatory as those piercing eyes drank in every subtle shift and hitch of your chest in rising anticipation. Despite all your childish antics and provocations leading to this point, some instinctive part of you found yourself inexplicably pinned by his unwavering intensity.

Then, before you could summon up another petulant rejoinder, Sakusa surged forward with the speed of a coiled serpent - powerful hands snarling in the fabric of your dress until you were hauled flush against his unyielding frame. The breath punched from your lungs in a ragged gasp, body igniting in a conflagration that seared straight through to your tingling extremities.

"You twisted little gremlin," he growled out low and wrecked in a way that made your knees liquify. "Did you honestly think poking this particular bear was wise when you've been skating on such thin ice with me already?"

You opened your mouth to fire off another heated retort, determined not to let Sakusa gain any more ground with that smoldering stare alone. But before the words could rip free, he tugged you forward with bruising force - chest colliding against yours as your startled gasp muffled against the searing brand of his mouth crashing over yours hungrily.

Despite the rough handling, you found yourself melting against Sakusa's unforgiving frame as his tongue lashed past your lips in a scorching glide. An embarrassing whine punched from your throat at the first velvet sweep claiming you fully without preamble. Any lingering pretense of calm detachment shattered as your hands shakily fisted in the front of his ruined dress shirt.

Rather than shrink beneath his ravenous onslaught, however, you instinctively pushed back - all teeth and nails as you savagely nipped at Sakusa's pillowed mouth in furious retaliation. He growled in clear approval, hips canting to grind his swelling arousal against your pelvis in a blistering promise of consequences to come for your impetuousness.

"Always. So. Damned. Difficult," Sakusa bit out in a wrecked rasp against your slick lips between each punishing reclamation of your mouth, large hands bracketing your shoulders to keep you pinned in place.

You keened breathlessly at the rough vitriol still laced through his gravelly timbre, nails scoring down the sculpted ridges of his back in open challenge. Sakusa shuddered against your provocation, enormous palms dropping to seize twin handfuls of your ass and haul you flush against his writhing form with a harsh groan.

"R-Rich coming from you, bastard," you managed to gasp out before his mouth was on yours again in merciless possession, tongue sweeping between your parted lips on a searing glide.

Coherent thoughts became an impossibility as the two of you grappled for dominance through the molten exchange - all snarling clashes of teeth and desperate whimpers punctuating each greedy inhale for more. Desire throbbed through your veins in concussive waves, rapidly whiting out every fleeting impulse beyond surrendering into the delirious rapture of Sakusa's lithe power sheathed over your quivering curves.

You bucked against the rigid plane of his abdomen shamelessly, palms cupping the sharp cut of his jaw with feverish ardor to keep his mouth sealed over yours without pause. Sakusa growled low in the back of his throat, the rumbling vibration cascading across your melding nerve endings in further waves of unbridled longing. You writhed against him, already dampening through the lacy barrier of your panties with the scorching promise of how relentlessly he would claim you fully when the time came.

Despite your best efforts to give as good as you got, it rapidly became clear Sakusa remained undaunted - subjugating your thrashing form against his with single-minded intensity. Before you realized what was happening, deft fingers were already trailing beneath the hem of your dress, gliding up the slick skin of your inner thigh—

"Oi! What the absolute fuck is going on over here?!"

The bewildered shout lanced through the haze of your heated tussle with Sakusa, his tongue still tangled with yours in a filthy glide. You startled apart at the familiar rasp of Atsumu's voice cutting through the thrum of music and chatter.

"Seriously, you horny bastards?" Your roommate's tone dripped with a mixture of exasperation and dark amusement as he folded his arms, surveying your rumpled states. "Couldn't keep it in your pants for one goddamn night, huh?"

"Piss off, Miya," Sakusa growled, glaring at Atsumu through hooded lids still glazed with naked hunger. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips possessively as you panted against his rigid frame.

Rather than looking remotely contrite, Atsumu simply arched one brow higher. "Don't give me that look, Omi-kun. The last thing we need tonight is Bokkun catching you two in the middle of..." He waved a hand vaguely at your entangled bodies, lips twisting wryly. "...whatever the fuck twisted shit this was inevitably spiraling into."

"And why the hell would Bokuto have any say over what I choose to do?" Sakusa practically purred, the low rasp making you shiver against him instinctively. "Unless you're implying we require supervision now like misbehaving children, Miya?"

Atsumu's eyes glinted with a flash of something harder for a beat. "Cut the attitude, asshole. You know damn well I'm just tryin' to keep your dumb ass out of hot water here." His pointed stare flickered over to you briefly, naked concern warring with exasperation in his expression. "Both of you."

You bit your lip, flushing slightly at the undeniable truth in his words. For all his bravado, Sakusa would hardly thank you for being the catalyst to potential fallout with Bokuto. Especially not over something as stupidly petty as whatever messed up courtship ritual had been unfolding between you until Atsumu intervened.

"He has a point," you rasped out at last. Sakusa cut you a sidelong glare, clearly put out by your backing down even fractionally. You met his heavy-lidded stare steadily, lifting your chin in silent challenge. "We could just...go somewhere more private instead?"

The air fairly sizzled with charged tension as your suggestion hung between your tangled bodies. Atsumu looked vaguely nauseous by the implication, shaking his head slowly as if to dislodge the mental images no doubt flooding his brain. Sakusa, on the other hand, simply stared down at you hungrily - chin dipping in an infinitesimal nod that made your belly swoop.

"A sensible suggestion for once," he murmured, blatantly ignoring Atsumu's derisive snort beside you. "I'm sure there are plenty of places we could...relocate to and get better acquainted, hmm?"

Without warning, he looped one arm around your waist and hauled you flush against his chiseled torso - the other hand coming up to cup the back of your head as he dipped towards your parted lips with dark intent. You inhaled sharply at his bold manhandling, arousal spiking as his tongue swept inside to taste you with possessive fervor. Your palms came up to brace against the firm plains of his chest on instinct, nails raking across the muscled expanse in retaliation.

"Woah-! Easy there, big guy," Atsumu cut in dryly, though his reproach sounded distinctly lacking in any real heat. "You're gonna scar me for life with the visual of you sucking face with Roomie here."

"Mmm...jealous, Miya?" Sakusa rumbled against your swollen mouth, drawing back just enough for the words to rasp across your sensitized lips. "Should I have [Y/N] bend over the nearest flat surface to help you work through whatever repressed issues you're still wrestling with?"

You flushed hotly at his lascivious suggestion, torn between scandalised outrage and a fresh wave of reckless arousal pooling in your core at the mental images his words conjured. Atsumu, however, looked utterly unmoved by the jibe - simply rolling his eyes at his teammate with exaggerated weariness.

"Uh, no thanks," he shot back, emphasising the refusal with a sarcastic pat to Sakusa's shoulder. "I'll sit this particular freak show out. Just do me and the rest of us poor, innocent bystanders a favour - use protection so we don't gotta deal with little Omi juniors runnin' around terrorising the rest of us in nine months, yeah?"

Sakusa regarded him in stony silence for a beat as you gaped between them, flabbergasted by the crude exchange. Then, without ceremony, he bent and hoisted you clean off your feet into his arms as he straightened. You squeaked in surprise, instinctively looping your arms around the broad span of his shoulders as he adjusted his grip beneath the curve of your ass.

"Hey!" You protested as he began striding away purposefully through the throngs of bodies, your thighs bracketing his narrow hips with dizzying intimacy. "What are you doing, asshole?! Put me down already!"

"Quiet, pest," Sakusa growled down at you without breaking stride, his baritone laced with dark promise that made you shiver. "Unless you'd prefer to put on another show for our dear teammate to get his kicks from?"

You snapped your mouth shut, leveling him with a defiant glare he simply returned with an arrogant smirk - entirely unrepentant in your damsel-in-distress position cradled against his granite frame. He turned to toss a parting shot over his shoulder at Atsumu, tone almost idle despite the tension radiating off him in sizzling waves.

"Oh and Miya? Do keep those wise words of caution in mind when you're inevitably imagining the different 'uses' I'm about to put your little Roomie through in the very near future..."

Before Atsumu could formulate a response, Sakusa had already spirited you away into a secluded room away from the raucous main party. The moment you were out of view, he promptly locked the door, hiked you higher and pinned you back against the wall - weight settling snugly between your parted thighs as your harsh pants mingled between your fevered frames.

Any pretense of deference imploded as his mouth crashed over yours in a filthy reunion, tongue lashing inside to taste you thoroughly with muffled groans of relief resonating from his chest. You clung to him helplessly as the uncompromising waltz of his hips undulated into yours over and over - determined to claim and conquer until not a single inch of territory remained for denial between your writhing forms.

"K-Kiyoomi..." you whimpered against his pillowed mouth when he finally drew back enough to catch your breath. To your mortification the sound emerged high and needy, lashes fluttering with naked want you couldn't quite smother even if you'd wanted to.

Far from sounding smug or victorious, however, Sakusa merely raked you with a weighty stare hot enough to sear you straight through to your very marrow. "No more posturing or pretending or fighting it, [Y/N]," he rasped in that sandpaper growl, flexing his hips in an unhurried grind that had your head thumping back against the plaster. "The dam's been breached past the point of no return now, don't you see?"

You swallowed thickly at the heated vow glittering in those depthless obsidian depths, insides liquefying beneath his potent stare alone. In that suspended heartbeat everything crystallized with blinding certainty—that you were both scrambling at the precipice of no return, with any attempts at clawing your way back into the comfortable ambiguities of before inevitably doomed to collapse in failure.

Sakusa braced his forearm alongside your head, face dipping to sear your parted lips with a fresh clash of bruising possession as you melted against him helplessly. One indomitable palm slid beneath your dress to rake searing lines across your inner thigh with unapologetic worship, rasping a promise of much greater indecencies yet to come against your fevered skin.

"No more taunts or masks or holding back," he growled as your kisses spiraled into delirious re-initiation once more. "Tonight I make you fucking mine at last, pet..."

Sakusa disregarded you abruptly, mouth crashing over yours in a filthy kiss that tasted of possession and dark promises. His tongue lashed inside with unapologetic fervor, stoking the scorching embers of lust already lapping at your senses.

You clung to his powerful frame helplessly, whimpering into the sinful waltz of his mouth claiming you thoroughly. Sakusa's hips surged forward in a calculated grind, pinning you flush against the wall as every nerve ending in your body sang with naked yearning.

"Fuck...Kiyoomi," you managed to gasp out when he finally allowed you a desperate inhale, fingers tangling in the soft curls at his nape demandingly. Far from sounding meek or cowed, your tone dripped with pure challenge - stoking the simmering flames higher. "What are you waiting for?"

His lips curved into a predatory smirk against yours, eyes glittering with roguish heat. You panted together in hazy intimacy as Sakusa leaned in until your noses brushed with blistering promise.

"Always so impatient and insatiable, aren't you pet?" He rumbled, sending shockwaves of depraved lust ricocheting through your very marrow. "Miya gave you that wise little warning about wrapping my cock up nice and tight before letting me go to town on that greedy little cunt of yours..."

His hand shot out to fist in your hair, yanking your head back to bare the stuttering pulse at your throat to his searing scrutiny. You whimpered high and needy at the rough handling, arousal spiking as he dropped open-mouthed kisses along the fevered column.

"But you want me buried in that tight, dripping heat raw and throbbing, don't you?" Sakusa growled against your racing pulse, tongue laving over the tender hollow between your collarbones. "Want to feel every brutal inch stretching you open on my cock with nothing between us, don't you slut?"

"You arrogant prick," you bit out through gritted teeth, nails raking over his shoulders furiously despite the fresh gush of slick tingeing your underwear at his crude words. "Don't act so high and mighty like it isn't exactly what you're desperate to feel too, asshole!"

He groaned in clear approval, licking a searing path up the line of your throat to capture your mouth again in a bruising clash. You gave as good as you got, all teeth and venom - furious lust spiraling ever higher.

When Sakusa finally broke away, you were both panting harshly. He leaned his forehead against yours with a snarl, flexing those powerful hips in a slow grind that had you seeing stars.

"That's right, baby girl..." he rasped with dark satisfaction. "Keep running that pretty little mouth while you still can. Because once my cock is hilted so deep inside you that you're choking on it, the only sounds coming out will be pathetic little whimpers begging me not to stop ruining you."

You keened at the promise blazing in his gaze, hips bucking shamelessly against his rigid bulge. But you refused to be cowed, dragging your nails down his chest with enough force to sting deliciously.

"You're all talk, asshole," you spat with naked defiance, upper lip curling. "We both know you're too jealous of Tsumu and me to really commit to fucking me properly anyway."

Sakusa stilled instantly, a dangerous calm settling over his frame in warning. You smirked up at him triumphantly until his jaw flexed and he dipped to graze your lips with his own in a deceptively tender brush.

"Baby, that poor excuse for a line wasn't even worth a half-assed attempt at riling me up," he murmured with an intimacy that clashed with the simmering venom in his tone. "We both know there's not a single part of Miya that's ever piqued my jealousy or interest at all."

You opened your mouth to retort but Sakusa abruptly rocked his hips forward, grinding his scorching hardness against your molten core with punishing friction. Your protest dissolved into a broken moan, head thumping back against the wall.

"No...the only thoughts keeping me green with envy?" Sakusa husked directly in your ear, undulating in a tantalizing rhythm as one hand slipped under your dress to palm your dripping heat. "Are how many chances Miya's had over the years to bury his face between those pretty thighs and drink you down until you're ruined...opportunites I've only dreamed of indulging in."

Your breath hitched as he dragged his palm up to thumb over the slick lace covering your pulsing clit teasingly. Arousal crashed over you in sweltering waves, clawing and slick at the crude reminder of just how excruciatingly long Sakusa must have burned with repressed lust for you both.

"So believe me, sweetheart..." he growled softly, sealing his mouth over yours again to plunder you thoroughly with dark intent. "Once that needy little cunt is finally wrapped around my cock with nothing holding us back?"

Sakusa thrust his tongue into the velvet cavern of your mouth until you were delirious, pliant putty in his unforgiving embrace. Nipping at your lips for emphasis, he sealed the wicked promise with a lick of searing venom:

"The last fucking thing on my mind will be caring about where Miya's thoughts happen to wander during the main event..."

One hand buried itself in his inky curls, tugging sharply until his hooded eyes locked onto yours with a fresh spark of challenge smoldering in their depths. Rather than rise to your predictable goad, however, Sakusa's mouth curved into a sinful smirk that had your belly clenching with anticipation.

"My twisted little minx," he husked against the fevered hollow of your throat, stubble deliciously abrading your sensitized skin. "I fucking live to watch you crumble apart beneath my attentions over and over until that bravado bleeds away completely..."

He punctuated the filthy vow by grinding the insistent ridge of his cock against your cotton-clad heat in a blistering grind of friction that had you writhing for more. You threw back your head with a high, plaintive whine as your thighs instinctively cradled him closer—already molten and aching to be split apart on his thick length without further preamble.

"Oh? Is that slimy bravado I'm still detecting woven through your bluster too, Omi-omi?" You managed to pant out in a breathless coo once you'd regained a sliver of coherence. "Don't tell me the great Sakusa Kiyoomi is still clinging to the last pathetic shreds of feigned indifference over my pussy?"

At that, Sakusa let out a low, resonant growl from deep in his chest - a thrilling vibration that lanced straight to your neglected pussy with relentless intensity. Before you could so much as process what was happening, he had hoisted your other thigh over his narrow hip to bracket his waist completely, the scorching brand of his dick cradled snugly against your drenched heat through twin barriers of flimsy fabric.

"I'll give our mouthy friends a reason to keep their judgmental warnings about 'precautions' to themselves," Sakusa snarled with hot finality against the fragile curve of your jawline. His teeth found purchase along the sensitive span of tendon in an unhurried graze, forcing your head back as he rolled his hips in a tight grind that had you whimpering unabashedly. "Because make no mistake [Y/N]...the only thing I plan on claiming with total, reckless fucking abandon is that soaked little pussy gripping me so sweetly right now."

You keened shamelessly at the sheer, uncompromising lust dripping from each gravelly syllable - utterly unmanned beneath Sakusa's merciless onslaught of words and tongued promises against your electrified form.

"And once I'm buried inside you at last?" he continued in a hoarse snarl, punctuating the rhetorical question with a shallow thrust that dragged his scorching length against your neglected pearl deliriously. "I'm going to ruin you over and over until the entire damned party can hear just who you truly belong to loud and clear..."

Despite the dominant cadence flowing through every word like a malediction, you detected the faint fractures subtly wavering beneath Sakusa's arrogant mask of lascivious control. Little hitches in his breath and slight tremors rippling along his flexing frame as he seemed to surrender more mental footholds to the smoldering conflagration consuming you both inch by searing inch.

Perhaps Atsumu had sown enough seeds of doubt to prick at even Sakusa's unwavering certainty in whatever forbidden desires were now scorching unchecked between your entangled forms after all. A fragile tendril of awareness that you weren't the only simmering powder keg primed for rapturous detonation within this incendiary rendezvous at last...

You curled one hand around the nape of Sakusa's neck, delighting in the way his throat bobbed convulsively at the intimate caress even as his hooded stare tracked your every breath with ravenous captivation. Slowly, you feathered the other palm across the ridged vee of his abdomen - savoring the way each corded muscle spasmed beneath your teasing caress until your fingertips grazed the hard swell of his arousal straining obscenely against those sweat-dampened sweats.

"Mmm...bold words from someone so clearly struggling to keep their composure already," you murmured in a smoky taunt, tracing reverent lines around the swollen heat radiating off his turgid arousal. Sakusa's jaw twitched noticeably, hips rocking into your tormenting touch in minuscule thrusts he clearly couldn't stop himself from chasing despite the flinty mask attempting to remain impassive. "What's wrong, Omi-kun? Can't stand the thought of me calling your bluff and making good on that promise right here and now?"

He sucked in a sharp hiss when you palmed his erection boldly, thumb brushing the wet spot darkening the grey fabric. The muscles in his thighs visibly flexed, as though straining to resist the impulse to buck into your grasp with animalistic urgency.

"Fuck," Sakusa hissed through clenched teeth, hips canting into your ministrations without his volition. You could see the internal war raging within him as his pupils dilated further, nostrils flaring as he struggled to smother the urge to surrender to the depraved fantasies he'd clearly harbored for far too long.

But the moment Sakusa's dark stare flicked up to yours with renewed determination, you knew his ironclad willpower had won out. He surged forward to crush his mouth to yours, devouring your gasps of protest as his fingers found your swollen pearl through the slick lace of your underwear.

"Oh, my greedy little brat..." he purred, breaking away with a satisfied smirk at your whimper. Sakusa's fingers curled possessively into the elastic of your underwear, tugging them aside to brush his bare fingertips through your soaked folds. You jolted against him with a choked moan, hips stuttering against the teasing caress. "The only reason we're not fucking in that bed over there right this instant is because I'm going to take my sweet time breaking you down completely..."

Sakusa pressed the pad of his middle finger against your entrance, the faintest pressure that had you whining in frustration. He smirked at the obvious hunger flushing your face and chest, clearly enjoying the way your neediness spurred him on.

"Because I want you absolutely dripping by the time I slide that pretty little cock inside you..." he husked, nudging forward incrementally as his fingers curled around the hem of your dress. You trembled with need as his palms dragged up the backs of your thighs, thumbs digging into the tender crease where your legs joined your pelvis as he hiked the skirt up and bunched it at your hips.

"I want to see your mascara run down those flushed cheeks while I ruin you," Sakusa continued with a dark growl, fingers finding your clit to roll in tight circles that had you panting openly. You squirmed against him, unable to bite back the wanton moans rising in your throat as your head thumped against the wall. "I want your hair in tangles and your lips swollen and puffy, and for every inch of that perfect skin to be covered in bruises and my cum..."

He punctuated his filthy declaration with a sudden thrust, burying two fingers knuckle-deep inside you without warning.

"FUCK, Omi," you sobbed, thighs clenching around his narrow hips as he curled the digits inside you. The rough stretch was almost too much, your walls already fluttering helplessly around his intrusion. "Kiyoomi, please—"

"Such a dirty little mouth," he murmured in a voice laced with gravel, tongue swiping over his lips as though eager to sample the profanities spilling forth from yours. "Let's see how it fares once I've got you on your knees and my cock down your throat."

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream when Sakusa suddenly began pumping his fingers with slow, measured pumps. He smirked at your incoherence, the pad of his thumb grinding against your neglected clit mercilessly as the thick intrusion of his fingers speared deeper into your sopping channel.

"God, the way your greedy cunt is swallowing me up, pet..." he groaned, eyes fluttering closed briefly. Your walls contracted at the broken moan that ripped from his lips, a surge of wetness gushing down his fingers. "So fucking tight and wet for me, baby girl. Do you think anyone has ever filled you up as well as I do? Does Tsumu get this sloppy mess creaming around his cock?"

The lewd taunt should have enraged you - but all you could do was whimper at the raw, unfiltered need dripping from Sakusa's words as his pace quickened. Every filthy syllable had your pussy throbbing, aching to be filled until the burn eased.

"Fuck," he hissed, gaze raking over the way his fingers were disappearing between your trembling thighs with feverish hunger. "You're so wet and warm, sweetheart...just begging to be used. So why don't we give those greedy little holes what they really want?"

He punctuated his demand with a punishing thrust, crooking his fingers against the bundle of nerves that had you crying out. You clenched around his digits, a rush of wetness soaking your thighs and dripping down his knuckles as you neared the edge.

"You're so close, aren't you, darling?" Sakusa murmured, leaning forward to ghost his mouth over yours. He licked a searing path from your chin to the soft shell of your ear, sucking the delicate lobe into the hot cavern of his mouth.

"Yes," you moaned, fingers fisting in the damp fabric stretched across his shoulders. Sakusa growled at the sharp bite of pain, his tongue tracing the edge of your ear in a featherlight caress that had you shivering.

"Good," he purred, abruptly withdrawing his fingers from your clenching cunt. You cried out at the loss, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as you glared at him accusingly.

"Kiyoomi, if you don't finish what you started—"

"Shut up," he snapped, cutting you off mid-threat. Before you could so much as draw breath, Sakusa had hoisted you over his shoulder and was stalking towards the bed with purpose.

You yelped as he flung you down onto the mattress with little care, your head hanging off the edge of the mattress. But Sakusa didn't give you so much as a second to regain your bearings before he had dropped his sweats, letting them pool at his ankles before stepping closer.

You stared up at him with wide, hungry eyes, drinking in the sight of his thick, rigid shaft jutting proudly from a nest of neatly trimmed curls. You had no time to register anything else about the delectable specimen hovering mere inches from your face, however, before he was sliding a hand around his length and dragging the dripping tip along your cheekbone.

"Now..." Sakusa began in a dark, velvety murmur. You swallowed hard, trying and failing to ignore the way his cock jumped as your breath ghosted across the sensitive flesh. "Open wide, brat. Show me that your filthy mouth is good for something other than backtalk."

You opened your mouth to let a witty retort fly, but your eyes widened when Sakusa seized the opportunity to drive his hips forward, feeding the thick head past your parted lips with a hoarse grunt. You gagged slightly, hands flying to his thighs only for him to catch your wrists and pin them to the mattress on either side of your head.

"Hands off, slut," he commanded, rolling his hips shallowly. Your jaw went slack at the salty, tangy flavor of his arousal, a fresh wave of moisture gushing between your thighs. "Just lie there and look pretty while I use your throat, yeah?..."

You groaned low in your chest, a fresh rush of slick dripping from your folds at the filthy praise. Sakusa's grip tightened, holding you down as his hips snapped forward. His cock slid across your tongue, bumping the back of your throat and making your eyes water.

"Fuck, your mouth feels incredible," he moaned, withdrawing only to roll his hips forward again. His movements were slow, methodical, savoring each shallow thrust as you fought not to gag.

Your fingers flexed against his palms, nails digging into his skin in silent retaliation. Sakusa hissed softly, but didn't pull away. If anything, the slight sting of pain seemed to spur him on, hips beginning to thrust faster, balls resting snug against your nose.

You could feel him pulsing against your tongue, a steady rhythm that had your cunt clenching emptily. Each drag of his cock against your palate sent another jolt of arousal straight to your clit, the heady musk of his arousal flooding your senses and making your head spin.

Sakusa was panting above you, his movements becoming more erratic. You could feel him growing thicker against your tongue, the vein along the underside throbbing in time with his racing pulse.

"So good," he growled, fingers digging into your wrists almost painfully. You could feel him beginning to tense, the muscles in his thighs quivering as his movements became more urgent. "Such a good girl, taking my cock so well. But you can do better, can't you, sweetheart? Take it deep like a good little cock-slut."

You whined around him, the sound vibrating against his length. His hips stuttered, a strangled groan tearing from his lips. His pace quickened, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder, the tip of his cock sliding down your throat with each brutal thrust.

"That's it, just like that," he moaned, his words tumbling over themselves. He was close, you could feel it in the way his muscles tensed, the way his breathing grew more ragged, the way his thrusts became more erratic. The last push he needed was the sight of your throat bulging around his girth, each movement visible through the smooth column of skin.

"Holy—fuck," he gritted out, hips jerking forward one final time. You felt him pulse against your tongue, his cock twitching once, twice before he pulled out with a groan, thick ropes of cum painting your face in messy streaks.

You gasped, eyes flying open as his spend coated your lips and chin. He released your wrists to grasp his shaft, pumping the last few spurts of seed out onto the exposed curves of your tits and throat. You whimpered, arching into the hot spray as his cock continued to pulse, your walls fluttering in desperate need for him.

Sakusa panted heavily, his hooded stare drinking in the sight of your thoroughly debauched appearance as he wiped the head of his spent dick against your parted lips. You swiped your tongue out to catch the salty fluid smeared there, eliciting a low groan from the man looming above you.

"Such a good girl," he purred, tracing a line through the sticky mess painting your lips. You could feel the tension humming beneath his skin, his fingers flexing against your cheeks as his darkened eyes burned through your form. "And so goddamn beautiful like this, covered in my cum..."

Sakusa leaned down to capture your parted lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his release heavy on your tongue as he plunged his into the molten depths of your mouth. You groaned into the heated embrace, fingers curling around his forearms to cling to him desperately as your tongues swirled and tangled together.

But just as suddenly as he'd initiated the languid assault, Sakusa pulled away - leaving you dazed and gasping as he straightened. Your eyelids fluttered open to see him gazing down at you with hooded, lust-darkened eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his nostrils flaring and the sharp planes of his face drawn into an expression of carnal hunger.

"On your stomach," he ordered, voice thick with need. "Ass in the air."

You obeyed without hesitation, scrambling to roll over and lift your ass in the air. Sakusa gripped the bunched skirt of your dress and yanked it up to bare the slick curves of your ass, a soft hiss of satisfaction leaving him as he took in the sight.

"Fucking gorgeous," he rasped, his hands gliding up the backs of your thighs to knead the swell of your ass. You whimpered into the mattress, hips grinding back into his touch instinctively.

"Please, Omi," you moaned, your voice muffled against the duvet. You couldn't even care that you were begging, that you were practically mewling like a bitch in heat - you just needed him, needed to be fucked so badly that you could hardly think straight. "Need you inside me, need your cock filling me up."

Sakusa groaned, the sound a mixture of approval and impatience. He tugged your soaked panties aside and positioned himself at your dripping entrance, the head of his cock sliding between your embarrassingly wet folds.

"Is this what you want, pet?" he asked, rubbing his length through your folds teasingly. You shuddered, the sensation nearly sending you over the edge as the swollen head brushed against your clit.

"Yessss," you hissed, arching back against him. Sakusa chuckled darkly, one hand reaching around to grab a handful of your hair. He yanked your head back roughly, the bite of pain sending a fresh wave of desire crashing through your veins.

"Beg me," he ordered, the tip of his cock bumping your clit again. You choked out a moan, your entire body trembling as his hips rolled in slow circles, grinding the aching flesh against your throbbing nub. "Show me how bad you want it, baby."

You sobbed with need, the sound coming out somewhere between a plea and a curse. Your whole body was buzzing, your mind completely blank save for the need burning white-hot in the pit of your belly.

"I-I'm sorry," you moaned, barely able to recognize the needy, pleading tone that spilled from your lips. "Omi, please, I need you so bad. I'll do anything, just please fuck me!"

The last word came out as a scream as Sakusa suddenly surged forward, sheathing his cock to the hilt in a single thrust. You were already so close, the sudden fullness was all it took to send you over the edge, your pussy spasming around him as hot, searing liquid gushed around his girth.

"F-fuck," Sakusa groaned, his grip on your hair tightening. He didn't bother to wait for you to come down from your high, pulling out and slamming into you again with a low growl. "Such a needy little thing, coming on my cock before I even got started."

"Omi," you mewled, his name the only coherent word you could manage. The room spun as your head swam, the sensation of his thick cock splitting you open overwhelming every sense.

"Tell me who owns this pussy, princess," he snarled, fingers digging into the curve of your hip as he picked up the pace. Each punishing thrust had you keening, the angle allowing him to bury his girth to the hilt with each snap of his hips. "Whose cunt is this?"

"Yours," you gasped, back arching to grind back against him. You could feel his balls slapping against your clit, the delicious friction sending shivers down your spine. "Omi, I'm yours. Please, make me come again."

"Shit," he growled, his hold on you tightening. He began to fuck you in earnest, his strokes growing deeper and more frantic. The head of his cock slammed into the tender bundle of nerves, forcing you closer and closer to the edge. "So fucking perfect, taking my cock so well."

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, accompanied by the obscene squelch of your soaked folds. Sakusa was growling with each thrust, the guttural groans spilling from his lips urging you closer and closer to the breaking point.

"You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?" he gritted out, his movements becoming more erratic. His free hand reached around to circle your clit, middle and ring finger sliding up on either side of the swollen nub to squeeze in a firm pinch.

The added pressure was too much, and you screamed his name as you came apart beneath him. You convulsed around his girth, the waves of pleasure washing over you, drowning you. Your vision went white, and the only thing you were aware of was the same feeling of hot liquid gushing from your core.

Sakusa hissed as your walls contracted around him, the wet, sloppy sounds of his cock sliding into your dripping pussy sending him over the edge. He let go of your hair, his hands moving to grasp both your hips. He used the leverage to yank you back against him, slamming into you one last time as his own orgasm crashed over him.

"Fuuuck," he groaned, his fingers pressing bruises into your hips as his cock twitched, releasing the last of his load deep inside you. You could feel him pulsing against your inner walls, his release mingling with yours and filling you to the brim.

You collapsed bonelessly onto the bed, whimpering when his softening length slipped out of you. Sakusa groaned at the sight, his thumbs parting your cheeks to watch as a trickle of pearly liquid dripped from your swollen folds.

He gave a satisfied hum, a lazy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He slid his index and middle fingers up through the mess, pushing the slippery mixture back inside.

"That's a good girl," he crooned, pumping his digits lazily. He relished the way you writhed and clenched around him, the sight sending a shiver of satisfaction through him. "Keep all my cum inside that tight little pussy."

He pulled his fingers out with a soft pop, and you shuddered at the loss. You lay sprawled out across the mattress, panting heavily. Your limbs felt like jelly, and your core ached deliciously.

You were still floating somewhere in the clouds when Sakusa climbed up onto the bed behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight. He gently turned you onto your back, his dark gaze sweeping over your debauched form with an appreciative hum.

"You alright, princess?" he asked, the husky undertone of his voice sending a fresh rush of arousal straight to your core. But despite your lingering need, exhaustion was creeping in, weighing down your eyelids. "Ready for round two?"

You opened your mouth to reply, but all that came out was a tired, unintelligible moan. You blinked up at him, eyelids heavy and vision blurring. You heard him chuckle, and felt his fingers slide along your jaw, tilting your chin up so you were looking at him.

"I’m just kidding, sweetheart," he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips over yours. The gesture was surprisingly tender, a marked contrast to his previous treatment. "We’ll work on your horrible stamina some other time."

"Fuck off, Omi," you mumbled, trying and failing to muster a glare. Instead, you leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. "Just hold me."

You heard him laugh softly, the sound accompanied by the rustling of sheets. Sakusa wrapped an arm around your waist, tugging you into his chest and cradling you close. You nuzzled into him, sighing contentedly.

"Whatever you say, baby."

[starry-bi-sky]

DPXDC Idea: Mother of Monsters Dan(yal)

Specifically Fem!Dan because I made this in mind with my Fem Danyal Au bUT. The best part about Dan is that I get to play dress up with her, and Fem Dark Dany is gonna go by Layal (pronounced lae-el) because it means "the nights" and it sounds similar to Danyal, and I think she'd choose that name to mock Dany. ANYWAYS

Mother of Monsters Danyal. She may be evil but she's an Al Ghul at her core (even with vlad's soul merged with hers - however, considering that Layal looks and sounds like Dany, she considers that soul to be the more dominant one.) and loves animals. And she might be heartless, but she adores the monsters of the infinite realms.

Mother of Monsters Layal who hates everyone but utterly dotes and adores on every manner of beast she comes across. Stealing the eggs and infant young beasts of the Infinite Realms to raise as her own because she wanted them. Her own island full of monsters, a monstrous menagerie of her own. She steals most often from poachers or exotic pet keepers and other menageries -- the full grown beasties can keep their young.

And with every monster she raises, she can shapeshift their features onto herself, allowing her to change her shape from humanish to any matter of monster or hybrid creature. She calls herself their mother, and them her children. Her precious little babies, capable of incredible mass destruction and mayhem.

From little griffins the size of kittens, to stymphalian vulture chicks, and leviathan young hatching from eggs the size of her pinkie, to creatures native of the ghost zone that didn't even have names in the living realm. There really wasn't a limit to what or who she would take in and she didn't limit herself to any form of mythology. If they were beasts and they were unwanted, she wanted them. And as such, amassed her own mini army of "children" willing to listen to her any command.

Earth doesn't know what hit it when she attacks them.

There are many monstrous forms she could take on, the first one I've thought of is a combination of various serpentine/reptilian features. The body of a naga -- her lower half long and serpentine, her upper still human -- with spiked fins connecting from the bottom of her arms to her sides, ever seen Sinbad where Eris goes "you might have seen my likeness on the temple walls" and her arms do that fin thingy? Same concept. Her hands are webbed and taloned, perfect for slicing through the skin of the living, and her teeth are needle-sharp and shark like. Her hair can either be spiny and feathery-like like the spines of a lionfish, or frilled like a frilled-neck lizard. It's perfect for dealing and doting on her reptilian and amphibian-inclined darlings.

I'm more of a fan of aus where Dan is a sibling of Danny's rather than their kid, so Layal's redemption(..?? probation?) proceeds with her legally becoming Danyal's "twin" sister, who had been lost to the foster system before the Fentons adopted Dany, and was only recently reunited with her. The two of them look so alike that the lie is easy to take root and spread.

Layal is very indignant to the fact that she's now ten years in the past and has to restart her menagerie all over again. Do you know how much blood and sweat went into raising those children? How dare you separate them from their mummy. Although she'll admit she does miss their juvenile years, so she won't mind (too much) needing to raising them again. Dany is helping her retrieve all of them though, dammit.

long story short: epic the musical's "Scylla" has a CHOKEHOLD on me and this is the result of it

Unlike her Dan counterpart, Layal's voice is dancing and sirenic. It's purposely alluring and motherly, in order to lure people into a false sense of security until she feeds them to her "children." Echidna doesn't have shit on her. She almost seems friendly and reasonable, until you get too close and realize it was all an act and she drops it to metaphorically swallow you whole. She's like an anglerfish that way. She and Dany both sound like Scylla from Epic.

[delululand]

you are some kind of famous person and you've been asked to do a traveling show with enhypen. so you are going to european country for do content

since there were 7 people and all the rooms were for 2 people, you were offered to choose a member to live with by drawing lots. but of course they couldn't just put you and one other guy to live together, so it was decided to rent a two-room room for you and two member and put you together (a room for you and two guys in a separate one). it was a long argument and hundreds of games of rock-paper-scissors, but in the end you had to live with jay and sunoo. it was a good way because you were really good friends with sunoo, but jay…. all the guys looked at each other when he turned out to be the one you were going to live with. from the first time you met him it was a vibe going and even without filming the show it was obviously how much you liked each other, so behind your back guys were always teasing jay that he would spend the next week with his BiGgEsT cRaSh in the same hotel room, albeit different rooms

and it goes calm first days, during the day you all went to different places to film, ate delicious food in cafes and all that, in the evening you went back to your rooms and usually just relax

on the first day you sat together with all members having dinner and discussing the day, but you couldn't noticing HOW Jay was looking at you the whole time, trying to please you, making sure you always had food and exactly what you liked, he was so sweet

on the second day you had a long shoot and everyone was very tired, so you came back to the room like squeezed lemons. even though you had a two-room room, there was still one shower. when you returned, you literally fell exhausted on the bed, not even having the strength to go to the shower, so you kindly let sunoo go to the shower first. when you were lying in bed, Jay came out of his room, tired no less than you. he was also going to take a shower, so he asked if he could wait here and after your permission sat on the bed leaning on the pillows. you remember how you talked about something that happened in the day, but the next moment you wake up next to Jay in the morning, you're all in the same clothes that you went to bed yesterday and with full makeup on your face.... Jay's arms are wrapped around you from behind, holding you close, and his face is buried in the top of your head. trying to get out of his arms, you gently get up and go to the bathroom, on the way you meet sunoo, who has already woken up and giggling says good morning to you. you ask him about what happened yesterday, but he just replies, "I don't know, maybe I was in the shower a little longer than I was supposed to, but when I came out, you and Jay Hyun were already asleep on the bed, I tried to call you, but you didn't react, so I decided not to bother you". you were surprised how you could be so tired that you fell asleep without even washing off your makeup, but there was no time for these thoughts, since it was time to get ready for the filming

surprisingly, even after what happened, there wasn't much awkwardness between you and Jay. yes, it was a little embarrassing, but you were still comfortable with each other and the day was fun. in your room, in addition to a large bed, there was also a large TV, so you decided to watch the new released movie together. to be honest, it was Sunoo’s idea, but towards the end of the film, he lost interest and left to talk with a friend on the phone, leaving you and Jay alone. midnight, dimly lit and the uninteresting movie when you're lying next to Jay dressed in his sleeveless t-shirt and shorts... what kind of movie could be more interesting than this guy right now...? since the three people were lying on a double bed, you were pressed close to each other, but after sunoo left, he did not move a millimeter, continuing to be also close and indignant at the stupidity of the behavior of the main characters of the film

when the movie finally ended, there was silence in the room for a while, there was only muffled laughter and sunoo’s voice in the next room, you were still lying close just looking at each other, you saw how he periodically looked at your lips, you knew what it meant and it made you more nervous than ever. it was probably the stupidest decision in your life, but after a long time of eye contact, you only gave out "well, it seems it's time to go to sleep" Jay's eyes widened, he was surprised and confused, but did not dare to contradict you, so he just replied "mmm, yes, if you want...". at the same second you thought what a fool you were, but there was nothing to return, so you turned your back to him and covered yourself with a blanket so that he wouldn't see your embarrassed expression. Jay was confused by this situation, so he lay down with a big spoon to you and gradually put his hand to yours, hugging you from behind, but not snuggling too much for fear of causing discomfort. you wanted to fix the situation somehow, but you didn't know what to do at all, so you just stroked his hand lying next to him, wanting to show that it wasn't a rejection of his feelings or something like that

you pressed your back against his chest, wanting to be closer, you felt his breath on your neck, and your hips intuitively moved to his. snuggling up to him, you felt his bulge and you both realized that you realized what it was. he tried to move a little further away so as not to embarrass you, but this attempt was unsuccessful and looked like he was rubbing against you. you lay there for about 15 minutes, hoping that you could just fall asleep and tomorrow this situation would somehow be resolved, but you felt the warmth emanating from Jay’s body, felt his heavy breathing and how periodically he nervously swallowed. no one was going to sleep and it was obviously, but you asked, "are you sleeping?" turn on your back and look at him a little from below. he grinned saying "no? wasn't it you who wanted to go to bed?", you laughed pushing him in the chest "maybe I changed my mind," Jay grinned and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, why?" he asked, changing his position and practically hovering over you. that was the last straw, you moved your hand from his chest to his cheek and kissed him. jay picked up the kiss very quickly, his arms wrapped around your waist and pressed you closer to him, his tongue was already walking over your mouth when his hands were under your pajamas, and yours were taking off his t-shirt. the situation was heating up by the minute, but you still remembered about sunoo, who was literally behind the wall with excellent audibility…

p.s. thanks to one of my favorite writers here, @jaylaxies , thanks to whom I finally decided to publish this on my blog

[inbarfink]

Okay, the thing is that I’ve seen some people speculate about the Winter King’s backstory and past assuming, like, that he’s always kinda been Like That. Like, that this version of Simon Petrikov has always been an evil heartless bastard or at least just a little less caring and loving than Mainworld Simon and that’s what led him down the path of the Winter King. 

But speaking personally… I think this is a less compelling story as it relates to Simon’s character arc. I think it’s a lot more interesting if the Winter King was indeed ‘once just like’ Mainverse Simon.

That he used to be that selfless, dedicated and loving man - and he still managed to stoop this low. I mean, well, Simon seems to have come to the conclusion that this version of him was just ‘messed up’

and that was mostly part of a trend of him in these last two episodes just kinda going

You know, like, I don’t think that the lesson he should’ve learned from his adventures in Winterworld is just “wow, that one specific alternative version of me sure does suck!”. Farmworld, via its version of Finn, was a reminder for Simon of just how much of a traumatic experience the Curse of the Magic Crown is. Winterworld should’ve reminded him of the torment and indignity he was trapped in and how often he was a danger to himself and others 

And of the truly fucked-up and terrible things he was capable of doing due to that torment and desperation of the Curse.

The Winter King is like a Whole New Exciting Way for Simon to lose his identity due to the Magic Crown, preserving his mind and memory by destroying the love and dedication and care that the Magic Crown never quite managed to fully burn away - his actual ‘immutable essence’. And this doesn’t work if the Winter King was always just Intrinsically a significantly different and worse person than Mainworld Simon, y’know?

And remember, we know the Winter King was in full on Ice King mode when he ‘conquered the crown’ (AKA cast that terrible spell to condemn Princess Bubblegum to the same terrible fate he’s been suffering). 

And Mainverse Ice King was absolutely capable of trying to perform some fucked-up mind-altering spells of his own. 

The only thing is that he was never quite that successful.

The main thing I am still unsure of with my favored reading/interpretation of how Winterworld Simon became the Winter King is…. There’s like, two different mutually-exclusive readings of what happened after the Curse was cast on Peebles and Simon regained his lucidity that are both very appealing to me from a thematic perspective. And I’m really not sure which one I like best.

Because the real issue was never ‘would Ice King be willing to cast such a horrible immoral spell?’, especially as one could easily imagine that whatever lucidity would allow Ice King to understand how his Crown is harming him and devise such a complicated spell would not necessarily extend to enough lucidity to fully understand the consequences of his actions. The issue is Winterworld Simon Petrikov, having regained his clarity of mind, choosing to maintain this spell for a hundred years. There's a reason why that's the thing Mainverse Simon fixated on when he figured out what's going on.

My first thought (and that’s something I went into more detail in a previous post) was this: Ice King’s madness was never wholly separated from Simon’s personality. Like, yeah, it was the Crown’s Magic that drove him so Mad and Sad - but it was also the trauma of losing Betty and surviving through the Mushroom War and feeling forced to abandon his beloved Marceline. 

And that Madness was based on Simon’s psyche. Ice King’s loneliness and romantic obsession and Princess-nappings are all based on how much he loves and misses Betty

And now, Princess Bubblegum has been forced into a mirrored recreation of them. 

The Candy Queen isn’t suffering from just the Magic Crown’s madness in general - but specifically from how it was shaped by Simon’s heart. And since you can’t actually separate this manifestation of Ice King’s Madness from Simon’s love for Betty - the Winter King ridding himself of one also rid himself of the other. 

And since so much of Ice King’s Madness was interwoven into Simon’s psyche and especially his love and his kindness - throwing away all of this Madness into someone else also decimated these aspects of his personality. Princess Bubblegum already paid the ultimate price for Winterworld Simon’s sanity - but in a way he also paid a grave cost as well; becoming an unrecognizably different person he would previously find morally disgusting - even morso than Ice King.

Because the lines between Simon Petrikov and Ice King are always going to be a bit blurry and messy, and because Simon can’t probably live a life totally free of his Madness and Sadness but he’s gonna have to accept it for an actual mostly happy and sane life as someone who is recognizably Simon Petrikov. 

Buuuut… that still basically means that casting of that Curse just kinda irrevocably transformed him into a Heartless Bastard. And that’s maybe not as compelling as if this change from kind and dorky Simon Petrikov into Evil Brian David Gilbert was done of his own free will

Hundreds of years of the Magic Crown eating away at his sanity and memories couldn’t truly destroy Simon Petrikov’s ‘immutable essence’. He still missed Betty more than anything even as this longing was twisted into something horrible, and still loved Marceline like a daughter even if he didn’t understand it. The one thing that could truly destroy this love that is so core to Simon’s being is him choosing to become selfish and cruel and uncaring. 

And since he was in Full Ice King Mode when he cast the spell… I dunno if I can actually call it a fully-conscious act of cruelty. Deeply fucked up? Yes. But it’s hard to say how much Winterworld Ice King actually understood what he was doing. And while I think it’s much more emotionally compelling if the Winter King started from the same place as our beloved Mainworld Simon. The only difference can’t just be the pure luck that Mainworld Ice King was just never lucid or focused enough to successfully cast a spell that would transform him into an equally terrible person. 

For this angle to work, this decision to continue doing the bad thing has to come from a lucid Simon who is still kinda recognizably Simon and still chose to continue perpetuating the Curse Ice King cast on Princess Bubblegum.

This might seem unthinkable, especially considering how obviously disgusted Mainworld Simon was at the Winter King’s actions. But you have to consider just how much Winterworld Simon would be desperate to not be Ice King again, Mainworld Simon was once willing to die then live the rest of eternity as IK. The fact that he’s so willing to throw away his sanity again now is so worrying because it shows just how badly he’s being doing - because at first, Simon was fighting so badly to avoid diving back into this pit of madness. And that Spell must've seen like the only chance he was gonna get.

And, yes, Simon Petrikov is a character full of kindness and love and selflessness - but that never meant he was the sort of Cinnamon Roll incapable of ever hurting anymore and especially not when he’s desperate or lashing out. That’s kinda the fallacy Simon himself fell into when he had that total identity crisis in the second episode. He just couldn’t find a way to join his previous identity as the patient and fatherly man who took care of Marceline 

With the fact he made a little girl cry. 

But yes, both we the audience and Simon himself have to face the fact that despite possessing such strong fatherly instinct and a desire to help children - Simon can also lash out in his trauma in a very cruel manner that goes against all of his own values.

And by the end of the fourth episode, he was tempted to let himself die - even though that will also utterly destroy a whole universe of sapient beings living in his head. It was brief thanks to Fionna knocking some sense into him and obviously the Literal Suicidal Depression involved was also seriously clouding his judgement. But that is still Simon nearly dooming a whole realm of other people  because he was feeling absolutely desperate.

Not to mention him kidnapping someone and forcing him into a terrible experiment for the sake of trying to summon GOLBetty.

A desperate attempt to reconnect with his lost love (and in a way, a missing part of his identity as Betty Grof’s other half). Which I mean, yeah, ‘it’s just Choose Goose’, but also last time GOLB was summoned it nearly fucked up all of Ooo and the only thing GOLBetty could do about that is get herself as far away from Simon as she can. And now Simon is gonna try and summon his Eldritch GF again in the middle of a major population center.  

And of course, Winterworld Simon and Mainworld Simon are never going to be fully exactly the same person because ‘Simon Petrikov’ is not some immutable unchanging concept and we know that they’ve had different experiences. It was really so sweet to see Mainverse Simon pay forwards the kindness he’s gotten from his loved ones when he was stuck as the Ice King towards the Candy Queen

But it also reminded me that the Winter King himself never got that sort of kindness and grace in the first place. The Curse was cast one hundred years ago. Back then, Marceline was still avoiding him because she couldn’t stand to see what he had become, Finn and Jake were not his friends on account of neither of them being born yet and… they also directly or indirectly helped him get his entire rest circle of friends.

So Mainworld Simon emerged from an Ice King who was not absolutely free from misery and loneliness… but has also experienced happiness and friends both from people who just loved him for who he was at the moment 

And grace and kindness from those concerned for his condition and honestly doing their best to make sure he’s doing his best in his current state and trying to bring out whatever of Simon was left in him. 

While Winterworld Simon emerged from Ice King at his worst and his most miserable. 

And while the Winter King’s callousness about Betty would kinda always be a worrying testament to how much Simonness he has lost - it is extra disturbing for the viewers and Mainworld Simon because they have seen Betty sacrifice her entire being for his sake. That would just reinforce his own love and dedication to her in his mind… not always in the healthiest of ways.

But the Winter King has experienced nothing of that sort. He was not freed in a self-sacrifice fueled by love that literally defied time itself. Wintdrworld Simon only regained his lucidity because of a deeply fucked up and selfish action he has taken as the Ice King. And as far as he knew, that was his only choice except death or the eternal despair of being the Ice King.

And so maybe Winterworld Simon managed to convince himself that he can stay like this for just one day. Just one day of enjoying both lucidity and Magic and then he’s going to undo it because obviously he knows that it’s terrible what the Ice King did! I mean, yeah, Princess Bubblegum and the rest of the Candy Kingdom are suffering but they’re also going to suffer when the Ice King comes back so it’s really a lateral move for them. For just one day!

And then by the next day, Winterworld Simon finds one more excuse why he can wait until tomorrow to bring everything back to normal. And day by day it becomes just a little bit easier to justify perpetuating something so terrible. Day by day he gives up a little bit more of his morals and his selflessness and his love. Until he finally finds out that he just doesn’t care anymore about being a selfish heartless bastard.

The same way the Magic Crown took his sanity and identity gradually - he’s now so desperate to cling to them that he chose to tear away at what was once the core most parts of himself

Until he became just as unrecognizable.

Both of these ideas are really compelling to me but they’re also kinda opposite. Maybe there’s a way to balance them both in a way that preserves what makes them so interesting for Simon’s character in the first place??

[chloessapphicapothecary]

Ok, first off, I’d like to thank EVERYONE who showed their support for my first attempt at just showing my sapphic ramblings to the world. You are all amazing, and incredible, and just… means the world to me. 2024 has been a trying year, but also given me a lot of happy-firsts. :)

So, regardless, thank you for spending a few seconds reading my mini-obsessions. It means literally the world to me. (Both Earth AND Krypton. 💜☀️)

Oh, and while I’m here…. Maybe I could dust off another snippet. Now, for context, the two aren’t necessarily connected, they were both written for two separate issues *MY* ‘Cat’ has had in years past, each sparked inspiration.

That being said, this one would prolly take place before the first one, and yes, you’ll notice some similar beats to the first one… suppose I know my own tropes well… so, apologies if they are a bit too heavy-handed… but I am who I am. Lolz

Also? This one…. Might have a rumbling of a part 2, which would lead to the event teased near the end.

Regardless, enjoy! 🧡🤍🩷

“You Don’t Get to Talk to Her That Way…”

Kara knew better than to listen in, especially to this particular conversation, but between her sense of morbid curiosity, and overall feeling that she should know about this conversation too, Kara tuned her super-hearing to pick up the conversation happening inside Cat’s office, between her and her mother.

“Kitty, darling, how are you?” Katherine asked in her usual, high-brow way, even if the intent of the words was to be more of a knife in the back.

“Mother, what do you want?” The younger Grant asked, hand already massaging her left temple as she held her phone to her ear with her right, she could already feel the headache coming on.

“Wow, that harsh even for you, Kitty.” Katherine all but tisked, that tone making Cat’s blood boil internally as she tried to keep her cool, but given what she assumed this conversation was about, she was already on edge.

“Mother, what do you want??” She repeated, her words more pointed and venomous as her heart rate began to accelerate, giving Kara even more reason for pause, even if she managed to keep the appearance she was deep into researching something for the board meeting later that day for Cat.

“Fine, we’ll dispense with the pleasantries…” Katherine replied before sighing in what Cat knew was mock annoyance. A way to glamourize her plight in the phone with her “ungrateful” spawn. “I called because I saw the article in the Planet about you and…. Her.”

The ending of the sentence was steeped in moderate disdain, as if she was calling to tell a drunken frat boy to send his evening booty call home so she could get some sleep. That fact alone sent Cat right to the edge of her limits…. It was going to be touch-and-go from here on out, enough so even Kara stopped to look and see what Cat’s face looked like.

“Of course you read it in the Daily Planet…” Cat groused, rolling her eyes in irritation. “Would it kill you to buy a newspaper that I own?”

“The Planet’s record is unmatched, Kitty, don’t get your panties in a bunch.” Her mother admonished.

“I’m not…” Cat grit her teeth. “I just hoped eventually you’d take pride in something your daughter made..” she added with a very heavy passive-aggressive edge.

“Oh don’t be silly, Kitty…”

“My name is Cat.” She cut her mother off, her words tumbling out with almost the full venom that Cat usually reserved for indignant men of all privilege-types. “And her name is Kara.”

“I know who she is, Kit… Cat.” Katherine replied, begrudgingly changing course mid-way to say what her daughter wanted to hear. “But honestly? Just have a weekend fling to clear your head then get back to…”

“No.” Cat interjected again, her tone firm but reserved, which stood in stark-contrast to the red-faced woman clutching her phone tight enough to lose circulation, not to mention how her heart was jackhammering inside her chest.

That was when Kara gave up any other pretenses and excused herself to enter Cat’s office, waving plaintively, which gave Cat all the signal she needed to know Kara was not entering the room by cruel happenstance.

“You don’t get to talk about her that way, mother.” Cat jabbed back, not even hiding her contempt. “Call back when you can learn at least a modicum of human decency.”

Cat slammed the phone down on the cradle, and immediately cradled her head in her hands, leaving Kara a bit surprised. Their relationship had just finally hit the public scene a week ago, after an all-too-brief 6-months of time to just, be… together. Cat had dreaded this call every single day since the word dropped, from an article published by Cat herself, wanting to get out ahead of it before someone scooped it and made it into something much more nefarious than it ever was or could be. So in a way she was almost glad the call happened, up until she compared Kara to some… drunken frat boy she needed to fuck and get over by Monday.

“Hey… so… I assume that didn’t go well.” Kara finally piped up, her discomfort a bit noticeable, but she kept most of it under-wraps. Who knew the Girl of Steel had, or needed, such obscure powers, Cat silently mused to herself, as she could see enough to know her feelings, but not enough to know them all.

“How much of it did you happen to hear?” Cat replied without even thinking, her demeanor shifting nebulously as she tried to calm herself down from the mood that had her slamming the phone down hard enough to make her own body wince.

Kara pursed her lips, and momentarily weighed her options, but the Queen of All Media, interviewer of despots and douchebags, and the occasional not-deplorable, saw all she needed to see.

“So, all of it.” She groaned, before looking up from her forlorn position to make eye-contact. “I’m sorry, Kara.” She spoke succinctly and heartfeltly, her dalliances in ‘Keira’ all but evaporating once she had no reason to have the misspoken name as a way to keep herself in control of the woman she mocked as “Sunny” Keira Danvers, insufferably goody-goody Girl Scout. She had already eaten all the crow she deserved and more for that jab, and was even pleasantly surprised when Kara actually liked the moniker of “Sunny”. So, who was Cat to argue with the woman she was somehow always enamored with? Even when she was too afraid to own her own feelings?

“Ms. Grant, it’s ok… it’s just…” Kara began to assuage her paramour, as she always did.

“No, Kara, it’s not!” She insisted, her eyes filling with rage, rage that Kara knew better than to assume was aimed at her. “She does not get to talk about you that way… like you’re just… some silly fling I’ll get over by Monday.”

“Ok…” Kara replied, a bit taken aback. She wasn’t totally unaware of Cat being like this… but to have it be about her was certainly something she was still getting used to.

“I mean it, she doesn’t get to disparage someone as good as you, I won’t allow it. She had no right to assume you’re just some… floozy who I’m only interested in because she’s good in bed… not to say you aren’t, but you know what I mean, yes?” Cat added, her vamping was another new development, something that Kara was both surprised by, and totally enamored with. She knew Cat was head-to-toe a strong, confident woman… but to see these moment of insecurity, of vulnerability, it just managed to show Kara there was ways she could love her even more.

“It’s ok, Ms. Grant, I get it…” Kara assuaged her lover, walking behind the desk to get the distance of the desk from between them.

“So, how long til you think she calls back?” Kara asked, when of course, because pitch-perfect irony, the phone rang. Both women winced at the blaring tone, but Kara, being Kara, picked it up without skipping a beat.

“Cat Grant’s office, this is Kara, how may I help you?” She asked with perfect customer-service tone, even as her face was riddled with all the visual hallmarks of annoyance and disdain.

“Oh, it’s you…” Katherine replied, her own disgust much more telegraphed in her voice.

“It sure is, did you need something, Mrs. Grant?” Kara asked, sure to make sure her voice was so sweet and saccharine that Katherine could squirm on her end of the phone.

“Just to speak to my daughter. Post haste.” Katherine annoyedly added, as if irritated that she needed to even voice the request.

Kara looked at Cat to gage if she even wanted to be talked to. After a few moments of silent contemplation, Cat sighed and picked up her head to give her a free hand to take the phone.

“Alright, here she is… have a good day, Mrs. Grant..” Kara added, biting her tongue before she said something a bit too far for the snark and smarm of the present moment.

“Yes, Mother? Called to apologize for calling my GIRLFRIEND a weekend-only floozy?” Cat shot back, not losing a bit of her edge from the previous conversation.

“Kitty, honestly, do you expect me to go through this whole charade?” Katherine asked bluntly, her tone devoid of empathy.

“You’ll never know what I expected out of you, mother, and that’s your loss. Just like… you know what, no… Mother, new deal..” Cat replied, as the wheels were turning in her head.

“Against my better judgment, I will forget all about this… abhorrent waste of my time if you’ll agree to one thing.” Cat began to lay her case, like a prosecutor leading the witness to the exact spot she wanted them.

Katherine sighed, making little effort to hide it from her daughter’s ears. “And what exactly is this ‘one thing’ you expect of me?”

“Dinner. You, me, Kara, and Carter.” Cat explained. “I’m sure your grandson would love to see you, and… you may as well get to know the woman I intend to spend the rest of my life with.” Cat said boldly, the words even making Kara react with visible shock, followed by a comforting warmth that could’ve made her float off the ground, if she wasn’t careful.

“Fine, fine, I’ll be in town…” Katherine began to tell her daughter of her future plans, but once again Cat was not wanting to be regaled by whatever vapid, vain reason her mother had to be in town, no-doubt a Nobel Laureate or Mega-Star author to which Catherine Jane Grant ‘couldn’t compare’ to.

“Oh, you don’t have to settle this with me, I’ll have Kara call you back to schedule it. Bye mother.” Cat roared, before once again slamming her phone down.

“So, I take it you’d like me to…” Kara began to ask as she noted it on her tablet, before looking up to see Cat’s head back in her hands.

“Cat, what’s wrong?” Kara asked, resting the tablet on Cat’s desk before closing the minuscule distance, resting a hand on Cat’s hunched-over shoulder.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine… I’m fine.” Cat tried to beg off, but somehow that reaction, which had become her staple reaction to any form of disappointment, just felt… wrong. Luckily, she wasn’t the only one who had the same overall thought.

“Cat, no… please don’t shut me out.” Kara meekly-pleaded in a moderate whisper, as she stopped down to look her in the eyes, only to see they were reddened and misted with tears. “El mayarah, remember?” Kara added, reaching a hand over to try to crook Cat’s face towards hers with a push on her magnificent jawline.

“Oh, Kara… you don’t need to get dragged into my mother’s delusions, especially when she thinks…”

“Cat, stronger TOGETHER. You don’t have to do any of this alone. Not anymore.” Kara all-but-pleaded, dropping her hand to squeeze Cat’s lovingly. “And, with all the honesty and respect I can manage, I don’t give a fuck what your mom thinks about me.”

Cat visibly guffawed. She was honestly not sure what to think. The confidence was startling, but the expletive was honestly shocking.

“Language!” Cat tried to fire back, her ability to keep a straight face faltering as Kara showed her own flustered reaction to Cat’s reaction.

“Hey, it got you to smile… so it was worth it.” Kara smiled, reaching over to wipe a tear from Cat’s face. “So, Cat… if I can use the question you so eloquently taught me back at you… what is the ‘anger behind the anger’ here? The tabloids have called me much worse than that..”

“Because those tabloids were written by my…. Mother.” Cat’s face went white as she realized it. It was something she knew all too well, and thought she had grown past, yet here it was, threatening to make her come unglued as she sat there.

Kara kept quiet, and just continued to crouch there, rubbing small circles on the top of Cat’s hands as her eyes stayed trained to the teary-eyed woman.

“I… no, it’s silly…” Cat tried again to retreat, but Kara gently squeezed her hand and kept her eyes trained on her. *Dick move, Supergirl..* Cat mused to herself, only because she knew that she had no defense to those kind eyes that made everything better.

“Fine.” Cat relented, letting out a deep sigh. “My issue is the same silly, stupid one I’ve had my whole life. It’s what has basically propelled me to get here,” Cat added, motioning to her desk, the room, and to a greater extent the entire building.

“I’m just a silly, stupid, weak girl who just wants her mommy to love her for who she is..” Cat just bluntly replied, before she sunk her head back onto her free hand, and use every ounce of her energy to hold back the next round of sobs.

“Cat, you are literally none of those words… not even close.” Kara began her reply, choking back feelings of her own. “And it’s perfectly normal to want that, believe me, I have experience on 2 planets, with 2 very different mothers.”

Cat just looked over at her, eyes red with hopelessness, and just stared. As if silently asking her to continue.

“You’re not weak for wanting a mother’s love. What child wouldn’t want to know that the people who made them, love them?” Kara added.

“You have a point.” Cat quietly replied.

“Oh, Cat, as the smartest woman I know always tells me, I always have a point..” she quipped back, smirk on her lips as she watched Cat realize it and get her own matching grin.

“I’m so sorry your mother can’t love you the way you deserve, Cat, but… I can try my best to fill in the gaps.” Kara offered plaintively.

Cat’s flusterment was palpable. “Kara, darling, you can’t replace my mother’s love for me… because you already show me love, and grace, to a level she could never wrap her head around.”

“Well, yeah, you’re the woman I love… what else am I supposed to do?” Kara asked, as if confused about how someone couldn’t love Cat the way she did.

“You see, darling, that’s what makes you different than her. You don’t see caring as a chore… sadly, my own mother can’t see past herself to see what you see, her loss.” Cat regained her composure, just enough to go back to matters at hand at work.

“Thank you, Kara… I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Cat admitted, her dalliances in vulnerability something that just made Kara’s heart ache more for her beloved.

(To Be Continued…?)

El Mayarah,

Chlo. 💜☀️

[agrazza]

Dalyria POV excerpt/drabble

So I have cut out a lot of exposition/backstory/being-stuck-in-Dalyria's head from ch. 40 of "On Darkness", but some of it is actually not too bad? It just doesn't fit the vibe of the chapter. And I think it stands alone well enough as an exploration of the sibling dynamics from the house-spawn's time with Cazador. Also, a few of you expressed interest in Dalyria POV. So anyway I've decided to post some of the material that (probably) isn't making it into the chapter below the cut. Warning for Cazador. Rated: Strong T Summary: Dalyria (now free in the Underdark) recalls what life was like under Cazador's thumb.

Losing a patient had gotten easier, after two centuries with Cazador. He cared so little for the living, after all.

Dalyria was fairly certain that in the time before being turned into a vampire, she had taken the loss of a patient very hard. Not particularly because it was sad, though it was, but because she’d seen it as a failure. Failing to heal someone, failing to solve the puzzle of an illness, failing to keep someone alive… It hadn’t even been a question of professional pride, exactly, though that had certainly played a part. Patriars only wanted the best, after all.

But it had been more of a matter of a personal pride. She was good at her work, and wanted to be better. It was nice, to have a good reputation, but she cared most about her own improvement, always striving to be better and know more than she had before.

She’d been so very prideful, back then. So full of herself. So eager to test the limits of what she could accomplish.

Cazador had twisted that desire up in her. He coaxed and commanded her to precision with her scalpels, punished her if she made undue mess, was exacting with exactly how much pain she was expected to give. Or to take. Her pride in her own work became a fear of her master; there was no predicting his most mercurial moods, and like the rest of them, she’d always been quick to obey. What was the point in doing otherwise, when he could simply force obedience with his magic if you didn’t comply quickly enough? It was easier, and less painful, to do it right the first time.

Sometimes, she was still surprised to find the compulsion gone. She would catch herself, about to do something, or not do something, solely based the small voice in the back of her mind that constantly reminded her of what Cazador’s opinion would be of her every move. And then she would remember, like a breath of fresh air that she didn’t deserve, that his opinions didn’t matter anymore. 

If she were brave enough, no one’s opinions mattered anymore, except her own.

It was different for her and the other house-spawn, after all. The rest of the spawn had been trapped, too, but theirs had been a prison of loneliness and silence; of piercing, aching, all-consuming hunger. One evening of terror and pain, and then a lifetime of drudgery and darkness. It was horrible, certainly, and Cazador’s children had all those curses as well, but they also had the ongoing torture, and the guilt— the indignity and humiliation of their bodies and minds being used for another’s whims. The spawn in the prison had to suffer the loss of their life once, for an age; the house-spawn suffered it again and again and again. 

She thought she might have preferred the dark, had she the choice. Of course, what had happened to the imprisoned spawn was horrible. Many of them had gone rightfully mad. Some were vicious, furious, and desperate. The hunger alone was enough to torment a person, and the unending imprisonment was a torture all on its own. But she’d seen some of them come out of it with bonds formed with their fellow prisoners. Cazador hadn’t had enough cells to separate all the spawn, and she knew that some— not all, but enough to make it a statistical trend— were still rooming with their fellow prisoners now in the keep they’d settled, even in freedom. The horror they had experienced together had broken some, but it had strengthened others. There was camaraderie, in shared pain.

The house-spawn had never had that luxury. They’d fought each other for every scrap of ‘affection’ Cazador would deign to dole out, hoping for just another drop of insect- or vermin-blood, never sated, never satisfied. And if it wasn’t the vicious hunger, it was the pain. Pleasing the master meant you might escape a flaying. Playing along with his games meant that you might have to wield the knife, but at least you wouldn’t be the one screaming that night. Informing on a sibling who was disobedient— in spirit, if not in practice, as it was near impossible to truly disobey the master— would mean a respite, maybe even a few mouthfuls of rancid blood or a night of safety from Cazador’s vicious and numreous hungers. Any house-spawn caught conspiring together, even on something as minor as sharing a hunt or finding brief enjoyment in something that hadn’t been explicitly allowed would be punished more than usual.

And Cazador had liked his punishments. Oh, he played at doting father, pretended to expect them to be obedient and dutiful, but he enjoyed the ‘discipline’ most of all. He made rules that were impossible to follow to the letter, had exacting, meticulous standards, exerted his compulsions in such a way that left them just enough room to  stumble, and he relished the opportunity to catch them failing him. The best way to avoid his wrath was to point out when another of his house-pets had fallen short of his expectations in a more egregious way.

And Cazador had particularly taken pleasure in disciplining his dearest ‘children’ in the name of improving them, of making them great. Dalyria had always been deeply, shamefully thankful that she’d never been Cazador’s favorite. Petras and Leon had always hoped that earning more favor would mean that, eventually, they might receive a blessing in the midst of cruelty. 

Petras had always been furiously jealous that Cazador sent Astarion and Violet to lavish parties, used the two of them to bribe patriars who liked a pretty face in their beds, dressed them in finer clothes than he gave the others. A cushier sort of prostitution than the scraps they all normally had to go begging for in the slums. 

Leon had always hoped for the few privileges that the Cazador’s whims would grant them; music lessons for Violet, books for Astarion, the days when he would suddenly play at doting father and give them a mockery of affection. They were all so desperate for anything other than suffering that even a bare scrap of generosity from the master was a shameful luxury. 

Sometimes, Dalyria had wanted to be jealous too, had hated whatever sibling currently had Cazador’s favor and wished she could believe his lies, just for a few moments. But Cazador was only generous when it suited his cruelty later. A gift never truly belonged to one of them; they were all for Cazador’s use. Cazador was a jealous, petty master, and the more he gave his precious pets away, the more he had to reassert his own sense of superiority when his jealousy reared its head. He pretended he was above it all, that such feelings had nothing to do with the necessary discipline to improve his wayward charges. 

But Dalyria had seen through him. She had listened to Astarion’s screams even when he performed perfectly, had watched Violet go mad as her flawless music filled the cold dead halls, and she knew Leon and Petras for fools. There was no satisfying the master, no blessing to found in that house. And there had been no friendship to be found with her so-called siblings, any of whom she would stab in the back without second thought to spare herself a few moments of agony.

The other spawn, the ones locked below in the dark, had never lain awake at night, listening to the only people who might have possibly understood her sob and scream with pain because she had handed them over to Cazador for the price of a dead rodent. They had never been asked to flay their cell-mates, or watch them be flayed, or to compete against their fellow prisoners for the prettiest prize for Cazador’s bed, or made to watch the master enact every cruelty of his vicious imagination on his favorite pet, only to know that it was their turn next. The other spawn had received the one real blessing Cazador had been capable of giving— his forgetting them. 

So yes, sometimes she was envious of them. Perhaps, she even hated them a little. It seemed fair enough; they certainly hated the house-spawn back, for the role they had played in their damnation.

[supersaiyanjedi14]

Okay last night I was feeling mean, so let's rectify it with something nicer!

Sabezra wedding pictures per my AU!

In my setting, Ezra and Sabine have two weddings. The first is a traditional Mandalorian ceremony that keeps things contained to themselves, shortly after which Ezra is formally adopted into Clan Wren and recieves his own armor. The second is a more conventional wedding with just about everyone and their mother invited (appropriate for two war heroes) that they both acknowledge is more of a formality that gives everyone an excuse for a great big party.

(I fully concede that this was partially inspired by Luke and Mara having two separate ceremonies back in Legends)

Some details under the cut;

Big event takes place in late 7 ABY, shortly after the New Republic captures Coruscant.

The Mandalorian ceremony took place between the two of them on the eve of the battle, though the outbreak of the Krytos virus kept them tied up for several months before they were able to make the journey to Krownest. This turned out for the best as it gave Tristan plenty of time to forge Ezra's new armor.

After talking it out, they decided to go ahead with the more contemporary wedding for the sake of their friends and allies, as well as exploiting the fact that, with the New Republic in power, they have the structure to do something like that.

The wedding takes place at the Sumar farm on Lothal, Marida practically giddy to host the event.

The groomsmen (seen above) were Zeb Orelios (Best Man), Tristan Wren, and Luke Skywalker*

The bridesmaids (also above) were Princess Leia Organa (Maid of Honor), Ketsu Onyo, and Moreena Krai (a close friend of Ezra's from Lothal in a tie-in book).

Ryder Azadi officiates, Chopper takes up the role of ringbearer.

In this AU, Ursa and Alrich have unfortunately died at this point, so it is Kanan (who is not dead coincidently) who walks the bride down the aisle, albeit with a full Clan Wren honor guard.

Their rings are forged from a beskar/electrum alloy, Sabine's fitted with a small Lothal fire ruby.

Highlights of the reception included a heartfelt, tear-inducing speech from Hera, Zare Leonis and Jai Kell hoisting the groom onto their shoulders and parading him around, Artoo and Chopper stealing a couple of glasses just so they could make a toast, and Fenn Shysa leading the Mandalorians in attendance in song to honor the bride.

The biggest highlight of all, however, is when it comes time for the bouquet and garter. Seeing as the bride and groom are a Mandalorian warrior and a Jedi Knight respectively, they're not just going to throw these things away. You want them? You have to fight for them.

Hence, the dance floor becomes a battleground. Sabine even specifically tailored her dress so that the skirt could break away into something more manageable. One by one, the bachelors and bachelorettes stepped up to try their luck, and each found themselves flat on their backs in short order. As it's all in good fun, nobody is actually hurt, though Wedge and Hobbie do have to drag a dazed Tristan away after his new brother-in-law throws him several yards. Everyone else thought it was hilarious.

After about twelve different ladies try and fail, Leia finally pins Sabine and claims the bouquet. Needless to say, the knowing smirk she throws Han causes more than a few chuckles (by sheer coincidence, Han and Leia's wedding takes place within the year)

Eleven strapping gentlemen try and fail to get the garter, everyone stops to state at Ezra's next challenger; a dirty blonde ex-farmhand from Tatooine. Deciding to give the other guests a show, Ezra and Luke decide to forgo the wrestling match everyone else had tried at this point and whip out the lightsabers.

Despite Threepio and AP-5's indignant protests due to the sheer state of ruin their formal wear will be in, the assembled guests are treated to a spectacular lightsaber duel that becomes even more crazy when Zeb and Lando start a betting pool. Hera is initially also exasperated, but her complaints fall off once she notices Mon Mothma quietly putting ten credits on Luke.

Finally, after a solid ten minutes of slashing, with their suits reduced to charred shreds, Ezra is finally forced to concede to Jedi Skywalker. When Ezra apologizes to his bride for the state of disrepair he is now in, Sabine simply shuts him up with a kiss.

The entire event wraps up with a phenomenal fireworks display, which Sabine will cite for years to come as her finest work.

After all that excitement, Ezra and Sabine leave for a much-needed two-week honeymoon at a lake house on one of Lothal's inland seas. No work, no adventures, just themselves and time to relax.

*The big crux of this AU is the Ghost crew being part of the OT and onward. During this time, the two groups of protags become super close, with Ezra and Luke especially becoming close friends (in no small part to the whole Jedi deal).

(Microheroes built from templates by cptmeatman, SpectorKnight,the-collector-13, and any others I cannot remember)

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

⭐star⭐ hiiiiiii. I just read the latest chapter (ch 2) of Flightless Birds and my soul has still not reattached. I would love to know your director’s cut thoughts on either:

1) the scene of Jamie going back to get his car and seeing the blood

2) Keeley’s overall struggles with seeing how Roy and Jamie have grown closer without her

If neither of those are striking the iron for you, anything from The Hedgehog’s Dilemma regarding Jamie’s dad’s visit would also be most excellent!

I hope this missive finds you well <3

The scene of Jamie going back to get his car and seeing the blood

This scene just sort of... came upon me as I was writing as a two birds/one stone type of situation. Bird #1 was that I remembered partway through the chapter that Jamie hadn't retrieved his car yet. Bird #2 was that Jamie spends most of the chapter working up to his big breakdown at the end, and that Roy and Keeley aren't fully aware of how badly he's doing — which meant that I needed a) something to trigger the panic attack, and b) for it to happen somewhere neither of them would know that it had happened. And then when I got this ask I realized that I had completely accidentally built in a recurring motif of like. cars as a representation of Jamie's relationship with his dad and how it's inextricably tied up not just with his career as a player but with the wealth that comes with it; how Jamie's constantly trying to buy James' affection or at least stave off his violence with gifts, his entitlement over Jamie's wealth and belongings and indignation when Jamie has something nicer than what James does, how escaping his father means leaving behind things that he loves — Man City and Georgie when he's a teenager and his car, but also that he can get them back, even if it involves confronting some trauma first.

Keeley's overall struggle with seeing how Roy and Jamie have grown closer without her

This was one of the main parts of the fic that I thought about during the planning phase. Keeley and Roy's relationship progresses a little slower in THD than it does in canon just because Roy's not relying on her quite as much for like. all his non-work and non-family social interaction and later is busy taking care of Jamie in the lead-up to his father's visit. At that stage, she's pretty content with how things are going: she has fun hanging out with them separately and together, she doesn't have to listen to them complain about each other quite as much (they still do, but now it's affectionate so it's much less annoying), and Jamie has someone looking out for him in a way she doesn't really feel equipped to do.

And then their fledgling little QPR experiences trial by fire via moving in together at a point where she's both the only one who's able-bodied and not freshly traumatized and working full time, and on top of that already overwhelming situation, being around each other all the time makes it clear that there are ways that Jamie and Roy are close to each other that they aren't with her. I think with Jamie's recovery especially, she's trying really hard not to feel hurt by the fact that Roy is the one he's opened up to about his dad and that he's the one he turns to when he's upset because she does understand, rationally, that it's not a case of Jamie trusting Roy over her but of Roy being the one to discover the abuse and establishing himself as like. The Person Who Looks After Jamie, and also that when Jamie's really upset, he usually wants to be held for a much longer time than she tends to prefer for her cuddle sessions and also isn't especially compatible with her work schedule.

But at the same time, it does make her feel guilty and hurt that she not only can't seem to give him that kind of support while Roy's recovering but that Roy doesn't seem to trust her to do it properly (this, of course, has much more to do with his own hangups that it does with not trusting Keeley, but she doesn't know that), and so there's a part of her that worries she won't have a place in the relationship once they're both doing better, but is also kind of resentful of the fact that she's ended up in this role as the caretaker and the one that has everything together because she likes doing things for her friends and cheering them up when they're having a hard time but she's never been the biggest fan of looking after people, per se. Anyway the solution is communication and they will get there eventually.

James' visit from THD

James' visit in chapters 5 and 6 was the hardest part of the fic to write, not because of the character voice but because he's just such a relentlessly unpleasant to write. From his perspective, the visit is about reasserting control: he deliberately keeps Jamie guessing about their plans, inserts himself into any part of Jamie's life where he can tell Jamie doesn't want him just to show that he can — he doesn't necessarily care about what Richmond training looks like or where he lives, but he wants to show Jamie that he doesn't have anything that isn't also James'. But at the same time, I did want him to feel like a fully-fledged person operating according to his own complex and deeply dysfunctional internal logic. He's petty and malicious and violent but that's probably not how he'd think of himself, you know?

[pocketedmelody]

Nightmare

He said, you choose what you want to believe in. You choose your perspective.

The past few weeks have torn my world apart. All that I knew. Cracked foundation. I feel my being torn into two, then into pieces. During moments I feel whole again, in a split second when reality sinks in once more I feel my soul seep out again. Im running on a tank threatening to implode, yet so full of sadness, resentment, anger, emptiness. Full of emptiness, the irony.

Mostly i feel dissociated, like I am looking at someone else from a third person's perspective and feeling all the feelings that person would, fully. How I wish i could press the stop button on this reality.

Im still trying to come to terms with the reality that is now, that is what has always been but them sheltering it from me.

I felt empathetic, then I felt angry. Really, really angry. That she would choose herself, give this up, give my family up. I cannot separate the idea of my relationship with her, our relationship with her, from their relationship. It all means the same thing to me - family. it wouldnt be one without anyone. She chose to walk away and put herself first, for the first time. Without warning.

Most of the time i felt that he was in the dark, then he walked out too. Despite my tangible pleas.

They both said we had ourselves to focus on, that things will be the same. That angered me even more.

How could things ever be the same

The physical place - everything could be in the same position but it will never be the same.

I chose to be angry. I choose to be angry now. For most of the past 2 weeks I actively chose to avoid relenting. I dont know, does relenting to the good side mean giving up? I did not want to give her easy access to me. After all that shes done to me. But its hard. Y was right. it is harder to be someone i want to be who isnt intrinsically me. but i choose to be dark because its the easier way to cope.

i want to keep being angry because i dont want to accept the truth. that my family unit will never be the same. at the toughest moments in the past, my family was the solid rock, my parents were the pillars of support i knew would always be constant. even this constant, can break apart? what?

it feels that my reality had all been a lie. i did not appreciate being kept in the dark for so long. J told me, at least i had 30y of a happy family. I felt angry when i heard that. why should it be a thing of the past. and why does that discount the hurt and loss i feel. like am i supposed to grieve less?

no.

many times in my mind i told myself i'd rather they did not shield me from reality, they did not paint a perfect picture of life and family, and love and harmony. only to break it now.

that was my foundation, that was my core.

and then she broke the saddest of news two nights ago.

i felt indignant, but a little less angry. i was even more lost.

i tried to be angrier. but i couldnt. i found myself leaning towards the tissues even when i really did not want to display any sign of understanding or sympathy. her constant apologies flew over my head. in that motherly figure i always leaned on i see a lost girl who has been lost for so long. a girl who was deprived of love and had been surviving on a nearly empty tank but could only show that she was one overflowing and unconditionally giving. not only because she was expected to fulfil her role as a mother but because she wanted to.

nobody would ever have guessed. even when she was running on a tank almost empty she would give, and give, and give.

i felt hurt when i knew he had another reality. and she didnt get what she had deserved. i still want to believe he had good reasons. that it wasnt a mistake, because it would be the saddest thing.

For the first time ever, today on the bus ride back home. I felt this surge of conviction to show them and her that it wasnt the wrong thing. I came out of it, we came out of it. She is the reason why i have the heart to give even when i feel like i am breaking down and have nothing left. he is the reason why i have this focus on excellence even when i feel inadequate. they are the reason why i held on even when all i wanted to do was give up. they are the reason why i love the way i do, i want others around me to feel loved and be loved. they are the reason why i know a family unit the way it is. that family is everything, and family will be there for you no matter what.

all these will never change, no matter the background and context. i will never forget the feelings they make me feel.

i want to embrace her in the biggest embrace now i am where and who i am, to let her know that her difficulties are not for nought. that she is not alone anymore, that its ok for her to be herself and she is more than enough.

i want to let him know its ok to make mistakes, that he will always be the one i turn to like how i did when i was 4 and all i looked forward to every 2 weeks was returning to his embrace and hearing his bedtime stories of 3 little cats. that the respect for him will be boundless no matter what.

still, the child in me is screaming for good things in life to never end. can it not end?

[prometheusinitiative]

Ridley | MM Trial | 47

A powerful rift begins pulling them all away from one irreversible decision and right into the proximity of another. 

Emmeline’s never screamed before. It’s the same fury and indignation Ridley remembers from her own childhood, terror in weaponized form. She doesn’t react outwardly, but it sparks the last step toward resolution in her mind.

They’re almost all on the same page, they’ve all come this far, they’re ready to work together and do one good thing for themselves if not others. Just one. One good fucking reason for all of this devastation.

But there’s palpable finality in the way Ivette continues to address them, like the hollow, apologetic smile is all that remains of someone battered by a storm without end. Maybe the ship housing Ivette’s life rafts sank a long time ago. Maybe the last piece of floating wood rotted away just as she reached it. Whoever she was is not with them here in the present, and they'll probably never know her.

In another life, they could have been each other. Only the slightest degree of separation divides Ridley from Ivette, hands tightening around shoulders that do not relax even as each person offers a hypothesis, a proposal, and assurance that they still have each other despite the entire world going to hell.

Would it be different if Hugo had been there instead, and Royce was a distant memory?

And just as easily, the thought is dismissed. They’re born alone, and in most circumstances, they’re probably meant to die alone, too. 

Full clarity finally comes to Ridley with each offered argument, and really, who could disagree with anyone’s logic or emotion? Or stubbornness, tenacity, brilliance, courage, passion, humility, resilience, ambition, influence…

“Everything Laben did,” Ridley says, and lowers her head so she’s looking at the ground instead of Ivette’s face.

“Every single thing… Was to give me a chance in a world that took it away from me before I was even born. Maybe it ended up being a shitty chance, and who knew we’d ever end up in a situation like this… But he did it, no matter what he lost and kept losing. And at the end of it all, he got what he wanted. And… I need to respect that. I’m going to respect that.”

It’s over as soon as she takes her hands away. The rift cannot be crossed again. The majority opinion has been clearly stated, and at the very least, Ridley knows she owes it to them to honor that wish, too. 

“You, me, 16, Hinrik… We know better than anyone what it’s like to have nothing. The only difference is I got lucky and had someone who loved me more than he hated the universe looking out for me. And if everyone here wants to stay and fix this? If you want to stay and fix this… I’ll help. You know I will. We’ve got the power that we do to do all kinds of stuff. If I can't get rid of it... May as well use it for something meaningful.”

She can feel Ivette’s shoulders slipping from her grasp before they've even stepped away from each other, familiar with the feeling once before already.

Ridley takes action before the inevitable disappointment sinks its claws into her—she’s the first to let go, walking backwards until Morph’s podium makes contact with her hip, shifting her weight to one leg so she obscures him partially from Ivette’s view. She hesitates, but looks over her shoulder for a moment of reassurance before proceeding.

“He wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t let you take this from everyone. He wouldn’t let you take this from me… And knowing that was probably what kept you from doing this sooner, right? But since you’ve come this far… Now it probably feels like you have to. If that's really what you want to do...”

Fists clenched at her sides, Ridley stares Ivette down with fearless, unwavering resolve. 

“You have two hearts. I have three. Your turn—pick a god and pray.”

[sweepingtree]

Rant

[blzzrdstryr]

Reveries of the Past. Yandere!Childe x Fatui!gn!reader

Wordcount: 3875

CW: Dissociation, graphic depiction of violence, hallucinations, unhealthy relationship and unhealthy power dynamics.

A.N.: I used a lot of my experience with dissociations in this and if it makes you uncomfortable, I would advice not to read it. I also plan on writing continuation for this, as it’s set before the Rite of Descension. P.s. I am not a native English speaker, so could you notify me if there’s awkward wording.

[Next chapter]

There are plenty of times you find yourself reminiscing about the past and now, your mind slips back to your memories, as you look at the horribly mangled body of the treasure hoarder. The stench of blood stuffs up your nose, it’s sickly sweet metallic odor making your gut clench and nausea rise, as your limbs grow heavier and numb. You don’t feel  like you belong in your skin and bones and blood anymore - it’s cold, so cold, yet you don’t feel any of it. You are an outsider, an unwanted intruder in the house that is your body, an indifferent observer looking at the world through the thick glass.

The world around disfigures, shapes and colors changing in the constant whirlwind - they jump and dance around, small becoming large and large shrinking so much it’s barely visible, green shifts to red to blue and to yellow and to million of other colors, and sounds suddenly become muffled, losing their sharpness, but you don’t care about it: the part that is “you” fled to the daydreams of your childhood moments ago, leaving a clinically observing, yet unfeeling being behind. 

Adults would describe you as a perfect child: quiet, obedient and dutiful, you were a stark contrast to the other louder and more free spirited kids. You studied hard, cleaned the house, helped with dishes and cooking and never talked back. 

I can't upset mom and dad because they work so much. I can't play with other kids because if I do, they will make fun of me, I have to study hard and get good grades, because mom said I will have a good job and become rich and help them. 

These particular memories don't feel good to you: they're bleak and boring, yet full of silent shame - they make your throat clog and eyes water, as something burning starts to bloom deep underneath your skin. 

Childe stops beating the still alive treasure hoarder, a blood smeared on the cheek and a dangerous glint in his eyes, and turns his head to you. 

"Hey, how about lending me a helping hand?", there’s a hunger in his voice you recognize, he wants to teach a lesson to the debtors, then. You walk towards him, feeling your knees get weaker and weaker with each step for some reason. A dagger made of ice shines in your hand with cold light. 

"It's no wonder [First] received a vision! My [First] is always so good and smart, there are no children better" the exact words your mother says, as she brags to her friends, showing them the vision you were bestowed with. You left it to her, not caring what will happen to it - despite all the child's wonder you felt before receiving it, the glowing orb doesn’t look so amazing to you now. It feels foreign and ugly, a reminder of what happened seconds before you gained it. 

“You know, when I was a child”, he takes the weapon and focuses on the treasure hoarder’s leader again, “we made a special kind of promise”. It’s tip travels to the hoarder’s hand. “You make a pinkie promise, you keep it all your life”

The sweet voice he uses and the fact that you  know the nursery rhyme too would make you sick in the stomach the other day, but not now. 

You don’t exactly remember how you joined the Fatui - it happened shortly after you gained a vision, when you were still too numb and cold to the outside world after the Event. 

Mom will hate me, dad will hate me too. I can’t let them know.

Your parents say that officials just knocked on the front door one day and offered you an entry into the Fatui and a monthly salary, big enough to stop your parents from overworking themselves. You were terrified back then, Fatuis despite being known as a diplomatic organization are still a mystery to the ordinary Shezhnayan and a direct servants to Her will. The thought of disappointing Tsaritsa or letting down Snezhnaya was enough to paralyze you, but seeing the smiles on your parents faces was enough to make you swear to yourself, that you will work there no matter how scary it seems.

“You break a pinkie promise, I throw you on the ice.” The blade stops between phalanges of the little finger: “The cold will kill the pinkie that once betrayed your friend", he presses it, strong enough to detach the limb from the rest of the body in one swift slash. Treasure hoarder starts to cry and scream from the sudden pain, yet quickly chokes on it as Childe hits him in the solar plexus. The crack of bones feels deafening among the sea of muffled sounds.

Training was rigorous to say the least, you came back to your dorm room absolutely exhausted and after you fell on the bed you were practically dead to the world. Turns out, having a vision wasn’t enough to make you a fighter - you needed to know how to climb, swim, run with a weight to lift and wield a weapon. There were other children and teens with you, they eyed your vision with a mix of adoration and envy, you pretended not to catch it in turn.

“The frost will freeze your tongue off so you never lie again”, harbinger forces the victim's jaw apart by squeezing it with one hand, the other rapidly forcing a dagger inside the mouth. Treasure hoarder gasps and mumbles, fat tears forming in his eyes. A part of you expects a sound of parting flesh, but none comes: Tartaglia stands up and removes the blade, leaving a shivering and terrified man laying on the ground.

“Well,” Childe shrugs, as if he didn’t just dismember a person, voice back to his cheery tone : “You didn’t actually make a pinkie promise, so consider it a small mercy”. The treasure hoarder cowers even more, snuggling the injured hand close to the bruised chest. “But if you fail to repay your debt I will oversee that the frost”, he points in your direction, a treasure hoarder’s eyes going wide as he notices your vision, “will actually freeze your lying tongue off”, his voice descends again, back to it’s dangerous half-whisper.

You meet Ajax during the winter, he’s close to you in age and just arrived into Fatui grounds. He boasts and shows off to all of you, and you desperately want to retort something acidic to shut him up and rip off that arrogant bravado, yet say nothing, picturing how the tomorrow training session will have him laying flat on his back, too hurt and too tired to move even a single finger. 

He defeats the trainer in less than a minute.

Now, that the treasure hoarder fled, still snuggling disfigured limb, Childe turns attention back to you. “You seem a little bit disinterested here”, his hand on your cheek is so foreign, it’s burning and freezing at the same time, the shock from the unwanted touch almost strong enough to pull you back into reality. He notices your unintentional flinching and unfocused eyes “Ah, you hurt my feelings, [First]! And I thought we already became friends”. 

You say nothing, cold and unmoving, blind and deaf to the outside world, his words register a second too late, and there’s no cliche phrase for you to reply with. He looks a bit baffled and deflated for a second, but shrugs it off, just like he did during teen years, when you deliberately ignored all his attempts at catching your attention.

“Huh, even if you are so cold to me, I still forgive you”, he takes your hand, his touch still too overwhelming for you to process and pulls you back to Liyue harbor, your legs barely bending as you walk after him, like an obedient dog trailing it’s master.

“You know [First], I can beat you up so badly, that you will barely walk”, you put feather aside, stopping writing the letter to your parents as you glare at Ajax with barely masked indignation. He grins, satisfied to finally catch your attention after the whole day of pestering you. “I am aware of that” you reply in an absolutely flat tone, holding yourself from pouncing on him and trying to break the teeth out of that smug smile. He beams even wider, as if sensing your not-so-good intentions, revealing even more pearly whites as if taunting you.

“But I won’t, count yourself lucky”. And he leaves, this short interaction filling you with so much rage that you shake, handwritten letters noticeably becoming sharper and faster, your thoughts clouding around the idea of acquating his face with your boots. 

 Nonetheless, you indeed count yourself fortunate enough, when you see Ajax defeating grown men with bare hands. When you two, the only vision holders among your peers have to spar, he always goes easy on you, prefering to immobilize you rather than beating, making your defeat less painful yet even more humiliating. 

Almost at the end of your trail he suddenly stops and says something, but you don't catch it, words turning into separate vowels and then fusing together into one unintelligible gibberish mess. He leans in, close enough for his breath to burn your neck, and he continues to get closer, until his empty eyes look into yours glazed ones. He seems disappointed for a second and backs down, his breathing no longer fanning your skin. 

Distantly you think that you somehow angered him and he will slap you for it, and do nothing to dodge the hit - you barely feel pain in this condition anyway, but he doesn’t. The road to the Northland Bank is completed in absolute silence, Childe no longer trying to grab your attention, only when you enter Liyue Harbor does he whisper, that you two must look like a pair with all that hand holding. Judging by the volume and tone of his voice he says it more to himself than to you.

***

You come back to yourself in the safety of your room on the third room of the Northland bank. It feels like a rush of sensation, as everything becomes sharper and clearer again, like you just swam to the surface of water from the very depths of it. An invisible bubble around your head pops in one moment, and the world becomes real again, mind and body connecting for once more.

Eyes and ears focused you take in surroundings: the room is neat and lifelessly empty - just a bed and a working desk with a stack of written but unsent letters, along with a small bookcase near, no figurines, pictures or even plants to decorate living place, as you see no reason to adorn the area you use for sleeping only. Indiscernible wallpapers and a small window close to the middle of the bed finish the picture of austerity.

 Once, your memory catches up to you, you can't help groan from the shame and irritation, hiding your face in both hands. Afterwards  always feels both like a disgraceful escape and a warm blanket during the stormy night, a duality that you accepted long ago after joining the Fatui and today is no exception. You curse Harbinger when you remember why exactly you had an episode, and get up from the bed you threw yourself on minutes ago. You come to the desk, taking a clean form of a relocation request from the drawer and writing materials. 

Filling in the blank feels like commiting a felony to you for some reason - you stop several times when you hear footsteps in the corridor, focusing on the door,ready to hide the half written form and say some lie as an excuse. You don't list the Childe-related reasons, knowing that there's nothing that could make any of the Harbingers face the consequence for their actions, and instead you write completely normal and fake causes: health concerns, family matters and so on. Part of you doubts that this will work and you will have the fortune to get away from a certain harbinger as far as possible. Trying and failing is better than never attempting, you think, quickly writing the paper.

Once you finish it, you almost rush to Ekaterina, praying that you won't run into a certain ginger on the way. Sometime ago you caught Tartaglia checking your letters, for a secrecy he said back then, we can’t let anyone know about the coming operation. Childe then instilled that every sent and received letter should be checked, lest Qixing and other Liyuens learned what Fatui had in plan. It sounded logical and sensible, but the paranoid thought that he enforced this policy just to have a glimpse at your feelings never stopped eating at you. From that day on you sent your family the most basic and vague letters, just stating that you’re in good health and mind, still missing them and Snezhnaya, leaving the ones with more private sentiments in your room. 

Her eyes are completely obscured by the mask, but even with that you can’t miss the pointed glare she sends your way - Tartaglia never shied away from showing off, be it his strength, money or his twisted obsession that he calls love. With the amount of time and finances he spends on you and the way he acts like a kicked lovesick puppy in your vicinity, you are pretty sure that at least half of the bank workers see you as a cunning and cruel seducer, so keen and devious in the art of temptation that you managed to lure in Eleventh Harbinger.

As if archons decided to laugh at you, Childe descends from the second floor too, catching the sight of you near the receptionist. He looks unusually somber for a moment, but then he sees you, a smile appearing on his face as he takes the form from Ekaterina's hands. You can just feel how Ekaterina rolls her eyes under the mask, as if muttering complaints about the lovers’ spat and insubordination, having been working with her for some time, enough to have a clue of the inner workings of her mind.

You have to give him that he plays the confusion and regret very persuasively. He asks how he can fix this, says what a valuable team member you are to him and how much you are needed in the Northland bank. You agree to his suggestion - if years of training with Ajax and then work with Childe taught you anything, it is that Ajax is the chaos incarnate and Tartaglia is Ajax’s less tolerable and more unpredictable version, so it’s better not to anger him.

***

In the end he invites you to dine with him at Wanmin restaurant, a place Childe heard from some “xiansheng” as he called them. A bustling Liyue street is open before you two, tall midday sun painting the whole street into bright orange, so unlike the pristine white landscapes of Snezhnaya. He orders two Black Back Perch Stews on the chef's recommendations, and hands a bouquet of local flowers in a parody of a normal boyfriend. Any random observer would really see it as a date.

You take the flowers, pretending to pay more attention to  them than to a man sitting near you. Tartaglia is an unpredictability wrapped in human skin, there’s no privilege as being lax and carefree near him, as even Tsaritsa has no idea what he will do next. 

To your mutual confusion Xiangling presents the meal with two pairs of chopsticks. Utensils feel foreign in your palm, you having no idea how to handle them and Childe, by the looks of it too. Tartaglia specifically asks the chef for spoons, while you observe the other clients, noting how they use theirs. Holding one stick like a pen and then placing the bottom one in a fixed position under the thumb you manage to grasp the fish from the soup, albeit clumsily. You consider it a small win. 

The image of a mighty Harbinger struggling in a failing battle with chopsticks would look funny to you, if it wasn’t for the whole "date" you were having. After putting them aside, and seemingly admitting defeat, Childe starts from afar: "You know [First], you changed a lot since I first met you" .

You raise an eyebrow at the starter, it's vague and innocent enough, but experience tells you that he will or at least try to stir the conversation into your relationship with him again. Straightening a bit and finally turning your eyes to him, you pause for a second, picking the least offensive reply you can muster - there’s a swarm of insults buzzing at the tip of your tongue prepared just for him, growing and sprouting since your pubescent years.

“Yes, I got taller”, he laughs it off, like you said some funny joke, his giggles not stopping for some time. "No, I mean as a person. Remember how you used to glare at me for joking? And now you act so unfazed ”

Joking. Is this what he calls it? Shivers creep up your spine when your memory oh so conveniently conjures the images of the aftermath of his jokes.

“Your jokes weren’t funny to anyone but you”. Breathe, you think, there’s no need to anger him. There are pictures of broken bones and bruised bodies and a cacophony of somebody else’s pained screams flashing and rattling in your head, Adults never did anything. Why would they? They had a golden boy Ajax, why would they help the others when they had him? Why would they help you? Bitterness and anger you thought you swallowed long ago rise up to the surface again, and you decide to bite down on the stew - Tartaglia always found a way to turn your words against you and hurt you, no need to give him more weapons now.

“I changed a lot too. I know I was insufferable as a teen”, he must have taken your silence as a free pass to continue whatever nonsense he’s sprouting, “I am sorry”.

The last three words catch you off guard, a piece of fish almost stuck in the throat from the jolt. Ajax takes you by surprise once again, for him to finally acknowledge and apologize for all the pain he caused and years he tormented you?

You blink and look at him intently, his facial expression changing into an unusually somber one. It seems authentic enough.

“Let’s start from the scratch?

You contemplate unsure what to say.

Was he lying?

Looking back, you in a sense are luckier than most of Childe's victims, witnessing his youth, familiarizing and distinguishing the tells of him lying and scheming, observing the way he bloomed into the manipulator he is today firsthand. You see a familiarity in his face and voice, something that helps you from falling to his charms. There's also the added fact that you were and still are an involuntary witness to the way how carnal and bloodthirsty usually friendly Ajax can become. 

When did you catch his attention?

You remember his smile when he first approached you, less teeth and more sincerity that is thereafter,a hand outstretched to you. It happens on the next day after his arrival, almost as cold and unpleasant as the previous one. You brush the limb away like a noisy fly, secretly angry at his arrogant attitude and how effortlessly he endured training. His smiling doesn’t stop, yet you feel a sudden change in the air around you.

Would your fate be different if you took his hand?

You can't forget how your mind disconnected from your body for the second time. It was Ajax again vying for your attention akin to a spoiled child, and like one he threw a tantrum when you refused to give him any. The poor recruit you were talking with was hospitalized the same day, as you helplessly watched the carnage before you. You didn't fight, you didn’t flee, you just froze, like a scared animal, paralyzed by fear, yet somehow too detached from feelings. That day was bizarre: once you felt reality, it was solid and undeniable and then you didn't. The realness of the current diffused, slipped through the fingers like sand, leaving nothing but unreliable and delusive reveries behind.

Will he let you go? 

“People do change and I see that you changed too. I don’t think of you as a teen you were” you carefully pick the words, Tartaglia visibly blooms, thinking that his apology worked, yet your next words snuff out his triumph: “but my memories stay the same. I don’t think we can start from scratch”

You bite the tongue, the second part still coming out too harsh for your liking. The moment of sincerity is interrupted, you see him, changing the masks, unsure what to do. It seems for the first time it was you who caught him off guard. You guess which one of the two standard facades he will decide to show to you, having spent years by his side to observe him masterfully wielding both, the friendly one with a vacant smile that never reaches his dead, dead eyes or the calculating one, distant and devoid of humanity?

In the end he uses none, a hurt still evident, dripping in his tone, face and moves - is it another mask you never got to see or is it real? - “So that is your answer”, he leans in closer, dull cerulean eyes looking right into yours.

You hold his stare, nodding, instead of saying anything and he hums, sitting back and wearing the cold mask, reserved for his enemies: “Just wanted to remind you that I am the Harbinger and you are just a position higher than an ordinary agent”. Despite seeing it so many times, it’s the first time he directs it at you and you have to suppress the shiver. The unsaid threat hangs heavy in the air, suffocating you.

You two are no longer solemn [First] and annoying Ajax, who trails your steps behind like a puppy, no, you are a special agent [Last] and Eleventh Fatui Harbinger Tartaglia, to whom you are personally assigned by Tsaritsa herself. Even possessing vision and delusion yourself you can’t match Childe’s power, and your loss would be easy to overlook if your harbinger wished for it. Honestly speaking, there are a lot of things he could do to you without anyone questioning it, the Harbingers being the second most powerful figures in the organization, right after Tsaritsa herself. You heard the stories of Krupp and other assistants who got missing under Il Dottore, you heard of horrible accidents happening to the people Scaramouche dislikes, you heard about the injuries Signora inflicts on the unfortunate recruits when she is in foul mood, yet you never thought that Tartaglia will abuse his power in the same way.

“Don’t worry” he seems to have taken mercy on you, “I won’t use my position like that, it’s cheating and I like to play the fair game”, despite the seemingly reassuring words , you don’t let yourself relax, knowing him for years.

“Don’t think I will back down though, I am not the type to give up”

[snackhobi]

a human touch, part 2, final

Part 1 / 1.5 / [2]

(masterlist here)

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

then he turns up at your door.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re aware of this because: 

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

and:

b) Said new tenants are apparently very noisy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A sexy living foghorn,” Seokjin says brightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll stay here,” Taehyung decides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Make me,” Seokjin says primly.

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay?” You ask, concerned.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m happy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can go get some from my apartment?”

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

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

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

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

And then you freeze.

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

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

The blood is blue. 

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

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

Seokjin’s an android.

(Seokjin’s an android who seems human.)

Seokjin’s a deviant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened to your LED?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi’s eyes narrow. “Jin…”

“Maybe I am,” you hazard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Much like Taehyung had.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

“How did he—why did he deviate?”

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

Wow.

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

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

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

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

You feel warmed at Yoongi’s words. But. 

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

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

“Has Jin always been like that?”

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

“You love him a lot,” you say gently.

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

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

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

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

“That sounds great,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve missed this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” he replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. Okay, Taehyung, I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s just, uh. One little thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thing that people and deviant androids do.

A thing that Taehyung does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s nice.

“You seem happier.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re in so, so deep.

(But who can blame you?)

“I want to go outside.”

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

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

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

So what you say is: “Okay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Warmer and softer than it probably should.)

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

“Ready?”

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

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

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

(Mysterious. Yeah, right.)

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

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

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

(Whatever this is.)

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

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

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

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

(Shouldn’t hope for more than that.)

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

You’re certain Taehyung will, too.

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

(So human.) 

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

Taehyung is enraptured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like love?” A whisper.

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

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

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

“Oh, Y/n!”

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

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

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

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

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

You panic. Just for a second.

Taehyung doesn’t.

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

And then he immediately slips his hand back into yours.

Namjoon is utterly charmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Loyalty. Dedication.)

(A breath.)

(Love.)

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

“Y/n?”

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

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

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

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

(More of him.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re staying late again.”

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

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

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

It’s unnerving.

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

“No,” you lie.

Yes, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that you would want to. 

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

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

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

It's hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he speaks.

“You’re avoiding me.”

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

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

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

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

“Why are you lying to me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Independent?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(No one chooses you. Why would they?)

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

And then all the lights go out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung? What are you—”

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

“Taehyung!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taehyung, though, is intent on you.

“Y/n?”

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

“Yes?”

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

You don’t respond. Not right away. 

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

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

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

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

“I do. I want to be here with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taehyung takes your silence as hesitation, his face softening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More?” He murmurs against your skin.

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

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

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

And you can touch, too. 

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

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

“Angel?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Then he looks down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he turns his head and—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my God,” you gasp. “Oh, fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything, you think. I want everything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, oh God,” you gasp. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” you say.

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

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

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

“Not yet,” you say. 

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

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

“I love you,” he says.

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

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

“Not staying late?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung,” you say, warm and happy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[amjustagirl]

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!

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“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. 

[misha-moose-dean-burger-lover]

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.)

[hizashis-lil-bunbun]

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.”