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snackhobi · 4 years

Text

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)

#btswritingcafe #btswriterscollective #magicshopnet #taehyung x reader #taehyung x you #bts #taehyung au #bts au #taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung scenario #taehyung imagine #android taehyung #robot taehyung #taehyung fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist

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writefightandflightclub · 4 years

Text

Disarming (Santi x fem!reader)

Summary: you and Santi - good friends- are Best Man and Maid of Honour at Frankie’s wedding, and guess what? There’s only one bed!

What is this? This is 5/10 one-shots/blurbs for my “friends to lovers” event. The prompt is “We can share a room, right? It’s only for a weekend”, requested by @woakiees. Another double trope extravaganza! Hadley, I’m so pleased you suggested Santi for this one, as he immediately came to mind when I was writing this prompt :D Thank you so much for requesting! <3

If you’d like to read/keep track of the other fics, I’m keeping an up-to-date friends to lovers list in my pinned post.

Author’s note: Apparently I get carried away EVERY time I write Santi. WHY AM I LIKE THIS?! :-/

Word count: 7.5k. I’M SO SORRY. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

Rating: 18+ ONLY (minors out, please, do not read or interact)

Warnings: it gets angsty in the middle. Reader has nightmare- comfort offered. Mentions of reader being “hurt” in the past but vague and unspecified. They have a fight. One or two alcohol mentions- no actual consumption. Food mention. Swearing. Steam leading into smut but not explicit- mentions of masturbation, erections, making-out, one brief allusion to choking kink. Let me know if I missed anything.

Tagging: @isvvc-pvscvl @casifer-is-king (loads of the tags aren’t working :-/)

GIF: @nathan-bateman

From the first moment you met Santi, you had simply fallen into step with him. It was effortless, and so, as soon as you found yourself by his side, you stayed there. What’s more, that’s exactly where he wanted you to be.

Despite the man’s hard, no-nonsense edge -which you also appreciated- he was warm and charming. It was easy to connect with him, in a way it hadn’t often been for you. For him too - or so the boys told you - the way you surpassed his defences was a rare thing. It shouldn’t have worked, perhaps. Usually, he was slow to trust and you were quick to love, but on this occasion none of that seemed to apply, the two of you tumbling squarely into a fast-friendship; one deeper and more intense, perhaps, than its duration might suggest. Still, despite the boys’ inferences that you would quickly become an item, and Santi’s continual attempts to blur the lines between this and… something more, “friends” is what you have remained.

You had felt it immediately with him. Something different. You simply... flowed. You fit. It was immediately evident, even on that first night, in the way you orbited around one another, setting up an impromptu beer pong of all things. You moved together with a fluidity and a precision that seems almost tactical- as though you too had run countless manoeuvres in the field with him. You could read him and understand him as though you had drilled his habits and patterns and idiosyncrasies over and over; learning him. However, he was never that much effort - the two of you came naturally to each other, little learning required. You knew each other with your gut.

At that fateful party, when you each escaped to the back porch steps for some air at a serendipitous moment, the conversation had immediately flowed, and not only as a result of his natural, disarming charm. The silence even came easily rightaway – a comfortable thing, the space between you stuffed with contentment, rather than the feeling of a gaping vacuum, needlessly filled. It turned out his best friend was dating yours (the pair to be wed this very weekend) but that almost seemed like the cherry on top, rather than the thing bringing you to each other.

Safe to say, what was true then is true now. You get on so well. You find him fun and easy and generous and you love the man dearly.

…Most of the time.

Those other times, though? Santiago “Pope” Garcia can be a pain in your ass. But that’s another reason you love him, you guess. Keeps things interesting.

“Please don’t kill me,” Santi says sheepishly, and it’s obvious to you he’s laying on the charm - actively trying to be as disarming as possible as he saunters over from the reception desk. For a moment, despite all his training, he looks as though he believes you could pull it off, too.

Your annoyance is already prepped; locked and loaded, as he pads squarely towards the banquette where you are sat - amidst a sea of luggage. You’ve been observing his attempts to charm the desk clerk with interest (his efforts, you surmise, at least partially effectual), and judging from the slight level of desperation in his efforts, you can already tell he fucked up somehow.

“What did you do?” you say impatiently, even as a smile twitches at the corner of your lips.

“I booked all the rooms we needed, for all of the wedding guests, right? 13 rooms here, and all 10 at the hotel across town. 4 more in guesthouses,” he recaps. “Got Frankie and Mila a great deal too, remember?”

You remember. And yet, you fold your arms across your chest, looking up at him incredulously. Okay then. Rolling with your attitude, the man takes a different tack. He sits next to you. Smiles. Leans in. Pats your thigh. He’s trying to disarm you too, you realise. It’s going to take more than that - you’re not some flimsy desk clerk who will form a puddle and bat your eyes at the first sign of his charm.

“Well, funny story. I may have forgotten to book our rooms,” he blurts.

Oh? Oh, great. Yeah. This is a grand fuck-up. The whole damn town is booked-out. It’s a small town. No longer amused, your nostrils flare in annoyance as you tug in a slow breath, schooling your tone just a little before you speak. “You what?” Okay, you didn’t manage to school it all that much.

“Look, I already sort of fixed it,” he smooths. That explains the flirting with the clerk. Although, you think, glancing back at her. She’s pretty. That partially explains the flirting with the clerk, then, you mentally correct. “There’s just one, teeny-tiny issue.”

You raise your eyebrows and widen your eyes. Well?

“We’re gonna have to share a room.”

You blink at him a few times, in surprise. Well, it’s not ideal. For a number of reasons. But you can think of worse things, truth be told. And he’s not wrong. It is a solution. Still, on his reveal, a succession of emotions and micro-assessments are bounced back and forth between your eyes and his, until you land on resigned annoyance, exhaling a long sigh. That is, until Frankie appears in the lobby, swanning in like he’s walking on air. He probably is, given that he’s getting married this weekend. His face splits with a smile so wide you reckon it should be painful to maintain, and you stand to greet him as he heads over.

You’re glad he’s happy. It means that you and Santi, as Maid of Honour and Best man, respectively, are doing a fantastic job of deflecting all of the stress away from the happy couple. Indeed, that assessment certainly feels true – you do feel stressed. Still, the two of you immediately paint your faces with masking smiles; though, in fairness, it’s hard not to smile while looking at Frankie – his obvious joy is infectious.

Frankie wraps you both in a hug, then rubs his palms together like an excited kid. “I don’t have much time. Just gonna say a quick hello to my parents. Apparently, my mom’s already started crying? Can you two sort some extra tissues for the ceremony or something? Oh, and is everything okay with the rooms?”

“With this guy? Are you kidding?”, you say before you think, throwing your thumb towards Santi. Immediately, his eyes submit a powerful plea to you to keep schtum- it is written all over his face that he doesn’t want to let Frankie down. Not even in the smallest of ways.

Frankie would find his little error funny, probably. But he can find it funny after the ceremony. “Everything is A-OK! This guy? He has every single detail taken care of.”

Frankie grins, his eyes narrowing proudly at Santi as he slaps him on the back, laying profuse thanks on the two of you; then, he floats away again, as if on a cloud. Santi’s brown eyes are big with gratitude when you look at him again, and you can’t help but weaken. You’ll admit, it’s really not that bad of a fuck-up. Besides, you’re tired. Between the drive out here, the wedding rehearsal, and a never-ending list of errands, the day has been long. You just want to get to the room, and maybe even clock a snooze before the rehearsal dinner tonight.

“Fine,” you agree, albeit through gritted teeth. “We can share a damn room.”

Santi looks visibly relieved, and squeezes your shoulder in thanks. You’d even been nice enough not to bite his head off. “Yeah. We can share a room, right? It’s only for a weekend.” Suddenly, he doesn’t sound quite as certain.

“Sure. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?” you smile nervously.

He returns your smile and swivels, heading back towards the desk.

“Oh, wait!” you call after him. “Is it a double or a twin?” you ask in horror. Sharing a room is one thing, but sharing a bed?

He turns, looking over his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter!”, he winks. “Whatever it is, we’re gonna have to take it.”

Oh. Oh dear.

You’re inclined to agree -you don’t have many options- but when you catch yourself stealing a glance at the man’s shapely butt as he walks back to the desk, you begin to chew your bottom-lip nervously.

Right. Ha.

What could possibly go wrong?

**********************

It turns out, sharing a room with Santi is resoundingly not bad at all. In fact, at first, it’s as easy as everything else is with him - even between your hurried preparations for the evening, unpacking, shuttling items to the relevant members of the wedding party, and calling down to reception several times to check the logistics for the rehearsal dinner. Even getting dressed, you find an easy flow as you each flit in and out of the bathroom, dancing around each other with ease and only a hint of friendly bickering.

Santi’s respectful too- always knocking and announcing himself before entering a space, and averting his gaze when he needs to, given that you’re rushing around and undressing. You even manage to ignore the fact there’s only one bed for the longest time, parking that specific panic for later. Even then, he has already made reception send up extra pillows and blankets, forming a barricade in the middle of the bed so you two can comfortably separate.

Thankfully, you are so busy that the idea of sharing a bed with Santi doesn’t even cross your mind until you’re finally ready, dressed in your finery. When you step out of the bathroom, Santi -sat on the edge of said bed- stands up, thrusting his hands into his suit trousers as he takes the sight of you in, pulling the material taut -in a rather pleasing way- across his hips and thighs. He ends up slightly slack-jawed for a moment as his eyes trail over you, brewing with a gentle, self-conscious heat. “Fuck,” he says softly, his voice gruff. “You look…” a little gulp trails down his throat as you give him a little twirl. “…hot”, he says, his eyebrow ticking up on the last beat.

“Wait until you see my bridesmaid dress,” you smile, and he returns it easily, those gorgeous creases appearing around his eyes.

Unconsciously, you lick your lips. You can’t help but wonder, vaguely, what it would be like to push him down on to the mattress. Maybe straddle him. Fuck, you should have known this would be a bad idea. A heat rising in your face at that thought of that, you distract yourself by lifting his suit jacket from the back of the chair, holding it out for him as he slips it on to his shoulders, and feeling the luxurious texture of it beneath your fingers.

It’s a grey suit, tailored, and it hugs him in all the right places. The cool colour is perfect against his warm-toned brown skin, and brings out the salt in his salt-and-pepper curls, and in the rough rasp of grey flecked through his stubble.

You try desperately not to notice how good he looks, but this may be your greatest challenge yet.

“Come on,” you encourage, nodding towards the door. “We better head down.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, half-heartedly. The way his eyes are subtly roving over you, though, he looks like he has something entirely different in mind for dinner.

“You’re probably going to spend all night being chased by the single bridesmaids,” you add casually as you collect your purse, and apply a final dab of lipstick in front of the mirror. You’ve already clocked a few members of the wedding party eyeing him up, and you don’t exactly blame them for being thirsty. Besides, Santi is a huge flirt; so perhaps he’ll be the one doing the chasing. You wouldn’t be surprised if he ended the night with his tongue thrust deep in someone’s throat, which -you assume- is typical Santi fashion.

“Isn’t it traditional, anyway,” he smirks cheekily, applying a splash of cologne, “for the Best Man to hook-up with one of the bridesmaids?”

Lord, does he have to smell so… edible.

“Got news for you, man. You fucked up. You can’t exactly bring a girl back to your room now, can you?!” you tease, nodding back towards your shared bed, a wall of pillows already arranged down the middle. You mean it to come out in good-humour, but you can’t scrub the hint of jealousy from your tone entirely.

You feel so silly for being jealous of whomever he may hook-up with. After all, Santi is always the one testing the boundaries of friendship with you. It’s not like he’s ever made a secret of the fact he’s attracted to you- and you are the one here will a firm line in the sand. A line you simply won’t cross with him. Can’t cross. You want to - of course you do, but after being hurt in the past, you have simply built-up far too many defences; or, more accurately, just the right amount of defences, you think, to protect you. So, no matter how disarming the man is, you simply have to keep your guard up; because if he breached your walls, you know everything else would come tumbling so easily down.

You had fallen so easily into friendship with him, and you are certain that you would fall just as recklessly in love with him.

You’re not ready for that.

You can’t take being hurt again. Besides; Santi? He’s an incredible friend. He’s tenaciously loyal and dedicated to his squad. But when it comes to love, and sex, you doubt whether serious is even his thing - and you’re too afraid to ask.

“You ready to do this?” he asks, with a wink.

“Yep,” you nod. “Let’s roll,” and with that, you turn, heading for the hallway.

“Princesa- that dress really highlights your ass,” he praises as he tags along behind you.

“Thank you, it’s true,” you smile devilishly, already beginning to let your guard down, just a little. He’s simply so disarming. “Speaking of, Garcia – did you get your trousers a size too small on purpose?”

“Oh, you noticed?” he retorts, smugly, guiding you through the door with a hand on the small of your back.

Okay. Sometimes you flirt back. After all – look at him.

Especially in that damn suit.

***********************************

The rehearsal dinner goes swell. Frankie and Mila are a picture-perfect, loved-up couple, and they grin their way through the evening as if they slept with coat hangers in their mouths. The speeches are well-received, including Will’s, thus setting a high bar for you and Santi tomorrow. (You may be biased, but Santi’s is ten times funnier, and it’s going to kill, in your opinion.) There are no dramas through the evening- logistical or familial, and thanks to you and Santi overseeing everything with a military precision, it looks as though -so far- it is shaping up to be the perfect wedding weekend.

Finally, once your duties are over for the night, you are able to let your hair down a little, so to speak, and enjoy the food and company on offer. Still, with a big day ahead tomorrow, things wind down relatively early, and -having lost track of Santi at some point- you find yourself back at the shared room a little while before him. You usually burn out more quickly than he does in social situations, but even taking that into consideration, you begin to fret about where he has gotten to. With the way he was flirting his way through the party, though, it doesn’t take a genius to guess what (or who) might be keeping him up.

You try to sleep but you can’t, your mind going to the worst places, so, by the time Santi does return -softly cracking the door, and padding in with his shoes in his hands so as not to wake you- you have stewed in your own thoughts long enough to have become a little cranky. A little… green-eyed.

“Hey,” he greets in surprise when he enters, immediately noticing the soft lamp glow, and seeing you still sitting up in the bed, mindlessly watching the flicker of the tv on mute.

“Hey,” you return, your voice noticeably strained. “Have a fun time?” You find yourself wishing you weren’t sharing a room, then you wouldn’t have to know what he got up to.

“Yeah,” he replies softly, slipping off his jacket and laying it over the back of a chair. “Did you? How come you’re still up? Thought for sure you’d be wiped out by now.”

So, he did think of you, then?

“Couldn’t sleep,” you reply neutrally, fixing your eyes dead ahead as he begins to slip out of his trousers and shirt too, until he’s dressed in only his tight black boxers. Next, he takes off his watch and sets it at the bedside, and you notice that he smells of perfume. A cloying, floral scent that makes you feel a little sick.

“Just gonna have a quick shower and then I’ll slip in with you, okay?” he says, his voice slow and deep and muted, matching the soft light.

You still don’t look at him. You can’t.

“Do what you want. You usually do,” you bite, the words tasting bitter as soon as they have left your lips, and tears of regret pooling as your anger dissolves.

You don’t blame him if he was with someone – you really don’t. You’re simply angry at yourself; because you wish you could be that person, and you can’t for the life of you seem to find a way.

“Okay. What was that for?” he bristles, reacting defensively, turning towards you. And perhaps it’s because it’s late and he’s tired, or because certain demons feel safer coming out under the cover of darkness, but he doesn’t stop there. Especially when all he gets from you is a stony, pointed silence. “You know what? Actually, no. You don’t get to do this”, he hisses, and it is the first time you’ve ever heard him direct any genuine anger at you.

It doesn’t half sting.

“Do what?” you ask, but you already know the answer.

“You don’t get to be mad when I give my attention to someone who actually wants it,” his voice is hushed, but his words rattle through you as if he had yelled them. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Guess what, I’m not yours.”

“That’s not fair”, you snap back, and then things are quickly escalating.

“Isn’t it?” he asks, rasping a hand over his stubble in distress. “I mean, come on. Shit. You know that I want more but I…” he exhales a disgruntled laugh. “You shoot me down, which is your prerogative, honestly, but you can’t have it both ways. You can’t knock me back all the time and then be pissed off when I look elsewhere.”

You meet his face, the planes of it shadowed and angled harshly with anger, suddenly so unfamiliar to you, and it causes your eyes to bloom with tears. You two look the opposite of Frankie and Mila; of a picture-perfect couple. But you’re not even a couple at all, are you?

You see him try. To blunt the emotion which is bubbling up. To soften. But he has uncorked something he now can’t put back in. “Fuck, I just wish that….” he pinches his lips together and shakes his head, planting his hands on his hips and looking at the floor. “If you don’t want me, just put me out of my fucking misery. Just say it. Just fucking tell me.”

Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces at the thought you make him miserable. At the way his voice breaks. At the way he thinks you don’t want him. Maybe you were wrong, thinking that you could be friends at all. Thinking that could be enough for him.

Your lower lip trembles, and your fingers clutch the edge of the blanket. “I… I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell you that I don’t want you, Santi.”

You can’t because it isn’t true. It could not be further from the truth, in fact.

He puffs out air, an exasperated sound, his hand raising up to tangle in his grizzled curls. Raising his voice a little more. “Let me guess. You can’t tell me the other thing either?”

“I.. I..” You try, but no words will come. You simply shake your head, swallowing a sob, your eyes almost brimming over.

He nods. He nods, his mouth slanted down. “Great. Got it,” he huffs.

You hate this. You hate how much you’re hurting him.

“Santi,” you breathe weakly, but it is too weak to blunt the force of his emotion. To halt his trajectory, and so, resigned, he turns towards the bathroom, grabbing-up a fresh white towel from the counter. Before he closes the door, he turns to you once more, now speaking softly, his eyes as sad as yours. “You know,” he says, his index finger sawing back-and-forth over the stubble at his chin. “For the record, I wasn’t with anyone else. I can’t even fucking think about anyone else but you. I was late back to the room because I couldn’t face it.” His voice becomes small and pained. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to just curl up next to you and act like I don’t care.” His eyebrow ticks up, and he adds, with a final flourish. “Guess I should have taken a lesson from you.”

Oh, how it stings, pain flowering in your chest like a bruise, but you hold yourself together until he’s out of sight. Then, when he’s gone, you immediately cave in on yourself, falling on to your side and screwing your eyes shut, clamping your hand over your mouth so that he can’t hear you crying as wet tears spill onto your pillow.

When he comes back into the room, after a long shower, you simply screw your eyes shut and pretend to be asleep. You hear him sigh heavily, and mumble something to himself under his breath, before dragging a few pillows and a spare blanket down on to the floor.

A few more silent tears roll over the bridge of your nose.

You guess you wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him after all.

***********************

You wake panicked in the night, sitting bolt upright in the bed. A cold wash of sweat over your skin chills you, even though you feel like you’re burning-up.

Immediately, you reach for him, for Santi, calling his name even as your fear strangles the sound in your throat. Your heart is thudding, and your breaths are sawing in and out of you, but your grasping hands find nothing to your side but pillows and blanket.

Unfortunately, you are used to this occurrence, and you quickly realise it was “only” a nightmare. Still, the feelings and images it conjured linger in your body, and around you in the shifting, seemingly fluid shadows of the room.

With a release of tension, you whimper, leaning forward and cradling your head in your trembling hands, and you try to ground yourself. To steady your breath and your heartbeat, like you’ve practiced. As you do so, the shadows to your left shift and change, and, even in the pitch-black you can feel him, a safe and warm presence, instantly travelling to your side, his weight dipping the mattress. His soothing, sandy voice filtering through the shadows and cutting back the tendrils of your nightmare like a Disney prince hacking through cursed vines.

You vaguely remember that he’s mad at you - but you can’t help it. Can’t help asking. “Hold me?” you plead, desperately afraid that he won’t.

Still, without questions or hesitation, you feel the wall of remaining pillows coming down, the defences around you quite literally being dismantled – a figurative wall between you shifting away along with it. He shushes you, and you focus on his voice, until he is close enough that the scent of him wraps around you, before his arms follow closely after.

You reach for him in return. You reach for him in every way possible.

“It’s just a nightmare,” he soothes. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you,” and there is pain in his voice on your behalf, as if he tries to bear the burden of it for you.

“Closer,” you plead, and before you know it, he is shifting you on to your side, slotting his sturdy yet soft body around you, not caring that you feel clammy and hot against his bare skin. He simply loops his arms and draws your back, closer to his chest, becoming your big spoon.

He calms you, hands enveloping yours and bundling them against your chest, his nose nuzzling into your hair, and his deep steady breaths slowing your breathing as you let his calm and his rhythms overcome you. He holds you, until the feelings pass, not caring how long it takes – and with any anger from before apparently forgotten.

This pain is all too familiar to him, you know. It something that Santi understands. It is your own and it is not the same as his, true, but you know it is familiar enough that he will feel the ache of it echoing in his own chest. You know that he is accustomed enough to bearing his own pain, that when yours is too heavy to carry, he will help you hold it for a while. And so, he holds you, while you are a tender thing, bruised and afraid, and he keeps you safe; with all your walls down, all of your defences collapsed, he becomes your fortress.

You never thought that letting yourself be so vulnerable could allow you to feel quite as safe as this.

As you lie together, Santi continues to usher soft reassurances into your ear, his words like charms and incantations to ward off the ghosts which haunt you. And, after a series of slow, stretched moments, you become more settled, and Santi feels you relax against him.

After a few moments more, he eventually whispers a small question into your hair. In the dark, the question feels safe to come out, perhaps.

“Do you always call for me when you…?” he trails off, thinking better of it. “I’m sorry- forget it, you don’t have to answer that.”

You don’t. You know you don’t. You don’t even truthfully know the answer. It’s likely that you do call for him, though how would you know, when you’re usually alone? But, there is something else you can tell him, while it is safe to come out in the dark. Something you want to tell him, before you build your walls all the way back up.

“Santi,” you begin, timidly, and his fingers skim softly up and down your arms, encouraging you to go on. “I-I’ve been hurt before. And, I want to be with you. I want to let you in but… I’m. I’m not ready. I’m trying so hard but I… I can’t.”

There is a long beat, and you realise he has held in a breath only when he releases it all at once, fanning hot across the back of your neck.

You are afraid. Afraid of what he might say, in response – what he might feel, but you think, maybe, it might be something like relief? And, Santi squeezes you, just a little tighter. A little closer. “Don’t worry about that now, okay?” he soothes, his voice feather soft. “Just… know one thing, okay, Princesa? Whenever you are ready? I’m waiting.”

This time your heart fills with a different emotion, all the spaces in it flooded with contentment, Santi’s words followed by a perfect, happy silence.

A soft smile blooms on your face.

It was not a confession of waiting impatiently, you understand, but an invitation to take your time to arrive at him. He’s not trying to bring down your defences at all, is he? He’s waiting for you to open the door, and invite him in. He’s waiting until you are ready. He simply needed to know that you are on your way, even if your footsteps are getting you there slowly.

For now, though, the thought of it is too much. More than you’re ready for.

So, you simply let him hold you.

To disarm you further.

To walk yourself a little closer toward where you want to be. With him; by his side.

****************************************

In the morning, you wake up tangled around each other, Santi’s arm wrapped securely around your back and your head settled on his chest. He is still snoring lightly – cutely - when you awake, and so, as the night prior comes flooding back to you, you hastily try to extricate yourself from him; even if his bare skin feels so good against yours that you never want to move. You’re apparently not so subtle- or he’s a helluva light-sleeper – as, just when you pull away, Santi wakes up, quickly rushing to prove his innocence.

“You had a nightmare,” he croaks, still trying to peel his eyes open. “You asked me to- “.

“-I know. I remember,” you reassure, sitting up in bed, the blankets tugged to your chest. Santi shuffles, opting to assume the same position on his own side, mirroring you, rubbing his eyes.

You’re still not sure whether to apologise to him or thank him. Or maybe even to wait for an apology from him? Christ. Maybe all of those things or none of them, who even knows? You mentally spin a wheel and land on a casual “Uh. Thank you, for…. You know.”

“Anytime,” he says, turning his head to the side and looking at you earnestly. As if your bickering -your jealousy and his outburst- is all but forgotten. What’s more, you know that he means it.

Admiringly, your eyes wander over him, enjoying a side of him you’ve never quite seen before. Apparently, he’s even more handsome in the morning, with an even thicker, darkened brush of stubble, his grizzled curls dishevelled, and his swooping eyelids still heavy from sleep. Combined, it gives him a sultry, bedroom look. Feeling an involuntary rush of heat in the pit of you, your gaze drops to his corded neck, where, given the special occasion, he has substituted his dog tags for a silver chain, drawing your gaze down over his smooth, brown chest.

Your skin now cooling in the conditioned air of the room, you long for his body heat again, recalling how it felt to be held by him and wishing you had lingered a little longer while you could. Even with your interrupted sleep last night, you have somehow woken feeling refreshed, as though you had slept unreasonably deeply in his arms, reaching a whole new level of contentment - as though you just fit together, perhaps. As though it comes naturally for you to be held by him, and for him to hold you.

There is a silence and it isn’t awkward exactly; more… pregnant, with possibilities. Possibilities you see brewing with a gentle heat in his eyes. So, tearing yourself abruptly away from that line of thought, you lift your phone up from the nightstand, and note that there isn’t long before your alarms sound anyway.

Operation Wedding Day is go.

That should be enough of a distraction for you, shouldn’t it?

“You ready for this, Best Man?” you ask him, with a gentle quirk of your lips.

“Sure. Are you ready, Maid of Honour?”

Ready. Are you ready?

Thoughts of last night swirl in your head.

Well – as Santi flashes you a tentative, disarming smile, with hooded eyes, you certainly feel like you’re getting there. Like soon you could be ready.

“Sure. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Atta girl,” he encourages, folding his arms behind his head as you jump out of bed.

You suddenly don’t care that you’re in nothing but your underwear, as you stretch out your body and track towards the bathroom. “I’ll shower first?”

“We’re sharing a bed,” he teases. “Sure you don’t want to share a shower too?”

You scoff, flashing a mischievous smile right back at him. You’ve always had a soft spot for his flirting, but you feel like -after all that transpired last night- you truly see if for what it is now. You realise why it has never felt like he’s pressuring you - not once. He’s simply reminding you, that as soon as you call for him, he’ll be there. That he’s waiting, when you’re ready.

Reminding you, that as soon as your walls drop, he’ll be your fortress.

“I don’t think you’re gonna get quite that lucky this morning, Garcia.”

You do linger in the doorway, just a little longer than necessary though, so that he can get a better look at you. He’d never look without permission – he proved that yesterday, when you were in various states of disarray- but this time, sensing your invitation, his eyes graze over you slowly, keenly. So, when he strategically moves his hands from behind his head to hide the tenting covers, you don’t mind at all.

You smile devilishly as you slip into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You’re not sure if he will… take care of himself out in the room – how could you know? But, feeling inspired, you certainly do so in the shower, and it’s a pretty great wake-up call before you face the wedding day.

Maybe sharing a room isn’t so bad. Maybe you could even get used to it.

*********************************************

Frankie and Mila get hitched without a hitch.

Santi goes to the ends of the earth to make sure that Frankie has the best day possible- and at some points, he goes even further than that. His speech was moving and flawless, and pretty fucking funny; even if you are a little (or a lot) biased. Not a dry eye in the house, just as you predicted.

The man adores Frankie with his whole heart, and you could barely hold back the glow of admiration as you listened to him, feeling like it might burst from your chest like a beam of gold sunlight. You felt it especially strongly every time his eyes met yours during the course of the speech, and you couldn’t help but smile yourself stupid each time he did so. And, of course, you were overjoyed to see your best friend have the day of her dreams, with the man of her dreams. If you do say so yourself, you think your speech was pretty killer too.

Suffice to say, you ate until your belly was full, loved until your heart hurt, laughed until your sides ached, and danced until your feet ached.

Tonight, unlike last night, you and Santi retire to your shared room at the same time, your arm linked into his, and your shoes carried in your hand to spare your sore feet – there’s a reason you never normally wear shoes like this. Without your heels though, you keep tripping over the hem of your dress almost every few paces, causing you to giggle and Santi to steady you with a warm, rich chuckle, sometimes throwing you an extra hand to assist you.

You look over at him, furtively, as he recounts some of the more choice moments from the day, immensely enjoying the simple pleasure of hearing him talk and smile and laugh. Seeing him happy. Of course, enjoying how he looks too, you have to admit - even more handsome than he did yesterday (somehow) in midnight blue dress pants, and a white, crisp shirt, now tieless. He’s only grown sexier as the evening drew on too, now with a wide open-collar and rolled up sleeves to accommodate all of the dancing; or, at least, as much dancing as his knees could handle, until he’d simply opted to sit to the side and watch you boogie, his eyes apparently transfixed on you and only you - the advances of the other bridesmaids be damned.

There is something that hits different about the way he looked at you today. His admiration shining deeper than usual. Less like a casual lust, and more like something… serious. You’re not sure why you doubted it before, exactly. Why you have been so inordinately afraid that he might hurt you. You broadly figured him for a smash and dash type of man, which is fine, but you have every reason to believe that he wants more with you.

After all, Santi can be deeply and tenaciously loyal. He has dedicated himself to things deeply and unwaveringly several times over in his life. To his country, to his missions, to his morals, to his squad. And there’s something about the way he looked at you today, you think, that suggests he might dedicate himself to you with the same tenacity. Something far deeper than appreciating how you look in this bridesmaid dress (and oh boy do you look hot). It’s more like the way he looks at Frankie. A little different to that, obviously. But you’re realising he looks at you like he’d never let you down. Not even in the smallest of ways. Like he’d rather go to the ends of the earth -or beyond- than do that.

At least… you think so.

You are sure about one thing though. The way he looks at you? It’s thoroughly disarming.

And so, you arrive at your shared room, utterly wiped out from the day (and night), yet still somehow buzzing with an energy. A gentle suffusing heat under your skin as you watch Santi walk inside and kick off his shoes at the end of the bed, before turning back towards you.

You have entered a few paces behind him, after nearly tripping on your gown all over again by the door, but now, you are quite steady on your feet - aside from that slight, nervous tremble in your quaking legs as he looks at you like that. As Santi looks you up and down, eyes skimming over the contours of your dress and hence everywhere it hugs your figure. Evidently, he likes what he sees.

“Wow,” he breathes, his brown eyes shining as if he’s looking at you for the first time that day, even if his gaze has barely left you all night. “I know it’s the bride’s day, but you look fuckin’ smokin’, sweetie.”

“You think so?” you ask humbly, suddenly feeling unreasonably shy. Flustered even.

“Yeah. I think so,” he nods, positively certain. “Shit, you’re so beautiful.”

You look at him. You look at him in a way which suggests an answer in your eyes instead of a question. A clear intention in your body, instead of uncertainty. But he doesn’t push you. He doesn’t assume. He doesn’t make a move. Instead, his mouth tugs up into a lopsided smile, offering you a lazy flash of teeth, and he shoves his thumbs into his belt loops.

“Well, we’re officially off the clock now, so I’m calling it. Well done, Maid of Honour. Think we nailed it? Made a pretty damn good team?”

A smile lights your face. You did. You flowed. You fit. It was easy.

Fuck. It feels so easy. Why had you ever thought this would be hard?

You nibble on your lip, eyeing him with intention, and a hard swallow trails down his throat in response.

“Off the clock, hmm?” you say breathily. “No more titles or duties? Huh. That’s a real shame.”

“How so?” he asks, his eyes devouring you alive, but his body fixed resolutely in place. Transfixed to the spot.

“Because it’s traditional for the Best Man to get with one of the bridesmaids, isn’t it?”

A slow, disbelieving smile inches over his face, and he looks at his feet, a little bashful. “Gross tradition. Kinda sexist,” he says, and your gaze fixates on his full, curving lips. On his hands, poised and broad at his belt.

“So, you don’t want to make out then?” you ask in your most sultry voice, mere breath.

The man huffs out a quick, broken exhale. “Fuck me. You know I do, sweetie. But only if you’re ready.”

Ready. Are you ready?

“Santiago,” you say, with conviction, your eyes dancing between his. “I’m ready.”

Santi searches your face one last time, just to be certain. He’s sure, of course – has been for a long time, but he needs to know that you truly want this. That you want this now. So, he looks at you, and he finds nothing but permission. Even so, after so long, he still can’t quite believe it. He would go to the ends of the earth to keep you safe – or beyond – and, so dammit, he will ask you again.

“C-can I..” he begins, and his voice already sounds choked; hollowed out with need. “Fuck, Princesa, can I kiss you?”

Too long. Too long without moving. Without touching. Too long.

If you were suddenly ready, his kiss becomes even more suddenly overdue.

“You’d better,” you encourage, feeling like vapour. “Unless you want me to do it first.”

With permission granted, you expect him to be on you, with a surge. All at once. But Santi has been patiently waiting for you long enough. He can wait just a little longer, and, when he subtly tips his chin up, ever so slightly, and when he near growls “come here then, honey,” somehow, it is perfect. Somehow, it is a thousand times hotter that he makes you come to him.

You lift the hem of your dress, and you pad delicately towards him, feeling like you are wading through molten honey to get to him, the air thick and sweet.

“That’s it. Come here, baby,” he encourages, with a curl of his index finger beckoning you to him, his voice curling in the pit of you, making you feel weak in the best way possible. Making you feel spent before he’s even done so much as brush you with his hand or his lips.

You close the remaining distance with your steps, the anticipation too much, and your legs feeling so weak from the reckless lust and the light, liquid softness in his eyes. By this point, you are begging for his arms to reach out and clasp you- to hold you up; make you secure and safe in him. You are begging for his lips to sink down on to yours. But he makes you wait, through a few more slow, stretched moments. Makes you inch your mouth closer and closer until your lips are almost skimming his. He makes you wait until you are moaning his name into the air before he has even touched you.

“Santi.”

And, if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that when you call for him, he is always there to take care of you.

You know he will take care of you.

With that, his name a plea, he swoops his broad, large hand up until he is holding you, his fingers closing around your jaw and your throat, trailing down your neck. His touch is painfully gentle, but in a way that makes you want him to squeeze, a little harder. In a way that makes you push yourself ever so subtly into his hand. A way that draws a silken moan from deep in your chest, and Santi is moved to dip the pad of his thumb into your mouth, where it meets your wet and willing warmth. When your tongue skims him, humming as you taste his saltiness, that seems to be the final straw, a wrecked groan sounding from his throat, and finally he surges on to your lips, leading with his tongue, thrusting into your open mouth and drinking down every sound and moan he can draw from you, his stubble rough against you. You don’t care if he leaves you raw.

It’s tender, and it’s gentle, but Santi knows all about control, and you can tell he’s holding back. His hands are lethal, and he knows just how to kill you softly; but, you are certain, that if you want more of his power, he’ll give it to you. That he’ll take care of you however you like.

So, he kisses you more deeply, harder, and you go near limp against him until one of his arms wraps at the back of your head and one at the small of your back, making you feel a feeble thing, waning in his arms as his large hands support you. Except; you’re not feeble though. You’re not by a long shot, and you know exactly what you want.

“Santi,” you suspire, letting him walk you back against the wall, pressing his bulging arousal into you as more wrangled sounds and little grunts slip from his parted lips.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, already sounding wrecked for you.

“There’s only one shower. Wanna share?!”

Even as he releases an endlessly eager, disbelieving breath, his eyes keenly search your face, checking you are ready. He watches, enraptured, as your lips curl into a deliciously sinful smile.

“You know. We don’t have to rush this,” he insists, even as he shivers with need, closing his eyes and biting his lip when you angle your hips to brush the tenting bulge at his crotch, ever so fleetingly, his hips bucking into you immediately in pursuit of more pressure.

“I know,” you say coolly, your body an undercurrent of frenzy, but your mind calm and sure. You push him back, with your palms to his chest, making room for you to about-turn into the bathroom, shimmying off your dress as you go and letting it waft to the floor like a sigh. Looking at him over your shoulder, with lust-blown eyes, you leave Santi stood there, entirely dumbfounded, as you reveal all of yourself to him.

You retreat, but once the water is running you call out to him, wondering where he has got to. “Take a hint, Garcia. If you’re ready? I’m waiting.”

And, he doesn’t waste another second before joining you.

THE END

(BONUS: Outfit inspo, if you wanna imagine him in the suits a lil better 😉)

#santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac

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chokemeanakin · 4 years

Text

A Reason to Stay

Anakin Skywalker x gn Reader (angst)

Masterlist

Wc: 1.6k

So I’m not open about this kind of stuff, and I never wanted to bring it to my blog because it’s supposed to be my safe & happy space. But I was struggling really bad last night, and I just got to writing (it’s my coping mechanism), and this was the result. I wasn’t going to post it, but then I thought it might help some other people going through tough times as well. So please, read the warnings and if you’re not comfortable with it then don’t read it. I only have good intentions, but I understand that this could be triggering for some people.

Again, if you’re a mutual that regularly reads and reblogs my work, please don’t feel obligated to this time. It covers very sensitive topics so only read if you’re okay with it.

WARNINGS (please read!)- sad reader, depressed reader, mentions of suic!dal thoughts, and mental health struggles

Prevention hotline for all countries

(Gif from @haydenchristensengifs )

Sometimes, it all got to be too much. The thoughts would trickle in like a slow snowfall, and then the clouds would come and the wind would pick up and suddenly there was a whole tempest, the sun blotted from the sky and your mind swarmed in darkness. It was as if you were suffocating beneath heaps of snow, although you couldn’t feel the cold. You were numb, unfeeling, but deep in the core of your body, your soul screamed in agony.

Even just showering was difficult. On this particular day, you managed to get yourself in to clean up, but found tears dripping down your face halfway through, mingling with the warm spray. As soon as you realized you were crying, it was as if the monster inside of you broke free. It burst through the prisons that you had so desperately chained it up in, and began to devour you whole. Your throat closed up, chest squeezing, limbs aching, as the pain claimed every inch of you.

Why did you have to be like this? Why couldn’t you just be normal? You didn’t understand why you had to feel this way, why you had to hurt so much. It was all too overwhelming, and you struggled to see the point of trying anymore if this is all it got you.

You turned the shower knob, cutting the water off before you accidentally stayed in there for hours. Your eyes stared blankly ahead as you got dressed, wrangling the demon back down, building over it, locking it back up. But tonight was a bad night. You could feel it, the hopelessness of it all clawing at you in the back of your mind.

Thoughts popped into your head, and they provided some relief. And then they started to scare you. What were you thinking?

You had two choices, and it could really go either way. One, you could listen to that demon and follow along that dark path, and see just where it could take you. Maybe it would provide an escape from the crippling pain inside you, release you from your prison and give you that sweet relief you could only dream about.

Or, you could get help.

That option didn’t seem as pleasing to you, but you didn’t want to give in to the darkness. It pulled at you, but something stronger pulled you out of that bathroom and into Anakin’s room.

He was putting his uniform away in his dresser when you walked in, shaking and crying, and hugging yourself so hard you were sure to leave bruises on your sides. He turned as he sensed you, face immediately falling as he took in your state.

“Y/n, what’s wrong?”

You stood in his doorway, crumbling beneath the weight of his gaze. It had taken so much strength and courage for you to come to him— this was you admitting you needed help, admitting that you wanted to keep fighting the darkness. Now, you put your trust in Anakin that he would help you the rest of the way.

“I just... can you just...” you weren’t sure what you were asking. You just needed him to be there.

He understood.

Anakin rushed over and threw his arms around you, rocking you back and forth on the spot. He hugged you so tight to his body that you could hardly breathe, and just for a moment his warmth chased the demon away.

His arms were strong and he smelled of soap. He had just taken a shower too, and his sleep clothes were soft against your cheek. You closed your eyes and clung to him tightly, your crying becoming uncontrollable.

“What hurts, baby?” his tone was hushed, thick with concern. He could sense the waves of pain rolling off of you, but couldn’t find any wounds.

“Everything. It hurts so bad,” you sobbed. Your breath shuddered, and you buried your face further into his chest, voice muffled as you added, “I can’t do it anymore.”

Anakin’s heart wrenched as he held your trembling body. He wanted to move you to the bed, but he was afraid you would crumble to the ground. Whatever was hurting you, he could tell it was terrible, and he wanted nothing more than to take the pain away.

“Anakin,” you sobbed again. You couldn’t force any more words out, but the broken sound of his name tumbling from your lips screamed your message loud and clear. Help me.

“Shhh, I’m here. You’re okay. Nothing’s going to hurt you,” Anakin rubbed a hand up and down your shuddering back. His cheek rested against the top of your head, hushing you over and over as you broke apart in his arms. Talk to me, he wanted to say, but he was almost certain that would only make it worse. Tell me what you need.

By the way you melted into his body, your fingers digging into his flesh, he already knew the answer. You just needed him to hold you for now, to remind you what being warm felt like, what being alive felt like. And it was working. The thoughts that had been barraging you, telling you that you were worthless and that nobody would care if you were gone began to hush in time with his strokes. Even with the demon now wrangled into its cage, the aftershocks of its pain remained. You had thoroughly scared yourself, and the crying would not let up.

You’re not sure when Anakin managed to relocate you to the bed. One minute you were standing in the doorway, the next he had pulled you into his lap on the bed, keeping you buried into his chest with a hand to your head. His other hand massaged soothing patterns into your back, grounding you from the swirling tempest inside.

Coming to him was the right choice. You’re not sure where you would be right now if it weren’t for him, and you’re not sure you could survive another round of this if he wasn’t there to hold you through it in the future.

“Please don’t leave me,” you begged, the thought of being alone again frightening you. You didn’t mean just now— you meant ever.

“I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”

“Do you mean it?” you pulled back, looking at him through tear-brimmed eyes. “You have to promise. I can’t do this alone.”

“I promise. I love you.”

Those words. They punched a hole through your heart, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. Your throat released a strangled whimper as your fists tightened on his shirt, a fresh wave of tears gushing from your eyes. Anakin released a hand to hold your face, wiping them away as fast as they dripped down your cheeks.

“Please, Y/n, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You knew your next words were going to hurt him. But you couldn’t hold the burden on your own shoulders anymore— he deserved to know why you were acting this way, and the only way he could help was if he knew the full extent of your torments.

“I just need a reason to stay.” Your voice came out weak, broken. You could feel his chest hitch, a cold fear trickling down his spine.

You couldn’t mean...

“I’ll be your reason,” his answer was immediate. His panic resurfaced, tears pricking at his eyes as the full realization of what you meant sunk in. How had you been keeping this a secret from him for so long? How had he not noticed?

He had let your pain slip right past him, right under his nose, this whole time. He had failed you, and now he had to make sure he never let you go again.

“You asked for a reason. Y/n, let me be your reason.”

His heart thundered against his chest. Each beat called out for you— Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go. How could he take your pain away? How could he make it all better? Would his promise be enough to save you?

You gasped through another round of sobs, forehead falling against his collarbone. The pain in his voice— you hated putting him through it. But it was helping, his words were helping, and you clung to each syllable like they formed a lifeline.

“I won’t ever leave you, but that means you can’t ever leave me. Deal?” He needed you to look at him, to know you were hearing his words, and that he meant them. He waited until you could breathe again, and then brought your face back up to meet his. His eyes burned bright with a fierceness you had only ever seen when he was on the battlefield. Behind that, they shone with the tears of an intense, desperate fear.

“Y/n, you have to stay.”

Anakin was begging you, just like you had been begging him. The weight in your heart was still there, but your resolve cracked. You nodded. You would stay another day, another night, another everything as long he asked you to. He was enough— he would be your reason.

And while this was not the end of the darkness, or any battle for that matter, it gave you hope— you did not have to fight alone anymore. When you could not find the strength inside of yourself to go another day, he was more than willing to give you some of his. One thing was made certain, the silent promise ringing loud and clear between your shaking breaths and the beat of his resolute heart— he was never letting you go.

Endnote:

This was super personal for me to put on here, so please be nice about it. Also, I do not intend to convey the message that a boy’s love can save you. I just wanted to write about how it’s okay to get help, and sometimes that help is having another person be there for you. That being said, you shouldn’t rely on another person as your sole source of happiness forever, but if that’s what you need to make it another day, then do it.

If you’ve made it this far, then know that I love you and you’re not alone, no matter how alone you feel. My messages are always open, and I’ll be right here if you ever need a reason to stay. ❤️

#Anakin #Anakin Skywalker #anakin skywalker x reader #Anakin x reader #Anakin x reader fic #Anakin Skywalker x reader fic #Anakin Skywalker x gn reader #anakin fic #anakin fluff #anakin skywalker fluff #Anakin angst #Anakin Skywalker angst #mental health fic #read at your own risk

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countryclubstarkey · 4 years

Text

First Time - Rudy Pankow (Smut)

Not My Gif

Pairings: Rudy Pankow x Reader; Some JJ Maybank x Y/C/N

Warnings: NSFW, Smut, Virgin Reader, Dry Humping, Oral Sex (Female Receiving).

Word Count: 2.5k+

Y/C/N = Your Character’s name.

A/N: This request, I hope you like it, sorry it took some time! I didn’t mean to make it this long LOL.

Getting the job as JJ Maybank’s love interest is a blessing and a punishment at the same time. JJ is a very sexually active character, and that means so is your character. This results in a few steamy scenes between you and Rudy.

The downside is that you have zero experience when it comes to sex, you’ve had a few boyfriends, but the furthest you’ve gone is some hardcore french kissing. Rudy, on the other hand, is a sex god; some of the stories that you’ve heard by accident made your face as red as JJ’s baseball cap.

Today is one of those days where JJ and Y/C/N have an intense makeout session with some humping as Jonas put it. You’re currently in the hair and makeup trailer, getting some final touch-ups before you’re called on set.

“Hey y/n, you ready?” Rudy asks as he walks into the trailer, startling you slightly.

Avoiding his eyes by looking at your lap instead. “Ya, I’m just kind of nervous.” You answer truthfully. Rudy’s joyful laughter fills the trailer.

He grabs your hands brushing them innocently to calm down your nerves, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, if you feel uncomfortable at any time, I want you to tell me okay?”

Standing up, you adjust the two-piece swimsuit; you’re wearing for the scene and follow Rudy’s lead to set. He holds your hand the entire time, brushing it gently with his thumb making you relax and more prepared than before.

“You guys ready?” Jonas asks the two of you. Taking your nods as a simple answer of yes, everyone gets into position.

“And Action.”

Start of Characters scene -------------------------------------

“JJ, John B is going to walk in at any minute,” you tell your boyfriend of five months as he continues to kiss down your neck.

Pulling you onto his lap on John B’s couch, “I know baby, but you look so hot in that bikini and you know I can’t control myself.” You start grinding against him, trying to create some friction as his lips passionately make their way onto yours.

One hand moves to your hips to help you move further, as his other palms your breasts through your top. Your nipples start to harden as you move your body closer to him by wrapping your arms around his arm.

“Fuck, you’re going to make me cum in my pants,” he moans in your mouth, speeding up his own actions. Your core feels hot as his hands travel to your inner thighs before landing on your behind instead. Feeling him grow harder as his solid bulge presses against your center encouraging your actions to speed up.

His mouth finds its way to your neck and breasts, leaving sloppy kisses as his hands go to untie your top.

“What the fuck are you guys doing on my couch,” John B yells at the two of you, causing you to break apart landing on opposite sides of the couch.

End of Characters scene -------------------------------------

“And Cut, we’re done for the day guys enjoy your night,” Jonas yells.

Trying to fix your outfit a little, you immediately become self-conscious from being exposed to a room full of people. Rudy observes your actions and puts his jacket around you. He wraps his arms around your waist before guiding you towards your trailer following you inside.

“You good?” He asks when you finally reach a private setting. Rudy has always had a soft spot for you, and over the past few weeks, you’ve gotten especially close. He’s taken you on a few dates, but hasn’t asked you to be official yet and all of the guys have been teasing him about it.

“Ya, I just have never done that before in real life or on set,” you mumble shyly. Rudy tilts your chin upwards, so you meet his eyes before leaning in for a sweet kiss. It’s different from any kiss you’ve had on set, this one is passionate, loving and innocent. Pulling away after a few seconds, Rudy is smiling widely admiring your beautiful features. Brushing your hair away, he kisses your forehead before speaking up.

“I don’t care what you’ve done or haven’t, I just want to be able to call you mine.” Rudy whispers, not ready for your reaction.

Leaning in, you return your lips to his, revealing your answer through the kiss, “Consider it done Pankow.”

Rudy picks up your body, your legs wrap around his waist, kissing him as he strolls to your couch before settling down with you on his lap. His hands stay on your waist not wanting to pressure you into anything without your consent.

“I want more,” You mumble against Rudy’s lips. He pulls away making sure that you actually want things to go further, “Are you sure?”

You respond by taking his jacket off leaving you in your bikini only. He admires your body for a few seconds before pulling your lips back on his own.

“Let me try something then.” He tells you while flipping your body so that you’re lying down with Rudy above you.

Appreciating your body before doing anything, Rudy leans down, kissing every inch of your body making you feel like you’re on fire. Starting at your lips and playfully fighting with your tongue, he pulls away when he feels your breathing uneven.

Going lower, his wet tongue runs circles on your neck as his cool breath calms your body down a bit. He bites and nips at the skin to mark your neck, leaving some sort of pattern that you have to check later. Soothing the skin after, with soft kisses, his mouth makes contact with your breasts.

“Can I?” he ushers towards your straps, giving him a needy nod. He pulls at the strings leaving your breasts exposed to him for the first time. Having the need to cover them right away, Rudy senses your actions and gathers your hands in his own, putting them above your head, “You’re beautiful, don't hide from me.”

Your nipples harden because of the cold air and your arousal. Rudy alternates between rubbing one of your breasts in his hand, while his mouth occupies the other. Leaving the same marks that are on your neck, his tongue brushes past your nipple, making your body ache towards him. Finally, feeling satisfied with his work, he decides to move towards your most delicate parts. Kissing down your stomach, he reaches the hem of your bottoms. Looking into your eyes asking for permission, you hesitantly nod at him because of the new experience.

Slipping your bottoms down your legs, he lands between your legs, admiring your pussy like he just found gold. Your legs tighten around his body, but he grabs them, forcing them apart.

“You’re soaking baby,” he tells you before blowing on your slit, making your body shudder. Teasing your entrance with one finger, he spreads your wetness around. Then, he focuses on your clit for the first, “Have you ever made yourself cum?” he curiously asks.

“A few times, but it wasn’t that good.” You answer your body honestly in desperate need to be properly touched.

Rudy smirks at you, “Good, I’ll make you feel real good princess.” Slowly thrusting one finger in, he feels you tense around him. He wraps his mouth around your clit to make the action easier as you relax in his arms, making him thrust into you easier.

“F-uck, that feels good,” you whimper. His other hands knead your breasts, and he playfully flicks your sensitive nipples.

In desperate need of more, “Please Rudy, do more.”

He adds another finger to your center, and your body welcomes him with ease as your wetness allows him to slip in easily. His mouth continues working on your clit; he alternates between kitten licking the bud and furiously licking it to pleasure you further. The addition of his finger and mouth causes an unfamiliar feeling to build up in your stomach.

Rudy keeps a steady rhythm between fingering you and licking your clit as you feel your stomach snap, “F-uck, fuck I’m going to cum,” your screams fill the room.

“Go ahead baby, let me taste you.” Your toes curl as you grip Rudy’s hair when you cum all over Rudy’s fingers and tongue. Your legs shake around his head as he continues lapping up your juices, working you through your orgasm.

“Good job, baby girl.”

A few months later --------------------------------------------

You’ve made it official with Rudy a few months ago, and everything has been going great. He treats you with respect, never pressures you into anything and always takes you on new adventures exploring something new.

Tonight, you finally decided to ask Rudy to take your virginity, you trust him and know that he will never do something that you don’t want.

You bought a red lingerie set a few days ago with the girls, and they teased you all day about it, but they also made sure you were ready and comfortable with everything.

Currently, Rudy is chilling on his bed as you excused yourself to go to the bathroom. Taking off your clothes, you admire how the dark red set compliments your skin, making you feel sexier than usual. Walking out, you stop in front of Rudy’s eyes as his jaw drops from the sight taking in how perfect you look. Standing up, he walks towards you, “Baby, are you trying to kill me, you look so beautiful.” You crash your lips against his appreciating how great he is, making you feel beautiful tonight and every single day of your relationship.

“I’m ready, Rudy,” you whisper. His eyes widen as he steps back to comprehend your request.

Cupping your face, “Are you sure, baby?” You place his hand over your clothed mound, so he feels how much you desire him.

Getting his answer, Rudy takes his clothes off as soon as possible before pushing you onto the bed. Admiring your body one more time, he takes off your lingerie leaving you bare in his arms, “As much as I love this set on your body, I love your naked body even more.”

You palm him through his briefs as your eyes widen from how hard he is and how big he feels under your tiny hands, “Don’t worry, baby, we’ll make it fit.” He winks at you. Your body develops in giggles making you feel no longer tense.

His hand joins yours as he helps you pull his member out. It immediately slaps against his belly button, almost hitting you in the process. Rudy is definitely above average as his cock is defined with veins, his red tip is begging for attention as it drips with pre-cum. Leaning forward, you try to lick his member, but he pulls away before you make contact.

“I want tonight to be about you, we can do this later.” Rudy grabs your waist and puts you underneath him as he hovers over your body. His hands wander all-around, rubbing your breasts, hips, waist, and ass. Brushing his hand over your clit, he feels how wet you are already. Spreading your wetness around, he teases your clit for a little while palming your breasts trying to get you ready as possible. Feeling ready, “Please, Rudy, I need your cock,” you desperately whimper trying to find friction against his thigh. He reaches over to his drawer and grabs a condom with a bottle of lube.

“Can I do it?” You ask, gesturing towards the condom. He eagerly nods his head as you rip the packet open. You pinch the tip and slide it down his length, making sure it’s on right. He looks slightly in shock from your knowledge of condoms.

“I guess those sex-ed classes came in handy,” you tease him slapping his chest playfully. He lubes up the condom, and finally you can feel his member rub against your clit.

“It’s going to hurt a little, are you ready?” Rudy asks you with his sweet eyes. Nodding your head at him, he pushes in, immediately stopping when he sees the discomfort on your face.

“I’m okay, keep going,” you reassure him. He slowly goes inch by inch, stopping for a little when he notices you wince or tense up. After a few minutes, you feel him reach the bottom, making you feel fuller than you have ever been.

Rudy rubs your clit to distract you and ease your pain; he prevents himself from hissing by your constant clenching. Trying to control himself from finishing too early, he rubs your clit faster and kneads your breasts.

“Can I move?” He asks in a shaky tone. Giving him a nod of reassurance, Rudy begins thrusting into you at a desperate pace. His hand never leaves your clit as he wants you to feel pleasure as soon as possible, “Go faster.”

His thrusts move faster than before as you feel the pain turn into pleasure with his thrust until the pain is all gone, and all you can feel is pleasure. Your moans and his grunts are the only sounds escaping your lips as Rudy feels you constantly clench around him, making it impossible to not cum. He lifts one leg over his shoulder, making him hit your g-spot something you have never discovered before. The foreign spot makes your screams the loudest noise in the room as Rudy’s thrusts make your stomach coil up. He speeds up his thrusts and goes at a swift pace, trying to bring you to the edge.

Your legs shake around his body as your juices flow out covering the condom, “F-uck I’m cumming,” you scream, shaking in his arms. His thrusts or his thumb doesn’t leave your clit as you feel him release his load in the condom before dropping on you but not crushing you. Nuzzling his head in the base of your neck, your heavy breathing is the only thing you can clearly understand.

Rudy pulls out discarding the condom before cleaning up and pulling a blanket on the both of you, “Go to sleep, baby,” he mumbles in your ear.

The next morning

You wake up to the sound of laughter, realizing Rudy is no longer sleeping beside you. Grabbing one of his longer t-shirts, you pull it over your naked body grabbing a pair of clean panties as well before walking or more like limping out the door. Your body is still feeling sore from last night as you finally reach the noise.

The cast is all here in their sweats, watching some random show on T.V while drinking a few beers.

“Isn’t it a little early for a beer?” you question, sitting on Rudy’s lap as he welcomes you with open arms.

They laugh at your statement, making your face scrunch up, “Babe, it’s three pm.” Madison giggles as you look at them in disbelief, not noticing the time.

“I guess you had a rough night, huh?” Drew sasses so you blush in Rudy’s arms.

Rudy hugs you from behind, giving you extra support, “Hey, leave her alone; I can’t help it that she’s beautiful and makes me happy.” You give him a quick peck because of his cheesy comment.

The house erupts in groans, and a few vulgar words as your friends adore and are disgusted by your relationship.

#rudy pankow #rudy pankow smut #rudy pankow x you #rudy pankow x reader #rudy pankow x reader smut #obx smut #obx #jj maybank #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x reader smut #outer banks smut #outer banks imagine #outer banks

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writing-in-april · 4 years

Text

Mismatched

Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Than you to @imagining-in-the-margins for this perfect gif!

Summary: Reader is Spencer’s roommate has been pining after Spencer for a while now. One morning they finally get to act on their shared desires.

Warnings: NSFW (Non specific dom), Goofy smut, Unprotected sex, Oral (Female Receiving)

A/N: So anxiety has been a real bitch to me as of late but I finally finished this so sorry its 3 weeks late. This is also a little shorter then I intended but I still like the way it turned out. Hope y’all enjoy and my requests are open!

Masterlist Word count: 2.3k

Spencer’s penchant for wearing mismatched socks was one of the things I found most endearing about him. I often peaked down to look at what socks he was wearing each day, they almost always gave clues about his mood. I knew that if they were plain colored socks with no pattern he was usually feeling down and on the opposite end if they had little characters on them I knew he was probably in a great mood.

Today on our off day from the BAU he was sitting on the couch of our apartment with a coffee in one hand and a book in the other reading some obscure novel in French that I could never understand. Ever since we became roommates I often stared at his visage soaking in the beautiful image of him every morning.

“Good morning Jelly Bean.” A soft whisper speaking my nickname that I loathed spoke drawing my eyes away from his form, getting distracted before I could look and see what colors adorned his feet today. His eyes bore into me as he glanced up and down my figure that was only barely covered in one of his shirts that I had stolen. I smirked to myself at the sight of his wantonness. Ever since I had heard him and Derek talking about his crush on me I had been trying to coax him into acting on it. I knew that my pale pink lace boy shorts were definitely in view as that was my intention the whole time, he always got this almost feral look about him when he saw me in some clothes I had nicked from him.

“Hey Spence.” I said with a coy smile meant to deceive as to not give away my intentions. His eyes narrowed at my words unsure if I was doing this on purpose or not. Before I could even comprehend what was going on Spencer had tossed his book aside and made his way over to me. He trapped me against the counter so I couldn’t escape him with our breath intermingling from how close we were, though I was quite happy with the position I had found myself in.

“Do you know what you’re doing to me Jelly Bean?” God, I really hated that nickname. He had come up with it soon after we had become roommates and I had insisted on a spot in the kitchen to put my stash of jelly beans that he could not touch. I normally loathed the nickname however, the way his breath was caressing my face as he spoke the words softly almost turned me into jelly.

“What do you mean Spence?” My innocent tone of voice looked like it pained him. Giggling at the sight I bumped his nose with mine in jest bringing us ever closer. My actions caused a gasp to escape from him as if I was crushing his lungs, though that was the only sound between us for a minute besides heavy panting.

“Do you want this?” He said to break the silence, he didn’t need to clarify, I knew what he meant and was giddy at the implications.

“Yes”

As soon as the words left my mouth we were both on each other in an instant, our mouths moving in sync as if we had done it a thousand times before. We stumbled and rushed to the closest bedroom which happened to be Spencer’s. With fumbling hands he opened the door to his room just as I started to work on tugging his sleep shirt up over his head. He stopped by movements by swiftly picking me up and walked over to his bed before tossing me down like a rag doll. I giggled as he tossed me down but quickly to strip his shirt off so I was only in my panties,

I then placed myself back down on the bed right back to where Spencer threw me before patiently waiting for him.

My lustful gaze fell onto him as I watched him strip down, shamelessly staring at him wondering how someone could look more perfect. He was also staring at me as he undressed his eyes filled with awe as if he was looking at a goddess. I had never felt more beautiful.

Giggles then suddenly started to fall from my mouth uncontrollably, I caught a glimpse of the socks that still sat on Spencer’s feet which pulled me out from my illicit thoughts. They were red and purple in color, with the red one having large orange polka dots and the purple had blue vertical stripes running up the sides. A mixture of hurt and confusion flashed across his face, his body suddenly curling in on itself trying to shade himself from my laughs. He started to retreat out of the bedroom in shame and I then realized how my laughs must’ve been perceived by Spencer.

“Spen-Spencer wait- I’m not laughing at you” I spoke out between my dying giggles, his brows angle deeper, his confusion increasing further. “I’m laughing at your socks”

He glanced down to look at the mismatched socks that were pulled halfway up to his calves, he wiggled his toes inside them then joined me in giggles of realization that he looked like a goof.

“Oh!” He squeaked out while scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry for misunderstanding.”

“No it’s my fault- I’m sorry for making you feel self conscious, I feel really bad.” The laughter had completely dissipated from me, guilt replacing the elation. Averting my eyes in shame, the pillow sitting next to me suddenly became the most interesting thing in the room as I started to pull the threads on the soft plush. Spencer padded over to me, he carefully straddled my thighs while boring his eyes into my skin trying to get me to initiate eye contact.

“You don’t have to be sorry Jelly Bean.” My cheeks blushed at the nickname which now sounded suddenly cute but I still refused to face him. When I didn’t move to look at him he dropped his face down to my stomach while skimming over the dips of my hips. Delicately he started placing feather light kisses to my middle barely grazing the soft flesh, when I started to squirm a bit at the slightly ticklish touches he pursed his lips and started to blow raspberries against my stomach. My giggles returned in full force as pressed goofy kisses onto my skin, it then turned into uncontrollable laughter when he started tickling every part of my body he could reach.

He pulled up to engulf me in a wet kiss, slipping his tongue inside to caress my own which muffled my snickers. He cradled my cheek as he pushed our kiss deeper, stealing all of the breath from my lungs. While biting the soft flesh of my lips his fingers trailed down from my hips slipping underneath the lace of my boy shorts.

His light teasing touches against my folds continued to push giggles from my throat, but they were soon turned into a loud moan as his fingertips made contact with my bundle of nerves. Slowly he started to circle my clit as he moved away from my mouth to give my jaw and neck the attention they deserved. Hickies were slowly accumulating as his teasing touches made me more and more impatient causing an impatient whine to fall from my lips. He smirked against the column of my throat in response to my inarticulate plea, he still must’ve understood my wants and slipped two fingers inside, crooking them to try and locate the ever elusive g spot. He was better at finding it compared to most men as after a few pumps of his fingers he pinpointed the exact spot, causing a ripple of pleasure to flow through me. Gasps, moans, and whines were freely escaping me, the pleasure coming in intense waves. He then pulled his fingers away from me causing a full pout to form on my lips. When he looked at the pathetic look on my face he was the one snickering this time.

“Why’d you stop.” I whimpered out pitifully and added puppy dog eyes to my face to convince him to resume his ministrations.

“I wanted to taste you.” He answered cheekily while dipping down to hook his fingers in the waistband of my panties. Pulling them down my legs slowly he followed them with a trail of teasing kisses ghosting around where I wanted him the most,“I bet you taste like pineapple.”

“Spencer, don’t lie to try to be sexy, that's not what any woman tastes like. I am not a literal jelly bean.” My legs kicked out in impatience to get the offending fabric off of me while trying to suppress any more giggles and focus at the task at hand.

Finally the fabric was removed from my center but Spencer had not ceased his teasing. I squirmed as he slowly kissed up my legs leaving kisses and love bites wherever he could.

“Be patient.” He tried to say with conviction but was unsuccessful at concealing how funny he found my impatience.

“Stop it’s not funny”

He silenced my whines by diving into my core. He wasted no time, slipping his tongue between my folds. Immediately waves of pleasure were already rolling off of me, I had been with plenty of guys beforehand but being with Spencer already felt otherworldly. The kitten licks alternated between teasing my entrance and sucking my clit making my vision go white. But, that feeling was nothing compared to when he added two of his fingers pushing them into my entrance. I probably sounded like I was in a porno from the cries that were coming from me and all it took was a few crooks of his fingers before I fell over the edge. My hips tried to rotate to ride out my high, though they were quickly stopped by his other hand over my stomach forcing me to be still as pleasure ripped through me.

When my release finished he made his way back up my body and enveloped me into a heated kiss. It was messy, sloppy, and I was gasping into his mouth as I caught my breath from my high.

Once I came back down to earth he flipped me over quickly so I was now on top, I was shocked at the sudden movement but I quickly recovered and wrapped my hands around his length slowly starting to pump. I guided his length to grind against my core to tease him and get back at him for the way he teased me.

The pleas that fell from his lips were unintelligible, the fact that he was already this deasperate from just a little bit of teasing made me smirk devilishly.

“Please.” He was finally able to form at least one word so I relented and lined him up with my entrance. As I sunk down I tried to relish in the feeling of him stretching me, that was quickly ruined by Spencer roughly grabbing my hips and pushing me all the way down. Underneath me Spencer was fighting to thrust up into me as I adjusted to his thick length and once I started to roll my hips an uncharacteristic high pitched whine came from his lips. The pleasure that started to well up inside me was too much to ignore and we both devolved into thrashing pleasure grabbing any part of each other we could reach to get to our respective release.

There were no words spoken as we both hit our highs, just loud pornographic cries that reverberated around the apartment and would surely get us a complaint from the neighbors. I kept my movements going as long as possible until the last dregs of stimulation were pulled from us and everything became oversensitive. I rolled my body off of him laying down in the bed roughly with exhaustion and I barely noticed Spencer cleaning us both up with a wet washcloth.

Just as he laid down next to me the rising morning sun that we had both woken up to started to peek through the curtains obnoxiously as it was close to noon by now, falling right on my eyes. A groan fell from my lips at the light that glared into my eyes so I got up groggily to shut the curtains.

“Stay.” Spencer whispered, breaking the silence in the room. I glanced back to look at him through my sleepy eyes, his curls wild from the previous activities we partook in but they still framed his face perfectly while he nestled himself further into the fluffy blanket.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily Socks.” I simply remarked while closing the curtains with a huff. Glad that the sun was now out of my eyes I made my way back over to Spencer meandering playfully over to tease him.

“Socks?”

“Well you have a stupid nickname for my jelly bean habit so I’m giving you one for yours.” I picked up the socks he had carelessly chucked across the room and threw them at him. Then a stack of his freshly cleaned clothes caught my eyes, specifically the colorful socks that sat on top. Padding over to the stack I quickly put on the first two different ones I see. I presented my choice of socks to Spencer by standing on the bed while giggling, my choice of an orange Halloween sock and one with teddy bears seemed to greatly amuse him, “Now we’re matching.”

He snorted and pulled me back down to cuddle our limbs intertwining as we fell asleep now both wearing mismatched socks.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #Criminal Minds #criminal minds smut #reid #Smut #mgg #spencer

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acdeaky · 4 years

Text

to tell you the truth (i’m still in love with you)

warning: angst, fluff, mentions of sex

note: oscar isaac’s hot, no question. anyway, enjoy this, babies

word count: 3.3k

gif credit: @damerondjarin

it was dark out when you woke. the loud, incessant banging on the front door of your apartment had jerked you awake, and the minimal amount of lighting coming through the curtains let you know it was very early - or very late.

a part of you was tempted to roll back over under your sheets, pull them up to your chin and fall back asleep, but the knocking only seemed to become louder and more frequent.

you pulled off your covers and flicked on the small lamp by your bedside. your clock showed 2:43 as you shook your head and began to make your way through your small apartment to answer whoever thought it was a good idea to show up at your door right now.

you had an idea who it could be. there had been a few times when santiago had appeared on your doorstep in distress. on those occasions, you coaxed him inside with soft words and gentle touches as he pulled himself in on heavy feet, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders.

looking through your peephole, you knew this would be no different as you noticed the familiar stubble and greying hair of santiago’s, looking ever the same after three years. even after so long, you were who he crawled to, the only person who could calm the noise in his head.

the locks clicked as they were shifted, the hinges creaking afterwards as you pull the door open.

and, just as you knew, there he was. santiago’s usual, confident self was gone; even just looking at the way he held himself could tell you that. it almost looked like he was leaning against an invisible pole, his old stance gone, a new, tired one filling its place.

but he was here, and alive, and even after three years the only thing you could think of was-

“hi.” was all he said, a duffel bag by his feet and his hands stuffed into his jean pockets.

“hi, welcome home.” you simply spoke, leaning against your doorframe, feeling like your heart was about the burst the longer you stood and looked at him.

“do you know?” there was a slight quiver to his voice and his head dipped down from yours. “do you know where i went?”

“frankie told me. when you left that night, i waited a couple of days for you to come back. then i asked fish if he knew where you were and he said you were in south america. i asked when you’d be back and he didn't know. i didn't expect you to be back three years later.”

you could almost remember that day, as clear as if it happened yesterday. the night before he left, your best friend, santiago garcia, invited himself to your apartment - like many nights - and brought dinner. he laid the excuse as wanting to spend time with you, have a night like you used to (even though it had only been a week or so since you last did something like this together).

but santiago didn't take no for an answer; he let himself through the door and began pulling out containers of food and a couple of bottle of drinks. you welcomed it pleasantly, happy to be spending a night with just him, just santi, no tom or benny or will or frankie. no comments about your relationship, no teasing over your choice of drink (or teasing in general, which santiago would always reply with ‘they mean well’, and you know they do).

a few hours later, the food was gone and you had both had a few drinks. the sun was settling down on the horizon and, if you looked carefully, you could begin to see the moon creeping up behind it. the red and orange sky covered your open room with light, bringing in a peaceful glow with it. the light settled on santiago, like it was used to his body and the dips and bumps covering him.

he looked like a vision, ethereal. a beautiful dream which you had experienced so many times and you were selfish enough to only want to see it yourself for the end of time. you believed no one would appreciate it like you do, no one would find the same amount of beauty as you find in santiagoas he lets himself bask in the light.

neither of you had realised that you had moved closer to each other over the course of the evening. you had started on almost opposite sides of the sofa, but now found your thighs pressed against the other’s, you shoulders bumping into each other’s as you moved.

santiago’s music was playing in the background. at some point - god knows when - he had gone into the kitchen and, as he came back, the soft notes of his favourite song floated from the speakers and settled around you two. he handed you another drink, sitting back onto the sofa and leaning slightly towards you, his arm slung across the back cushions. his hand landed on your shoulder, and his fingers began drawing light patterns across your skin while he conversed with you.

it was something that rarely happened. santiago had done this with you before, that being eating, drinking and relaxing, allowing the music to pull you from the real world as you talked until the early hours. never been so close and intimate. at the time, you thought nothing of it as his lips came to meet yours in a delicate attempt at confessing his feelings.

the words “i've fallen in love with you” escaping his lips as they ghosted against yours, his breath hot and sticky against your skin as you replied, “i've fallen in love with you, too”.

santiago made you feel things you'd never felt before that night. he touched you with softness behind it, allowing his lips to travel wherever they could reach before picking you up off the sofa and trekking through the apartment to your room.

the two of you spent the night together filling it with passion, giggled and delicate kisses. neither of you could get enough of one another. to you, he tasted so good, like nothing you've ever endured before, something good and amazing and so characteristically santiago. to him, you tasted like home, a forever presence that he refused to get rid of.

and he really didn't want to.

come morning, the sheets beside you were cold and pulled back. the couple of bits he haphazardly threw on the bedside table the night before were gone and so were the clothes you remember tugging from his body. the only thing he left was his jacket; it was the one you loved on him, that smelt like him. alongside it was a note, the words ‘i love you, but there's something i have to do’ were carefully engraved on the paper.

that's when you waited. you gave santiago a few days to do whatever it was before you turned to frankie. that was a difficult conversation in itself and you could tell that frankie was as confused and conflicted as you were. he offered you an answer, more than santiago had given you, and a response to a question that no one in the world could answer, not even santiago.

“i'm sorry-”

“santi,” you stopped him, not wanting to do this - whatever it was - on the doorstep of your apartment at almost three in the morning. “do you - its late - but do you wanna come in?”

santiago looked back up at you, seeing your warm smile and kind eyes, something he had missed for the last three years. “yeh- yes, please.” you gave him a light nod, stepping further back into your apartment to give him space to pull himself through with his duffle bag.

even after three years, he was still your santi. the cap he adorned was one you had spotted and persuaded him to buy; one which he had worn almost every single day since he went away. the jacket was new, one to replace his other one, but it fit him well, allowing his broad shoulders a chance to be seen. the colour suited him, too, a dark navy blue.

he was heavy on his feet as he entered, shuffling around like he was a stranger in a foreign country as he thought about where was best to leave his bag. that had been his life for the past three years; everything he had and knew lived in there while he was deep in the jungles of south america.

much to his surprise, he came back unscarred, physically at least. of course, his knees had taken a hit during his - mission? - and the neck surgery he gotten gotten the year before hadn't helped much either. but aside from that, he would be fine, so long as the nightmares were kept at bay, no one would think any different of santiago.

but you weren't just anyone. you had seen santiago in his most vulnerable states, in every sense of the phrase. there was almost nothing you didn't know about him, but now, there was a large part of him you were a stranger to. without even knowing a tiny part of what had happened, you knew the santiago who was currently in front of you, sweaty hands and shaking nerves, was a different man to the one who left you three years ago.

three years. god, santiago had changed, as had you. you had never been with someone since. many people had tried to win your affection, attempting to entice you with the promise of dinner and a sense of forever, but you didn't want that anyone but him, a man who was on a completely different continent and who had probably had many others beside him in his bed since that one night.

regardless of how he had acted out there, your love never faltered, unlike your hope for his return. the light inside of you which had been sparked by santiago’s promise of love had quickly diminished when you began to believe that he would never come home.

but you wouldn't think any different of him. he just didn't know that.

“can i-”

“i'm sorry for-” you both began, santiago seemingly wanting to smooth things out above anything else. “you go.”

“no, no, it’s okay. i just- do you wanna sit?” he nodded, watching your finger point towards your sofa in the open space. it was the one where that night began, but most definitely didn't end. you knew that. he knew that. but you weren't offering a seat in a malicious way, wanting to see him squirm and suffer while making him remember what happened that night, you could see that he was tired. it was the least you could do.

so santiago took your offer, turning away from you in a vain attempt at calming himself down. that wouldn't happen until things were sorted, until he felt that you knew everything. he just wanted to say-

“what happened?” you whispered into the quiet, turning on a small light to light up the room. it glowed over the sofa, settling around your bodies as you moved to sit down next to santiago, not completely ready for how long this could take.

but he was. santiago knew everything that happened in those years and it would not take a few minutes to tell. there was too much to say and almost not enough time.

the story began with his time colombia, working for the police as a private military advisor. next came lorea and santiago’s escapades with his informant in search for the drug lord. he explains the house - the safe - and the job, how he roped benny and tom and will and frankie into helping him with the job.

he didn't even make it through the mountains - tom.

and something about the night feels strangely familiar. with the two of you, sat there, being shielded from the world only by your thin curtains, it felt like home. familiarity. the thing that seemed to have left you three years ago and escaped to south america.

your bodies were pressed into each other’s sides, the feeling of just another person being there after so long brings about comfort in the both of you. a warm, calloused hand of his sat in the both of yours, a thumb gently rubbing over the back of his hand.

somehow, your eyes were trained to santiago’s head throughout his story, never leaving his body for a second in case you missed something, anything. as for him, his eyes never left your joined hands, watching the delicacy of your movements, concentrating his sight on something so small, but so significant to him.

it was silent for a few moments after he finished. santiago kept his head down, watching the comfort on his hands, whereas your eyes were darting over his entire body, taking him in, thinking how much you had missed him.

“i’m so sorry, santi.” your voice was quiet, like earlier, only just drifting from your mouth and into his ears. that’s when he moved, shaking his head before looking up at you, finally meeting your eyes for the second time in years.

“no, i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have just up and left like that, especially after what happened the night before.” there was a small smile on your face at that reminder and you hadn’t even noticed the quiver in his voice.

“it’s okay,” one of your hands left his thigh, moving upwards to cup santiago’s cheek, the stubble a little longer than usual. “you’re here now, and everything will be okay.”

his eyes closed as you allowed yourself this time to look at him. there was exhaustion buried deep inside of his skin, the usual relaxed look that he held whenever he closed his eyes was gone. it seemed that only a shell of the man you used to know came back from south america.

but you knew he was there. you knew your santiago was there, underneath it all. that’s why you held him. and that’s why you’d continue to hold him for as long as he needed you to.

without much thinking, you leaned closer to him, pressing your lips against his for only a second. an innocent kiss, much different to the ones you two had shared before he left, but it meant more to you both than either of you could describe.

then, as delicate as ever, one of his hands reached up to join your own, his large palm completely covering the back of yours. “come on,” you whispered, your free hand moving to card through his unruly curls. “let’s get you to bed.”

a slight nod was your only answer, that and the lack of resistance he gave you your hands grabbing his and helping him up from the sofa. everything stayed where it landed, neither you nor santiago making any effort to grab his bag and pull it into your room.

it almost seemed domestic. almost. as you crawled back under your covers, santi stripped off his jacket, leaving him in just a dark t-shirt. his jeans followed, the metal of the buckles clashing together as he pulled them off. the hat was last, being placed gently on your chest of drawers before he made his way over to you.

like usual, you welcomed him, pulling back the covers just enough for him to slip under, shuffling his body closer to yours. as he laid on his back, you took the silent invitation to press into his side. just as any other time, your head rested on his chest, both of your arms wrapping around the other’s body.

santiago let out a deep breath, his chest rising and falling so slowly it felt like you let one out, too. maybe you did, but it wasn’t important with where you were and who you were with in that moment. he was finally home, back and safe in your arms and not in a godforsaken dark corner of the narcotics war.

you fell back asleep to the steady beat of his heart, his hands running up and down your skin as he tries to soothe himself to sleep. eventually he does, well after you, but he feels safe this time, being back in your arms doing wonders for his mind.

it felt as if it had only been a few moments, but it wasn’t long before you could feel the rise and fall of santiago’s chest again, but this time on your back. the warmth of his breath on the nape of your neck was calming, that and the warmth of his hand over your exposed skin.

“we should get up, honey.” he says delicately, his voice rough with sleep, dry sounding, and you can feel him behind you, his eyes just barely opening as he decides to start his day. you feel guilty that you wish he wasn't awake, even as he reaches closer, an arm tightening around your waist as the other slips between the pillows and your head, reaching out for your hand as your other lands on his forearm, affectionate, loving.

there was no use in pretending you weren't awake, your need to touch him, to feel him and know he was there and not in some god forsaken place in colombia, too great to even attempt to stay in his arms longer.

“we shouldn't.” you mutter, turning your head to press into his skin, soft, warm. your fingers danced across his bronzed skin, keeping your lips pressed against his bicep as you did so.

santiago was complacent behind you, not even bothering to attempt to stay true to his words as he reveled in you, your warmth, your love, the exact thing he had missed all these years. his breath was still warm on the back of your neck, his lips only ghosting over your skin. even after last night, after the sacred kisses and emotions you’d shared, this is what stumped him.

it was only a few minutes later when you twisted onto your back, your hand leaving santi’s as you shifted to face him instead of hiding away. the hand that had left his own cradled his exposed cheek, your thumb carressing the delicate skin.

the beautiful brown eyes you love were still hidden by sleep-ridden eyelids. the only indication that he was awake being the small smile that adorned his face as you continued your ministrations, your own eyes flittering over his features like he would disappear, again.

“are you still in love with me?” he asked, breaking the silence without even opening his eyes to look at you, “after everything i’ve done?” his voice was so quiet, so petrified of your response, especially when that gentle hand stopped moving. god, never stop holding him like that.

“i’ve always been in love with you, santiago,” you assured him, guiding your hand to the back of his head to pull him even closer to you, fingers tangling in his short curls, “i don’t think i can ever stop.”

“can i tell you the truth?” his eyes finally met yours, confidently shifting the hand on your hip around you to press flat against your back, bringing your chests closer, bringing you closer.

“please.” it was a whisper, a beg, your plea for him to tell you what you already knew.

“i’m still in love with you.”

if anyone wants to be tagged in my oscar writing, let me know!

taglist: @shes-over-bored @i-barely-go-on-online @sohoneyspreadyourwings @brian-maybe-not @deakysbabybooty @1001-yellow-daffodils @retromusicsalad @hardcoredisneynerd @painkiller80 @goldhoran @scarecrowmax @mebeatlized @seesiderendezvous @alright-mrfahrenheit @someone-get-a-medic @miamideacon @chlobo6 @teenagepeterpan @spacedustmazzello @deakysgurl @forever-rogue @xcdelilahxc @keepsdrawings @igotsuckedintothevoid @kill4hqueen @supersonicfreddie @laedymoon @inthedayswhenlandswerefew @warriorteam1924 @painandpleasure86 @boomerangbassist @mamaskillerqueen @bhxrdy

santiago taglist: @stardust-galaxies @kindablackenedsuperhero

people who i think may like: @damerondjarin @unstoppableforcce @starryeyedstories @sergeantkane @youvebeenlivingfictional @writefightandflightclub @anetteaneta

#santiago garcia #santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia x reader #oscar isaac #oscar isaac x reader #once agAIN #this has been in my drafts for a while #like my last javi one #but here she is #and she’s beautiful #i love this one #and i hope you do too!#enjoy babies #x reader #acdeaky

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slythergirlimagines · 4 years

Text

Life Changing Adventures with Zuko

Summary: Zuko and the Reader get into some trouble when they meet a witch who switches their bodies. The Gaang tries to help them switch back. Pretty much fluff, not much angst! (GIF is not mine, but I absolutely love it!) Words: 5,659 Request: Yes Masterlist

****Also, would you guys be interested in me making a masterlist of all my fics? Let me know!

Life Changing Adventures with Zuko

You should have never come here. That’s what you’re thinking as you and Zuko climb up the incredibly tall, dangerous mountain to see what’s in the mysterious cave.

“I don’t like this.” You say, crossing your arms in an effort to preserve some sort of body heat. Of course, Zuko didn’t have to worry about the cold and he seemed no more bothered with this excursion than he would be anything else.

Zuko glances back at you, black fringe hanging in his amber eyes.

“Just calm down, we’re nearly there.” He says, and continues his climb up the winding, steep path.

You roll your eyes, but hurry to match his pace. You definitely don’t want to fall behind in this place, but Zuko’s long legs are growing increasingly hard to keep up with.

You can feel it in the air that something’s not quite right. There’s an undercurrent of something undefinable. Like magic. It hums all around you, and gives you goosebumps.

Up ahead, the wind whips through Zuko’s raven hair. It also blows his tunic tight against his body, and you can just make out the contours of his muscles.

Mentally, you slap yourself. Why do you care about Zuko’s muscles? He had chased you and your friends for months, and he had been responsible for a myriad of bad things that had happened to you. You had forgiven him, but you guys fought all the time. Your bickering often drove your friends crazy, and had been nonstop since he arrived.

“Life changing adventures with Zuko.” Toph had once called the personal journeys your friends had taken with him. You and Toph were the only people who hadn’t had one, and you certainly hoped today wasn’t your day.

Zuko stops and cocks his head, listening. You slowly approach him, taking care to keep silent. If Zuko was concerned then you should definitely be concerned as well. Your eyes dart around, but you don’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary.

The sun is starting to set, and it’s making this damn mountain even colder than before. The trees cast long shadows over the path, and it all feels foreboding. Subconsciously, you gravitate closer to Zuko.

“Remind me what we’re doing here, again?” You ask. You’re trying your hardest not to show any fear, but everything in your body is telling you to leave.

Zuko squints and stares in the direction of the cave.

“Aang asked us to check it out.” He says in his low rasp. This however is partially untrue.

Aang had asked you to go check it out, not Zuko. Aang claimed that something felt wrong up here, but he was currently trying to the closest village from being occupied by Fire Nation troops and didn’t have time to check. You weren’t a bender, but you were a capable warrior, and Aang trusted your abilities.

Zuko, on the other hand, had volunteered the moment you agreed to go. He claimed that it was because he couldn’t have Fire Nation soldiers recognize him, but his hastiness made you suspicious. He was always doing that, hovering around you during missions and tasks. It got on your nerves how little he trusted in your ability to defend yourself.

“I don’t think we should be here.” You reiterate. “It just feels....”

“I know. I feel it too.” Zuko says. He turns to you and offers a large hand. Sighing, you take it and allow him to lead you closer to the cave.

Zuko stops behind a tall tree, and peeks his head around to observe. The tree is hardly wide enough to conceal his broad shoulders, but at least you are in the shadows. You notice that you are still holding his hand, and drop it before he can read too much into it.

In an effort to look busy, you squint into the dark, trying to make out any sort of object that could be important. Without Aang here it is virtually impossible to know what you need to find.

Zuko seems to be following the same train of thought as you, and scans the area with his eyes. The light is almost dark enough to conceal his scar. Your fingers twitch with some foreign urge to trace over it. You ball your hands into fists. Maybe you just want to punch him in the face.

“I don’t see anything.” Zuko mumbles, still watchful.

“Me neither. I say we go back to camp and tell Aang that there’s nothing up here.” The wind has picked up since you got here, and you’re teeth are chattering.

Zuko notices your shivering for the first time, and rolls his eyes. He flexes his fingers, and you can tell what he’s about to do from the look on his face. You can’t have him firebend here.

“Don’t.” You say harsher than necessary.

“You can’t give that away, especially if someone’s here.” You hastily add. You don’t know why you’re suddenly so concerned about sparing his feelings.

“Yeah...you’re right.” Zuko says, but there’s a strange look in his eyes that you don’t quite understand.

Suddenly, the cave bursts into life and a bright light pours through it. The hairs on your arms prickle as the hum around you intensifies. You can practically taste whatever it is in the air.

“We need to get closer, see what’s going on.” Zuko says, “Maybe this is what Aang meant.”

You swallow loudly, but nod your consent. Hesitantly, you trail behind him, nearing the cave. The light illuminates the wideness of its mouth, and its seemingly never ending depth. Anything could be in there, but what could be of any importance to you?

However bad you think the idea is, you know you have to go inside. Something is waiting for you in this cave, and you have to face it.

You look to Zuko to see if he’s come to a similar conclusion, and you find the same grim expression on his face. Locking eyes, you nod at each other, and start the trek inside.

Zuko lights his fists on fire, and the flames dance around his knuckles in beautiful patterns. Even though you wish he wouldn’t bend, it’s Zuko’s flames that you focus on to keep yourself from becoming panicked. For the first time, you’re truly glad he’s there with you.

So focused are you on Zuko’s flame, that you don’t notice that someone is sneaking up on you. You hear the sound of their footsteps too late, and then everything goes dark.

————————————————

You wake up to a pounding in your head. Groaning, you move to lift a hand to your injury, but find that they are bound to something. That something just so happens to be a warm, angry firebender.

“Y/n?” He asks, and you can’t help but notice that his usually crabby voice is laced with concern.

“Ugh.” You groan in response. The back of your head is exploding with pain.

“Are you alright?” He questions lowly.

“Head hurts.” You mumble.

You feel Zuko moving behind you, and assume he’s nodding.

“You got hit pretty hard.” He whispers. You’re appreciative of the fact that he has lowered his voice. “Good thing your head is so hard.”

And there it is. You decide to be the bigger person and ignore him.

“Hit with what?” You ask.

“Magic, dear.” Says a wheezing voice. All of a sudden, light fills up the cave again, and you squeeze your eyes shut against it.

Your head pounds viciously in response to the brightness, and you groan again.

“Sorry about that.” The voice says again, and this time you can tell that it belongs to a woman. An old one by the sound of it.

You hear shuffling near you, and then something is pressed to your lips.

“Drink this, it’ll make you feel better.” She says.

You shake your head, but she pressed the vial through your lips anyways, and forces your head back.

“Leave her alone!” Zuko snaps.

“Don’t worry firebender, I haven’t forgotten you.” The old woman says.

The sweet liquid slides down your throat, and instantly your pain fades. You open your eyes to a wizened woman with a shock of bright white hair. Her eyes are crazed, and instantly you have a bad feeling about her. She winks at you and then moves away, one of her legs dragging behind her.

You briefly take stock of you surroundings. The room is made of stone, so clearly you haven’t left the cave. That at least would make it easier if you escaped. The room is cluttered with vials, plants, and random torn pages. On one of the make shift tables you see a large cauldron and a mortar and pestle.

“You’re a witch.” Your voice is flat.

The old woman let’s out a shrieking cackle.

“If that’s what you want to call it! Now I think it’s time you answer a few of my questions.” She says, crossing her arms.

“We don’t owe you anything!” Zuko says through clenched teeth. You can feel his anger heating his body from where your backs touch.

“No?” She says coyly. “You came to my cave to attack me!” She squeals, one eye twitching.

“We didn’t come to attack you.” You say, trying to maintain the peace. Maybe she could be reasoned with. You feel Zuko tense behind you, and you know he’s preparing for a fight.

“Then why were you sneaking into my cave, with this one on fire?” She says nodding in Zuko’s direction.

This is the tricky part, figuring out how much to tell her. She clearly isn’t a fan of the Fire Nation, due to her reaction with Zuko, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe she knows who Zuko is, and is a Fire Nation sympathizer.

“Well?” She questions.

“We’re traveling with the Avatar, and he sent us up here to check this place out while he went to help the nearby village.” You blurt. It comes out of nowhere, and it was definitely not what you meant to say at all.

Horrified, you gasp. Zuko tenses begins you.

“What did you do to her?” He demands.

“Just a little truth potion.” She hums. “Can’t hurt to know the people around you are honest.”

You clamp your mouth, biting into your lip hard enough to draw blood.

“We’re not your enemy.” Zuko says. “You don’t need to restrain us. Or trick us into telling the truth.”

You watch as the old woman paces back and forth.

“I am Kara.” She says finally. “Years ago, I made a deal with Fire Nation to protect my people. I would provide them with some magical assistance, if they would spare my village.”

“You’re helping them?” You cry out.

“Don’t judge me too harshly girl.” The woman snaps. “I did what I could for my people, just as you try to do.”

“The Avatar will free you’re village.” Zuko says. “You will be able to prosper without Fire Nation soldiers breathing down your neck. Let us go, and we will be able to help him.”

Something in his voice makes your heart stutter. Maybe it’s the sincerity in his voice, or the hard edge of determination. You have got to stop thinking about Zuko that way.

Kara laughs and shakes her head.

“No one will be able to defeat them. Not even the Avatar.” She shakes her head, sadly.

“We have! Many times before.” You say. You don’t like Kara talking badly about Aang. He has almost mastered all of the elements, and you know he has what it takes to defeat Ozai. You all have done so much good for people already.

Kara just shakes her head again, and resumes pacing.

“I’m sorry.” She says finally. “I wish your friend well, but I can’t let you leave without knowing you aren’t a threat to the Fire Nation. If they know that I didn’t do anything I could to help them, they will hurt the people I love.”

Kara begins muttering under her breath, and you tense up. You hate being completely vulnerable and open to an attack. Zuko must be on the same page, for you can feel him struggling against the bonds.

“Heat them up.” You whisper as quietly as you can. “Burn them.”

Kara starts going around and picking out various objects from her jars.

“I can’t. Your hands are too close, I’ll burn you.” He says.

“You’ll have to. It’s the only way we’re getting out of here!” You snap.

“No.” He says, hotly.

“Zuko!”

“I’m not going to hurt you, y/n!” He growls.

To your dismay, your arguing has caught the attention of Kara. She has a bright gleam in her eyes as she’s watching you two.

“I see.” She says. Then she starts laughing hysterically, wiping tears from her eyes.

“I know just what to do! But first, young lady, just how much does this boy mean to you?”

The truth spills from your lips again without your control.

“A lot.” You say, and then you’re whole face turns red. You’re mortified, but at least Zuko can’t see your face.

Kara giggle with glee and then nods to herself

“Oh yes, just the thing.” She comes over to you both, and plucks hairs from your heads.

“Hey!” You and Zuko both protest.

She sets the hairs in a bowl, and then starts talking to herself again, this time loudly enough for you to hear. She’s speaking in a foreign language of some sort, and hastily you begin to tug on your bonds again.

“Zuko, just do it!” You say.

In a surprisingly fast move, Zuko manages to wrench his wrists away from yours and singe the ropes without burning you. He is up and shooting flames at Kara in an instant.

The bowl catches on fire, but it’s a pink fire, something magical and not from Zuko.

“You’re too late!” She cackles gleefully. Then she disappears in a plume of smoke, and you and Zuko are left alone in the cave.

——————————————

You are both on high alert as you make your way back to camp. Every noise makes you jumpy, as you wait for Kara’s spell to start working. You make it out of the woods without so much as a scratch. Though it looks like you’ve avoided her wrath, something feels off.

“You’re too late.” She had said. Chills race up and down your spine.

Zuko keeps lighting and extinguishing his fists. You think maybe he’s trying to make sure he can still bend. Possible scenarios play over and over in your head. There were thousands of things she could do to sabotage you and Zuko. She could take away his bending, paralyze you, or turn you into bugs. The possibilities are endless, and yet nothing has happened.

The Gaang is waiting up for you when you finally arrive back at camp. You tell them about the witch and her curse. Sokka rolls his eyes and seems unconcerned.

“She’s just a crackpot you guys. Obviously nothing will happen.”

Toph seconds his notion, but Aang and Katara look wary. Katara makes you and Zuko repeat the story until you’re blue in the face, but she can’t figure it out any more than you can.

You are too embarrassed from your admission to talk to Zuko, or even bicker with him like you normally would. You quickly excuse yourself to go to sleep, and spend the rest of the evening hiding in your tent.

You fall into a restless sleep that night. You dream of the horrible things you considered happening to you. In one dream you’re a frog, in the other you’re pinned to the ground unable to move.

You’re utterly exhausted when you’re woken up by you’re own screaming.

————————————————-

You sit up in your tent immediately. You knew you heard yourself scream, but it hadn’t come from your mouth. Seconds later, you burst into your tent.

Your clone stops and look at you, with wide eyes.

“Y/n?” Your voice asks you.

“Yes?” You say, but it isn’t your voice that comes out when you speak. Instead, it’s Zuko’s rasp that forms the words.

All of a sudden the pieces of the puzzle start clicking together.

“Oh no.” You say horrified, and look down at your body.

You have muscles now, and you feel stronger, bigger. You reach a hand up and grab a handful of short, ebony locks. Your other hand traces your features, and you feel the rough scar under the pads of your fingers.

“This can’t be real.” You say in Zuko’s voice. “This can’t be happening.”

“It’s happening.” Zuko says.

It’s weird to see yourself objectively like this. You have this horrible out of body feeling, and it’s making your head spin. Anxiety hits you, and you start breathing heavy. You’re going to pass out.

“Calm down!” Zuko says, rushing over to you. He wraps his arms around you, himself? Ugh it’s too confusing.

“If you don’t calm down, you’re going to burn this tent down and hurt yourself!” He says. He awkwardly starts rubbing your back. “Breathe with me.” He instructs.

Slowly, you start to calm down. Zuko lets his, your?, hands linger for a moment longer, before he pulls away and puts some distance between you.

“What are we going to do?” You ask. Zuko makes a face at how weak his voice sounds.

“I don’t know.” He says. His mannerisms look so weird on your body. You can tell that it’s him, just by the way he holds himself. You wonder if he’s experiencing the same thing watching you in his body.

“We need to go back to the cave, demand that Kara gives us our bodies back.” You say.

Zuko rolls your eyes.

“I’m sure that will go over well.” He says.

“Don’t make me sound all crabby.” You snap at him.

“Don’t make me sound all girly and pathetic!” He retorts.

“Pathetic?!”

“Oh Zuko,” he mocks “what are we going to do? Save me Zuko, I care a lot about you!”

“You’re so annoying!” You shout, embarrassed that he remembered your confession.

“Can we not fight this early in the morning!” Sokka says, throwing open your tent.

“Oh.” He says, looking between the two of you.

You realize in embarrassment that you and Zuko are awfully close together, and you are in Zuko’s body in your sleeping bag. It has to look like Zuko slept in your tent.

“Sokka, we can explain.” You say.

Sokka hurriedly shakes his head, raising his hands.

“No, no. Please don’t.” He says.

“Sokka listen, the witch really did curse us.” Zuko says. “She made us switch bodies.”

Sokka looks between the two of you and then bursts into laughter.

“Ok well I have to say that’s the first time I’ve hear that excuse.” He says, wiping tears from the corners of his blue eyes.

“We’re serious!” You snap at him.

Sokka sobers up, looking between you two again.

“You really did perfect your impressions of one another.” Sokka says, suddenly sounding a bit more unsure.

“Ugh!” You snap, and push out of the tent in a huff. You need to find Toph. She could prove you weren’t lying.

It’s cold outside your tent, and to your horror you find that you’re not wearing a shirt.

“Zuko!” You screech. “Why the hell aren’t you wearing a shirt!”

“I’m a firebender, y/n. I get hot!” He defends.

“Get me a shirt!” You snap. Zuko rolls his eyes at your dramatics, but leads you to his tent and throws a tunic at you.

It smells like him when you pull it over your head. You try not to obviously inhale, but it’s the first time you’ve really noticed how Zuko smells. It’s not the first time you’ve noticed his muscles, but now you have a first hand look. His abs are hard and defined, and you blush quickly finishing dressing.

“Are you done starting at me?” Zuko asks.

“I’m sorry, it’s just weird!” You tell him.

Sokka’s jaw is nearly touching the ground as he watches your exchange.

“No way.” He says, finally believing you.

“Yeah, Sokka.” You say.

——————————————————

Toph confirms your story, and everyone sits in dumbfounded silence. Even you and Zuko don’t have much more to say.

“Well you have to go talk to Kara.” Katara says helpfully. “We’ll have to make her change you back.”

“Wow that’s helpful. Thank you Katara, why didn’t we think of that.” Zuko says.

“Y/n!” Katara says, hurt.

“Zuko.” You and Zuko both correct her.

“Whatever.” She mutters, angrily.

“Katara’s right.” Says Aang. “We’ll all go. Maybe if I can convince her that I can help, she’ll change you back.”

There seems to be no better plan than this. Sokka and Toph stay behind at the campsite, while the rest of you start the hike up the mountain.

The breeze isn’t so bad now that you’re in Zuko’s body. He’s right when he says that he doesn’t get cold. He, on the other hand, is openly shivering in your body. You almost feel a little bad, but you remember him telling you it wasn’t that bad last night, and think better of it.

“How do you survive like this?” He moans when you come to a stop. “It’s so cold all the time.”

You smirk at his dramatics.

“That’s what you get.”

“For what!” He questions, and you can feel the fight brewing.

“Oh I don’t know, maybe ‘You’re so dramatic y/n.’” You mock. “’It’s not that cold, y/n. Calm down, y/n’”

“I wasn’t telling you to calm down because you were cold.” He snaps. “I was trying to tell you to stop panicking!” He throws his hands up and stomps ahead.

It’s a little embarrassing, and you think back to every tantrum you’ve thrown. Maybe this is a somewhat positive experience. You’re definitely learning about the annoying things you do.

You and Zuko bicker all the way up the mountain. Though it’s not unusual for you all, but you can tell it’s driving Aang and Katara crazy.

“Can you all please knock it off!” Katara yells, eventually. All three of you jump, and she crosses her arms. “I am sick and tired of hearing you all argue. That’s all you do every day! Can’t you all come to some sort of truce?”

You and Zuko both narrow your eyes at each other.

“No!” You say at the same time.

“Ugh!”

—————————————————-

You make it up the mountain alive, but barely. Everyone’s tempers are running high by the time you break through the trees.

“Alright,” Zuko says. “We need to be careful. She knocked y/n out with one blow. She’ll do it again if we aren’t careful.”

You’re about to protest the way he makes your ambush sound, but Aang mediates before your get riled up.

“Just let it go.” He tells you.

You all enter the cave quietly, heads constantly scanning the area as Zuko leads you down to the belly of the cave. You recognize the room when you get to it. The evidence of Kara is everywhere, still littered around the floor.

“She isn’t here?” Zuko says.

“Great observation.” You retort.

“Guys, guys!” Aang snaps. “Enough. Let’s look through the books around here. There’s got to be something that tells us how to fix this.”

The four of you spend what feels like hours combing through the books and pages around the room.

“There’s nothing here!” Zuko cries, slamming a book onto the table.

“That’s because it’s a spell of my own invention.” Kara’s wheezy voice says.

You all jump into defensive stances, ready to attack. Kara holds up a wrinkled hand, but otherwise looks unbothered.

“Please.” She says passively. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Change back my friends!” Aang demands. “It’s me you have a problem with.”

“Ah the Avatar.” Kara smiles. “You really are here.”

“Yes. And I promise I will free your village. But first you must free my friends.” He says.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” She says, eyes glittering again.

“Why not?” Katara challenges.

“I can’t change them back, because they must do it themselves.” She smiles.

“What do you mean?” You ask, broad furrowing. There’s a light protesting from Zuko’s scar at the movement.

“Save my village and I’ll tell you.” She says. “And you better do it fast, because in three days this will become permanent.”

————————————————-

Freeing the village from Fire Nation troops is going to be a bigger struggle than you anticipated, you realize as you and Zuko stroll down the streets. You currently have a hood pulled way over your head to hide your identity. There seemed to be hundred of them, and there were only six of you.

“We’re never going to be able to pull this off.” You mutter under your breath. “I’m going to be you forever.”

“How do you think I feel?” Zuko laments. “I’m losing my bending, my honor, everything.”

“Well we wouldn’t be in this mess if I had just gone up there alone.” You snap as you approach the center of the village.

“Right, if you had gone alone you would’ve been killed!” He snaps back.

“Why do you assume I’m so incapable of taking care of myself?!” You’re infuriated now. “I took care of myself for years before I ever met you!”

“Don’t see how!” He growls. “All you ever do is get yourself in trouble, and someone always has to be there to help!”

“Excuse me?!” You roar. “How dare you?!”

The Fire Nation soldiers are slowly starting to gather around you, curious about the fight.

“How dare I?” Zuko ramps up the volume. “How dare you?” He points a finger at your chest.

So far, your distraction seems to be working. Aang, Katara, Sokka, and Toph are all getting into position. You just have to keep up the fighting a little longer.

“You’re always babying me, and acting like I need a keeper! I’m not a child, and you don’t have to take it upon yourself to be my caretaker! I’m just fine on my own!” You yell, channeling his body’s natural penchant for rage.

“Somebody has to!” Zuko snaps back, and over exaggerates putting his hand on his hip. “You never do it yourself. You’re always doing reckless things for other people, and your not as equipped to throw yourself in danger like everyone else!”

Suddenly this fight feels a bit too real, and you find yourself getting actually offended. How dare he insinuate that your lack of bending meant you weren’t a good fighter!

“What so I’m not allowed to care about my friends and do things to protect them?” You screech. “I’m sorry I don’t have all your talents, my lord. Next time I’ll make sure I get your permission first before I try and help somebody out!”

“You always take everything I say out of context!” He snaps.

“Hey guys?” Aang says, garnering the attention of the crowd. “I think that’s good enough, thanks.”

Then all chaos breaks loose. Katara, Aang, and Toph start the fight with their bending. The Fire Nation soldiers, though caught unaware, do not take long to start fighting back. You wish that you knew how to utilize Zuko’s firebending, but you settle on using his physical strength instead.

Most of the defense moves you know are geared towards you being smaller than your opponent. Not all of them work now that you’re Zuko’s size, and you find yourself struggling more than usual in your fights.

Zuko seems to be having a similar issue learning how to fight in your body. You notice he has a habit of getting into bending stances out of pure habit. You notice that he’s getting cornered, when you go to help him.

Together, you fight pretty well, instructing each other on moves as you go. Sokka’s boomerang flies about, knocking out opponents left and right. Your benders are doing well too, and soon enough, you’ve defeated the Fire Nation soldiers.

You’re sore, body aching from exertion, but the happy villagers make it feel worth it.

“Thank you, Avatar!” Someone yells after Aang explains who you all are.

Your eyes find Kara’s in the crowd. It was time you got your body back.

“Hey!” You yell as she walks away.

“Y/n?” You hear Zuko call behind you as you take off, pushing through the crowd.

“Hey! Stop!” You yell at Kara. “You owe us an explanation!”

Zuko catches up to you, and you both chase after her. Finally, Kara stops in the woods, away from all the people.

“I thought you’d want some privacy!” She cackles. “I saw your little distraction out there. Seemed pretty real.” You and Zuko shuffle and avoid eye contact, as the rest of the Gaang catches up with you.

“We saved your village!” Aang says, “Now tell us how to fix this.” He waves a hand at you and Zuko.

Kara’s eyes sparkle as she looks at all of you.

“As I said, I can’t change you back. You have to do it yourselves.” She sings.

“How?” Zuko grounds out through his, your, clenched jaw.

“All you have to do is kiss!” She says gleefully clapping her hands together.

Everyone is silent as you all take in this information.

“There has to be another way.” Zuko says. There’s a desperate edge to his voice that hurts your feelings. Is the thought of kissing you so awful that he wouldn’t do it even to get his body back?

Rolling your eyes, you stroll over and kiss Zuko’s, your, cheek. It’s a weird experience for sure, knowing that you’re kissing both Zuko and yourself.

“Not that kind of kiss.” Kara says, smiling like a maniac. “A real one!”

The color drains from Zuko’s face, and the rest of your friends remain silent. You can feel their eyes watching your every move.

Zuko’s disgust is plain, and even though it hurts, you just want your body back and to forget this every happened.

“Zuko, I know you’re absolutely disgusted, but I’d like my body back before I’m you forever.” You say annoyed. “You can wash out your mouth and vomit when you have your own body back.”

You can hear the muted hurt in your own voice, and it’s kind of embarrassing that you know everyone else can hear it too.

“I’m afraid it’s the only way.” Kara adds.

“If it helps just think about the fact that you’re kissing yourself, not me.” You say. More than ever you want this experience to be over, so you can go mourn your hurt feelings somewhere in private.

Zuko sighs, and then approaches you.

“Fine.” He says.

Awkwardly, you both fidget, unsure how to initiate the kiss. It doesn’t help that literally everyone, including Momo and Appa, are looking at you.

“Some privacy?” You ask them.

“Oh yeah sure.” They all mumble, whistling and looking away. The second you turn back to Zuko you can feel their eyes on you. Some friends.

“Let’s just get it over-” you get cut off by Zuko pressing his lips to yours.

Instantly, you feel the switch happening. You feel yourself being pulled and re-anchored into your own body. Your limbs feel normal again, and then you really start to feel the kiss.

Zuko pulls you closer to his warm, muscular body. Everything is exploding around you, and all you want to do is be even closer to him. You bring your arms up and settle them on his broad shoulders. Your hands wind themselves around his neck, and you play with the ends of his hair.

Zuko’s large hands are also doing their fair share of exploring. One rests on your hips while the other tangles itself in your hair, and both pull you closer. His tongue opens your lips and you let him in, a moan escaping from you. It feels right, kissing Zuko like this. Like it is something that was always meant to happen.

Somebody clears their throat and breaks up your moment. Slowly, you and Zuko part. You’re thrilled to realize it’s his swollen lips and amber eyes that you see when you pull away.

“Well that was something!” Kara squeals in delight.

Heat pools into your cheeks, as you asses your friends’ expressions. Aang looks embarrassed, Katara has heart eyes, and Toph and Sokka both look disgusted.

“It worked.” You say breathlessly. Already you have the intense desire to kiss Zuko again, but suddenly you’re insecure. What if he hated it? He had seemed so disgusted before.

“Yeah it did.” Zuko says, and then he smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Some privacy?” He asks everyone, tightening his grip on you. Butterflies explode in your stomach as he does, and you’ve never felt so fluttery before.

Your friends make themselves scarce, telling you they’ll be at camp. Kara scrambles off too, cackling all the while, and then you are alone.

Your heart is pounding, and you’re really unsure how to tell Zuko how you feel. What if he doesn’t feel the same?

Suddenly, Zuko presses his lips to yours again, and it feels like he’s devouring you. He’s passionate and fiery, and every press of his tongue against yours makes you feel like you’re on fire. Your body is buzzing when he finally pulls away to catch his breath.

“I didn’t mean what I said during our fight.” He says, leaning his forehead against yours and wrapping his arms around your waist. “I don’t think you’re incapable or less than because you aren’t a bender. I think you’re one of the most talented people I know, and I also know that you can take care of yourself.” He says taking a deep breath.

Zuko takes a step back, and removed an arm to put a finger under your chin. He lift your chin so you’re looking into his eyes.

“I worry about you. All the time.” He says. “I’m so scared that you’ll get hurt and I won’t be there to protect you. My number one instinct is to protect you. That’s why I always ‘hover’ and volunteer to go on missions with you. If something happened to you....”

“I feel the same way about you, you know.” You say smiling. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt either. And I don’t necessarily hate it when you’re around.” You tease him. “Or when you kiss me.”

Zuko laughs, a deep happy laugh. It’s one of the first times you’ve ever seen him look so buoyant. You take the opportunity to kiss him this time, and he sighs happily into your mouth.

“What are we going to do now?” You ask him.

“Probably get back to our friends.” He says, grabbing your hand in his as you start making your way to your camp site.

“You know, Zuko, Toph’s right.” You say. “You really do take people on life changing adventures!”

A/n: Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this! I’ve been working on my requests so hopefully I’ll have a few more stories out for you guys over the weekend. I’m going to be adding some things to my ‘Fanfic prompts’ post, so be sure to check it out if you want to request something! (also I’m fine with people requesting things that aren’t on that list if you have something specific for me to write!) Have a good weekend, and you can find all my other writing under the tag slythergirlimagines. I think I tagged everyone who asked to be tagged in my atla stuff, but if I missed you please let me know and I’ll correct it!!

Taglist: @galacticamidala @a-random-queer-kid @taeeemin @realimbo @samsmultifandomblogs

@fire1ordzuzu @shortmexicangirl

#slythergirlimagines #atla #zuko x reader #prince zuko x reader #zuko x you #prince zuko x you #zuko x y/n #prince zuko #aang #katara #toph #sokka #appa #momo #atla fanfic #avatar the last airbender #avatar #avatar the last airbender fanfic #fanfic

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the-art-of-animated-gifs · 3 years

Photo

Interview with my friend A.L. Crego

I have not met A.L. Crego. I have not spoken with him on the phone, in fact I do not even know what he looks like. But I can confidently call him my friend. Three years ago when I started this blog he immediately disagreed with me in the comments about things I was writing and I loved it. As a person putting ideas out there, you treasure things like that....because you know someone cares. We have had many back and forth discussions over the years....if we had lived in Paris in 1911 we would be having arguments at La Rotonde (not to compare either of us to Picasso).

A.L. Crego is a motion artist who does a wide variety of things. He has now become a very visible and active figure in the NFT Movement. He recently completed a large and very successful project in which he animated the work of a number of well know street artists on the building themselves, something he has done for years. His Tumblr page is a good place to start to see his work, which is largely surrealist in nature -- another Spanish artist following in the footsteps of other great Spanish surrealist artists.

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How long have you been creating gif art?

In a conscious and intentional way since 2014. Previously I haven't pay too much attention on one hand for its common use that was mostly ads and funny little videos, and on the other hand because it was a 'standard' format we accepted as something part of the web so I never stopped to analyze its potential. The key point for me was about 2010-2011 when the concept of 'Cinemagraph' was brought to life just giving it a name. It's format is .gif but its characteristics are different so I saw there the midpoint between photography and video, which gave born another format of art.

Art mutates when a new format appears. I was using and studying this format since then but it wasn't until 2014 that I decided to publish some of them.

What is your background?

In general terms, bachelor, 2 years of stone sculpting and two attempts of photography and audiovisual mediums. I say attempts because I gave up both of them as I was feeling that I was looking for something else more than studying all the previous history, style and isms, which is nice to understand where everything comes from and to be aware what are the key points on the history to use as reference, as a map. But in some way I felt limited as I was using digital tools since I had my first computer with 14 years, and I was being taught things I learnt by then. Even more in this times we are living where we are 21 century people, been taught by teachers from the 20 with 19 century methods.

A constant line that feeds my background is literature and music overall and later Street Art, next to more temporal interests as everything related with mythology, alchemy, history, psychology, neurology, biology, human condition in general... I don't have studies buy I'm a studying guy!

I always like to highlight that all these years that internet got strong and social networks appeared, I decided voluntary to be out of them. First reason was to keep my privacy safe in a growing world where it seemed that some "curtain" felt and everybody accepted that intimacy was now 'ex-timacy' and correct to show their private life, (this shocked me). Another reason was about the psychological effect that social networks were having on people I had around and everywhere in general. I started to notice patterns and "waves" about series, aesthetics, styles, and I was seeing clearly that if I go there, I will become permeable to all this "Amniotic Culture" I was trying to avoid.

This fact of being far (but study them closely) helped me a lot about researching and developing my own ideas and style, for the mere fact that I was using all this time and attention Social Networks require, on drinking from another sources. The B-side of this is that I was 'out of the radar' of mass people as this social networks are designed to live inside them. My idea of internet and spreading ideas is not in this way.

Where do you live and work?

In the north west of Spain, Galicia. Now due to Covid I travel less but before it, I was working and traveling many places as I only need a camera and a computer. This allows me move to work anywhere.

Do you think that animated gifs are a new art form?

I think so, despite the fact that the format existed since 1987. But as every new format of art it takes its time to be considered as art. The first photographs were not considered art until many years later. Same happened with film, same with CGI. Is nice to have in mind that gif format is the last strictly digital format of the three main ones on the web: picture, video and gif. Photography has about 200 years of history, video about 130, CGI about 60. Finally gif has 33, and used as art itself no more than 10-15. In the same way anybody takes a picture of anything does not convert it into art, is the same with gifs. One thing is the format, another is the 'art'. Everybody can take a picture, record a video or do a gif. The difference is on the how, the why, and from my point of view overall, the what.

Do you think that there is a difference between pure .gif files and the .mp4 files that people post on Instagram?

The first, big and obvious difference is the format. Is not the same a painting as a picture of a painting. Here happens the same. For example, if you treat a gif with Cinemagraph technique, you are converting in picture some parts of the image, so they still remain and with the texture and totally stillness of a picture. If you convert this gif into a mp4 this still parts, despite not having motion, will convert into a video texture (noise, subtle motion in pixels, etc) so the main characteristic, among the perfect loop, is lost. Another point is that you must play a video, a gif is always running. Waterfalls are always running and this characteristic is something that is inside our human nature, we react nice to "bucle" motions as waterfalls, fire, etc. We find pleasure on this. Of course if it's a video the perfect loop is lost and the visual mantra disappear. And another key point here is the soundtrack. In a video you can use sound to enhance or give another meaning to the piece that you can't with gifs. For me this is another characteristic that give meaning to gif. For me gif is silence, the sound is generated by the motion, the melody are the details and the beat the perfect loop. You can "hear" almost every gif.

The difference between a gif and a video is the same that between a waterfall and a hose (if this works).

What do you think are the characteristics of good gif art?

For me first and overall the perfect loop. Not using it is not using the only format that has this characteristics. Of course there can be gif art that is not perfect loop, but from my point of view and in my work is a must. It's a new way not only of creating but also of thinking. Imagine an still scene is easy, imagine an A-B point action is easy. For me the challenge is about thinking an idea that is perfect looped where all the elements interact and eventually come back to its initial point. Succeed doing this is where the perfect loop appears and you are not able to find where is the start point of the action. Like a visual mantra, that it's repetition leads you inside the piece. Gif art is nice to use the power of the hypnotic movements. Another point to have in mind for me is the flow of it, the frame rate I mean. Depending on the idea and the kind of animation this should vary; is not the same fps to achieve something with flow than if you want to achieve a more 'retro' old style. Another thing is about dithering and color palette. This second one is essential to understand as it affects the final file. When we work with photo and video we are using millions of colors but when rendered as gifs all the gradients, lights and even colors will change if there is a previous understood of this point.

As summary: If motion doesn't add, change of enhance the meaning of the piece, is expendable.

I'd would like to add that I'm not really supporter of this kind of gifs generated automatically that just move a still image itself. I understand that this 'technique' is used as a tool for certain motion (I use it) but not to move a whole image. I feel the same as if somebody hold a painting in front of me and moves it randomly. If the work was born still, it must remain still. A good example of 'inner motion', this means that the motion is implicit on the image despite not being in motion, are the photographs of Cartier Bresson for example. Giving motion to this pictures for example, will kill it because it will break the concept of 'perfect instant' .

'Instant' differs etymologically from 'moment' in the motion. So, still image (painting, photo, sculpture, etc) is an instant, videos are stories with a-b point, and gifs are moments, the mid point.

How would you describe your gif art?

I usually condense it as "Visual Mantras", as the technique and the aesthetic vary depending on the idea , but in all of them the perfect loop and the intention of hypnotizing is always present.

In another terms about aesthetics and themes I think ‘Industrial Nature’ can fit nice. I use a lot of industrial elements but I like to mix their mechanics with the biological natural ones.

How long have you been creating and selling NFTs?

I am selling NFTs since mid 2019, but it wasn't until October 2020 that I focused more on it and dug into the ecosystem to find new paths to focus my work.

Do you think that NFTs are a positive for gif artists?

For me, and the main reason I jumped into cryptoart and NFT, is that now I can certify my digital work as original. Even more to gif works as they were always understood as something banal and minor for the context of its born. Gif art was born prostituted, used mostly for ads and to claim our attention on the internet, next to the highest glamour of painting and traditional art, and 3d, photography and video these last decades. Even worst if we realize that gif format was the only visual format born by and for the internet.

NFTs are totally positive for gif artists because despite being a digital/online native format it never had its own ecosystem to live in. I feel that I was creating creatures for an ecosystem I was waiting to drop them there. Now with the blockchain, NFTs and cryptoart, I found the place where they can live, being watched by everybody and have the certify that is my work. Until some months ago my work was "free" on the web and I had no control over it at all. This was a huge problem I was suffering since my first month into gif art as people use it indiscriminately with no credit at all. It's ok, and I always defend that my work is to be seen, to be shared, but I was looking for the way to be able to have this link with my work without losing the option of being available for everybody. NFT totally changes this.

What do you think will happen in the future as NFTs get even more popular?

In general terms I think it will happen the same as when print got more popular. People will use it more, a lot of crazy and useless things will appear, tons more of different uses and useful purposes, (not only on art). This opens a new door a lot of people was waiting so the future is unpredictable but we can feel where things are going. NFT arrived to stay and the concept of decentralization is something that was always present on the internet since first days but born inside a centralized system. NFTs are being a way for people to understand the 'peer to peer' philosophy and this makes people think in different codes, so we can expect a lot of new horizons, in art, music, design...

What do you think of the environmental impact of NFTs?

This question can goes really deep but in general terms I think that is something that is being oversized due to the hype and the boiling point we are, and it's understandable because is not false that it has an environmental impact, as everything does. But on the other hand I have two main areas in mind. The first and the obvious from my point of view is that when something is new and developing is less efficient, in the way that it requires more effort to achieve the result. But at the same time, the more this technology is used the more is developed and all this issues are part of it. The first car was not electric.

The second point that usually reverberates in my mind and that it seems that 'hard critics' omit is that they are not having in mind that this NFTs we mint, give us a profit that can be used offline to do another things that can be useful to solve this problem, for example, investing part of this money on living on our own in a minimal and clean way (not working for huge multinational that their environmental impact is tons times more than NFTs and then being part of an ONG to feel clean) and on using part of this money on looking and researching new ways to mint and to keep this digital ecosystem more efficient and clean. Every development needs time.

-------------------------------------------------------

If you have found this content valuable considering getting me a cup of coffee

#gif aesthetic #street art #surrealism

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gem-rewatch · 4 years

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SU rewatch- S1E11- Arcade Mania

Hey, long time no see!

I’m desperately bored in solitary quarantine at university right now, and decided to try and pick this SU rewatch series up again for fun. It’s been a while since I’ve watched through the show in order. Plus, now that this show is completely finished, there’s plenty more connections to make. I can’t promise I’ll be consistent with this, but at the very least I can have fun trying to make a few more posts at my leisure.

Anyways. With that business out of the way. Let’s get right on to the show!

We begin with yet another mission Steven’s guardians have brought him along on! I believe this is the fifth mission we know of that he’s accompanied them on so far. (Lunar Sea Spire, Inverted Pyramid, the unknown mission he returns from in Tiger Millionaire, the desert, and now this one.) It’s really sweet seeing the Gems begin to trust him tagging along more often. There will come a day in the near future where missions become routine for Steven, but in these early episodes, you can really tell that each and every one is a brand new adventure.

In terms of plot, though, this episode is honestly Future Vision: The Prequel.

We learn a lot about Garnet’s abilities and her role in the team here, even if all of these details aren’t spelled out word-for-word quite yet. Hints towards her future vision we see this ep include:

Garnet moving ahead of the group to be in the perfect spot to catch Steven when he falls.

Her flawless moves while fighting and dodging the monsters.

Her becoming a master at the rhythm game later in the episode.

Like, damn. Look at this.

Look at her go.

My Q U E E N!

I had to gif all of this just because it’s such a beautiful and smooth sequence of animation.

If there’s one thing all of the Crystal Gems can 100% agree on, it’s that Garnet is friggin’ amazing.

Garnet: “Let them go. They’re just parasites. If they want to be a problem, they’ll have to answer to me.”

So, does this statement mean that- at this present moment- her extended stay at the arcade was entirely beyond her future vision? That the only futures she saw were ones where she was actually present to deal with containment of the Gem parasites? Given that later scenes insinuate she’d never been to the arcade before, and would have no “data” about its games to factor into her internal understanding of the world, this seems likely.

I adore the gradual palette change here, from shadow, to setting sun. It’s a nice detail that adds so much more life to what could otherwise be a rather mundane transition scene. It seems like unique palettes were more common in early SU- I wonder why Crewniverse stopped implementing these as often later on?

Pearl, entering the arcade: “Humans find such fascinating ways to waste their time.”

Thanks, Pearl. Love you too. <3

This sequence of Pearl failing at playing a car chase/road rage game hits so much different knowing what happens in Last One Out of Beach City. It’s genuinely radical how far she grows in confidence from this point, because here, she seems so shackled to rules and guidelines. Now that we know about her rebellious past, it might be tempting to write this characterization off as “early series weirdness,” but... I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.

Instead, I wonder if she’s working through grief-related regression.

Think about it... the pain of Rose’s passing is still so fresh for her. She was a rule breaking rebel once, yes, but she spent all of those days at Rose’s side. And I get the sense that she’s poured so much of herself into keeping Rose safe, into the rebellion against Homeworld, that without those, she’s caught in a vacuum. What IS her purpose now, when the very person she rebelled for is gone?

So she slips back into old pearl-like habits. Chronic rule following, and a fear of deviating from norms. How familiar. Thankfully, much of her arc throughout the show is her directly growing beyond these habits to live boldly as her own Gem.

The friggin video game when Garnet knocks its head off: “TELL MY WIFE I’M SORRYYY!!!”

Yo, what the fuck. This line is both hilarious and messed up, all at once. Please tell me the game isn’t sentient.

Aaaand here we finally introduce Garnet to the video game sensation that is Meat Beat Mania! This game is perfectly suited to her and her power of foresight because its patterns are algorithmic and not vulnerable to spontaneous deviations, and thus easy to predict, with enough input. She’s probably getting a quick rush of satisfaction with every correct move, and she barely has to exert any energy with her future vision to get that rush. After years and years of wading through endless possibility at every avenue, this video game’s patterns must be a rejuvenating breath of fresh air.

It’s addicting.

...Kinda makes me think of how I get sometimes when I play solitaire on my phone for an hour straight. After a while, I barely even think, I’m just shuffling through my deck and moving cards almost on automatic. I don’t have to use much energy to play, and it gives me animated fireworks every time I finish a match. It’s a win-win.

Amethyst: “I’MMA WIN AN AIRPLANE!”

I don’t know what it is about the way Michaela Dietz says the world “airplane,” but this makes me laugh every time. Does... does she think she can win a genuine airplane here because she saw Onion win a tiny motorbike from the ticket booth?? Amethyst, oh my god. XD

She’s got the spirit, this wild child.

So, moving on- we meet up with our crew later the next morning, Garnet nowhere to be seen. There’s an interesting exchange I’d like to highlight real quick-

Pearl: “If we’re supposed to fight a giant foot, Garnet would let us know.” Amethyst: “Yeah, Garnet’s the boss!” Pearl: “Well, we’re all a team. Garnet just has heightened perception that guides us towards our mission objectives.”

Considering the specific phrasing Pearl uses here- “heightened perception” instead of “future vision-” did Garnet outright tell the two of them to not explain her powers, just like she told them not to mention she’s a fusion? Because I’m pretty sure no one ever uses the phrase “heightened perception” again in reference to her powers.

Given the fact that Garnet chose to keep the knowledge of Ruby and Sapphire under the table until she felt Steven could understand her better, my guess is that this is a similar scenario.

Ahah, I genuinely can’t tell if this is Steven being gullible, or just impulsively playing along with Amethyst’s antics. Still- gross, kid. Don’t wipe your wet cereal face on your shirt! Ew! :O

When he goes outside and starts to use a kiddy metal detector to scan for quarters... so THAT’S where he finds his arcade money! Because I can’t imagine Greg is financially able to give him that much to spend on non-essentials at this point in the show.

Okay, so... I just want to bring light to the fact that Garnet has literally been in this arcade ALL NIGHT LONG.

It was evening when she first arrived here- the sun was visibly setting in the background, and when Steven, Amethyst, and Pearl left, the sky was dark. But now it’s morning. Steven was just seen eating breakfast. And Garnet is STILL HERE.

Does this mean Mr. Smiley locked her IN? I have so many questions... Did he try to get her to leave, only to be intimidated by her complete lack of response? I would kill to know more about this interaction. Poor Mr. Smiley. That man deals with so much bullshit in this town, huh?

Geebus, is Garnet a solid wall. Previous episodes have shown Steven forcibly shoving whole tons of food, and swinging a mini-freezer over his head, and yet he can’t get her to budge even an inch.

I absolutely adore how he climbs up her frame like a koala, though, ahah. Cute.

Meat Beat Mania announcer: “That’s rare!!” Steven: “Oh my gosh...!”

I take these two lines as evidence that this is the first time Steven’s ever seen Garnet’s eyes. Specifically, the fact that there’s three of them. Which, makes sense- since Garnet is still really reserved emotionally at this point, and is only begins to get in the habit of taking her visor off to show Steven her full face later on in the show.

This expression deeply hurts me.

Steven’s so distraught here- because the others are in danger, the town is in danger, and he doesn’t have his trusty, dependable guardian who catches him when he falls and beats up scary monsters for him. Without her, the whole team is vulnerable and blind.

He feels alone. He feels... powerless.

And so he responds to that confusing, powerless feeling by trying to compensate with his own power. When all other routes he can think of fail, he smashes the video game console.

It... uh, it works... but once again, Steven entirely fails to consider the consequences, huh? He experienced a little bit of character growth in this regard in the episode Serious Steven, but even past that it’ll remain an recurring issue for him. Hell, his impulsiveness is a general character flaw even stretching into SUF.

In summary, though:

Poor Mr. Smiley. He works so hard, and doesn’t deserve this BS. ;-;

#su #su meta #steven universe #arcade mania #garnet #amethyst #pearl #mr. smiley #jen rewatches su

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mysticetus · 2 years

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hey oliver, how do you usually go about writing lyrics to your songs? do you have patterns you follow, or is that all unstructured and sort of random? i have things i need to let out but i just dont know where to start at all

hi eel^_^!

i feel this sentiment, in fact often times the reason i write lyrics at all is because i have things i need to let out. writing anything "flowery" can feel awkward or corny especially if it involves more vulnerable parts of yourself. but i think thats why "poetry" its so often utilized by people who suffer, because its a way of expressing feelings so abstract conventional words don't do them justice.

it's always good to start with a feeling. i have a private 0 follower "diary" twitter account that functions like a journal where i write down things that come to mind, or thoughts that i keep ruminating on. its sort of become a place where i throw really intense emotions so it can be scary sometimes, but ultimately i find it helpful to have a sectioned off and isolated area where those things can exist.

i wrote the lyrics for my last song in there. the emotions of course have existed for years and the "metaphor" concepts have brewed for a long time, but i think if you just start writing things stuff like rhymes will come to you. its never bad to "cheat" and use websites to find more words that rhyme with things, i use those all the time.

theres also of course some "rules" you can follow with lyrics like meter and flow, if thats something thats important to you. its important to me, personally, so i always try to make sure the accents of words fall on the right beats and properly alternate. its hard for me to give advice on this though because i mostly use intuition to decide if something "sounds" right

i actually had a lot of lyrics for that song that i ended up scrapping because they were either too vulnerable or they blatantly didnt fit. i sort of just started writing a bunch of lines and then i picked the ones i thought would make sense next to each other and arranged them into 2 "verses". and then i just started going on and on with the last part of the melody and in my head all i could think was i hate you i hate you etc singing along to it so that just sort of wrote itself. i made that toneth description gif because it felt very similar in the moment

im by no means a seasoned songwriter as im still very new to this, but i hope this is helpful in some way

#ask

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canmom · 3 years

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Animation Night 52: YEAR

Hello friends! It is now... drumroll and such... more or less exactly one year since I got the daft/brilliant idea to stream some of my favourite weird animation to everyone who would watch. Gradually, this went from ‘short film night’ to ‘night where we watch 2-3 feature length films’.

Now it’s a year later. We have accumulated 52 Thursdays of animated film! I’m still working on reposting the Animation Night writeup archives on my static website, but in the meantime, here’s some of the places we’ve been...

The beginning: Aeon Flux and the Japan Animator Expo

The impetus for Animation Night basically came from two things: Aeon Flux and Me! Me! Me!... a spirit I hope I’ve managed to at least somewhat keep as we wandered around the history of animation...

I first came across Æon Flux , back in the day, from the above gif. It completely grabbed me; I knew I had to download it immediately to get more of that feeling, whatever it was. This problably explains a lot.

So what is it? Æon Flux was the big thing to come out of MTV’s Liquid Television programming block, directed by the fascinating Korean-American animator Peter Chung. At the time, Chung had been working in the American animation industry for some years, notably designing the characters of Rugrats, but he hadn’t had the chance to express what would become his characteristic style.

Æon Flux at its most basic premise level depicts a kind of sexy super-spy girl at the border of a dictatorship, but everything about it veers away from that premise in striking ways. Its environments draw on influences like Eastern European animation to depict an fascinatingly alienating brutalist landscape, its characters have weird, angular, lumpy bodies, the direction has a fascination with physicality and injury - the iconic image of the series being a fly getting caught in an eyelash. Deaths are abrupt and not flashy, especially those of the protagonist, which come every episode for the first two seasons.

Aeon, though seemingly knowing a lot of things the viewers are not privy to, constantly trips and stumbles and dies, over and over in abrupt ways. It plays cleverly with sexuality (Trevor is a very horny dictator) - unable to show too much explicitly on MTV, it ends up getting a lot more eroticism out of stuff like the spine surgery in my favourite episode, S3E3 Thanatophobia. Aeon herself takes a strangely ambiguous role, seemingly a double agent for the two nations at war; sometimes she’s working against Trevor, sometimes she’s his lover. The pacing, too, has an unusual rhythm: lots of abrupt cuts, and episodes will be often be edited around a recurring pattern (e.g. Aeon shooting the dangling cable in S2E2 Tide)

Moreover, there’s a lot of wordless storytelling (the first two seasons have no dialogue whatsoever), and even after the characters start speaking, it’s often semi-imcomprehensible philosophical monologues that just add to the weird atmosphere. While the structure of the plot of an episode can generally be followed, a lot remains totally unexplained: the atmosphere comes above everything. (There are some fumbles and weaker episodes later on, as it starts getting more explicit with its stories, but just about everything up to mid season 3 is absolute gold.)

Aeon Flux really struck a chord with more than just me, and definitely launched the career of Peter Chung as an independent creator, getting him a chance to work on for example The Animatrix where he made something very akin to Aeon Flux. Sadly, when it saw adaptation to live action film, the adaptation abandoned every part of the atmosphere that made the series so compelling, and pretty much killed the whole thing.

Chung went on to work with anime studios - making him one of the few people to have extensive experience in both the Western and Japanese animation industries - on a highly underrated series called Alexander Senki or Reign: The Conqueror, where he brought the same bony, angular drawing style to a story about a sci-fi world of Greek mythology retelling the story of Alexander the Great.

So, I love Aeon Flux, and I wanted a chance to show it to people. And I had a lot of enthusiasm for animated ‘package films’ like Robot Carnival.

But the thing that really got the ball rolling was something else: a collection of short films by a variety of anime directors organised by Hideaki Anno at Studio Khara in 2014. More specifically, it was the third film in that collection: an incredible music video for Teddyloid’s song Me! Me! Me! which blew my mind so much I knew I had to grab more people before I delved further into the Expo... (content note: a whoooole lotta sexual imagery. that’s kind of the whole thing.)

youtube

Me! Me! Me! is sung from the point of view of a girl who was in the relationship with a boy who, if we can read into the video, increasingly turned away from her towards otaku subcultural pursuits. the video on the other hand takes more of his perspective; as @mogsk did a great job describing at the time

you've got this guy whose very immersed in like otaku/gamer culture who loves this girl (or the memory of her) and seems to be mourning losing her, but as he sinks deeper and deeper into his reverie, all these little objects of his hobby life begin coming alive and tormenting him until the main girl appears as this, like, sexually terrifying entity that he only knows how to confront by basically manifesting as some sort of FPS hero, but in the end all these moe girls overwhelm him, while the lyrics say

You’ll never change, remaining like this until the day you die Your true feelings have sunk to the bottom of a deep and dark swamp - Yes, they’ve built and built until they’ve flooded over

I’ve worked hard for myself - What have you done for yourself? When you notice the scattered pieces of the mirror, You’ll realize I wanted you to notice.

Is this still going on? Is this still happening? Even though I’d been waiting for you Even though I loved you

And then they literally consume him, and so it kinda slots into this idea of, like, a horror scenario of the objectified reasserting her agency through terror and uncanny transformation and how that sort of plays out as a metaphor for the destruction of the ego defense of the male protag against his own attempts to see himself as, like, the victim or the one being attacked in that scenario

What makes it so unbelievably striking as a piece of animation is just how far it leans into a space of sexual imagery that very people would even dare touch and then takes it to a level of stylised and exaggerated which, combined with the intensity of Teddyloid’s music, makes it just an overwhelmingly intense sensory experience. the kind of film that blasts through most of the layers of detachment you might have and leaves you staring into space the first time you see it. I honestly don’t know if I have the language to describe its effect even now.

also it’s where this girl is from lmao

Anyway, we went on to watch the rest of the Animator Expo over a few nights. The collectio can be little hit and miss: there are many incredible entries, but equally many that don’t move me much and a handful that are hard nos for me like the rapey comedy robot in Hiroyuki Okiura’s Robot on the Road. But that’s inevitable: as a project, bringing together all these different studios and directors to make stuff that they couldn’t make in a more standard commercial setting has got to be one of the best ideas Anno ever had (and don’t get me wrong, I love most of his stuff).

So, that’s where Animation Night started! (DyE’s Fantasy music video was another of the inspirations.) I wanted to show people the real far psychic corners of animation, the intense and weird side that makes me go ‘holy shit, this medium’. Gradually I also started to get an idea of like, sharing the history of animation as well: writing little biographies of creators, tracing the history of techniques and such...

Below: a condensed history of Animation Night! A big collection of animated films for you to draw from if you’re ever in the mood! And at the end, an announcement of the little retrospective we’re doing tonight!

The Short Film Compilations - Robot Carnival, Memories, Short Peace, The Animatrix, Genius Party, Ani*Kuri 15, Fantasia, Allegro non Troppo

Early on in Animation Night, I was worried about keeping peoples’ attention for an entire movie - I knew people often drop in and out of streams midway and wanted things to remain accessible. (You can tell this isn’t really a concern I worry about very much anymore!) So I turned to the animated ‘package film’. These included various projects associated with Katsuhiro Otomo, and a large part of the early output of Studio 4°C. I have a lot of fondness for this era of Animation Night, since we were constantly exploring new styles and directions...

Another really lovely aspect of these films is that the shorter runtime allows animators to really go to town on the technical aspects of animation, or deliver more mood-driven pieces without getting bogged down in explaining narrative details.

Moreover, it was a chance to start to follow individual filmmakers who appeared in multiple collections: of course we all known and love Otomo, and his short films like Cannon Fodder and Construction Cancellation Order are still some of my absolute favourites. But this was also a chance to get into the work of, for example, Koji Morimoto, who went from flexing his mechanical animations in Robot Carnival‘s Franken’s Gears to delighting us with the apocalyptic atmosphere in Genius Party Beyond’s final short Dimension Bomb. And of course we got to see some early works of Masaaki Yuasa at his most unconventional!

We’d return to short films much later during a certain winter holiday, along with some lovely OVAs like the Moebius-inspired Dragon’s Heaven and the classic bit of Madhouse cyberpunk Gunnm (aka Battle Angel Alita). And as for Otomo, well, we had to watch Akira at some point right? I had a good deal of fun writing up the post-war history of Japan, but more on that habit later.

writeups:

Animation Night 3 (very brief introduction to Robot Carnival and Memories)

Animation Night 4 (says almost nothing! But has some clips from Genius Party [Beyond])

Animation Night 5 (a brief history of the Disney animator’s strike, and even briefer introduction to Fantasia and Allegro non Troppo)

Animation Night 6 (now I start putting some effort in! A brief description of each of the shorts in Memories, Short Peace and The Animatrix.)

Animation Night 7: Soviet bloc animation (still listed as 8 on the page... a very brief intro to Soviet-bloc short animation, which frankly needs a much better treatment. I understimated how much this would take, so we ended up watching considerably more films on the night from WP!)

Animation Night 33: Digital Juice, Dragon’s Heaven, Gunnm

Animation Night is a way to entertain people and hang out w people of course, but it’s also a cunning ploy to get people to recommend me animated films. Here are a few of them:

@mogsk put together an enormous list of animated music videos and gave me many brilliant recommendations for more obscure films and anime

scattermoon has done an incredible amount of research into European animation, combing awards lists and applying her nigh encylopedic music knowedge to put together her own DJ set of animated music videos as a companion to mogs’s one.

@lyravelocity has given me some really key recommendations (like tekkonkinkreet which we’re soon to get to)

@hamiltonianflow managed to track down copies of the Polish governments’ collections of Polish animation and put a lot of work into going through them to pick out recs

Format experiments: Tekkonkinkreet, web animators, Madoka

At this point, I was starting to run out of short film collections, and increasingly starting to try and do themed nights. Which meant, well, it was time to start considering feature length films. The current form of Animation Night was born.

Our first foray was a film that totally caught me by surprise: Michael Arias’s film adaptation of the manga Tekkonkinkreet, which began as a project with Koji Morimoto but became fully Arias’s project after they went off to work on the Animatrix for a while. Telling the story of two street kids whose home is under threat by, straight up, the forces of gentrification and their yakuza goons, it’s carried by wonderfully stylised, visceral animation and beautiful desaturated, textured backgrounds that make its setting boil over with life. It’s one of the real treasures of Animation Night, enough so that I’m bringing it back tonight!

The next week I got the bug in my head to do something a little different and turn the spotlight onto the independent web animation scene. (I was v much a newgrounds kid lol.) I got very excited writing that one up, and I am glad I got to introduce ppl to some of my fave web animators like vewn and gooseworx (and! in turn! have mogs show me jonni phillips!). That one really launched the trend of well, writing up a big effortpost for each Animation Night. (I returned to web animation a few weeks ago for night 48, to catch up on the newest films by those same people... and visit a few more.)

The next Animation Night was also an experiment. I adore the film Puella Magi Madoka Magica: Rebellion, but it requires the context of the series or else the compilation films... so I decided to do what seemed very ambitious at that point, and watch the whole film trilogy in one night. Which paid off really well, I think! The format worked and hopefully I got at least a few people hooked on Gen Urobuchi’s whole thing.

Auteur time: I get really into sakugablog

With the next block - and honestly, pretty much ever since - I started to use Animation Nights to focus on a particular director. Of course this is theoretically questionable: an animated film is the work of an enormous team of people, and while some films like those of Miyazaki may have an overbearing creator who insists on determining every aspect of the final production, you really can’t act like everything about a film sprung from the mind of one person. But it still makes for a good framing device!

FIrst up we encountered the endlessly varied creations of Masaaki Yuasa, who remains one of my favourite creators. Night Is Short Walk On Girl was another one that snuck up on me: a constantly surprising, charming, energetic film. We were, by contrast, disappointed by Mind Game, although I do feel like I should probably give it another look in a different frame of mind. And Devilman Crybaby hit like it always did. We returned to Yuasa later on night 28, and he continued to charm with films like Lu Over The Wall.

Next up I did Naoka Yamada, one of the really great directors. Koe no Katachi is another favourite film I was really hoping to share with everyone: dealing with quite a challenging set of films with both the care and emotional intensity it needs, backed by the incredible animators cultivated by KyoAni over the years.

This was probably the first writeup to lean mostly on sakugablog lol. It was hard not to be caught up in the obvious enthusiasm of kVin, the site admin of Sakugabooru, or appreciate how much effort he’d put into contextualising KyoAni’s history and Yamada’s particular directing style. Sakugabooru is an amazing site just as a database of animation, but I’ve gotten maybe even more appreciative of kVin’s improbably well-informed writeups of trends and artists... I guess I have full on become a ‘sakuga fan’ this last year lol.

Estabishing the pattern of ‘2 weeks anime, one week everywhere else’, the next week I did one of Irish studio Cartoon Saloon and directors like Tomm Moore. When they’re in their home territory of Irish mythology, Cartoon Saloon deserve all the praise that is heaped on them: they have such an unbelievably rich sense of shot composition and strong visual library of medieval art and celtic designs, gorgeous music, really delightful character animation... and while they made a few missteps (like the monks in Kells), their Ireland-set films have only gotten more refined from The Secret of Kells up to the recent Wolfwalkers (night 49, a welcome antidote to the disastrous Klaus). Sadly, their attempt to apply the formula outside of Ireland with The Breadwinner fell into a bunch of crude stereotypes and even outright pro-invasion narratives - all the more disappointing for contrast with the much more informed and subtle hand of Persepolis a few weeks earlier.

Next up we shot through a few of the bigger names in animation auteurs: Mamoru Hosoda and Satoshi Kon. Hosoda brought us all to tears with Wolf Children, and I finally got to contextualise some delightful character animation from The Girl who Leapt Through Time - Hosoda’s a strong director but it’s the incredible work of his animators that makes his films sing so well. (Enough that we went back to him on Night 47). With Kon, the biggest surprise for me was that Paprika didn’t hold up quite so well as I remembered, but Millenium Actress absolutely killed it, and while it lacks music as memorable as Susumu Hirasawa’s parade theme, honestly I think it makes a better demonstration of Kon’s tight editing and reality blending style as well as just, having a much stronger story to back it. So that was a delight. The same went for Tokyo Godfathers, one of his strongest character pieces.

Over in the west, we have a few auteurs as well. Some, like Don Bluth, I covered over the course of theme nights. And some got their own post, like Genndy Tartakovsky with his tightly edited, abstracted ways of choreographing action, or James Baxter as the technical wizard to carry forward the Disney school of full animation (even if his efforts were so often betrayed in the editing.) Over time I got to most of the big name directors of anime: Mamoru Oshii’s moody, slow, philosophical films, Isao Takahata’s obsessive (...to the point of burning out his animators :/ ) attention to detail, or Makoto Shinkai’s beautiful photography.

Of all these different auteurs, one of my favourite surprises was Sayo Yamamoto of The Woman Called Fujiko Mine, Michiko and Hatchin, and Yuri!!! on Ice, who is just a really wonderfully stylish director: she has both a confidence in the portraying the overt sexuality of characters like Fujiko or the gay skaters of Yuri, and a great eye for cinematography, especially in the textured, pattern world of Fujiko.

The shadow of Gainax...

Hideaki Anno may have given half the impetus for Animation Night, but we hadn’t yet seen his most famous work... and indeed I hadn’t yet experienced the spectacle of Rebuild of Evangelion. I had some fun trying to explain exactly what made Eva important without using misleading clichés like “deconstruction”, though you might say someone like Matteo Wattzky does a better job of contextualising it. Regardless, the films were every bit as incredible as I hoped, with Anno bringing both some fascinating changes to the story (including a delightful extended sequence of Shinji enjoying time with Kaworu), some incredible imagery (the field of skulls in 3.0) and some pretty significant hints that something is afoot making this much more than simply a remake. Since then the last film, 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon A Time, has dropped... and everyone, I am so desperate to see how he’s going to tie up this thematic update (come on, Anno, we all know you’ve put your girlsona in it, especially when comparing with Cutie Honey...)

The next week I picked out two films rather tenuously linked by the concept of speed... and, ok, maybe you could add “incredible, stylish animation” or “antifascist themes”. One was Takeshi Koike’s nigh unrivalled seven-year magnum opus Redline, which surely stands alongside Akira as far as technically complex animation and brings a whole host of aesthetic ingenuity; the other, Hiroyuki Imaishi’s latest evolution of his Gurren Lagann/Kill la Kill formula in promare, featuring the most explicitly gay themes and a whole cascading series of setpieces and toyetic designs that never stops moving.

We’d return to the earlier years of Gainax on Night 29: seeing Anno’s spectacular mechanical animation in Royal Space Force, their origins in the Daicon shorts (now being restored from the original masters by Femboy Films, which is tremendously exciting), and some of their classic mecha stuff in Gunbuster.

Night 30 saw me attempt to cover Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann, which was an absolute blast... for everyone who had already seen the series, because the compilation films were not designed for a first viewing.

‘Animation from...’

Starting in Week 11, we took a glance over at French animation, with the works of Sylvain Chomet, Persepolis and the Gobelins film school school. France has a really distinctive animation tradition, one of the only countries to even slightly compare with Japan. At their best French animated films are stylish and creative to an extreme, leaning on all the aesthetic creativity of French comics, a great deal of confidence creating powerful emotional textures, and in Gobelins, probably the best animation school in the whole industry... but at their worst, they will be blithely racist in a way that even US films have gotten cold feet. But with a little selectivity, you can get some amazing stuff. We ended up watching a decent selection of Gobelins films.

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I headed back to France on Night 32, with a couple of fascinating films on the magical realism spectrum: the remarkably clever J’ai Perdu Mon Corps and the beautifully stark Takahata collaboration The Red Turtle.

Sadly, few countries have as prolific an animation industry as Japan or France. But people still love to animate shit the world over, and that has led to a series of theme nights where we pick out a few animated films from a particular place.

Animation Night 17 took us to Spain, where we got to see some pretty creative stuff: a lifelong tragic Jazz-era romance between two Cuban performers in Chico and Rita, and a fascinating look at the documentary maker Louis Bunuel’s somewhat questionable attempts to document the impoverished region of Las Hurdes in Bunuel in the Labyrinth of the Turtles. Both good films and worth a look, but the best Spanish film was yet to come on Halloween...

For Night 20, we turned our attention to Korean animation, both North and South. South Korea remains the primary country for animation outsourcing, but sadly there are relatively few original films... still, we had some good ones. Wonderful Days is an impressive demonstration of the talents of the team that would go on to make Avatar and Legend of Korra look so good, with a richly portrayed cyberpunk dystopia; Yobi the Five-Tailed Fox was a worthy attempt to meet Hayao Miyazaki and Isao Takahata on the mythology-driven field. And from the North, we got a fascinating look at the works of SEK Studio, the DPRK’s one major animation studio, and their long-running series of war stories Squirrel and Hedgehog. (I didn’t link at the time, but here’s a pretty decent history of their work.)

Week 21 saw holymoley helping me put together a program of Black, (mostly) american animators, who’ve had to reckon with an art form that basically spun out of minstrelsy - quite a potent psychic monster to be facing. The big one here is Aaron McGruder’s series The Boondocks (animated in Korea, but very much his project), which was pointedly political and subversive in how it located itself in the aftermath of 20th century radical movements and the anger and disillusionment it carried. Following that arc to the present took us to the gorgeous Into the Spider-Verse, which ingeniously brought together comic book art, graffiti and traidtional animation styles (e.g. hand drawn expressions and shooting on 2s) to make something really special and stylish, but also an inevitable retreat in “what is allowed to be said”.

For nights 27 and 46 we did donghua (Chinese animation), and I really got to have some fun digging into the history of Animation in China. Donghua’s undergoing an incredible boom at the moment. Studios like Nice Boat and Wolf Smoke have been delivering some incredible narratives like Dahufa and god tier animation in series like Fog Hill of Five Elements.

Theme nights

The times that I really got to go wild with my writeups, though, were the nights where we had a theme rather than a director. Few were as extreme as 24: Jidaigeki night, where I attempted to summarise, in some detail, the origins and socioeconomic history of the samurai class. I’m not sure how much this added to films like Sword of the Stranger, but it sure was fun.

23 - Small Fwuffy Animals was a fun one. Nominally the theme was like, realisticish depictions of animals, but in practice, all that nature, red in tooth and claw stuff? We got as close as animation has gotten, with films like Watership Down and the death scenes of The Animals of Farthing Wood. Honestly, Watership Down - as much as it might lose some of the complexity and nuances of rabbit religion explored in the book - does an amazing job of naturalistic animation and conveying a sense of omnipresent threat.

25: Halloween was one of the best nights, because we got to watch some absolutely incredible films. Vampire Hunter D Bloodlust was an aesthetic delight, but the big surprise was the absolutely incredible film Birdboy: The Forgotten Children by Alberto Vásquez. It’s a film that could easily have fumbled its punches and just fallen into a hollow edgyness, but it sidesteps the pitfalls and its whole subtle sense of desperation and dark humour builds up in just the right way to become one of the most memorable movies we watched.

26: Nuclear War was perhaps one of the more emotionally harrowing nights in the whole series, putting When The Wind Blows and Barefoot Gen together with In This Corner of the World. But it’s a topic that hits me pretty hard! I wrote a whole bunch about the origins of nuclear weapons, and living in a kind of universe that has them.

For 31: Hanukkah, I ended up talking more about the history of Dreamworks animation and Don Bluth, since I can’t speak too well to the significance of the holiday... but it seemed to strike a chord with people, that was one of my more popular posts!

Other theme nights focused around a technique, such as 40: Live Action x Animation, and 50: Stop Motion a couple of weeks ago. The big star of 50 was the remarkable squishy body stuff of Jan Švankmajer; meanwhile on 40 Roger Rabbit held up as well as ever and it was certainly fun returning to Space Jam. But then there was Cool World, which I can’t necessarily say is a ‘good film’ but definitely left a powerful impression, to the point that ‘to be coolworlded’ has become something I say like. all the time.

Franchises

A few times I’ve just tried to cover a franchise that speaks to me - we’ve mentioned a couple like Madoka and Gurren Lagann above, but here’s a few more!

I honestly think I could have done a better writeup of Ghost in the Shell, but apparently my historical notes struck a chord with people, because it proved one of my post popular Animation Night posts :3 guess you all love the cyborg also

Made in Abyss has lodged itself in my memory and won’t let go, and indeed it seemed to have much the same effect on everyone else when we put up our psychic shields and went for two compilation films and Dawn of the Deep Soul. No less harrowing the second time round; but the horror relies not just on shocking content, but also really strong direction and character animation to really connect us to the kids before well uh. all that shit happens!

Lupin III, despite being an absolute blast of a night, never got the writeup I intended... adhd is a fucker! I’ll get there, maybe by the time we do another Lupin night.

And then there was Pokémon! Honestly, this was mostly an excuse to show the delightful animation of the Twilight Wings series.

And that brings us up to the present! Last week we saw the remarkable ‘wound story’, Kizumonogatari, another sakugablog favourite. This led to some fascinating discussions of the evolving nature of fanservice while the vampires smashed each others’ arms off. They are spectacular on a character acting level, developing the Monogatari series’s experimental techniques with some truly inspired expressions of emotion. Honestly, even if you were put off by the dickhead protagonist in Bakemonogatari, I think these films are worth it.

What of today?

What an amazing year honestly. (I mean, on the animation watching front, not the pandemic one.) Had no idea I would end up being a film nerd projectionist type of person, or start on the road to becoming an animator myself, when I started this thing. And I feel reasonably proud that I’ve kept to the spirit of presenting the whole scope of animation, famous and obscure - all the enormous emotional power you can get out of arranging images in time...

Tonight the plan is to do a kind of retrospective! I’m gonna pull out a few favourites - currently thinking Aeon Flux, Tekkonkinkreet, Birdboy, some of the short films - from the whole span of Animation Night as a celebration of this cool thing we made. I’ll definitely be taking requests, so if there’s something you feel bad about having missed, ask me and I might just be able to fit it in!

After that? Not going anywhere! (Unless Twitch bans me, in which case I’ll need to find a different place to stream.) We may have ticked off the biggest names, but there’s loads more animation to explore, and oh gosh this is too much fun - so I would love to keep this going for another year, even if the format ends up changing again to focus more on TV or something as we start to run out of films. (Not that we’re anywhere close to that yet.)

Since I’m already running a whole hour late, Animation Night 52 will be starting at 8pm UK time, about 5 minutes time. Hope to see you there as ever <3

#animation night #animation #i love you dorks thanks for making this thing with me

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