#just ignore that you can count all the pixels in the last one

[sparklyeyedhimbo]

babe doing the fanfic worthy neck sniffing

give some big hands to pavel because damn that man had to read a few stories to get this down to a t

[riddle-me-ri]

oh oh! how do you think btas riddler would react to his s/o successfully completing The Riddle of the Minotaur?

A/N: Aww omg this idea is so cute! He would be estatic he would be thrilled and so proud!! Aww I always enjoy writing for my wee husbando this is so cute! Also sorry I sorta…went a wee bit off track lol and I..kinda borrowed a similar twist I’ve done before…I hope you don’t mind…it was just really hard to resist the opportunity was RIGHT THERE lmao

Word Count: 1k

BTAS Riddler x Reader - Full Playthrough

“Edward, what’s this?”

“Oh, you’ll see.” Ed smiled. 

You sat up straight in a plush office chair, staring at a large computer monitor. An 8-bit epic score played through the speakers and a pixelated title on the screen in green text: 

“The Riddle of the Minotaur”

Below the title was blinking green text stating; 

“Press Enter to Start.”

When you finally read the title, you smiled up at Edward. 

“It’s your game! I-I didn’t think you had a copy still…after what happened.”

Edward sighed, nodding. “Despite…the outcome of my game being stolen right from under me…I’m still very proud of it.” 

“You should be!” You exclaimed. 

Edward leaned in and gently nestled his chin into your left shoulder. 

He whispered warmly into your ear. “But now, it would mean the world to me if…you played it in it’s entirety.”

You gasped. You always enjoyed playing Eddie’s puzzle toys and video games. They always got you to think outside the box and they were super fun too! Not to mention, you adored the praise he gave you for solving them. 

Now, one of his most well known (or perhaps…infamous?) creations was in front of you. Waiting to go on a virtual enigmatic adventure. 

‘I-I’d love to Eddie! This is exciting!” Edward chuckled. He always did love your enthusiasm for his creations. 

He lifted his head up from your shoulder and gave an encouraging kiss to your temple. 

“Good luck, darling. And don’t be surprised if it’s a bit different than what you might have learned when it was released.” 

After that Edward walked out of his office, leaving you a bit confused at that last statement. 

You knew a little about the game, it’s setting, and the objective to get to the center of a maze and outsmart the Minotaur. You have heard some kid beat the game while The Riddler was at large. What was the kid’s name? Tom? Dick? Harry?

You shrugged it off, maybe Edward just added a couple more puzzles or maybe updated some riddles?

Pushing down on the “enter” button, the game finally began. 

Minutes soon turned into a couple of hours. 

Your hands flew across the keyboard–answering riddles, clicking on arrows to navigate through the winding maze. 

A couple riddles were some you have heard or seen before:

“What is the shortest distance between a point in Nome, Alaska, and a point in Miami, Florida?”

You even recognized one of Edward’s favorite riddlers. 

“I have billions of eyes, yet I live in darkness. I have millions of ears yet only four lobes…”

Of course, the brain…duh!

You have yet to run into the Hand of Fate or the Minotaur. 

You couldn’t help the proud smirk that grew on your face as you saw the center of the maze up ahead on the map. 

However, now the questions…seemed to have changed. 

The riddles thus far have been fairly usual and some were related to the theme of the Minotaur mythos…

Yet, these last few had a more…romantic feel?

“I can break, I can be clogged, I can be attacked, I can be given, I can be kept, I can be crushed, yet I can be whole at the same time. What am I?” 

A heart…

You navigated further to the center before you hit another riddle. 

“I hurt the most when lost, yet also when not had at all. I’m sometimes the hardest to express, but th easiest to ignore. I can be given to many, or just one. What am I?” 

You tapped your finger on top of the mouse as you pondered. 

“Love…” You typed out the word and pressed the enter key. 

Heart, love…odd but you could feel your cheek slightly warm. Perhaps, these were the changes he made, to make the game more special for your playthrough. 

Finally, you are just outside the center of the maze. You’re confronted by the Minotaur before you can pass through the final gate. 

The pixelated minotaur raised his blade before asking a final riddle. 

“Answer the riddle…and you shall pass to the center of the maze. If you answer incorrectly, you shall perish.” The red text typed out the Minotaur’s speech. 

“For your final riddle…” The Minotaur began. 

“...It connects two people…yet it only touches only one. What is it?” 

An empty text box appeared at the bottom of the speech box. A vertical line blinked, waiting for an answer. 

“W-What?” You asked out loud to yourself. 

Connects two people…but only touching one or the other?

You were lost in thought, so much so you didnt’ hear the door open and someone slowly walking behind you. 

Edward wore a proud wide grin on his face. You were so close to the finish line and he had the perfect reward. 

“A…not a…ugh…there was love…heart…it’s gotta connect.” 

You gasped as your mental lightbulb went off. You typed sporadically on the keys. 

“A…wedding…ring?” You pressed enter. 

The screen went black for a moment, before showing your warrior character in the middle of the maze standing in front of a trove of treasures. 

Your smile grew wide as the text came up confirming your victory. 

“Eddie!” You hollered as you jumped out of your seat. “I did it!” 

“I knew you could, darling.” Eddie beamed. 

You jumped again this time in surprise more than excitement. 

Edward was right behind you, a soft look filled with affection topped with a sweet smile. 

“Eddie! W-When–how–I, I did not see you-”

Edward chuckled. “I wanted to be here just before your inevitable win. I knew you would…but you never cease to amaze me.” 

You giggled as you rushed over to him, planning for an embrace. But before you got your arms around him–he dropped down on one knee. 

Your eyebrows scrunched in the middle. 

Then another lightbulb goes off. 

The riddles, the answers…especially near the end. 

“I may be the smartest man in this world…but only you could make me the happiest man in this world…will you marry me?” 

You got your second wind to rush him again, to finally embrace him. This time you followed through and even knocked him down to the ground. 

“Yes! Yes!” You shrieked excitedly, “I’d love to!” 

Edward sighed in relief as he tightened his arms around you. When you finally let up, Edward gently slid the ring on your finger. 

“It connects two people…” He began. 

When the ring nestled around the base of your finger, your smile widened more than when you won the game.

“Yet, it only touches one.” You finished.

[samieree]

Heimdall one-shot

I can't, he's just so... 😭 I can't believe I have fallen for pixels- Ugh, just enjoy! <3

Heimdall x pregnant reader

You're a goddess from Vanaheim who had to marry Heimdall. At first you didn't even accept each other and the only night you spent in the same bed was your wedding night. However, as the marriage continued, you began to get to know each other, and it seemed like something akin to love was developing between you. The best proof of this was his child, which you  carried under your heart.

~

“Would you mind your own business?” you said angrily, finding Heimdall in the mead hall. He was there alone, reading a book, looking at you for only a brief moment.

You let go of the leather bag you've been carrying for what must have been half of Asgard, hoping it would fall on his foot, but of course he moved his leg in time.

“Nobody asked you to carry it. I would do it myself.” he replied as if nothing had happened, turning a page in his book.

“The blacksmith told me you were supposed to pick it up a week ago.”  you said, pointing to the bag on the ground. “You ordered a lot of useless stuff, but that's not even the point. They've been with him for three weeks now! Are you even listening to me?!” you wanted to snatch the book from his hands so that he would finally pay attention to you, but he resignedly left it, finally making eye contact.

“Of course I listen to you, my dearest and prettiest wife in the nine realms.” I’m your only wife.

You sighed heavily as you sat down on the bench next to him. You didn't have the strength to do it anymore, especially since you already had a big pregnant belly. But you'll have to stand it for one last month.

“You're not so busy that you can't take an hour and pick up what you ordered yourself!”

“And in your condition you shouldn’t carry anything heavy. The blacksmith would wait another week for me to pick up my stuff if I had a whim.” he shrugged and wanted to go back to reading, but you placed your hand on his book, lowering it back to his thighs.

“What's happening?” you asked in a much softer tone, stroking his shoulder gently with your free hand. “I feel like the closer I am to giving birth, the more you distance yourself from me.”

“You're delusional.” he replied after a long silence.

You didn't believe him, you knew something was wrong. Something that makes him behave differently.

He looked down from your face and moved to your belly, then placed his hand on it as well and stroked it gently. You liked it very much when he did it, he was so gentle, as if any stronger touch could hurt you and the baby. Over time, you've learned that this is his love language. Small gestures, being gentle with you. Doing things for you or helping you with them, and just showing more affection in private.

“I can see you're acting differently. This may come as a shock to you, but I'm not dumb.”

“It’s kicking” he seemed to ignore your words completely. He decided to pretend that he hadn't heard anything, but shifted his full attention to your yet unborn child.

 Plus, pff… He said it like I didn't feel the baby kicking at all.

“Heimdall…”

“I have work to do.” he cut you off quickly, leaning in to kiss your belly. “Maybe we'll talk later.” he got up and left the room, you didn't even try to stop him.

But then you realised that you could have done it, because the blacksmith's bag was still on the ground. And it looked like you were going to have to move it to your room, as if you didn't carry it enough already...

 * * *

Even lying in bed in the evening, you were still wondering what your husband was so worried about. You were definitely not delusional, you could see from his behaviour that something was wrong. But… Ugh, you had no idea what it was. As you can see, even though you're about to have a baby, you couldn't count on his complete honesty.

It was late, and you kept waiting for him to come back so you could pick up the same conversation which you started in the morning. But he wasn't coming back. Was he offended? Decided he'd rather sleep on the stones on the wall than next to you?

You were sure that this stage was long behind you...

But suddenly the door opened and he stepped inside. He paused at the entrance, clearly surprised that you were still awake, waiting for him.

“Aren't you asleep yet?”

“I couldn’t fall asleep.” you replied even though you knew well that he would know you lied. He stared at you for a moment, then turned back to leave. “You're not even going to pretend you've come to get something? You know you can't avoid me for the rest of your life?”

You sat up, looking at him sadly. Is that what he was going to do now, avoid you? And all because you're worried about him? You knew he wasn't used to being cared for, but after all, ever since your marriage started to work out, you've always tried to take care of him...

“I'm not avoiding you, I'm just… It's late. I wanted to see if you were asleep before I went back to work.” you burst out laughing at that statement. “Are you having mood swings again?”

“No, you made me laugh. Your lies are pathetic.” you said, getting out of bed and adjusting your nightgown a bit so that it fits better on your belly. “What’s wrong? You don’t want this baby? You don’t want me? Are you afraid of parenthood?”  he said nothing in answer.

So you decided to change your attitude. You approached him, grabbing his hand. You didn’t want bad for both of you, he could trust you.

“I just want to help you, and I can't do that if you don't tell me what's going on.” you explained in a gentle tone, hoping Heimdall would finally open up to you.

“What if I'm like him…?” he asked softly, looking down at your joined hands.

He didn't need to say a name, you knew exactly who he meant. He was afraid that he would be to his child the same as Odin was to him...

“I know you don’t.” You replied, placing your hand on his cheek to make him look at you. “Besides, I'll always be around. We'll be supporting each other.”

“What if the child has skills my father will want to use?” you sighed softly. You didn't want to show that you were afraid of that too, even though you knew Heimdall probably already knew what you thought.

“We won't let him. This is our baby, our family.” still holding his hand, you led him behind you to sit on the bed. “You can't let fear of your father define your life.  Besides, remember that I'm always here and always will be for you. No matter what happens, how hopeless the situation is, I will always be with you, you can always talk to me honestly.”

Without saying anything, he cuddled up to you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. It was obvious that what you said meant a lot to him, especially since you said it honestly. You loved this tease and you had no intention of ever leaving him or your child.

That's right, a child who just showed up again by kicking you. You tensed slightly when you suddenly felt it, and Heimdall then moved slightly away from you.

He reached behind his head, taking off the hairband that held his hairstyle and then lay down, resting his head on your thighs and stomach. It was his silent request for you to untie his braids. He would never have asked you directly, but who knows… Maybe someday he will, since it looked like today you had broken another barrier - perhaps the last one - between you.

You'd love to hear from him someday that he likes what you're doing, whether you're just playing with his hair or fixing his belt because you think you can do it better than him.

“I love it when you play with them…” you smiled to yourself when you heard that.  Maybe he just said it because he read your thoughts, or maybe he said it on his own, whatever. It fulfilled your little impression and warmed your heart.

“Boy or girl?” you asked, already unravelling the last of his braids and now only playing with the loose strands of golden hair, massaging his scalp gently as you did so.

“I don’t know.” it warmed you up even more when he lay with his head right next to your belly as he was now, his free hand stroking it lightly. And he's been doing this since the pregnancy belly starts showing. Maybe not every day, he had to be in the mood for it…

But every time you were lying down, he had at least one hand on your belly. Sometimes he just lightly rested his hand on it, and sometimes he wrapped his arms around it a little tighter as you lay with your back to him, slowly falling asleep.

You remember one night when he had to go do some stuff for Odin and you slept alone. Or rather you tried, because all night you felt the baby either kicking you or wriggling inside you, as if asking where his dad was and demanding his presence. It may have been a terrible and sleepless night, but in retrospect… You liked the interpretation you came up with. Because on no other night that Heimdall was around did this happen to you. It had to mean something, right?

“But it must be a girl with such zeal.” he said, obviously feeling the baby's kicks. You chuckled softly at that theory, continuing to play with his hair. “Actually, I want a daughter…”

A daughter like him… You didn't know if you should break down or smile at the idea.  But on the other hand... Maybe this tease could use someone with the same character as his?

~

-> general masterlist -> God of War: Ragnarök masterlist

Okay, but isn't it sweet, how he loves and have to have a hand wrapped around her pregnancy belly every night? 😭💕

@manymaria111 @different4black @vanserrar

[changingplumbob]

Nishidake Household: Chapter 5, Part 1

In this part the Nishidake household hit a few roadbumps with the inclusion of the health mods.

Back to Mt Komorebi where the Nishidake household sleeps. Last rotation they got the news that Kaori’s grandparents had left a large inheritance for her and her wife. The Nishidake family are the guardians of the mountain, a mantle which requires loyalty to the region. Specifically you can go somewhere on holiday, but if you take steps to move away you will die. At least according to a bunch of dead ancestors who tried, including Kaori’s parents.

Charlie: We better get up

Kaori: Clover’s belly is not the boss of us

Clover: *barks hungrily*

Kaori: Who am I kidding? Her belly is totally the boss of us

Charlie: *laughs* I can go feed her if you want first shower

Kaori: Please. I had a not great fall yesterday and my muscles are still aching

Charlie: You should have said, I could have given you a massage

Kaori: I’ve maxed my snowboarding skill, I’m not meant to have falls

Charlie: Everyone has falls *to Clover* Come on my honey pie, who wants biscuits?

Charlie: Did you get back in your pyjamas? *kisses cheek*

Kaori: Yeah, they’re comfy

Charlie: Remember we need to go to the doctors first thing

Kaori: Why? Since when

Charlie: Mum text about a new mod. Apparently we need vaccines and to go see a gynaecologist

Kaori: Char only one of us got a bio degree

Charlie: Oh, they just look at our pixel parts and tell us if we’re healthy

Kaori: What? I don’t want some stranger looking at my pixel parts

Charlie: We don’t have a choice

Kaori: Sure we do! We just don’t go. It’s not like we’re going to get pregnant or one of us is sleeping with someone who has a pixel parts infection

Charlie: We don’t need to be trying to get pregnant for our reproductive organs to stuff up and explode

Kaori: *suspiciously* You’re just being gloomy right? Our organs won’t actually explode…

Charlie: Guess the only way for you to find out is to come with me

Kaori: *rolls eyes* Fine. How much will it set us back

Charlie: Don’t worry. All players on the team get health insurance, we’ll be fine, it won’t cost as much

Kaori: Brilliant! We could use the savings on a new couch

Charlie: Umm, I don’t think that’s how savings work. And we hardly ever sit on the couches anyway

Kaori: Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have nice ones. And I’m not suggesting we use the inheritance on ourselves, but you and I do get income we can spend. You knew you were marrying a shop-a-holic Char, I like nice things

Charlie: Am I included in these nice things

Kaori: Only if you take a shower

Charlie: Oh, she burns!

Kaori: Shut up, you know I still have a fear of fire. I’ll get the dishes, you shower so we can get these medical visits over with

Clover: *barks* Hope I don’t have any medical visits

Kaori: We survived!

Charlie: Heck yeah. Now, about what the doctor said…

Kaori: Char she said I’m neurodivergent, it’s not like we need to be worried or sad or whatever

Charlie: I’m gloomy, I can’t help it. Do you want me to go to the psychiatrist with you

Kaori: Nah, I’ll be sweet. Can you get started on the chores for me though?

Charlie: Does gardening count

Kaori: So long as you don’t let Clover track the dirt through the house

Charlie: I won’t. But I know you enjoy vacuuming so… I’ll leave that for you?

Kaori: *laughs* Guilty! Okay, I’ll vacuum when I’m back

Charlie gets started on her indoor garden. She learned how to garden during her biology degree with Rahul, not that she’d tell her dad that she’d ignored his many attempts to teach her about soil types and fertiliser strengths. She’s calling out to Clover every so often when she realises Clover is barking differently than normal.

Charlie: You better not be inviting around the hound dogs

Clover: *barks to the hound dogs*

Charlie: We’re getting you spayed so don’t even think about it

Kaori: What’s all the noise in here

Charlie: You back? How’d it go

Kaori: Did you say we’re getting this precious angel spayed

Charlie: I did indeed yell that

Clover: *barks in love*

Kaori: But... Charlie... puppies could be so cute!

Charlie: No

Kaori: Why not? You got her and Allie as puppies

Charlie: Over population K. There’s enough strays out there without adding to the surplus

Kaori and Clover go to the garden room where Charlie is fighting a temporary bug invasion.

Kaori: But what if... we kept the puppies

Charlie: *sighs* K, pregnancy is hard and labour is rough. Yes you may end up with cute puppies but think about what Clover would have to go through. It’s not right for us to put her through that when we can get her fixed

Kaori: *pouts* Suppose

Charlie: I don’t want to be pregnant. You don’t want to be pregnant. Why would we make her do something we’re not willing to go through ourselves huh?

Kaori: You’re right, I know you’re right. She just really seems to want to make puppies

Clover: *barks in love*

Charlie: It’s hormones. Should calm down when she’s fixed. Now what did the psychiatrist say

Kaori: That I have… wait he did write it down somewhere for me…

Clover: *barks in love*

Charlie: Honey pie mummies are talking right now

Kaori: Oh, I kept it on my phone. I have this thing called… Dysgraphia? I think that’s how it’s pronounced

Charlie: I haven’t heard of it before

Kaori: Yeah me neither

Charlie: Do they think we need to be worried at all

Kaori: No. It’s just why I have trouble writing neatly and getting stuff from my head onto paper

Charlie: Did they want you to start anything like meds or tutoring or something

Kaori: Depends on how much I’m bothered. Like I have the film and literature hobby but I enjoy experiencing stories more than creating them you know. I’ll see how I go

With the garden tidied Charlie gets into her uniform and heads off to work.

Kaori: Good luck playing Char! We'll be listening and watching

Charlie: Thanks. Hey Clover, I’ll see you when you have less organs

Clover: *whines*

Kaori: Here we are, standard vets. I’ll go sign you in for a spay, come on Clover

Clover: *whines in love*

Kaori: Let’s see… do we have an account here? We should do, we took Allie here after all

Bartholemew A. Bittlebun, Snr.: *meows* Lady you’re in my puddle

Kaori: Spay… spay… spay! Here we go, all signed up

 Bartholemew A. Bittlebun, Snr.: *meows* The service here is terrible

Kaori: I’m lucky this screen lights up. Why is it so dark in here?

Clover: *barks* Puddle! I must jump in as tribute to Peanut

Bartholemew A. Bittlebun, Snr.: *meows* Make your own puddle to play in

Clover: *barks* But this one is right here and I need to roll

Bartholemew A. Bittlebun, Snr.: *runs from the scene of the crime*

Justin: Hey lady, your dog is making a mess! All over the floor

Kaori: Maybe you should wait for the vet outside Clover

Bartholemew A. Bittlebun, Snr.: *smirks in victorious cat*

Cora: Clover? Clover?

Clover: *barks* That’s my name, don’t wear it out

Cora: You’re a nice doggy, right

Clover: *barks* Why do you look scared

Sick Non Fox: *barks* Get out of my way!

Clover: *growls* You get out of my way fire feet

Sick Non Fox: Why hasn’t the vet taken you in yet? Do you have rabies

Clover: *growls* I do not have rabies

Kaori: So do you have a cat or-

Brant: Three dogs, the youngest one seems to have something wrong with his feet. Luckily we live nearby

Kaori: Oh man I live all the way in Mt Komorebi, but this is pretty much the only vet clinic in the world

Brant: Tell me about it

…

Cora: Nice doggy? Want to play

Clover: *barks* at least that rhymes with spay

Sick Non Fox: You’re getting your organs taken out? Loser. I can breed free

Clover: *growls* I pity any offspring of your ridiculous looking self

Cora: Here we are. If you could just get her to sit on the treadmill

Kaori: Clover, sit. What was the delay?

Cora: Oh, you know, just wanted to check some things

Clover disappears into the machine…

Kaori: What do you mean? What things

Cora: Not to worry. This is my first time doing a spay but I did learn how to tell the difference between the uterus and the bladder

Clover: *whines*

Kaori: Is she okay in there

Cora: She’ll be fine. Now the procedure does fit her with a cone. We recommend *thinks hard* that it stay on for the rest of the day

Kaori takes Clover home feeling less than confident in the nurses abilities but Clover seems fine apart from the cone. Charlie will be working until 9 but the fridge is almost empty so Kaori starts on dinner.

Kaori: I’m sorry we won’t have puppies Clover, they would have been cute. Maybe in a few years mummy will let us get another puppy huh?

Clover: *barks dejectedly*

Kaori: Of course, we could always just go adopt a puppy as a surprise

Clover: *barks questioningly*

Kaori: I know babykins, you’re right. Rescue pets do not make good surprise gifts

Kaori turns on the radio while she eats so she can tune in to Charlie’s game. She’ll watch it properly when she’s eaten but she likes to catch the start. It’s a rough game for Charlie’s team, they don’t win, and Charlie gets subbed out ten minutes before then end. She returns home gloomier than usual.

Kaori: Do you want a massage

Charlie: You watched the game huh

Kaori: I did

Charlie: I hate when coach subs me out at the end. I’m the best on the team for the penalty shootouts

Kaori: I suppose you can’t win them all

Charlie: This stupid reporter-

Kaori: Hey, have some food while we talk. You look pretty wiped out

Charlie: You left me the last of the Pho?

Kaori: I had to cook so I figured I’d let you have it

Charlie: Aww thanks K. You’re sweet

Kaori: Now you mentioned reporter

Charlie: *sighs* So it’s post match press and this guy calls the loss one of the worst ever to happen in soccer. Which I get, it was a rough end. But he was asking me who was responsible? Did the dude not see I wasn’t even on the pitch for the end?

Kaori: Did you tell him off

Charlie: I thought about it, but I didn’t want to throw coach under the bus. Then she’d have even more reason to bench me. So I spouted some nonsense about teamwork. I swear they target me with the tricky questions because they know I’m gloomy and they’re searching for a soundbite

Kaori: Come here, I love you and your gloominess. It keeps me and my cheerfulness grounded

Charlie: *sighs* I suppose so. I guess I should do the dishes

Kaori: No, I got them. I think somebody wants their cone off

Charlie: Oh Clover, Honey pie? Who wants to be free again?

Clover: *barks* Have mercy on me

Charlie: Does my brave girl need a hug, huh? Do you need a hug?

The tired trio head to the bedroom together and fall asleep.

Previous (Foster) ... Next

[rnolduga]

Gerudo Height in BotW

NOTE: This is all approximation based on theory, done because simply eyeballing heights wasn't enough for me and I wanted an answer that could at least be explained.

I'll get straight to the point- this started because my fixation on BotW returned and I decided I needed to know Urbosa's height; looking it up rewarded me with poor results, so I decided to find it myself and I spiraled from there. Here we go:

To start, I need a solid metric to measure her height by, as well as something to compare her to. In comes this video by The Bread Pirate, in which he calculates Link's height and comes to the conclusion that he is 5'2", or 1.584 meters. This is perfect, because it just so happens that Link and Urbosa are depicted together on equal level in Memory #15 and that means I can use him to find her height through comparison.

(I had to cut Mipha out from between them for this, rip)

I tried to approximate their heights as accurately as possible, excluding the added height of their hair because. Well. Hair doesn't count. Which is also why in the video, Link was measured in the radiant mask, which flattens his hair.

Now, The Bread Pirate utilizes the BotW memory editor to convert Link's height in in-game pixels to meters, and I can't do that here. So, alternative methods with a common metric have to be used. As seen in the above image, I measured both Link and Urbosa's height from the bottom of their feet to roughly the top of their heads, in red and blue. The black and white lines beside those serve to count each pixel of the lines more clearly, with an added line for Urbosa's heels, which will be subtracted from her total height later. As you can see, Link reaches 122 pixels tall, Urbosa is 175 pixels, and Urbosa's heels are 6 pixels. For simplicity's sake, I'll be measuring height in meters for the math and converting it to feet + inches for those who need it at the end. To find Urbosa's height, we have to find the height of each pixel. For this, we rely on Link's assumed height of 1.584 meters.

1.584 divided by Link's pixel height count, 122, equals 0.01298360655. This means that in this instance, 1 pixel = 0.01298360655 meters.

With that in mind, if Urbosa is 175 pixels tall, then Link's pixel height subtracted from that would give them a 53 pixel difference. 53 pixels, or 0.68813114754 meters.

Link's height of 1.584 meters + their difference of 0.68813114754 meters = 2.27213114754 meters, Urbosa's total height in the above image.

Now, her heels are 6 pixels tall, or 0.0779016393 meters. This, subtracted from her total height, equals 2.19422950824 meters.

So, in simpler terms, Urbosa is roughly:

2.272 meters / 7'5" in heels. 2.194 meters / 7'2" without heels.

That's super tall! Except...

Huh..........................

This got me thinking. I assumed all Gerudo adults except elders used very similar base models and were therefore all the same height, so this was all for the fun of ignoring nintendo's convenient game development method of reusing models to treat each character like an individual, but could they be different heights?

To my surprise, the answer is yes!

Using the same method I did with Urbosa, I approximated the following (heels subtracted from all):

Buliara: 2.315 meters / 7'7"

Guard: 2.112 meters / 6'11"

Avg. Gerudo: 2.019 meters / 6'7"

I left out elderly Gerudo because they're all signifigantly hunched over, making it impossible to get an accurate measurement, as well as Gerudo children, because I'm lazy.

(Side note, that'd make the Gerudo at the bar REALLY tall by their standards. Her in-game model is the same height as other average Gerudo around town, but I'm taking her word on being 8'0" for the sake of maintaining something that is definitively canon lol)

Now, there's just one last thing to mention: Traysi's estimation of average Gerudo height.

Um.

No, pretty sure that's much taller than the average Gerudo, I don't even have to do the math. also that's a cactus not a tree

Anyway. I went into this just wanting to know how tall Urbosa was and ended up doing a lot more math than originally intended to find the heights of other Gerudo too. Worth it tbh.

[rammingspeed]

6: 5min run/3min walk x 3

This run felt like a bit of a milestone since 5 is just one of those numbers. Weirdly I don't think this plan includes any 10 minute splits, it does have a 15 minute one though, that one is right near the end. Also it is the last run of the second week of this 6 week program, woohoo! Anyway, for the actual run, I felt really good! Something I have been doing on previous runs is, when I start feeling a bit out of breath I time my breath with my steps, usually breath in for 3 steps, breath out for 2. I get kind of distracted by it though, and I'm not sure it really helps. Feels better to just ignore my breath and let my body do it's thing, as long as I'm not too ragged. Today I listened to music as I ran (Eurovision 2023 playlist lol) instead of a podcast, and I found myself mouthing along the words and it helped me get into I think what a lot of people describe as a flow state, where you're just kinda running without thinking about form/breath/etc, they all just kinda come together. I didn't need to count my steps as I breathed and I think my breathing and form were all decent throughout (if there is anything I did still kind of pay attention to, it was my form. I found this video really helpful for things to keep in mind in terms of form while I run.

In other news, I got a pixel watch so I don't need to bring my phone along with me anymore, I got an interval app for it that works just like my old one, and now I can track everything in fitbit (and maybe strava eventually). First thing I did when I got it was turn literally every notification off except for texts/phone/general watch things. I was a bit nervous it wouldn't track anything today but it worked like a charm, I'm very happy with the new set up!

Happy Mother's Day to all the running moms out there. My mom started running after she had my sister and for a while she was the reason I was kind of avoiding running because of how much of a toll it took on her body sometimes, although she was running at least one marathon a year and did an ironman when she turned 50, which should be motivational for most people but not for her kids ha. Now that I've started running, it's a nice thing we can bond over, although if I ever run a marathon and then talk about running more than one a year you have my permission to slap me in the face.

Love you, Mom!

[evilbihan]

This is some kind of crime against logic, common sense and facts.

Saying something like this about a fan theory when the actual source material itself has more plot holes than swiss cheese is wild to me.

You seem to forget that MK is a fighting game, the lore itself doesn't even add up in some places. Just look at the dialogues and how many of them contradict themselves. You can't possibly argue that anything about MK lore is logical, but sure, go off.

We will just clarify that in the entire previous post, as we noted, we did not touch on your personality or dignity. We discussed your judgment within the framework of one of your posts, not your personal qualities or you as a person. But you still saw the offensive subtext in your address, and we just wash our hands of it. Being offended by something that doesn't exist is your right, who are we to take it away.

Let me just say, I love the gaslighting in this, especially in the last phrase.

The whole subsequent text to the end of the block seems completely insane.

The lie here is to claim that Kuai did not want his brother to be reborn.

You know, there's a difference between being wrong about something and blatantly lying. You have every right to tell me I'm wrong. I even admitted that I'm wrong, yet you accuse me of "ignoring evidence" and "lying". Like, it's a goddamn video game, why would I go out of my way to make up oh so evil lies about a pixel character? With all due respect, it's getting ridiculous.

You say that there is no evidence that Bi Han received the title after his father's death, but the official website of the Mythology of Sub-Zero (it still exists!) talking about it right now. This is something that could be verified by simply going to the wiki fandom and looking at the sources. Actually, here's a screenshot for you, if you don't believe us.

Fair enough. I was wrong and I'll gladly admit it. However, I'm an adult with a job, I have more important things on my mind than memorizing every small detail from video games I played decades ago. Still doesn't mean I "lied" as you claim. What would I gain from that anyway? As I said before, people can do their own research. I'd gain nothing from lying or "distorting the truth" as you'd like to put it.

You've brought in a lot of dialogues to prove your point, but it feels like you either aren't very familiar with the plot yourself (most of your statements are refuted by the plot itself), or you did it intentionally, counting on people who have only played MK1 and don't know the details of other games.

A bold statement considering you yourself are not very familiar with the lore if you called Noob a revenant when he's actually a wraith, but of course, you will say my criticism makes no sense because it is, in fact, you who can't accept it when you're wrong.

In any case, considering all that has been said, we understand that you will simply ignore even the strongest irrefutable evidence, because it contradicts your vision. I'm sorry, but all your rhetoric on this issue speaks directly about this. Friend, you're wrong.

I can admit this is a valid point of criticism from your side. Nothing to disagree with here.

It seems to me you're the one lying here. I literally admitted your criticism was valid, yet you ignore that completely and make claims about me that are untrue.

Furthermore, you continue to call me something I told you I'm uncomfortable with, completely ignoring my personal boundaries. But then again, I do assume I'm getting away mildly with the condescending pet names and being called a liar.

Given that you call people slurs when something they say or do isn't to your liking says so much about you. I won't argue with someone who insults and disrespects people with a different opinion than their own.

This is what you sound like when you claim I'm intentionally "lying" to people to make some poor video game character look bad:

Congratulations on proving me wrong though, I hope it helps you sleep better tonight!

The thirst to write some crap prevailed over laziness, hooray! Or it was spring that breathed a thirst for life into us, it doesn't matter. The important thing is that some time ago we came across a very controversial post from @evilbihan. The post.

We agreed with other posts by this author regarding MK1, but here we still want to object on a number of points. It is inconvenient to write all your notes in the comments, but there is something to say, which is exactly why we are writing this.

!Attention!: This is not an attack on the author, not a belittling of his dignity, not some kind of hatred and dislike. We want to note the controversial points in his statement and that's it. And if we've sorted it out, then let's go.

For convenience, we will split the post into the same blocks. We do not disagree with the whole post, but we will note these blocks too.

One more important warning: here we will only talk about the MK9-11. MK1 sucks cock like the latest harbor whore.

"Kuai Liang has always stood on the shoulders of others" and "Tundra as a character does not exist."

(Screenshot, so as not to be unfounded)

Considering that we are talking about the version of Kuai Liang from MK9-11 from here on, we will only touch on this version. But let's mention that the statement "Kuai stands on the shoulders of others" became legitimate only with the release of MK1, when he was given the role of Scorpion. More precisely, not even a role, but just a name that no longer stands for anything.

In other versions, adopting the name Sub-Zero made sense. And it was a plot event that was important to the character. It's like saying that Hanzo has never been able to protect his family and that makes him a bad character. No, this is the event that shapes the character. This is an important plot point for the personality and for the further path of life, a defining event, if you want to call it that.

In addition, it is confusing to mention that the character is supposedly less active because someone else saved him. In MK, characters often save each other. Yes, in the context of the post it makes sense, but in the context of the story itself, this is a completely logical development. No one broke out of the Cyber Initiative's control on their own, so it makes sense that Kuai was saved by someone. The very fact of the rescue says little about the character. Only that he was dear enough to someone to convince others to help. Besides, let's remember that he was immediately sent to spy, so it wasn't just kindness that played a role here.

"Tundra has never been relevant in Mortal Kombat until he took the mantle of Sub-Zero."

Well… yeah? Because that was the point of it. We had never seen Kuai before he became Sub-Zero, assuming the title after his late brother. This is literally his plot function, the point of entry into the plot. An event that also defined him as a character. This is analogous to the death of the Hanzo family for Hanzo himself (an important plot event) and his enslavement to Kuan Chi.

This statement is equivalent to saying that Hanzo, as a character, did not exist before being reborn into a ghost, and Johnny did not exist as a character before entering the tournament. It's just that the original source didn't bother to tell at least something more about Kuai (they just apparently didn't come up with this). As players, we simply don't have the "before" materials, because the creators didn't create them. In the plane of the foreseeable plot, the Tundra did not exist, but here we are trying to evaluate the characters as living people, and living people do not appear out of thin air. In the plane of lore, Kuai had years of life before becoming a Sub-Zero, but we just don't know anything about them, so this is a very controversial statement. Because it is based on some undescribed events about which we have little idea.

"The best proof of that is the fact that Raiden never even considered him for his team of Earthrealm's champions."

Raiden did not consider anyone from Lin Kuei as champions at all (he took Tomas to the team in MK9 because he was in the right place at the right time). And the reason for this is not that Kuai is an empty character, but that Lin Kuei are murderers, secretive and cruel, who indirectly collaborated with Quan Chi (their Grandmaster for sure, he took a contract from a sorcerer in Mythology). At the same time, Raiden does not express distrust of Kuai. So to say that Raiden ignored him because Kuai is not capable enough or not diligent enough is wrong. Because Raiden definitely didn't do it. In addition, it is with the adoption of the title of Sub-Zero that Kuai essentially comes to Raiden's attention.

Here, with all due respect, the stretching of the owl on the globe begins. From here on out.

Speaking of earning the mantle, a little clarification. "Scorpion" is just Hanzo Hasashi's call sign, which means nothing without Hanzo himself. This is not some kind of mantle/title in lore MK and never has been. You may have other information, but we've never heard of it. At the same time, as "Sub-Zero" it is not just a title, but a ancestral title that is obviously passed down in one family. Bi Han inherited it after his father's death, when he was very young. It is logical that after Bi Han, his offspring or his brother would have received the title. Because to be a Sub-Zero, you have to be a cryomancer, and cryomancers are now represented by one bloodline (not counting Frost). This is supported by the fact that cryomancers are descended from people from Edenia (which was confirmed not only in MK11). Their abilities are innate (genetic) in nature and cannot be transferred to someone else. Perhaps earlier, when there were more cryomancers, the title really had to be earned, but there are no more cryomancers (the reasons for their disappearance are probably degeneration, natural extinction of abilities, as well as violent deaths, since cryomancers belonged to Lin Kuei and moreover, they founded Lin Kuei).

In addition, this title gives nothing but a target on his back (metaphorically, of course), because even as a venerable warrior bearing such a title, Bi Han directly said that he could be killed for violating orders or failing. Outside the clan, the title of Sub-Zero is more of a minus than a plus. And within the clan, it is also a rather difficult burden. So Kuai didn't win anything by getting this title. Moreover, he got it legally, so the word "stole" does not fit here at all.

It is also worth adding here that Kuai really wanted to avenge his brother, since Bi Han's death turned out to be a heavy loss for him. From Kuai MK9's biography, we know that they are the only ones who were stolen at an early age (all other members of the clan, based on their biographies, were recruited in various ways at a more mature age), so it is logical to assume that surrounded by adults, Bi Han and Kuai were very strongly connected with each other. If you think we're wrong, then let's just remember Kuai's behavior in MK9. Smoke warns him that adopting the name Sub-Zero will attract unwanted attention, but Kuai says it's a way to honor Bi Han's memory (he doesn't even consider it a common title, which should have belonged to him anyway). He is definitely not without empathy, but in an attempt to catch up with his brother's killer, he leaves Sonya with a wounded Jax in her arms. He openly demands that Shao Kahn arrange a fight with Scorpion for him, although he must understand perfectly well that Shao Kahn is a powerful ruler, and the colosseum is located in the very heart of his empire. And it is very dangerous to make demands on the emperor of the Outside World in such conditions. And he doesn't care about that. His goal is revenge for his brother. If Kuai's motivation is false, then to whom and what does he want to prove? Who does he want to fool with this? Why would he pretend? Logically, he is blinded by grief, too young and reckless, and it seems to him that killing Scorpion will at least calm his grief and pain a little. It can be said that he really loved Bi Han (as much as it was possible in the conditions of their growing up, of course), because people take revenge for those they love.

Kuai Liang's biography in MK9. What is in the original, what is in our localization says the same thing - abducted, unlike other members of the clan. (we don't want to waste time installing MK9 right now to take one screenshot, so a photo from the screen may well be suitable).

Summarizing this block and responding to the last paragraph, which talks about people who considered Kuai MK9-11 to be kind and forgiving, we can only say that the fans really greatly distort Kuai's character, excessively whitewashing and softening his character. But Kuai is really not that kind of person - his personality has both positive and negative traits. He was not forgiving. The only time he showed strange mercy was when he let Frost, who knew the location of Lin Kuei Temple, leave. The scriptwriters could fix this by saying that Frost escaped on her own, and was not expelled.

But on the other hand, the statement that MK1 made Kuai a completely different character is also true. And then we will try to explain why.

Next @evilbihan provides an analysis of the dialogues of Kuai and other characters in MKX and MK11. And before we start talking about this, the most important clarification is that not all dialogues are canon. Usually people understand this, but we'll explain why just in case. Not all of them occur in canonical events (almost all of them occur in non-canonical events, to be honest). It can be assumed that the characters met off-screen before or after the events of the game. But, for example, in the MKX, the Revenant variations open up unique dialogues for a number of characters. Jax the Revenant has a unique intro with Takeda and Cassie, although he was healed before Cage was born (and probably Takeda too). Not to mention guest characters, characters who died in or before the plot, or mirror matches. That is, the characters could not meet, these dialogues could not happen, which means that there is a precedent for non-canonical dialogue. This in turn means that the canonicity of all dialogues is not absolute and it is completely wrong to believe them. The dialogues, which are strange and simply contradict the logic of the plot and just logic, can not be considered canonical completely. Nevertheless, this scheme mainly works for MKX and MK11, but MK1 claims to be more canonical intro. However, we will not yet claim that everything intro in MK1 is canon, because there are precedents for non-canonical events (the multiplicity of the canon is a separate topic, and we hate MK1 for its laziness and mediocrity).

About Scarlett: Kuai calls her a "perversion" because Scarlett is an artificial creation of Shao Kahn. Even if a different version of Scarlett is presented to us in MK11, for Kuai Liang she is still the same person that Shao created from blood. In MK9, she is a golem, in the MKX comic, she tells Mileena the phrase "I am the same "daughter" of Shao Kahn as you, half-breed", confirming her artificial birth. This is also confirmed by her ability to absorb blood through her skin (D'vorah says that she is aware of her abilities, so this cannot be attributed to learning blood magic from Reiko). In MK11, she says that Shao found her an orphan, but was it really? Or does she remember what Shao wanted her to remember? No one but her confirms this version. Scarlett in MK11 is obsessed with blood and longs to marry her "father", as she says in a dialogue with Sindel. She even has an equipment called "Shao Kahn's Seed". So Kuai is right in his judgment: She's a perversion.

About Jacqui's improvements: Kuai has undergone a violent transformation into a cyborg. This in itself is a cruel blow to the psyche (just read how people in reality react to trauma or a traumatic change in their body or appearance), not to mention that his mind and free will were suppressed. Kuai bluntly says that because of the CyberInitiative, he does not trust technology. He is a technophobe for quite logical reasons. At the same time, he does not call Jackie weak and does not belittle his talent, he only pays attention to the fact that she uses improvements, but there are no negative connotations in his statement.

Kuai does evaluate opponents, but from a purely practical point of view. He does not give a value judgment as a rule, but simply notes a fact or interprets a fact.

First, D'vorah is literally threatening Kuai. She is the first to say that this is their first and last meeting, making it clear that she is going to kill Kuai. What should he say to that? Be happy? This phrase has nothing to do with Kuai's words in MK1 about lower species, there is literally nothing in common here. Secondly, it is partly xenophobia. And you may be unhappy with this fact, but in the MK setting, xenophobia is justified, because there people are forced to deal with creatures that are mentally and biologically different from human beings and literally pose a danger. MK has never been smart enough to suggest a method of resolving differences between the races of humans and, for example, Tarkatans, let alone everyone else. Thirdly, the two above phrases are in no way similar to Bi Han's words about tarkatans. What kind of "elitist" worldview are you talking about if Bi Han literally expresses an adequate point of view regarding Tarkatans? They are dangerous. They are sick, they turn into bloodthirsty creatures who cannot control themselves. They're still eating other living things. There is no effective medicine yet, only something that relieves the symptoms. And it is available only to Mileena, who in the plot just showed that tarkata affects not only physically, but also mentally. Yes, these are living beings, and Bi Han's point of view is radical, but tarkata is like a mixture of schizophrenia and anthrax (or plague, if you like). It's not "elitist" thinking, it's damn common sense. And this cannot be tied in any way to Kuai MK1's words about "lower species" or to a response to a direct threat.

Tarkata is one of the cancerous tumors of this plot (ironically), and there are many problems and understatements associated with it. But we will talk about this in more detail in some other post. And now let's be brief.

NRS tried to show an allusion to AIDS, but in the end they created a really difficult topic that would not be discussed properly in the plot. It's easier to pretend that Tarkatans are just sick people who can integrate into society. But they can't. Bi Han expresses a radical point of view, but it is not without meaning. Yes, it would be more merciful to provide them with comfortable isolation and allow them to depart from the other world humanely (they die from tarkata, as we know from the plot). The creation of some kind of closed hospices would be an option, but Edenia does not have it. It turns out to be interesting. Bi Han, with his rather sane approach, is considered a cruel bastard because of this phrase, but the merciful Sindel, who simply exiled sick subjects to the wilderness, where they had to die of disease and starvation, who took care of creating a cure only when her daughter became infected, is kind in this plot.

No, it literally proves nothing, because it's not even some kind of specific formulation in a specific situation. And they literally talk about different things. Here, friend, you keep stretching the owl around the globe.

The use of the same words in different situations (and approximately the same ones too) does not mean similarity of views. Because, you know, dictionaries tend to be limited.

(By the way, here Kuai literally shows that he is not very good at the history of his native world, because in the history of the Earthrealm there were at least Mongols - a nomadic people who built a fairly large state. That's a strange remark. MK11 dialogues seem like a neural network was writing, to be honest.)

As we said above, no one but Scarlett herself confirms this version. For Kuai, she is still considered a golem, as in MK9 and the MKX comic. Besides, Scarlett is his enemy. They are literally on opposite sides of the barricades. Scarlett faithfully serves the one who longs to enslave the Earthrealm, and who has already made attempts before, which led to the fall of Lin Kuei, to the cybernization of Kuai, to the invasion of the Earthrealm and many victims. Scarlett is an enemy of the Earthrealm, and Kuai does not care about her marital status. Why should he care at all? Moreover, why should he be polite or sympathetic to a crazy lady who is asking to join his clan, even though he didn't even invite her? It is not quite correct to compare it with MK1 and Tomas. But Bi Han does not reproach him for being an orphan, he only says that Tomas is not Lin Kuei by blood. That's all. He's actually right, Tomas is adopted.

Just what is the logic of this claim anyway? Scarlett and Kuai interact only within the framework of an open confrontation, they have no other points of contact. Scarlett is one hundred percent the enemy for the Earthrealm and for Kuai. And Kuai protects his world, he's like a soldier on duty. He shouldn't be interested in the life of some random blood witch and sympathize with her. It's like blaming all the characters for not wanting to understand Shao Kahn or anyone else. And don't pretend that Scarlett is better. She literally tortured Jade in the plot and did it with pleasure, she is not some unfortunate hero worthy of sympathy.

Correction: Frost joined the clan when Shirai Ryu was considered to have been re-exterminated by the hands of Havik (who possessed Fox). Frost joined the clan when the clan was just trying to start existing again. Frankly speaking, it is completely unclear where she got so much respect for the traditions of the clan, which she did not know before, and for Bi Han, whom she had never met. We are not going to say for sure, but it is much more likely that Frost was influenced by someone from the old Lin Kuei staff (because they could have survived and escaped from the CyberInitiative). Because Kuai has definitely been making the decision to reconcile with Shirai Ryu for a while. And yes, Frost hasn't really established herself as a decent character. Throughout its history, it has desired power and strength that it could not handle. Besides, if we turn to dialogues here, then in one of them Kuai asks if he was a bad mentor, to which Frost says that he was a hindrance. That is, she had plans to take Kuai's place during her studies, BEFORE alliance with Shirai Ryu (because after her escapade, she was expelled). The only complaint against Kuai Liang here is that he did not kill Frost. He let go of a man who is clearly unkind and who knows about the secret location of the Lin Kuei Temple. This could be solved with one correction from the screenwriters - the phrase that Frost ran away on her own.

Maybe (just maybe!) our localization is a little different, but Fujin is not saying that Kuai wants to kill his brother. He's asking about it.

Oh, yes. He also asks a question in the original.

The lie here is to claim that Kuai did not want his brother to be reborn. Bi Han is reborn like the rest of the revenants and probably cannot be healed without Quan Chi's presence (by the way, later in the post you refer to the need for Quan Chi's presence and the fact that his death essentially put an end to the return of enslaved champions). Kuai was lucky that Raiden's magic worked at a specific moment in a specific way. How lucky both Hanzo and Jax are. It was further stated that Quan Chi must be alive to save the Revenants. And Bi Han is a revenant.

Besides, Kuai has no reason to hold on to the title of Sub-Zero, because it gives nothing but danger. He is not useful, he is not honorable (five generations of Sub-Zero before him were murderers and made enemies). He does this because there is no one to transfer the title to. He wears it like as bloody chevrons, as a sign of his service to the Earthrealm.

We will not argue about the rest of the dialogues that relate to Bi Han (with Cetrion or others), or with Bi Han himself. The game acts very strangely and seems to be trying with all its might to put Kuai and Bi Han against each other as enemies. We have already written about this here and do not want to repeat it.

Since the block with rhetoric and analysis of dialogues is over, we will summarize. Kuai Liang in MKX and MK11 is a man who has been through a lot. He was kidnapped in early childhood, deprived of his family and normal growing up (we still remember about his biography MK9, which says that ONLY he and Bi Han were stolen, the rest joined voluntarily in adulthood), his brother was killed, his clan was turned into soulless iron, he himself was turned into soulless iron, he was murdered Sindel (by the way, who was resurrected by order of Shao Kahn and sent by him to massacre the champions; that is, Shao is indirectly responsible for Kuai's death, which means that his henchwoman Scarlett has even less chance of gaining any sympathy from Kuai Liang, even if she were an orphan three times). Kuai was enslaved first by the CyberInitiative, then by Quan Chi. Against his will, he participated in the invasion of the Earthrealm, and the memory of the horrors that he had committed consumed him with guilt. In the comic (which is still canon in many ways), Kuai literally talks about wanting to die. After that, he entered the service of Raiden and began to look for a Kamidogu for him, which is why he was cursed and again fell under someone else's control. Which again led to casualties. What did he say to Bo Rai Cho? "I have to do hara-kiri." The topic that Kuai is broken by these events and wants to die has been raised twice. He decided to revive the clan with the light hand of Raiden (it was Raiden who sent applicants to join Lin Kuei). In the new clan, Kuai finally finds solace, but in the end his own student, whom either out of mercy or stupidity he did not kill, breaks into the temple and kidnaps his people. Kuai has gone through a lot of traumatic events, just turning into a revenant is worth it. It took Jax years and years to suppress his PTSD, and he didn't fully recover. Kuai wants to protect his home, his homeworld. He makes claims to Ryden for not coping with his role as a defender. This is not very fair in the big picture, but Kuai saw with his own eyes the two invasions and the arrival of Shinnok. Will you say that Kuai does not want to defend the Earthrealm? Well, for some reason, it was he who led his clan to defend the Sky Temple and faced the legions of Kotal. It was Lin Kuei who took the hit and gave Cassie and her team time. Not the glorious Shirai Ryu, who just got into a fight with the special forces, messed up with their grandmaster and just disappeared without participating in the defense of the Earthly Kingdom.

There is no point in comparing Kuai MK9-11 and Kuai MK1, because the life of the second one is literally sugar. He did not survive a fraction of what Kuai Liang experienced in the previous chronology. Comparing them is like comparing a veteran and a loud cadet. Kuai in MK11 has every right to be grumpy, demanding of others and himself, suspicious of enemies and even allies. The events of his life encourage such thinking. From the height of his experience - both life and combat - he can be somewhat arrogant and proud of his skill. Because Kuai MK9-11 has a moral right to do so. Kuai-Scorpion does not have this right, he is just a loud brat who jerks off at his father and traditions (if we were Bi Han, we would evict him from the temple and issue a restraining order) Like a fucking fanatic. He doesn't have the same qualities, experience. Nothing. Even biology failed, depriving him of cryomancy. In fact, the personality of Kuai in MK1 is formed in a completely different way than that of Kuai in MK9-11. Because both the events of life (the social factor) and the biological basis are different. This is literally not the Kuai Liang we knew. This is another person who happens to have the same name.

Also completely overlooked is the fact that Kuai, in his dialogues, not only criticizes everyone and everything, but shows respect to other characters (with whom he is not in confrontation). So he suggests that Jade join Lin Kuei (probably because they have lost a significant part of their personnel and need new personnel). He recognizes Sonya's fighting spirit. He literally thanks Raiden for saving his life (although he remembers that Raiden has a dark and light state). He pays tribute to Liu Kang when he speaks about Kuai's own discipline.

Most of his statements are neutral or caustic (depending on the dialogue), Kuai shows hostility to those characters who are in confrontation with his side (the Outworlders or the Black Dragon), but nothing more.

And since we've dealt with this, we'll move on.

Kuai Liang's motives for revenge and forgiveness are actually as clear as possible when you remember that more than 20 years have passed. Why do you overlook this fact? 25 years have passed between the events of MK9 and MKX (the main plot) (Jax mentions this). Shinnok's invasion ended 25 years ago. And the reconciliation of the two clans took place five years before the events of MKX (this is stated in the plot). Kuai initially rushed to take revenge because he was blinded by grief, his pain was fresh. But then the events of MK9 happened, and now he is a former revenant, crushed by life, with the realization that he did terrible things. With a years, the thirst for revenge subsides, but the moral obligation suffocates. After all, your dear man died, how can you just let go of his death? Here we will allow ourselves to say that the motives of revenge are close to us because of personal experience. That's why we know what we're talking about. To come to terms with loss is, among other things, to let go of the thirst for revenge, to get rid of a destructive moral obligation. Kuai has had at least 20 years to think about it. Scorpion's death will not bring his brother back to him, will not soothe his pain. He believed that Bi Han was lost forever. He must continue to live, which means that he needed to put an end to a long-standing and senseless feud, especially considering that the real culprit is Quan Chi. It is he who must be punished.

To claim that Kuai was indirectly involved in the deaths of other Revenants is a clear misconception. Because, first of all, Kuai needed to give himself the moral right to end the senseless clan feud. Secondly, to protect your clan from a new conflict with Shirai Ryu. And third, damn it, this conversation (in which Hanzo found out the truth) took place five years before Quan Chi was captured. Five years! It's a long time. The fact that Hanzo has not thought with his own head in these five years is only Hanzo's problem. Should Kuai have foreseen this years in advance? He has enough headaches of his own, and at that moment he didn't know Hanzo well enough to anticipate his actions. Hanzo Hasashi is the only one to blame for what happened. It was he who decided to attack the special forces, not listen to anyone and cut off the sorcerer's head. No one pushed him to do this except himself, although literally everyone around told him to wait. Hanzo has shown himself to be a stubborn ass who doesn't know how to listen.

The scene of the conversation and the conclusion of peace between Lin Kuei and Shirai Ryu (chapter 9 "Scorpion").

Quan Chi has not been seen since the invasion was stopped. Sonya and Jax talk about it here (Chapter 8 "Jackson Briggs")

The same thing is in the Sony chapter (chapter 5 "Sonya Blade")

The claims that Kuai reorganized the clan just to elevate himself are simply taken out of thin air. Because although Kuai Liang is deservedly proud of his skills, there is not a single objective sign that would indicate that your statements about him are true. Where did this statement about him being narcissistic come from? Selfish? Kuai literally has no other life, he has put all his remaining years to protect the Earthrealm and hunt the scum within it (as he tells Kano). What is the selfishness here? What does he get besides constant pressure?

Perhaps there is reason to believe that Kuai wanted to put an end to Lin Kuei's dark legacy, but then again-who wouldn't? He talks a lot about honor, because he saw with his own eyes how dishonor and betrayal (the actions of the last Grand Master of the clan) led to the downfall of not only Lin Kuei, but also to larger tragic consequences. This is not selfishness, not a desire to "giving themselves a pet on the back." This is common sense and awareness of mistakes and their consequences.

Where did you get this from? The intros above do not suggest this in any way. Friend, it seems that you believed in what you came up with about the character. Kuai Liang strives for iron discipline, because he is well aware of how much damage has been done to him by the events of his life. And if he lets himself get weak, he'll just break down. And if he breaks down, who will stand at the head of Lin Kuei? Who will join the ranks of the defenders of the Earthrealm? As a responsible soldier, Kuai cannot hang a weapon on the wall because he is tired. And we have already cited above what confirms our thought (his sad experience, his desire to avoid repetition, the moral test that Kuai went through, etc.).

In addition, Kuai's envy of his brother (which is in no way confirmed by the game itself and other media) can only be said that many people would envy Bi Han, since he was really talented. It is said about him that he mastered in his youth what other cryomancers before him mastered only in old age. But again, this does not indicate Kuai's envy of his brother. There is not a single confirmation of this statement.

The whole subsequent text to the end of the block seems completely insane. To claim that Kuai was the only one who constantly survived, not because the writers wanted it, but because… for some other reason. The only reason is the desire of the screenwriters. Or perhaps an outright misunderstanding of what to do with the characters of Hanzo and Kuai (and many others). Where should they be placed? They look more like a link in MK11 and MKX than full-fledged characters. Okay, Hanzo has more plot weight because he's the creator's favorite. But everything else is just a weak plot, not the character's fault or intention. There is literally no place to analyze him as a living person, because Kuai appears only functionally in the plot. Well, maybe the studio hates him because so much shit has fallen on this particular character. He was enslaved three times, his family and friends are almost completely dead. It is wrong to say that he did nothing to bring Smoke back, because, as we remember, Quan Chi is needed to revive the revenant, there is no proven scheme, Quan Chi himself has been hiding for twenty-five years, and collectively the chances of revival are negligible. Personal aspirations are on one side of the scale, on the other is a job that will provide the homeworld with another faction of defenders. Kuai, who has gone through the horrors of two invasions, obviously will not choose personal aspirations. In addition, Smoke does not appear in the final chapters of MKX (only in flashbacks from the time of Shinnok's invasion), and it is unknown where he is. With Quan Chi's death, he can be considered completely lost (the rest of the Revenants are considered lost for the same reason, and there is no problem with that). And the fact that Bi Han survived in Soulnado was not known at all before the events of MK11. He was believed to be dead. Who should Kuai be trying to bring back? Ghostly shadows of long-gone loved ones? Prefer the dead to the living?

We can agree that Kuai's behavior in the intro and his ending are collectively confusing because they somehow contradict each other. But here you can find a dubious, but time-bound explanation. Considering that in all intros the Kronika is mentioned as still alive and active, it can be concluded that these fights and dialogues, respectively, take place in parallel with the plot of MK11. Which lasts… How much? A couple of days? In this light, it can be assumed that all of Kuai's strange reactions in the dialogues are either a defensive reaction, or simply the result of AI work (seriously, sometimes one part of these dialogues is not connected to another).

Oh, right, rhetoric again.

These dialogues are not connected in any way at all. There are only two identical words here that don't apply in the same context. This is not a common lexicon in this case and not the same specific reaction to the situation. These are literally different dialogues. And here you are really engaged in unfair interpretation.

We have already written about this above and we will not repeat it.

A fair comparison, however, the different circumstances that lead to this phrase. Bi Han in MK1 encourages Kitana to be more independent. Kuai in MK11 wants to get a valuable fighter into the ranks of his clan to protect his world. They use similar words, but in different situations and for different purposes.

Here we can agree on the similarity by about half (due to the difference in circumstances, and therefore the messages themselves).

We repeat that Kuai Liang in MK9-11 literally caught two invasions and the return of Shinnok. The latter happened because Raiden's Shinnok amulet, which he was supposed to protect, was stolen. That is, Raiden actually failed at his job. Yes, in the end, all three events ended well, but Kuai, as a man who laid down his life to protect his world and serve its interests, has reason to be angry at Raiden for his mistakes.

In MK1, Bi Han denies Liu Kang's authority for reasons that are still unclear. Bi Han wants more, but what does this have to do with Liu Kang? We, as players, know what Liu's mistakes are, but Bi Han doesn't know that. At the same time, we do not know why Bi Han is so fiercely against Liu's authority (he literally tells Kenshi, "give him time and you will understand," hinting that his dislike has some deeper reasons, but we do not know about them yet). It is also incorrect to compare these dialogues. We think there is no need to explain the reasons. Their context is strikingly different.

How is Kuai Liang considered the "good brother" when they both use the same vocabulary and share the same views?

The fact that they use similar words, but in different contexts, can only mean that they speak the same language, and not that their views are somehow close to each other.

Making such a statement is like saying that if a conditional user uses the words "cosmopolitan", "economy", "corridor" and "carte blanche" in his speech, then this makes his views close to one notorious Austrian artist who used the same words in his speech in 1939.

This is absurd and meaningless.

Yes, people say that because Bi Han literally demonstrates the character traits and biographies of Frost and Sector. He's not the best version of Kuai, he's not even a pale version of himself. He is a lazily written man who, in modern works, must be evil simply because. Bi Han in the old chronology was really interesting for his tragedy. He never wanted to be a part of the clan, he had no choice in this matter, in the original MK1 (literally in the very first game) in his ending, he leaves the clan because he doesn't need it all. His life was taken away cruelly and unfairly, he was just a man in thrall to circumstances, he was not shy about being sharp-tongued. After all, Bi Han from the past chronology, with his tragedy both during his lifetime and after his death, is many times more interesting than the piece of evil cardboard that Bi Han was turned into in MK1.

We will not stop at the fact that the decision to make Kuai a Scorpion is disgusting. We will not argue with this, because it is pointless to argue with the truth. Is he the best Sub-Zero? At least he was interesting, one of the few who really developed and changed as a character. As a result, his entire progression, motivation, and personality foundations were rewritten. Kuai Liang, whom we respected, although in some places we condemned, simply ceased to be. We hope that the NRS will choke on their money and never touch this story again.

And now to the comments that were posted. They are too small, so we want to answer in more detail here.

We literally took apart your entire post from beginning to end, not touching only what concerned Kuai MK1, because we want he burns in hell. And we still say that you are trying to substitute concepts. Their vocabulary is in no way similar (for the reasons we mentioned above). And as we have already noted, Kuai Liang MK9-11 grew up in different conditions than Bi Han MK1.

Lin Kuei himself is obviously different in different versions. If in MK1 we understand that this is closer to the traditional clan, which is connected by blood (both parents were in the clan, there is an opportunity to form a family, Bi Han refers to Lin Kuei's blood), then the early versions of Lin Kuei are more like the cult of assassins, who are united by the desire for influence - political, material and td. What kind of parenting with the idea of superiority are you talking about in the framework of MK9-11, if we have already found out that Kuai and Bi Han were abducted as children, and all the other members of the clan joined him. The biography of the Sector in MK9 literally says that there was no doubt that the Sector, being the son of a Grandmaster, would join the clan. Cyrex joined the clan as an adult, and previously he was from among the Tswana and trained among the warriors of his people. Tomas is from Prague and was also recruited at a fairly conscious age, because he attracted attention with his abilities. His exact age has not been named, but it is said that he does not remember his childhood, which means that he was hardly a child at the time of recruitment. Based on this, Bi Han and Kuai Liang are the only children who were raised in the clan. This means that there was no general idealogical system for education (we don't know much about Lin Kuei at all, but the Grandmaster decided to make everyone cyborgs for absolute submission, so we can assume that there were precedents for disobedience). The clan system in MK1, although it requires following orders, does not threaten death. But in MK9-11 (for which Mythology is still canonical), the mistake is inexcusable. Bi Han bluntly says that his failure or disobedience would mean his death at the hands of his own clan. Lin Kuei's in old chronology is a violent militarized cult, not a family. Yes, it is possible that one bloodline is present there, but it is needed only because of the special abilities (cryomancy) that give the clan an advantage.

See the difference? This already denies the possibility for Kuai MK9-11 and Bi Han MK1 to grow in the same conditions. Hell, even Bi Han MK9-11 and Bi Han MK1 are different people because of their different upbringing and different life experiences. We think that it makes no sense to explain that a personality is formed on the basis of a biological basis (psychophysiological features) and social impact, life experience. With a difference in life experience, different personalities are formed. It is for this reason that we consider the ending of the Scorpion invasion to be simply insulting and sad. The very concept of multiple timelines essentially contradicts the concept of personality. But this is such a truism that it makes no sense to explain it. In MK1, people have the same names and partially similar biography elements. And this already means, in fact, that Mileena, Kitana, Raiden, Lao, Bi Han and all the others are not the same ones we saw in previous games. These are literally other people.

[father-time-and-baby-new-year]

happy 200! i’m so glad to see your blog grow, it’s one of my favorites and i adore all your writing. i’ve never cried so much and i love the kind of unsettling feeling you write in your fics, it’s perfect in the category of yandere and dark content. in particular, i loved your drabble about shigaraki mourning over a dead reader and i’ve reread that one too many times to count haha! as for asks for headcannons and drabbles, it would be amazing to see that with bully!eren especially since he was such an awful person to the reader. i’d love to see him suffer honestly, but if you don’t want to write it, that’s completely fine! once again, i’m so proud of you for hitting 200! that’s such a huge milestone and hopefully, there will be many more in the future! :)

SYNOPSIS: bully!Eren has to navigate the world without you.

Pairing: Bully!Eren x Fem!Reader

A/N: I can't even explain in words how much I CHEESED at this message like my grin was ear to ear. can't explain how many times I read this. It singlehandedly made my day anon, and to repay you for my happiness....here is some angst. this is a slightly different route than the shiggy one but I hope it still suits you <3

TW: mentions of death, past dubcon/noncon, mentions of trauma, bullying, alcohol addiction, drunk driving, abusive behavior, revenge porn, nonconsensual photography/videography, mentions of infidelity, angst, so much of angst, violent behavior

WC: 2.5k

It's not like Eren had been doing a lot of soul-searching. He's not delusional enough to label his half-assed epiphany of "maybe I'm a shitty person" as soul searching.

It's just the conversation with his very sick mother burned holes through the back of his mind. Carla had asked about you and why you don't come by the house anymore. How she missed baking with you in the kitchen, and how you sweetly smiled whenever you would see soft creamy peaks form in the meringue.

Eren felt like he was swallowing needles as he assured his mother with false truths, that nothing was going on and distance between childhood friends is natural, and if it means so much--ok ok he'll bring you over.

He stays until he sees her chest slowly rising and falling into a gentle asleep. He touches the tip of his ears, unsurprised by how hot it was.

Eren, when you tell a lie, the tips of your ears turn red.

You're not at school the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.

Guilt is not an emotion he feels often but the events of the past weekend replay in his mind. It was just a dumb party that Floch threw, and he was surprised to find you cornered by a trio of thee dunderheads. Like a distorted fairytale, he swept you away from the bad guys like a knight in shining armor, to only shove you in an empty room and demand compensation for playing hero.

Fuck, with that big mouth, you would think that you'd know how to suck cock.

Use your tongue stupid slut. If you use teeth, I'll shove this dick in your ass without any prep.

No, I don't care, you're taking all of it.

There's a video on his camera roll. How could he not record it? You're sobbing, mascara running down your cheeks, looking so beautiful and ruined with jizz smeared at the corner of your mouth. He was brutally fucking your mouth, making you take all of his length.

Breathe through your nose dumb whore. Or else you're gonna run out of air.

You were pleading with whatever garbled sounds you were constricted into producing.

Breathe through your fucking nose. This is for your sake. Otherwise, I don't mind face fucking your lifeless body. You'd be more useful that way anyways.

Eren is conflicted with muting the video because he can't stand to hear himself like that. But he didn't want to miss out on your pitiful whines.

He remembers the distraught expression on your face when he was finally done with you. He tucked himself inside, and sneered, "I've got a girl coming here. Get lost." You looked so fucking distraught. Why? All he did was make you suck his dick. He didn't even fuck you.

He should have. Eren thinks grimly when he stares at your empty desk on the first day you didn't show up to school. He's gotten off to the video more than enough times than he can count over the weekend, and he was aching to see your pretty face twisted into a terrorized expression when he flipped up your skirt to grope your ass.

Kindly, Eren decides he'd allow you to have a rest day. But the second day, Eren pays a visit to your house finding it dark and locked, like no one was home and hadn't been there for a while.

On the third day, you're declared missing.

Your incompetent workaholic mother who finally came home and decided to give a damn reported you missing to the authorities who had scratched their heads because as far as they knew, the pivotal 72 hours were up.

Paradis was surrounded by forests. No one wanted to say it, but they were all thinking it. If you got lost in there, chances are you wouldn't make it out.

Eren wasn't always this admired and fawned over. He had his fair share of behavioral issues that frightened people (not you though, not then at least, not when you were children, and you still came back every day to play).

But when he channeled that anger into sports, there was somewhat of a star in the making, especially for some small-town boy. He was becoming extremely popular, and that's nice and all, but at the end of the day, he has a mother whose health was taking a sharp decline. He was constantly under stress, stress that he took out on you.

Where did his favorite stress-ball go?

It's all fucking surreal. Having detectives in the school. Not that there were many students to question (because christ, did you even have any friends after Eren turned everyone against you?).

Eren was questioned. He can't help but mirthfully chuckle. Maybe this was your grand plan, maybe you were able to finally sort out a mountain of evidence against him. If you were going to fuck him over, didn't you want to see it happen with your own two eyes?

The dark-haired boy wishes that was true. If you had gotten your revenge, would you be here? No, revenge isn't the right word. If you got any justice for what he made you suffer, would you come back?

Hi, I'm Detective Hange. I would like to ask you some questions today. You're Eren Yeager, right?

Yes, that's me.

How do you know ___?

We were childhood friends. We're uh, we're not as close anymore.

When was the last time you saw her?

Friday night at Floch's party-

-Floch Forster right? There were a number of kids there from your school.

Yeah. It was a big party. She uh, doesn't usually come to parties but she was there that night.

You were the last person to be seen with her. Other kids have said that they saw you and her entering a room together, and then only her leaving the said room.

[Sigh] Yeah we sorta...hooked up.

I thought you said you guys weren't close anymore.

You can be not close to someone and still hook up with them.

But you guys were close once right?

Yeah. Once.

The dark-haired boy asks if he was under any suspicion. The detective waves their hand in a dismissive gesture, “If her diary tells us anything, it’s only that she really liked you.”

Were detectives even allowed to divulge that sort of information? Eren doesn’t know but the stray detail that they offered off-handedly made him feel like he was swallowing needles.

At that point, Eren honestly still doesn't believe you're gone. You had a habit of running away, even when you were little kids, but you always came back.

Still, he participates in the search parties with a renewed vigor, even going alone in the forest with a flashlight on most nights.

And he's just so fucking tired. The darkest crevice of his mind almost wishes you were dead because this ignorance was just agony. Almost. Because he still clings to the feeling that one day, he’ll stroll into class and find you in your seat in the back of the class, looking out the window like some cliche shojo manga protagonist.

There are folders and folders on his phone. Albums. The most recent one is dedicated to your crying face as you were choking on his dick. Earlier albums are composed of creepshots of your panties, of that obscene o-face, of your skirt flipped up and your ass cheeks, pictures of your cleavage, videos of you thrashing as he dunked your head into toilets like a villainous middle school bully.

Pictures of your neck covered in hickeys, your naked breasts, ass cheeks striped with red after getting spanked, your leaking cunt, just endless and endless media dedicated to pieces and pieces of your body like you were never a whole person.

The earliest ones though tell a different tale, from off-guards to your drooling face as you napped in the middle of the day.

He has a favorite picture. Your eyes are watery from the cold, snowflakes stuck between lashes, nose and cheeks flushed red, and you're smiling. Smiling right to the camera. Right at him.

"Eren, are you taking a picture?" You asked, bouncing in place, giddy that it was finally snowing.

"Not of you, shut up. Get out of the way." His voice is gruff but not harsh.

You laughed and jumped into frame anyway, and the bright streetlamp behind you made you seem like you were wearing a halo.

He wishes he had more pictures of you being...yourself. Because now your crying face displayed over countless pixels haunt him. But like a fucking degenerate, he still jerks off to all the nudes he coerced from you. Sometimes he cries when he's jerking off which is probably the most pathetic thing he's ever done. This is what you've reduced him to.

He hates the sound of his own voice.

Breathe through your fucking nose. This is for your sake. Otherwise, I don't mind face fucking your lifeless body. You'd be more useful that way anyways.

Eren goes through the motions of life without really feeling like he's in the moment. Seasons change and time flies. His mother dies, and his withdrawn father dies a year later. He proposes to Mikasa because it's something he was always supposed to do. She loves him unconditionally, so even when he doesn't put any effort into the relationship but proposes, she says yes hoping he'll change and be a good husband.

He doesn't go to his parents' funerals because they're already dead. What's the point. He doesn't visit the candlelight vigils in your honor either. After tearing his ACL again and a somewhat traumatic injury, he kisses his pro-football career goodbye. To be totally honest, he's relieved. Because he had gotten quite bored, and maybe he was looking for excuses to quit the entire time. It's not like you'd be cheering on the bleachers anyways.

Mikasa has an affair, more out of a desire to see her fiancé feel something for her as opposed to any burning lust. But when she asks him if he's ever cared at all, with tears springing out of her eyes, he's just calmly drinking his fifth of whisky.

The dark-haired man doesn't even look up, "Let's break up."

"Is this about her, huh? Fucking get over it already Eren. She's GONE. And you have some big fucking audacity moping about her death like you weren't making her cry in the bathroom stalls every fucking day you piece of shit."

"Get out."

"You know what, I bet she killed herse-"

SMASH

The dark-haired woman doesn't finish her rant because the whiskey bottle smashes on the wall next to her head, sending glass everywhere and staining the carpet amber. She's unharmed, knowing it wasn't Eren's intention to hit her but Jesus Christ, what a monster.

She packs her bags and leaves the town like she should have a long time ago. All her friends had left years before and she stayed behind because that's where Eren was. She thanks her lucky stars that they didn't marry.

It's funny because he had always imagined himself being the first to move out of their small town, but he's the one staying. He can't leave this place. feels too tethered to ever leave. Every diner and liquor store is saturated with memories of you. He remembers buying cigarettes and exhaling the smoke to your face to piss you off in empty parking lots.

Maybe he stays in case you'll come back.

Eren's days consist of alcohol-fueled hazes. He doesn't know how his liver is still functioning. He doesn't know he's still alive after crashing his car into a tree when he was drunk out of his mind. He was on his way to get some more vodka.

He barely recognizes himself in the mirror anymore, not that he looks at himself much. His hair is long, nestled around his shoulder because he couldn't be bothered to cut it, dark circles under viridian eyes, and a perpetual stubble on his jaw.

His parents had left quite a sizable inheritance so there's no need to work but he's good with his hands. Likes crafting up birdhouses and cabinets, and occasionally does odd jobs around the neighborhood, never charging the elderly.

He's under the sink, tinkering with a wrench against the pipes when he hears the old lady coo at him.

"We're so lucky to have you Eren. I'm surprised a handsome young man like yourself doesn't have a special lady. The girls must be lining up at your door!"

The dark-haired man winces, and offers no comment, knowing that that the older lady was susceptible to long tangents.

"You know, we're getting a new neighbor." Eren grunts as a response. "They're young, I've heard. Isn't that exciting? Oh my, Eren! I think they're gonna be living in the house right next to yours..."

He tunes out the rest of the conversation because doesn't really care. He just hopes his new neighbors are quiet.

It's Sunday noon when obnoxious noises of moving trucks and people wake him up from his deep slumber. Eren's annoyed to wake up despite the fact he's probably been sleeping over 15 hours. He oscillates between getting too much sleep and getting none, his sleeping habits completely dependent on his dreams.

His nightmares are too visceral, visions of your corpse asking him if he'd enjoyed hollowing your soul with his teeth.

His dreams are achingly sweet. You in your prom gown, shining so iridescently like diamonds were sewn into the silk. He's dancing with you, holding you close, and then after you guys go to your favorite diner and gorge on burgers and milkshakes.

There's a peal of distinctly feminine laughter that stirs up Eren's senses. He's so pathetic, was the mere sound of a woman laughing getting him excited?

He sighs. He thinks of the whore he's frequently visited because of her resemblance to you. Hair color, skin color, face shape--with enough alcohol, he could really convince the person beneath him, was you. Maybe it's time to give her a call, but she's gotten so fucking needy and he hated how her voice didn't match yours.

The green-eyed man peers from the lace curtains, irritated by the brats playing on his lawn. A full family next door? Great, just what he needs.

The friendly knock on his door breaks him out of his daze. He contemplates whether he should answer but on the second more muted knock, he lets his feet guide him.

He turns the knob.

And Eren Yeager completely shatters.

Because it's you isn't it? You're the person standing in front of him? He can hear what you're saying but he doesn't really register it, soaking in the cadence of a voice he had long forgotten because all he had were pleading whimpers and frenzied moans stored on his cell.

He's shaking. Is he dreaming? He's dreaming, right? He knows it's you. You're older, far more beautiful than he's ever seen you. You have a different hairstyle, wearing clothes he would have mocked you for, and there's this joyfulness within you that makes you glow.

There's a mess of emotions electrifying in the pits of his stomach from euphoria, anger, and dread. He could feel his skin growing clammy like he was about to vomit at any second.

"Hey, are you all right?"

Doe eyes full of concern peer up at him. He voices out the syllables of your name like a desperate prayer.

You tilt your head to the side, "How do you know my name?"

[snackhobi]

a human touch, part 2, final

Part 1 / 1.5 / [2]

(masterlist here)

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

then he turns up at your door.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re aware of this because: 

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

and:

b) Said new tenants are apparently very noisy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A sexy living foghorn,” Seokjin says brightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll stay here,” Taehyung decides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Make me,” Seokjin says primly.

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay?” You ask, concerned.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m happy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can go get some from my apartment?”

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

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

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

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

And then you freeze.

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

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

The blood is blue. 

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

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

Seokjin’s an android.

(Seokjin’s an android who seems human.)

Seokjin’s a deviant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened to your LED?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi’s eyes narrow. “Jin…”

“Maybe I am,” you hazard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Much like Taehyung had.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

“How did he—why did he deviate?”

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

Wow.

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

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

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

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

You feel warmed at Yoongi’s words. But. 

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

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

“Has Jin always been like that?”

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

“You love him a lot,” you say gently.

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

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

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

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

“That sounds great,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve missed this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” he replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. Okay, Taehyung, I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s just, uh. One little thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thing that people and deviant androids do.

A thing that Taehyung does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s nice.

“You seem happier.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re in so, so deep.

(But who can blame you?)

“I want to go outside.”

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

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

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

So what you say is: “Okay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Warmer and softer than it probably should.)

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

“Ready?”

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

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

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

(Mysterious. Yeah, right.)

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

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

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

(Whatever this is.)

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

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

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

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

(Shouldn’t hope for more than that.)

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

You’re certain Taehyung will, too.

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

(So human.) 

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

Taehyung is enraptured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like love?” A whisper.

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

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

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

“Oh, Y/n!”

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

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

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

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

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

You panic. Just for a second.

Taehyung doesn’t.

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

And then he immediately slips his hand back into yours.

Namjoon is utterly charmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Loyalty. Dedication.)

(A breath.)

(Love.)

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

“Y/n?”

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

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

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

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

(More of him.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re staying late again.”

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

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

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

It’s unnerving.

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

“No,” you lie.

Yes, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that you would want to. 

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

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

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

It's hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he speaks.

“You’re avoiding me.”

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

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

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

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

“Why are you lying to me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Independent?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(No one chooses you. Why would they?)

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

And then all the lights go out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung? What are you—”

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

“Taehyung!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taehyung, though, is intent on you.

“Y/n?”

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

“Yes?”

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

You don’t respond. Not right away. 

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

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

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

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

“I do. I want to be here with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taehyung takes your silence as hesitation, his face softening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More?” He murmurs against your skin.

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

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

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

And you can touch, too. 

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

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

“Angel?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Then he looks down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he turns his head and—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my God,” you gasp. “Oh, fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything, you think. I want everything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, oh God,” you gasp. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” you say.

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

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

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

“Not yet,” you say. 

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

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

“I love you,” he says.

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

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

“Not staying late?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung,” you say, warm and happy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[leothetraveler]

*gets hit with this like a brick* Ack! what the-? who?......didn't expect you of all people, Pikos, but alright. I'll indulge you.

Last song: To Be Better by Miracle of Sound

Favorite Color: Blue. any shade of Blue. Blue supremacy.

Last movie/Tv show: Um....does Youtube count?

Currently watching: nothing. I don't watch TV/Movies often. if I want to watch Netflix, I have to ask my sister for a code. I do want to see the FNAF movie.

Sweet/Spicy/Savory: Sweet or Savory, I guess. just not spicy. I don't like the taste of pain.

Relationship status: Single as can be. ;u;

Current Obsessions: I don't have obessions, but current fandoms are: Cult of the Lamb, Warhammer 40k and fantasy, learning to draw with no tutorials, FNAF, and Laika: Aged Through Blood (not a lot of love online for this one)

Last thing googled: Curly hair pixel art ref (for an xmas gift drawing)

alright, who shall suffer with me? hmmm.... @creeperchild, @sianara7, @prizm117, @sapphireflame, um.... @bongocongocaveman I guess. I'm running out of mutuals.

If you have already done this, just ignore me. and don't feel like you HAVE to. I'm a artist, not a cop.

9 people you would like to get to know better tag meme

except I'm starting a new post because the one I got tagged in was long as shit. I was tagged by @tacofuus, thanks so much!

Last song: Batter Up by Babymonster. It's a solid 6.5/10 check out

Favorite color: violet/lavender. Really any shade of purple

Last tv show/currently watching: I honestly don't really watch TV. I genuinely cannot remember. The last series I actually watched was Death Note with my best friend and that was last year/beginning of this year. I used to be into anime when I was in middle school and this felt like a return to my roots lmao

Sweet/spicy/savoury: I go with savory most of the time, but my favorite is sweet for sure.

Relationship status: narilamb

Current obsession: Writing fanfic for cult of the lamb. It's been just about a year and a half now and I don't see this dying down anytime soon, cotl has squarely entered full special interest status for me so I'll be here for at least another 3 years. I have a bad habit of making a new fandom blog every time I get a shorter-term hyperfixation, writing for it, getting kindasorta recognized in the fandom, then abandoning my works and deleting the blog when I'm not interested in it anymore. Maybe some of y'all followed me in my previous fandoms and y'all would probably never know bc of orphaned works that I can't find anymore. ...anyway. I've made too many close friends in this fandom to pull that stunt again. the-one-who-lambs and my cotl fics are here to stay. I'm rambling

Last thing you googled: 600 cc in cups (I was making soup but all the good noodle packets from China+Korea give units in cubic centimeters. It's about 2.5 cups btw)

Uhhhhh I don't know who to tag so I'll just pick the most recent 9 mutuals in my notes who haven't been tagged already by taco or the people they tagged lol. Don't feel pressured to do it, though! @artsycryptix @just-a-random-demon-official @miallurk @pikos-den @tokyonymph @mianing @bamsara @coffincrows @fanged-cotl

[hrina]

In The Ring, Pt. IV - Uppercut

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 10.6k REQUESTED: yes! 

well lads................this is it 🥺🥺🥺 thank u guys so much for all the love you’ve given this series. i would’ve never expected to receive such a positive response, but u guys rly went above and beyond. i adore u all so much 

warning: parts of this fic will contain mentions of blood, violence, mild stalking, and sexual content. if any of that makes you uncomfortable, please take care of yourself and keep scrolling <3

as always, my masterlist and my inbox are both linked in my bio! i worked really hard on this last part! i wanted to make sure it was all perfect, so i hope everyone enjoys it. gentle reminder to reblog the fics you like! it’s a great way to show appreciation as well as give authors more exposure. ok that’s all hehe can’t wait to hear your thoughts! take care 💙💙💙

PART I: Jab

PART II: Cross

PART III: Hook

~*~

    March 20, 2021

Harry keeps his promise, and Artie brings your car back around to your place the next day. You sit up straight at the table when you hear the familiar honking of a horn sound from outside. Your feet suddenly seem to have a mind of their own, carrying you out of the kitchen quickly with your father’s confused inquiries ringing in your ears. You open the front door before Artie even has the chance to knock.

“Thanks, Jason,” you tell him, breathless.

He hands you your keys and accepts the quick hug that you bestow upon him. “No problem, little girl. Is everything alright?”

Harry didn’t tell him.

“Yeah,” you lie, nodding. “I just—I had a bit too much to drink last night, that’s all.” Your voice drops an octave. “Don’t tell my dad, okay?”

Artie presses two of his fingertips together and drags them over the seam of his mouth, metaphorically sealing his lips. You smile, your heartbeat returning to its regular pace beneath the confines of your ribs.

You step back, extending an arm and gesturing for him to enter.

“Are you hungry? We were in the middle of eating lunch.”

“Sure,” he says, kicking off his shoes and arranging them against the wall. “Thank you.”

He and your father talk about anything and everything during the meal—boxing, the economy, the basketball game that had aired late last night. You just sit there and eat your food, not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention.

They include you in the conversation for a bit—Artie asks how classes are going, and you tell him that you’re waiting for medical school acceptance (or rejection) letters to start rolling in. Other than that, they don’t bat an eye when you rinse your plate in the sink and politely excuse yourself from the table. You hide behind the fact that you have to work on an assignment that’s due in a week—the paper is worth a third of your grade and it’s crucial that you ace it.

But once you hobble back into your room, you’re crawling into bed and pulling the covers up over your head. You reach around blindly for your phone, snatching it up from where it’s charging on your nightstand. You unlock the device, scrolling through all of the grey messages that pop up right away—sent last night, one after the other, each of them unanswered, growing more and more desperate as the hours pass.

Can we please talk about this?

I’m sorry, please let me explain.

Are you ignoring me?

I know you’re seeing these. Please respond.

And then a final one, dejected and crestfallen, laced with palpable weakness even through the pixels of your screen.

Goodnight.

    April 6, 2021

Harry’s on a losing streak.

A five-match losing streak, to be precise.

He’s never been bested this many times in a row. Your father is baffled by it, unsure of why he’s been so distracted in the ring. It’s even more confusing, he thinks, considering the fact that he’s at the gym every single day, lifting weights, practicing his technique, throwing himself into the sport. But once the actual fights roll around, things change. You’re not there, and you’re his lucky charm, and because of that, he finds himself meeting the ground far more often than he’d like to admit.

Your father said that the end of the semester was approaching—as a consequence, you were buckling down with school. Harry supposes that the timing is right, so the pretext must be true. But his opponents don’t know that (nor would they care). Your absence doesn’t stop them from knocking him down with snarling faces and heavy fists. The crowds holler loudly, goading him to get back up, but Harry doesn’t. He refuses to give them the satisfaction of watching him get beaten to a bloody pulp.

He stopped trying to reach out to you a week after the night of the kiss. He composed several texts a day, but each message had been met with silence. He remembers staring down at his phone one time, watching as three grey dots wiggled on the screen for a minute or two before disappearing entirely.

That’s when he gave up. If you didn’t want to talk, fine.

It hurt like hell, though.

And it’s still hurting like hell, even a week and a half later.

You told your father about James. He had mentioned it in passing to Harry, having to end practice earlier than usual because he had to set a court date to deal with some bastard who wouldn’t leave you alone. And that’s comforting, Harry thinks, because at least he knows that you’ll be safe, now.

He just wishes that he could’ve been the one to bring you that bit of solace.

That’s why, when your father invites him over for dinner one night after a particularly strenuous evening of training, he jumps at the opportunity. You’re making lasagna, your father says, having taken a break from studying for exams. Harry agrees to come over, because it’s been a while since he’s had a real, curated, love-infused, home-cooked meal.

And because you’ll be there, too, obviously. But he refrains from letting that incentive slip loose.

His heart is racing nervously when he parks his truck in front of your house. Memories flood his brain, reminding him of what had happened the last time he’d been here—the glint of your necklace under his fingers, the alluring twinkle in your eyes. The softness of your lips against his, the sensation of your nails carding through his hair—

Your father taps on the window of the driver’s seat.

“H?” he says, muffled through the glass. “You coming?”

“Yeah,” Harry chokes out, unbuckling his seatbelt and sliding out of the vehicle. “Yeah, sorry.”

He follows your father up the porch steps, waiting anxiously as the other man unlocks the front door. It swings open; they both step inside. Harry’s eyes widen when your father calls out, “Gioia? I’m home!”

“Hi!” comes your reply.

He freezes when the sound reaches his ears, because he hasn’t heard your voice—much less seen you—in over two weeks. He shuts the door discreetly, removing his shoes and trailing after your father as he pads down the hall. The closer he draws to the kitchen, the more he can smell it—meat, spices, cheese. His stomach rumbles in anticipation.

“Hope you made enough for three,” your father says, entering the room.

Harry lingers behind you, leaning against the wide threshold with his arms crossed protectively over his chest. He’s still a bit sweaty, but he hopes that the lasagna in the oven will mask the musky scent of the perspiration gleaming on his skin.

“Three?” you ask. You’re standing at the sink, your back to them. “Hi, Jason.”

A beat of silence passes, and then—

“Er, not exactly,” Harry grunts.

You stiffen immediately before spinning around. He doesn’t miss the quiet little gasp that leaves your mouth.

Your gaze locks with his, lips parted in surprise, and he can’t help but wonder if coming here was the smartest or the most foolish decision he’s ever made.

~*~

He and your father set the table.

After a few minutes, three plates and three collections of cutlery are laid out over a pristine white cloth. Harry eases into his chair as you carry over a hot tray of lasagna, your hands sheathed in a pair of red oven mittens. You put the pasta down in front of your father, who is sat at the head of the table. He inhales deeply, a small smile forming on his face.

“Smells amazing, sweetheart,” he tells you, nodding in approval. “Even better than your mother’s.”

“That’s a lie,” you tease, chuckling quietly and removing the crimson gloves from your fingers. You cut a large piece from the platter and deposit it onto his dish. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” he says.

He waits patiently as you separate another chunk of pasta for Harry, setting it down on his plate without a word.

“Thank you,” Harry tells you, his voice hoarse.

“You’re welcome,” you say. The response is short, painfully clipped—it makes him wince.

As soon as everyone has food in front of them, you sit down in your chair, reaching for the fork and the knife resting a few inches away from your dish. Before you can dig in, however, you pause, lifting your chin and squeezing your eyes shut.

“Shit,” you murmur. “Forgot the drinks.”

“There’s juice in the fridge, I think,” your father says through a mouthful of pasta.

“No.” You wave his suggestion away. “How about some wine? I’ll grab a bottle from the cellar.”

“Alright.” He nods, but then speaks again as you stand. “Wait—I think the treadmill in the basement is blocking the door. Harry—,” Harry’s head snaps up, nostrils flaring at the mention of his name, “—would you mind going with her? She won’t be able to move it by herself.”

“Uh,” he says stupidly. “Yeah, sure.”

He quickly excuses himself from the table, glancing over at you to register your reaction. Your expression is stony, betraying nothing. You swallow heavily, looking away and marching quickly out of the kitchen. He follows you without another word, hot on your heels.

The basement is dimly-lit, stocked with a few shelves of non-perishable foods and household supplies. Harry remains silent as you make your way over to the far wall, approaching the dark grey treadmill pressed against the door of the cellar. You place both hands on the side of the machine, giving it a firm push and grunting when it budges only an inch.

“You going to help me, or what?” you ask, casting an expectant glance at Harry from over your arm.

He blinks. “Right.”

Together, the two of you manage to ease the treadmill a few feet to the left. It’s enough space for you to open the door of the wine cellar and slip inside. Darkness envelopes your bodies, dissolving only when a small click! echoes through the still air. A moment later, the alcove is illuminated in a dull glow, compliments of the scrawny yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling.

You release the thin string attached to the light, turning around and gasping when you find Harry perched directly behind you. Your chests brush together—the contact sends sparks whizzing down his spine. You spin back around quickly, clearing your throat and scanning all of the different bottles balanced on the shelves.

“Thanks for your help,” you say dryly. “You can go back upstairs, now.”

“I’m good,” Harry mutters.

He clasps his hands behind his back as you trail your index finger along dozens of cream-coloured labels. Your hair is gathered in a low ponytail; a few shorter, wispier strands peek out from behind your ears. You’re not wearing makeup, today—and why would you, Harry thinks, when you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen?

“So,” he starts, itching to break the silence, “your dad told me that you’re filing a restraining order against James.”

“Yeah,” you reply curtly. He waits for you to continue, but you say nothing else.

“Feel better now that you’ve come clean?” he questions. Immediately, he knows that it’s the wrong thing to ask. But it’s out there, now, and he can’t exactly take it back.

A hollow laugh tumbles off of your tongue. Behind you, Harry notices the way you shake your head in disdain.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say under your breath.

“What was that?” He cocks an eyebrow challengingly, frowning at your tone.

“I said that you’re ridiculous,” you gripe, whipping around and fixing him with a fiery glare. “Need me to repeat it again?”

“If that means you’ll finally be speaking to me, then yeah, go for it,” he snaps, folding his arms over his chest.

“I—,” you break off, surprised by the bite in his rebuttal. Harry clenches his jaw when you turn back around. Your hand quivers as you reach for a random bottle of red wine. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“When, then?” he demands, taking a step closer. His front skims along your shoulder blades, and when you face him once more, your eyes widen in shock at the close proximity of your bodies. The little room suddenly feels much smaller, walls looming forward and closing you in. Your chest swells as you suck in a deep breath.

“When are we finally going to fucking talk about this?” Harry presses, meeting your gaze. Desperation drips from every syllable of his query.

You purse your lips, exhaling raggedly.

“Soon.”

A feeble assent.

An insipid shake of your head.

You angle your torso to the side, easily slipping past him and out of the cellar.

“But not today.”

    April 10, 2021

Your nose is buried in a textbook when the message comes through.

Cell biology. So much information to remember, so many reactions to list, so many molecules to name. And weeks of studying, just for a two-hour-long final that’ll take place three days from now. If you weren’t so stressed out, the sheer nonsensicality of the situation would have made you laugh.

So when your phone chimes with the alert, you figure that it’s time for a break. A quick conversation with one of your friends, maybe. Something to take your mind off of the looming exam, even if it is just for a few minutes at a time. After that, you’ll get back to revising.

Sadly, nothing is ever that simple.

We need to talk. Come to the gym.

Your eyes widen when the words sink in. As you rub your clammy palms against the grey material of your sweatpants, another text pops up below the first.

Please.

You shouldn’t. You need to study. But even as you warn yourself against it, your brain is already coming up with a multitude of reasons to meet with him. It’s just one night. Your exam isn’t for another few days. You have time. You deserve to take a break.

Your keys jingle cheerfully as you toss them into your bag.

~*~

Harry is going to town when you walk into the gym.

You’re not quite sure how that poor punching bag has managed to stay balanced on its hook. Harry’s coming at it from every angle, pummeling the leather with hard, heavy fists. He’s wearing a black tank top today; deep armholes cut into the sides of the fabric and expose most of his torso. The dark tattoos on his skin glisten under a thin sheen of sweat; a small, stupid part of you expects the ink to run and smudge before you remember that the designs are permanent.

What’s even worse? Dangerous Woman by Ariana Grande is playing on his phone. The soft, feathery croons of her voice mix with the low grunts that escape Harry’s throat—sounds that claw their way out of him with each blow delivered to the bag. Under normal circumstances, the juxtaposition would have made you snort.

Now though, it just reminds you of that night all those months ago, when you’d asked him to teach you how to box. This entire train wreck could have been avoided if you’d simply kept your mouth shut.

Harry still hasn’t noticed you. How could he, when you’re standing behind him?

You clear your throat. He freezes mid-strike.

His grassy eyes are wide when he turns around.

“Hi,” he says, surprised. “I—I didn’t think you would come.”

“I was halfway here when I realised that I didn’t text you back,” you reply, scratching awkwardly at the nape of your neck. “But, like…no handheld devices behind the wheel, and all that jazz.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Good.”

You cross your arms over your chest, scanning your surroundings. You don’t know why you do that—nothing in the gym has changed. You’re just trying to avoid Harry’s gaze, which is a lot easier said than done.

“You, um…you wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.” He nods, walking over to the ring and pausing the music streaming from his phone.

He then reaches for two pairs of boxing gloves, nestling one in the crook of his elbow and tossing the other at you. The strap of your purse slides from your shoulder as you catch the leather in your arms. You peer down at the gloves, eyes narrowing in confusion before you train them back on him.

“I don’t get it,” you deadpan.

“Really?” Harry asks. He hoists himself onto the raised platform of the ring and slips through the gaps in the ropes. “Because you’ve been begging to go up against me since January. Are you seriously gonna back out now?”

“Go up against—” The rest of your sentence fizzles out. “I…I thought you wanted to have a conversation, not a competition.”

He shrugs, regarding you evenly as he pulls his gloves on and tightens the straps around his wrists. He then bumps his enclosed fists together, tilting his head to the side.

“Why can’t we do both?”

~*~

You look pretty, Harry thinks.

Standing on the far side of the ring, wearing a black tank top, grey sweatpants, and bright pink sneakers—yeah, you look pretty. You’ve cuffed your bottoms so that they’re rolled up to the spot just below your knees, and your hair has been pulled back into a low bun. There’s no emotion on your face as you stare him down, taking a few steps closer and assuming a fighting stance.

You’ve gotten better—he’ll be the first to admit it. But he’s going to beat you, and you both know it. It’s just a matter of when.

He decides that, for the time being, he’ll go easy on you. The two of you will talk things out, and afterward, he might let you win. Maybe. He’s still on the fence about that.

You both begin to move in a circle. After a long moment of silence, Harry says, “You go first.”

“No, you,” you grit out. He just shrugs.

Fine. Have it your way.

You block the straight, pointed jab that he throws, and pride swells up in his chest. It’s a simple punch to deflect, but nevertheless, it tells him that you’ve learned something over these past few months. And that means that he’s done a good job as your teacher.

As your friend…not so much.

Do friends kiss other friends the same way you’d kissed him in front of your house?

He really doesn’t know.

“Right, then,” Harry starts, nodding. “Let’s talk.”

“About what?” you ask. Your nose wrinkles in concentration as you direct a blow toward his stomach. He blocks it easily. “About how you kissed me back and then told me you didn’t have feelings for me?”

“I—,” he’s stunned, because okay, you’re coming right on out with it. “I’m sorry.”

He’s sorry for lying, but you don’t seem to realise that.

“I was so fucking embarrassed,” you say, lunging forward and throwing a cross at his nose. He bats your fist away like it’s nothing more than a pesky fly. “But I guess that I’m mad at myself, too. Here I am, starting to like you, meanwhile I barely know anything about you.”

“What do you want to know?” he asks, keeping his arms in front of his face.

(Deep down, beneath his stoic exterior, he can’t believe what he’s hearing. You had been ‘starting to like’ him? He’s scared, then, because that means he ruined everything that night in his truck. Do you still feel the same way?)

Harry blinks—shakes his head free of those thoughts and continues. “Ask me, and I’ll tell you.”

“Really,” you reply, though it isn’t exactly a question.

You drop your hands, taken aback by his offer. He’s not usually this open—you should seize the opportunity to probe while it’s still available. You will, he thinks. Over these past few months, he’s learned how you operate. You’re not predictable, by any means, but he knows that you can’t resist inquiring about his personal life when given the chance.

You want to know him. If he thinks about it for too long, his affections become exceedingly difficult to bear.

“Really,” he says.

He steps forward and curves his right arm in a powerful hook. You yelp jarringly when the rough leather of his glove makes contact with your left shoulder. He just shrugs, pulling back.

“Remember: don’t let your guard down.”

You clench your jaw and raise your fists once more.

“Fine, then,” you say, sidestepping another one of his jabs. “Where were you born?”

“Redditch, England,” he answers simply. “Moved to Holmes Chapel when I was a kid, though.”

You nod. The two of you continue to circle each other.

“Got any siblings?” you ask, charging him and attempting to deliver a series of punches to his torso. He deflects each of them with his forearms, never faltering.

“A sister,” he says, unbothered. “She lives back home.”

“And what about your parents?” you press, retreating and watching him with careful eyes.

He swallows roughly, shaking his head. “Dad left when I was seven. Mum died when I was fourteen.”

At that, you pause. You heed his earlier advice and keep your hands in front of your face, but it’s clear that his confession has caught you by surprise. Your gaze softens, and he watches as your lips curl down into a sympathetic frown.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him quietly, your shoulders slouching. “That’s terrible.”

He shrugs. “It’s in the past—can’t change it, now.”

He takes advantage of your pitying nature, springing toward you and aiming a punch for your hip. You barely manage to avoid the blow, jumping back at the last second. His glove scrapes swiftly against your side. The attack seems to snap you out of your emotions, because you scowl deeply and return to your original stance.

“What happened after that?” you ask, breathing erratically.

“They put me in foster care,” Harry says, shaking his head. “It was shit, though. I ran away after a couple of years. Went off on my own—that’s when I met your dad.”

“And he started training you?”

“And he started training me,” he confirms with a curt nod. “Couldn’t actually fight until I turned eighteen, but after that…I was taking up as many matches as I could.” He chuckles warmly at the memory. “Your dad said that he’d never seen anything like it. Told me I had to slow down.”

You smile a bit at his words. Your fondness quickly melts into shock, however, when Harry aims a hit for your face. You block the punch, retaliating quickly and throwing one of your own. Your fist makes contact with the barrier of his chest, and he stumbles backward, his eyes widening in disbelief. You got him.

Only once, but still.

You got him.

“Not bad,” he grunts, squaring his shoulders. “Maybe I should actually start trying, now.”

You grit your teeth, glowering at him. “God, you’re such a dick.”

He flashes you a contemptuous grin before lunging forward. You dodge two of his punches, but the third one catches you right in the stomach, making you double over and cough. Harry retreats, a mischievous smirk on his face.

“Done getting to know me?” he simpers.

You shake your head, straightening back up. “Not yet.”

You make a valiant effort, Harry thinks. Your dedication is commendable. But he’s had a decade of training, whereas you’ve only had a few months. Your technique—though improved—is still sloppy. And that’s what allows him to sidestep all of your strikes and react quickly, enough so that he’s got you pinned to the ground in just under two minutes.

You’re panting heavily; one of his forearms holds your crossed wrists down over your head. His other hand is planted on the floor just above your shoulder, the flat front of his boxing glove providing a stable surface to keep him balanced. His knees are next to your waist as he hovers over your stomach, giving you no room to worm out of his grip. You flail your legs in frustration, but he’s perched too high up on your body for the action to do any real damage.

“I win,” he says simply, arrogance dancing in his eyes. He leans down so that your noses are only inches apart. “Any more questions, baby?”

“Just one,” you bite, panting heavily.

He cocks an eyebrow, waiting for the inquiry to leave your lips. Once it does, however, it knocks every molecule of air from his lungs.

“Have you…,” you inhale deeply, “…ever been in love?”

The expression on your face tells him that you know exactly what you’re doing. Your chest heaves with exertion, and when his gaze flickers down to your breasts for only a fraction of a second, your eyes illumine with realisation.

“You want me,” you tell him, breathless. A thin, reflective layer of perspiration has gathered at your hairline. Your arms twitch from where they’re pinned beneath his. Despite the gloves still covering your hands, you grasp at his slippery skin, hoping that the contact will somehow make his already-weak resolve crack and crumble into nothing.

“No,” he says, his voice hard.

His green irises burn into your face. Who is he trying to convince?

“You’re lying,” you wheeze, shaking your head. “You want me.”

Your skin is hot. He can feel you radiating warmth like a fireplace. Heated, cozy, welcoming—it’s everything he loves about you, everything he’s been craving since he first became conscious of how badly he desired you. And, to top it all off, you’re looking at him like that—with eyes that could persuade him to jump from a skyscraper, if you so much as asked.

Just like that.

“Fuck,” Harry spits. He pulls back sharply and stamps his own eyes shut. His nose screws up in frustration. “Fuck.”

And then he’s kissing you.

The elated moan that slips from your lips has his cock twitching fitfully in his shorts. You arch your back to get closer to him, because with his hand still pinning you down, it’s not like you can throw your arms around his neck and bring him to you. The kiss is messy and frenzied and hot and carnal. Harry licks into your mouth, savouring the squeak that echoes in your throat.

You’re vocal—he’s going to fucking die.

When the two of you pull back, no words are exchanged. Harry stares down at you, taking note of how your pupils have dilated immensely. Your chest is still heaving, but this time, it’s for a completely different reason. He releases your wrists from where they’re pinned beneath his forearm, watching you carefully as he sits up.

He lifts his fist to his face and takes the strap of the glove between his teeth. The sharp riiip! that ensues may as well be a starter gunshot.

You both dive back into a sea of teeth and lips and tongue. Harry throws off his gloves easily. You struggle with yours, but he wastes no time, helping you discard them in a matter of seconds. With your hands finally free, you bury them in his hair, pulling at the soft, damp tendrils as he presses several hard kisses to your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mutters, slanting his body downward so that his crotch is level with yours. “You—you have no idea—”

The rest of his sentence fades into a groan when you suck harshly on his jaw. He shudders at the sensation.

Gradually, you bring your legs out from beneath his own, lifting your knees up to your chest and then wrapping your thighs around his waist. It’s an impressive feat, if he’s being honest. And it gives him more room to lean over you, to grind his cock against your centre through the layers of fabric separating your skin.

“Off���,” you choke, tugging at the bottom of his black shirt. “Get this off!”

He complies, sitting back up on his knees and ridding himself of the fabric. You take advantage of his instability, wrapping one hand around his bicep and giving it a hard shove. He topples to the side and you scramble up to straddle him, a small, smug smile ghosting across your face.

“What are you—?” he starts, but you place one finger against his lips, cutting him off.

You start to roll your hips gently into his—he groans, wishing more than anything that there were no clothes in the way. Goosebumps erupt on his arms when you lightly scrape your nails down his bare chest. You settle at the butterfly inked into his abdomen, tracing the insect’s wings with a wondrous look in your eyes. His palms sweep up your thighs.

“Why did you lie to me?” you murmur, keeping your gaze trained on his torso. “You feel the same, don’t you?”

He nods wordlessly.

“Why, then?” you press, frowning gently. “I—we could’ve avoided this whole thing if you’d just told me the truth.”

“Your dad,” Harry says weakly. “I can’t—you’re his—”

“My dad has no control over who I date or who I fuck,” you say. He’s stunned by the crudeness of your claim. “And if I want to fuck you right here, right now, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

“You—Christ,” he swallows heavily, squeezing his eyes shut. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“Why not?” you smirk, grinding against him harshly and feeling the stiff outline of his cock in his shorts. “You seem to be enjoying it.”

“Fuck,” he grunts. You shriek when he flips the two of you over so that he’s back on top. His nose brushes against yours as he speaks.

“If we do this,” he warns, hot breath fanning out over your chin, “I won’t be gentle. In every single one of my fantasies, I’ve ruined you—made you drool, made you cry. You name it, I’ve done it. You sure you can handle that?”

“Yes,” you breathe, utterly enthralled. “I’m sure.”

Harry tucks a loose piece of your hair behind your ear, peering down at you tenderly.

“Look so pretty,” he coos, fingers skimming down the side of your throat. “Can’t wait to wreck your cute, little—” He sucks in a deep breath, weakened by the shamelessness of his own thoughts. “Gonna make sure your knees knock together once I’m through with you.”

And maybe it’s not smart to get you naked in the middle of the gym, where anyone walking by could easily peer inside and witness him fucking you into oblivion. But he can’t find it in himself to care—he’s been waiting for this moment for years, and damn him if he doesn’t seize it while you’re like this: open, inviting, presented to him like gourmet food on a silver platter.

And speaking of food…

“I’m gonna stretch you out,” Harry states. “You’ve got to cum first if you wanna take my cock, understand?”

You nod rapidly.

He shakes his head. “Need to hear you say it, baby. You want it, too, right?”

“I want it,” you confirm, breathless. “I want it, I understand.”

He smiles. His fingers ruck up the material of your tank top, and you lift your back from the ground to help him remove it. Your bra is next, pale pink with a simple bow resting between the cups. He swears when you unclip it quickly, letting the straps fall down your shoulders before tossing it away.

“Christ,” he says, blinking. “Can’t believe you’re real.”

He lays you back down onto the floor of the ring, ducking his head and enveloping one of your nipples in his mouth. You moan. The bud hardens between his teeth, sensitive to his touch. He sucks harshly before pulling off, littering kisses along the skin of your breasts. His head swims with lust, transforming him into someone nearly unrecognizable. You seem to like it, though, so how bad could it really be?

“Next time,” Harry murmurs into your flesh, “I’m gonna get a proper taste. Eat you out ’til you go blind. But for now—,” he dips his hand past the waistband of your sweatpants, “—my fingers will just have to do.”

You shimmy your bottoms down, kicking them off unceremoniously and spreading your legs. And fuck, he nearly loses it right there, because this is what he’s been picturing for months, if not years. Having you laid out in front of him, exposed and ready and willing. Your thighs stretched wide, miles of soft skin leading inward and morphing into sticky, wet folds. He closes his eyes for a brief moment and inhales deeply—the scent of your arousal floods his nose, rendering him utterly helpless. Something akin to a man unhinged.

He rubs you over your panties, first. They’re nothing special—simple black cotton covering your mound and your hipbones. But fuck him, he wasn’t expecting the ocean of excitement that seems to have pooled and soaked through the fabric. His fingertips are damp when he pulls them away.

“You’re drenched,” he groans, shaking his head in disbelief. He hooks one digit into the elastic of your underwear, looking up at you with inquisitive eyes. “Can I take these off?”

“Yes, please.”

He tears the material down your legs, and then you’re naked beneath him, save for the rose-gold pendant resting on your sternum. He sits back on his heels as you spread your thighs wider, chewing on the inside of your cheek. His index finger taps the skin just below your navel, tracing a path down to where you need him most. You whine when he bypasses your clit completely, dropping instead to gather some of your wetness before trailing back up. He smears your arousal over the nub—just to get a steady, slippery rhythm going—and then leans down, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Don’t wanna be too far,” he says sheepishly, sweetly kissing the tip of your nose. “Missed you.”

You seal your lips to his.

He makes you cum after a few minutes, slipping one finger into your channel, and then another. The entire time, his thumb stays perched on your clit, drawing expert circles and pulling wanton moans from your mouth. And when you cum—oh.

Oh.

You’re glorious, with lidded eyes and warm cheeks and teeth bared in pleasure. You ride out your high, spasming gently. Harry lays a firm hand on your stomach, feeling the muscles of your abdomen twitch beneath his palm. He continues to stimulate your clit, basking in the little aftershocks that zip up your spine and make your legs tremble.

If you were aroused before…good fucking God. He didn’t know it was possible for a woman to be this wet.

You kiss him as you come down from your orgasm, nipping softly at his bottom lip and sighing in relief. Both of his hands find your face—you seem unbothered by the fact that his fingers are coated in your juices, smearing messily against your cheek. He melts into you like he’s dying of thirst and you’re an oasis, lush and green and good. So, so good.

“Do you—,” he exhales raggedly, “—do you still want to?”

You nod, a soft smile forming on your face. It’s crazy, Harry thinks, how quickly you can oscillate between actual human sunshine and the devil personified. One minute, you’re asking him to fuck you, and the next, you’re giving him those eyes that make him feel as though every cell in his body has been liquefied.

“What were you saying about not being gentle?” you tease.

He chuckles quietly, shaking his head. You gasp when he hooks a finger into the chain around your neck. He takes your pretty pink pendant between two fingers, lifting it up and dragging the cool metal along the seam of your lips. You inhale sharply.

“I don’t have a condom,” he murmurs, sighing mournfully.

“I have an IUD,” you whisper, playing with the curls at the back of his head. “We’re good.”

He groans, dropping his face into the column of your throat. “You’re fuckin’ marvelous.”

You giggle.

He shudders when you begin to push his shorts down. You look up at him with raised brows when his cock slaps against his stomach, completely unrestrained.

“No underwear?”

“Always sticks to my balls when I get sweaty,” he whines, squeezing his eyes shut. “Need to let the boys breathe.”

A loud laugh flops out of your mouth. Harry snickers, too, trailing his nose up over your jawline so that he can catch your lips in a quick kiss. He moans as you wrap your fingers around his length, giving a few experimental pumps. Instinctively, his hips buck into your grip.

“You’re big,” you murmur. “Are you sure that it’s going to fit?”

“It’ll fit,” he promises.

He guides your legs up so that they’re wrapped around his waist, allowing him to slot himself closer to you. You gasp when his hand finds your cunt again, dipping two fingers inside before sweeping his palm over the length of your folds. He then smears your wetness along the shaft of his cock, makeshift lubrication to facilitate the first breach of your channel.

“You ready?” he says, positioning the tip of his dick at your entrance. “Deep breath for me, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You inhale, and he nudges his hips forward. You gasp as he slips into you, inch by thick inch, stretching you out in a way that you’ve never felt before. Harry reaches for your hands, tangling your fingers together and lifting them above your head. You arch your back with the new position, and he’s unsure of whether you’re trying to wiggle away or bring him in closer.

When the heels of your feet press against his ass, guiding him deeper, he assumes that it’s the latter.

“Fuck,” he stammers as your tight heat surrounds his cock. “How—how do you feel this good?”

A wheezing laugh punches its way out of your throat.

“Feel that,” Harry says hoarsely. “So fuckin’ hot and—and wet. Not gonna take any time at all, is it?”

“For me, or for you?” you taunt. He grumbles quietly, and you snicker.

After a brief moment of silence, you squeeze his knuckles reassuringly. “You can move.”

“Thank you,” he moans, capturing your mouth with his. Your breathing hitches as he pulls out before slowly sliding back in. When you sigh in response, he takes it as encouragement to pick up the pace.

Soon, he’s fucking into you quickly, your skin slapping together in a series of brutal thrusts. With each drive of his hips into yours, soft whimpers escape your lips, floating up into the hot air and melting like ice cream under the sun. Harry growls, sinking his teeth into the junction between your neck and your shoulder. The pain makes you writhe—in a good way.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve imagined this,” he grunts, laving his tongue over the indents on your skin. Your necklaces clink together—silver and rose-gold tangled in a mess of thin, delicate chains. “My—my hand could never—”

“Neither could mine,” you tell him, breathless.

His spine stiffens at your words, brain overcome with the thought of you lying in bed, your fingers buried between your legs and low whines pouring from your mouth. He groans; his next thrust is hard, keen, unforgiving.

He keeps you close, your bodies never separating. Your skin is slick with sweat, chests gliding together. Adrenaline rushes through Harry’s veins—he drives ahead, plunging inside of you with each fierce snap of his hips. You can’t do anything but lie there and take it, take it, take it.

“I want you,” he gasps, warm air washing out onto your collarbones. His hands are clammy, still locked with yours; he wouldn’t have it any other way. “I want you, I want you, I—” He gulps. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Harry,” you murmur, grazing your nose against his temple. “Harry, look at me.”

Reluctantly, he pulls his face away from your throat. Your eyes are soft when they land on his, forehead shining with sweat, lips swollen and raw. The bun holding most of your hair back has come loose (Harry is certain that it’s due to the way your bodies shift along the ground with every thrust.)

You swallow roughly and shake your head, staring past his features and searching for something deeper.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, nearly crushing his fingers in your grip. “I’m here.”

Your walls pulsate around him, and his rhythm falters. He swears softly, releasing one of your hands so that he can bring his thumb down to rub haphazard shapes against your clit. You moan, surprised.

“Cum for me,” he orders, nodding rapidly. “Cum for me, and then I’ll do the same. Where do you want it, hm? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you pant, your nose screwing up in pleasure. “Cum inside me.”

“Shit, you’re serious?” he asks, awestruck. His stomach twists hotly at your invitation. “Want me to claim your pretty cunt? Is that it?”

“God,” you say. You squirm beneath him, nodding frantically. “Please!”

“Fuck!” he cries, and when you clamp down on his cock, he’s gone.

The two of you ride out your highs together, quivering and grunting in unison. Harry wraps his arms around your waist, holding you close to his chest. You dig your nails into his back, clinging to him like a piece of wood drifting through the stormy sea. Colourful spots dance in his vision—he tries his best to blink them away. Your thighs tremble around his hips, caught in an endless cycle of vibrations.

“Holy shit,” you whimper, exhaling shakily. “That was…”

Harry braces himself over your face, keeping you shielded from everything outside of your little bubble.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

A low laugh falls from your lips, but it quickly morphs into a moan when he pulls out of you. He pauses for a moment, watching as white liquid trickles from your abused entrance. The erotic sight nearly has him ready to go again.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He scoops his release up with two fingers and plugs them back inside of you. “That’s hot.”

You gasp at the slight overstimulation, wrapping a hand around his wrist reflexively. He just shoots you a wicked grin, which has you giggling girlishly in response.

“I want a kiss,” you say, craning your neck.

Harry hums, crawling up your body to fulfill your request. You smile against his lips, tossing your arms over his shoulders. The two of you exchange soft pecks for the next few minutes, basking in the aftereffects of your orgasms. Warmth unfurls in Harry’s chest, potent and contagious. It spreads through his veins, dousing his senses in a golden glow.

“You’re fucking incredible,” he tells you, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. “And I like you. So much.”

“I like you, too,” you reply, tracing your fingertips over the muscles in his back. “But if you ever lie to me again—” Your expression grows serious. “—let’s just say that you won’t have to worry anymore about your boxers sticking to your balls, okay?”

It’s an earnest threat—he knows that you mean every word—but nevertheless, it makes him laugh. You giggle along with him; he rolls off of you, his spine meeting the floor of the ring, and you cuddle into his side. Your nails tap languidly against his sternum as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. The two of you lie there for a few long moments, enjoying the peaceful silence.

“They’re taking my case against James to trial,” you say at last.

Harry stiffens, lifting his head so that he can look down at you properly.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You nod, refusing to meet his gaze. “But, um…my lawyer said that it might be a good idea to bring a witness to the stand. Just to seal the deal and stuff.”

You peek up at him shyly, and it clicks.

“Oh,” he says softly. “You want me?”

“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” you say hurriedly, resting your chin on his chest. “Please don’t think that I’m forcing you—”

“Hey, no,” he cuts you off, sweeping his fingers through your hair. The action soothes you, makes your eyelids flutter shut and your lips tremble with a nervous exhale. “’Course I’ll testify. I don’t want that piece of shit coming anywhere near you.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to his skin. You litter a few grateful kisses along his pectorals, and he smiles. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Don’t have to keep saying that,” Harry mumbles, chuckling tenderly. He takes your face between his hands, thumbs trailing idly over your temples. “I wanna keep you safe. Or—or make you feel safe, at least.”

Your eyes glisten.

“I do feel safe around you,” you say. Your lips twitch. “Except for when you’re trying to punch me in the gut.”

He snickers, shaking his head. “If you want to start tussling with me more often, you’re gonna have to get used to that.”

“Duly noted.” You smirk.

Harry sighs, letting his head fall back against the ground.

“Speaking of keeping you safe…,” he mutters, staring up at the ceiling. His fingers resume their previous ministrations, stroking languidly through your hair. “You should go pee, yeah? Heard it’s important for girls to do that after sex.”

You laugh, surprised by his words. “How—how do you know that?”

“Sister,” he reminds you. His cheeks dimple as he grins.

You nod, mouth curling into a fond smile. “Right.”

    April 26, 2021

The crowd is deafening, encasing him in a cloud of noise. He refuses to let it distract him, zeroing in on his opponent with the intensity of a thousand suns. An experimental jab comes his way, gauging the distance between them, but Harry sidesteps it easily. He retaliates with a right hook, catching the side of the man’s head. It’s not a powerful blow, but it succeeds in disorienting him for a few milliseconds.

He charges forward, then, sensing an opportunity and seizing it before it can fade away. In a flurry of fists (and the odd kick here and there), he backs his opponent up until the ropes around the ring are digging into the man’s waist. He’s ruthless, giving him no chance to react, delivering blow after blow until his rival can barely stand on his own two feet. At that point, he retreats, stepping back and letting his victory come to him.

He needs this win. He needs this win. He needs this—

His challenger falls into the trap, stumbling forward with double vision and throwing a sloppy hook. Harry bats his hand away effortlessly, lunging forward and curving his arm up. Pride flares in his chest when his fist makes contact with his opponent’s jaw, making the man’s head snap back on his neck. He drops to the floor in an unconscious, muscular heap.

The seconds pass by like molasses, but at last, the referee is climbing into the ring and lifting Harry’s hand high above his head. The crowd roars. He closes his eyes for a moment, basking in the praise. When they flutter open again, they’re trailing upward, searching for one particular face in a sea of strangers.

And there you are.

You’re beaming, clapping frantically and pausing every so often to cup your hands around your mouth and amplify your cheers. Harry smiles, tilting his chin upward and letting his head fall back in relief. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from you, even as the referee releases his wrist and crouches to rouse his opponent from the ground.

He hears someone call his name and turns to the side. He finds your father peeking at him through the ropes circling the ring, a wide grin on his face. He beckons him over, a water bottle clutched tightly in his outstretched hand. Harry complies, breathing out a heavy sigh.

Meanwhile, you’re pushing through the throng of people that have now started moving toward the exit. Going against the current is difficult—you murmur quick apologies as you nudge past countless shoulders and elbows—but finally, you emerge from the crowd, unscathed. You see Harry chatting with a few people approximately thirty feet away, but before you can take another step, a big, burly security guard blocks your path.

“No spectators beyond this point,” he tells you gruffly.

“But, I—,” your mouth opens and closes, though no words come out. Instinctively, you point over the guard’s shoulder, your finger pinned on a very sweaty, very shirtless Harry. “That’s my boyfriend.”

You only have a moment to feel shocked by your claim. Boyfriend?

It’s been weeks since that night at the gym, and yeah, you suppose that the two of you are a thing, now. You’re going out. You’re exclusive. Whatever the hell you want to call it.

But you’ve never referred to him as your boyfriend, and he’s never referred to you as his girlfriend. You haven’t talked about potentially putting a label on your relationship, despite the fact that you’re both clearly interested in seeing each other and no one else.

Is it time to have that conversation?

Harry jumps in surprise when he hears you call his name. He turns toward the sound and then grunts when you barrel into him a moment later, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. One of his hands reflexively falls to your bottom before quickly moving away. The feeling of his calloused palm on your ass sends a shiver down your spine.

You bury your face in his shoulder. He’s sweating all over, skin wet and muscles bulging from exertion. You know that you’ve caught him off-guard, because he whispers your name incredulously into your ear and presses a gentle kiss to your jaw. When he finally sets you down, you peer up at him with bright eyes and a large grin.

“That was incredible,” you gush, your hands falling to his biceps. “You obliterated him!”

“Thanks,” he chuckles. His cheeks are pink—you don’t think it’s because of the match.

In the periphery of your vision, you catch sight of your father. He’s standing there with raised brows and parted lips, and you suddenly remember that he hasn’t yet been made aware of your…situation. You gasp, stepping away from Harry quickly and draping your arms around your own torso. He seems to recognize your blunder as well, because his shoulders tense and his eyes nearly pop out of his head.

The two of you speak at the same time.

“Coach—”

“Dad—”

“I don’t want to know,” your father announces, holding up one hand and cutting you both off swiftly. His eyes bounce back and forth between you, features betraying no emotion whatsoever. Finally, his shoulders slump.

“I’m gonna call it a night, gioia,” he tells you. He then looks to the left, directing his next words at Harry. “Congratulations on your win, H. Have her home by midnight.”

“Dad, I’m a grown woman—,” you begin to scoff, but he gives you a pointed glare.

“Midnight,” he repeats.

You shrink away and nod.

~*~

Before leaving, Harry decides to take a quick shower in the men’s locker room. You sit on one of the benches, tapping your foot against the tiles as you watch him get undressed. It doesn’t take him long—he’s only wearing a pair of shorts, after all—but you savour every moment, your eyes raking over his muscular back as he bends down to pick his bottoms up off of the ground. He tosses the fabric into his drawstring bag before peering over his shoulder at you.

“Sure you don’t wanna join me?” he asks, a coy smirk playing on his lips when he catches you staring.

You look away quickly, picking at your nails and feigning indifference. “Where anyone could walk in? I’m good.”

He shrugs, snickering quietly. “Suit yourself.”

You ogle his plump ass as he walks away.

A moment later, one of the showers turns on. You can hear Harry humming softly as he steps under the spray. You sigh, leaning back against the wall and fishing your phone out from your pocket. For the next few minutes, you scroll distractedly through social media, bored out of your mind.

You grunt softly and set your phone down, tiptoeing over to the door of the locker room and fastening it shut. The lock above the handle slides into place with a low click!

“Fuck it,” you mutter.

You flick open the button of your jeans, shoving the material down your thighs. Eventually, you’re naked, goosebumps pebbling on your arms. You set your clothes back down onto the bench and grab a spare towel, fiddling with the necklace hanging from your throat. A thought occurs to you; you unclasp the chain, pulling it off and letting it pool in the palm of your hand.

Harry’s idle singing grows louder as you approach the row of showers. It’s not hard to find his cubicle—it’s the only one with the curtain drawn over the entrance. You pad toward it, hanging your towel next to his and calling out, “Harry?”

“Yeah?” His hums stop.

You grasp the fabric of the curtain, pulling it back and peering inside. Immediately, Harry’s gaze locks with yours. He’s completely bare, standing beneath the water with hooded eyes and shampoo foaming in his hair. You slip into the cubicle, not missing the way he gawks at your naked body.

“I changed my mind,” you murmur, peering up at him shyly.

He presses his lips together to fight back a smile. “Yeah. You sure did.”

“Shut up and let me rinse your hair.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Before you can bury your hands into the wet strands, however, you remember the jewellery clutched between your fingers.

“Actually—,” you say, hesitating. “I, um—I wanted to give this to you.”

You scoop the necklace up from your palm, holding it out nervously. Harry recognizes it immediately, and his eyes widen in surprise.

“What for?” he asks, not unkindly.

“It’s my lucky charm,” you tell him, shrugging your shoulders. “I just figured…maybe it’ll work for you, too.”

He kisses you, then, grabbing your face in his hands and crushing his lips to yours. You whimper into his mouth, finding his wrists and encasing them in a tight grip. The kiss is passionate, bruising, fiery—you’ve never felt so wanted.

Harry pulls back once the two of you run out of air. Even then, he keeps his forehead pressed snugly against yours, staying close. He’s breathing heavily, and you’re starting to sweat, the humidity of the stall seeping into every last pore on your body. Harry shakes his head, gazing into your eyes.

“You’re my lucky charm,” he says.

Your heartbeat stutters in your chest.

“But,” he continues, smiling softly, “I’ll take the necklace. It’ll be good to have for when you’re not there.”

You nod wordlessly, and he steps back. His hands find his throat, fumbling with the chain dangling over his collarbones. He reaches over his shoulders, unclasping his own necklace and presenting it to you.

“Here,” he says. “I’ll take yours, and you take mine.”

You nod again.

You turn around slowly, electricity thrumming through your body as Harry guides the silver chain around your neck. The shiny cross pendant rests against your sternum; the warmth of the metal seeps into your skin. When you face him again, Harry whistles lowly, his lips twitching.

“Looks good on you,” he says, nodding proudly. “My girl.”

“Is that what I am?” you ask, peeking up at him through your lashes. “Your girl?”

He pauses. He really does look ridiculous with the white, frothing shampoo slicked through his hair.

“Is that what you want to be?”

A moment of silence ensues.

“Yeah,” you finally say, biting your bottom lip. “It is.”

Harry smiles. He leans forward and kisses you again, softer this time. You nudge his shoulder with the hand that’s still holding your necklace, prompting him to spin around.

“Come on,” you murmur, delivering one last affectionate peck to his mouth. “Your turn.”

~*~

Harry pulls up to your house fifteen minutes before midnight. You unbuckle your seatbelt, modifying your position in the front seat so that you can look at him properly. Your hair is still slightly damp from your shared shower, and your skin is fresh and clean. You smell like him—like the body wash you had both used to scrub yourselves down in the small cubicle. A silver necklace—his necklace—peeks out from beneath the collar of your denim jacket.

The jewellery suits you. He doesn’t ever want you to take it off.

The two of you stare at each other for a moment until you eventually crack a smile.

“You look like you want to eat me,” you say, laughing.

“C’mere, then,” he chuckles, already leaning forward. “Lemme have a taste.”

“Gross.” You stick your tongue out playfully but obey him nonetheless, your lips meeting over the middle console of the vehicle. Harry cups your face in one hand, keeping you close. You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound down—it’s the prettiest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

You carry on like that for the next few minutes, exchanging soft kisses that don’t go beyond him placing a calloused palm on your thigh. When you finally pull away, a breathless giggle bubbles up in your throat.

“Have I ever told you that you’re a great kisser?” you ask.

“Only a dozen times a day,” he replies, smirking gently.

You laugh, carding your fingers through his hair and tilting your head to the side as you stare at him. Your eyes are far away, getting lost in your own thoughts, it seems.

“What is it?” he whispers, even though there’s no one else in the car aside from you and him.

“I love you,” you murmur absentmindedly.

Harry freezes; your confession knocks the air from his lungs.

“What?” he says, his brows knitting together.

At last, you snap out of your trance. Your admission sinks in, and you recoil, shocked at your own boldness.

“I—,” you start, your eyes growing impossibly wide. “I just meant—we’ve known each other for years, now, but I feel like I really got to know you these past few months. These past few weeks, especially.”

You shrug, playing nervously with the silver cross hanging around your neck. Harry’s heart somersaults at the sight.

“I’m sorry if it’s bad timing,” you continue; you’re rambling, now. “And I understand that it might be weird considering the fact that we just put a label on this, but—,” you break off, taking a deep breath, “—I love you. I do.”

He reaches out, trailing his fingers over the faint curve of your jaw. You gasp softly when his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip.

“Did you just apologise for telling me that you love me?” he says. Crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.

You squeeze your own eyes shut, cringing at his words and shaking your head.

“Don’t repeat it,” you plead. “I’m already embarrassed enough.”

“Oh, so loving me is embarrassing?” he asks, smirking slyly.

You frown, batting his hand away and shifting your body so that you’re no longer facing him. You place your elbow against the ledge of the passenger door, resting your chin on your fist and staring pointedly out the window.

“Hey,” Harry coos, though he can’t stop the inkling of laughter that seeps into his voice. “Don’t be like that.”

“I take it back,” you say flatly, refusing to turn around. “I hate you, actually.”

“Really,” he says, but it’s not a question. He unbuckles his own seatbelt so that he can lean over the middle console and nuzzle at your cheek.

“My girlfriend hates me?” he asks; he knows that he’s being insufferable, but he can’t help it. Messing with you is so much fun.

“Yes.” Your response is curt. “She does.”

“That’s not nice,” he says, curling his lips down into a dramatic pout. He presses a gentle kiss to the side of your neck—right against a particular spot that makes you melt every single time. He knows it, and so do you.

“That’s not nice at all,” Harry continues, littering sloppy pecks down the column of your throat. “This how you treat the man who loves you?”

You pause when his words register in your brain.

“Stop lying,” you mutter, keeping your gaze glued to the scenery outside your window.

“’M not lying,” he tells you, squeezing your thigh gently. “Said you’d cut my balls off if I did it again, remember?”

And despite your initial sense of humiliation, you laugh. Harry smiles, placing his free hand on your cheek and guiding you to look over at him. You submit to his wishes, gazing at him through pretty, wispy lashes. He tilts forward ever-so-slightly, nudging your noses together and fastening his lips to yours. When he pulls back after a moment, he pinches your chin between two fingers.

“I love you,” he says earnestly.

“I love you, too,” you whisper.

Your eyelids flutter shut as he slides his palm up your leg; he stops only once it’s resting in the crease between your hip and your thigh, dangerously close to your groin.

“We have—,” he cranes his neck, peering over at the digital clock on the truck’s dashboard, “—five minutes until you have to be inside. Think I can make you cum between now and then?”

You scoff, pushing him away and laughing at his crudeness.

“You’re insane,” you giggle, shooting him a faux-stern glare. “Behave.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, frowning childishly. You just grin, slipping your hand around his neck and pulling him in for a doting kiss. You press a series of rapid pecks along the seam of his mouth, nipping playfully at his bottom lip before retreating. Instinctively, he follows you, but you dig your fingers into his shoulder, stopping him before he can get too far.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, reaching for the handle on the door.

Harry watches with wide, awestruck eyes as you exit the car. You clutch your purse closer to your side, looking back at him expectantly and waiting for his response.

He clears his throat, blinking out of his reverie.

“Yeah,” he nods, nostrils flaring slightly. “Goodnight.”

He peels away from your house only once you disappear through the front door. Subconsciously, his hand finds the rose-gold chain hanging around his throat. He fiddles with the necklace, running his thumb over the smooth surface of your shiny pendant. There’s something unreal—almost dreamlike—about having it between his fingers. He’s spent so long watching you fumble and toy with it—watching it bring you comfort when you’re nervous, or bored, or afraid.

Now, it’s his.

And so are you.

Faint music plays from the truck’s stereo; Harry reaches forward, twisting a knob and turning the volume up to its full capacity. Ariana Grande’s familiar vocal riffs pour through the speakers.

He sings along at the top of his lungs, hollering triumphantly the entire ride home.

~*~

Extra: Knockout [READ IT NOW ON PATREON]

if you enjoyed this series, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Faded

Averykedavra prompt: okay, first of all, can I be added to your taglist? I love your fics! secondly, if you're open to prompts (apologies if you're not) could you write some logan-centric hurt/comfort? with roman and maybe Virgil comforting him? no pressure, but thanks!! and again your fics are absolutely incredible

Thanks for the prompt babe you’re an icon ^_^

Read on Ao3

Warnings: Logan’s not feeling so great, so self-doubt, self-esteem issues, all that jazz

Pairings: depending on how you want to read it, logince, analogical, possible prinxiety, analogince, or just hella platonic. My aro ass doesn’t know anymore you choose

Word Count: 4237

When a Side's role is disregarded, their door fades from the hallway.

Logan...do the others really need Logan?

Or just Logic?

 “Neato! So you're making your little factoids optional this time around.”

 Thank Archimedes the little pixelated boxes didn’t allow for much dynamic character interaction.

 Logan swallows and tries to keep going, growing more concerned that the lump in his throat would make it impossible to speak. But he can do this. For Thomas, he can do this. He has to.

 “Oh, I’ve got this one, guys!”

 ‘IGNORANT’ flashes up in front of him in big, red letters. Almost immediately he can hear the scoldings of Thomas and Patton followed by Roman’s mumbled apology but it’s too late. The word sears itself into his brain and he can’t see anything other than the choice that they’ve made.

 He swallows again. Alright. He’ll speak directly to the audience. Thomas has to listen to them eventually, doesn’t he?

 …well, maybe, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting every time he pops up with something and it’s completely ignored. He tries to appeal to Patton’s sense of humor. He tries to give Roman something when he can’t find the right words. He tries to give Thomas something, anything.

 Then he gets overexcited and pushes Patton into the blinds.

 The second Roman’s sword flashes out and slices him neatly in two a searing bolt of pain spreads to his arms, to his chest, to his throat. He knows logically—he knows everything logically—he can’t be hurt by that. It isn’t him. He is not connected in any way physically to these lowdowns.

 So why are his hands shaking?

 This is so ridiculous. He is Logic. He should not be working like this, he should not be reacting like this. This is logically the next step, he must simply not be out of the adjustment process yet. Which is ridiculous in and of itself, has he not mentioned several times over that the presence of the others imbeds Thomas’s ability to think rationally and calmly about the issues they have to face? Has he not himself wondered that if he were not so…undone by being in the same room that he finds it difficult to keep going when he needs to? Shouldn’t this be better?

 “You know I'm- I'm not doing a really great job explaining this philosophy. Um, Logan?”

 Patton? Logan pops up.

 Patton smiles—smiles?—at him as the box appears at the bottom of the screen. From this angle, he can’t see Roman or Thomas. What’s happening? Why hasn’t he been paying better attention?

 Why can’t he focus?

 “What would a real philosopher think about what I'm saying here?”

 Oh. Oh, no. This isn’t going to be good, is it?

 “Well, Frederich Nietzsche really wouldn't have been thrilled with anything you've had to say, primarily because pity seems to be at the center of your idea of ‘putting good into the world.’”

 “Th-that's not what—“

 “Nietzsche famously rejected the notion that pity was a virtue.”

 “Okay,” comes the quiet mumble that, really, should’ve told him to stop talking now, he wasn’t being useful anymore.

 But no. Logan was never very good at being quiet, now was he?

 “He once claimed that pity ‘runs counter to the instincts that preserve and enhance the value of life…’”

 Last chance, Logan, something in his head whispers as something else flashes in the corner of his vision.

  ‘Skip all.’

 But they would never do that, right? They knew, somewhere, because Thomas knew, that you had to listen to Logic. You had to listen, at some point, because if you didn’t, what did you have? They would shake their heads or grumble in annoyance, or cut him off when he’d been talking for too long or ask him to be quiet, but they’d never skip him entirely, cut him out of the conversation, would they?

 Patton’s finger presses the button and something of unyielding cold wraps around Logan’s neck.

 He flails as it yanks, jerking back awake with his eyes open, out of the boxes, out of the video, at his desk, staring at the screen as his lowdown program blocks him out.

 No.

 No!

 What happened? Why did they—is he—can he—

 Why didn’t they want to listen?

 Logan’s fingers fly over the keyboard in front of him, searching desperately for an answer. Maybe he programmed this wrong. Admittedly he’s a little new at programming so he could’ve messed something up that disconnected him. Maybe Patton clicked it by mistake. Why was there even a ‘skip all’ button to begin with? He doesn’t remember programming that. And what was it that wrapped around his throat?

 His hand goes to his neck at the mere memory of the horrible thing that yanked him out. He winces when his fingers slide of patches of warm, inflamed skin. It…it actually hurt. It left a mark.

 What—

 The instant his lowdown pops up with his face, he knows.

 It shouldn’t hurt. Really. This shouldn’t hurt.

 Now perhaps Deceit could see what it was like to be Logic. Or at least to try and be Logic.

 Now perhaps…perhaps he may have someone to talk to.

 No.

 Deceit was, in fact, far better at being Logic. Within an instant, he’d gotten the conversation to his side, gotten the others to listen, to think about what they were saying instead of just following on blind faith.

 Of course.

 Because it wasn’t Logic they didn’t want to listen to, was it?

 It was Logan.

 Logan closes his eyes. Alright. He can adapt to this. He can…he can work with this. He just has to figure out how.

 He turns away from the computer, stands, and carefully makes his way across his room to the nightstand, where the emergency first-aid kit sits tucked in the drawer. He will patch himself up, best he can, and then figure out what to do.

 He’s too distracted to hear Roman’s terrified shout.

  “What have you done with Logan?”

———————————————————

A few hours after filming stops, there’s a very soft knock on Logan’s door. He doesn’t move from his desk, nor does he pause in his typing. False sympathies and empty comforts have never been very appealing.

 …and he is just the slightest bit worried that he won’t be able to resist the urge to slam the door in Patton’s face.

 Footsteps moving away sound from outside. Good. It’s better this way, isn’t it?

 The lowdowns didn’t work. Well, they did…but they worked a little too well, didn’t they? Instead of being less invasive, they just…cut Logan’s contributions out entirely. They let Logan be taken. They were good for Logic, not Logan.

 Logan’s head turns to the wall where he has two lists tacked up. Standing, the desk chair scraping behind him, he picks up the marker.

 His job is to be Logic. Therefore, if he is failing at that job, he must find a way to be better.

 The list on the left has ‘LOGIC’ written in large, block letters. On the right, ‘LOGAN.’ Isolating the key characteristics of each concept will help to shift himself properly into the role he must play. Logan’s eyes scan down the ‘LOGIC’ list.

 LOGIC:

Emotionless

Useful

Rational

Necessary

Welcome

 The end of the word ‘welcome’ is smeared. Logan looks down at the marker. His hands had shaken so much as he added that last word…why? It was true; logic should be welcome in any conversation, that’s why is it so useful, that’s why it has so many of the other characteristics that it has. Logic should be wanted, regardless of the subject matter, because of what it could do. It had felt so small of Logan to add the word, even when it was the correct course of action. Was it not implied by the others that it should be wanted?

 That…that he should be wanted?

 Unconsciously, Logan twists the cap of the marker back and forth as his eyes dart over to the ‘LOGAN’ list.

 LOGAN:

Irritating

Invasive

Emotional

Easily dismissed

Unwanted

 If he had any doubts about whether or not these qualifications were inaccurate, each had cemented their place on this list after today.

 Logan’s hand flies to his neck again, grazing over the bandages he’d wrapped around himself, only to stutter to a halt when his fingers met the fabric of his tie.

 His tie.

 Hadn’t—he’d—he’d been so sure he’d been doing this right. He dressed well, he spoke carefully, he did his research, why—why was it so easy for them to say he was—to think of him as—

 …why didn’t they want to listen to him?

 He tried. He tried so hard to be what they wanted, what they would listen to, to appeal to each and every one of them to make sure he was still fitting in enough to be heard. Logic had to be heard, that’s one of its most important qualifications.

 As his fingers fumble and catch around the knot, it pulls taut and for a moment he’s thrown back into the feeling of Deceit’s crook around his neck.

 Oh.

 Oh, that’s right…he…Deceit—or, well, Janus, now—didn’t he...he was…Logic isn’t the problem.

 Janus’s Logic made them listen. Janus’s logic made them pay attention. Janus’s Logic was wanted.

 Logan’s fingers slide off his tie in a numb haze.

 His hand falls limply to his side.

 He stares at the lists.

  Irritating.

  Invasive.

  Emotional.

  Easily dismissed.

 There is a reason none of these qualifications have come up when he considers pure Logic.

 A wave of cold rushes over Logan. His knees wobble. His hand staggers out for something, anything to grab onto, to hold, to stop himself from collapsing under the weight of what he just realized, to stop it, to stop it, to stop—

 He hits the ground with a thud.

 The words beat into his head over and over as he lies there, frozen, cold, so cold, curled up by his bed with something wrapped tightly around his throat and his glasses staying stubbornly on his face so the words remain in perfect focus.

 It is not Logic that is the problem.

 The others can use Logic.

 The others can listen to Logic.

 The others can want Logic.

 They just don’t want Logan.

 Logan curls closer around himself as it starts to become very, very cold. That…this can’t be right, he must be missing something. He’s emotionally compromised right now, he’s not any good at being Logic, maybe—maybe that means he’s doing it wrong, he has to be doing this wrong, there’s no way they could—they need him, don’t they? They need Logan, they have to listen to him, they—they—

 Unbidden, a whine escapes Logan’s throat. It burns as it rings around his empty, cold room. He covers his face with his hands.

 Even his cheeks feel icy cold.

 Someone will notice, he tries frantically, someone will notice if I never show up again, someone will notice if I—if—if—

 But they didn’t notice. Not today.

 Not until it was too late.

 Outside, in the corridor, a dark blue door begins to fade into the wall.

———————————————————

“Logan? Logan!”

  Bam, bam, bam.

  “Logan!”

 Frantic hammering against the door jolts him awake. Immediately he winces as something in his neck catches. How—how long has he been like this?

 “Logan, please, open the door, we—we can’t open it!”

 Oh…the others have noticed…should go open the door.

 Wincing again, Logan rights himself, sitting up with his back leaning against the bed, blinking through his fuzzy glasses. Why are they so filthy?

 …oh, he must’ve been crying.

 How emotional.

 “Logan? Logan can you at least say something?”

 “I’m gonna break this door down.”

 “No!”

 Well, yes, Logan does not want his door broken down. Groaning, he stands, making his way over to the door that—wait.

 Why…why is his door so…pale?

 The knob looks almost translucent as he reaches for it, his pulse hammering as his fingers close gently around where it should be. He takes a deep breath and carefully, carefully, turns it.

 “Logan, thank god, I—“ Virgil cuts himself off with a choked gasp as he stares at Logan. “…L? What…what happened to you?”

 “What do you mean?” The instant it comes out of his mouth he knows what Virgil means. He sounds like his throat is actively attempting to cut itself off with every breath.

 A choked whine comes from behind Virgil. Logan’s eyes dart over to see Roman a sickly pale, staring at Logan, horrified.

 “…S-specs? Specs, I—Logan, oh, no, can I—can we—“ Roman reaches for him, only to freeze and quickly pull back his hand.

 Another wave of cold settles over Logan and his hand falls through the doorknob.

 “Logan,” Virgil murmurs, “can we come in, please? I, uh, we wanna talk to you for a moment.”

  Why would you want to talk to me?

 “…of course.” Logan steps aside and lets them pass, looking down at his hand.

 It’s still a hand, but it looks…thinner. He can tell where it isn’t, if that makes sense.

  When has Logan ever made sense?

 Virgil sits down on the floor, next to his bed. Roman hovers near the door, wringing his hands together as Logan carefully pushes the door closed.

 “I’m sorry, Logan.”

 Logan’s eyes widen as his head jerks around to face Roman. Roman gives him what may be the smallest smile he’s ever seen before taking a deep breath.

 “I’m sorry,” he says again, the sincerity making the cold burn in Logan’s chest, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It—it was stupid of me to press the ‘ignorant’ button and it was not my intention to hurt you. And I...slashing your box was wrong too. I just saw Patton get hurt and I—”

 He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. 

 "I'm sorry, Logan," he repeats, softer this time, "for all that I have done to hurt you. I want to be better about it."

 Oh. “…thank you, Roman,” Logan says carefully, “I appreciate your apology.”

 Roman gives him a nod. Logan looks at Virgil, whose head still rests against the bed, staring at the two of them.

 “Is this what you wanted to discuss?”

 “Sort of, but…uh, Logan, you…you’re not looking so great, bud.” Virgil shifts, looking to Roman, who nods and takes a seat on the floor too, leaving a space between them. “Will you come sit with us?”

 “…of course.”

 Logan sits gingerly between the two of them, his gaze fixed on the outlet in the wall opposite them. He hears the rustling of fabric as Virgil shifts, and sees a little white in the corner of his eye as Roman scoots a tad closer.

 “So,” Virgil murmurs after a second, “I guess this video was…hard.”

 Roman huffs quietly. Logan nods. “Yes.”

 “Can you tell me what happened?”

 “Have the others not already told you?”

 “I’d like to hear it from you too.”

 Logan takes a deep breath, ignoring the way the cold burns the inside of his lungs. “I attempted to implement a new strategy for how I interact with you and the viewers. Instead of appearing in person, I chose to use a series of lowdowns so the information would appear in a non-invasive way.”

 There’s a moment of silence.

 “…keep going, L.”

 “They were…not as well-received as I had anticipated.”

 A flash of movement and a stifled noise make him look over. Roman fiddles with the hem of his sleeve right in front of his mouth, obviously having cut himself off. He glances over.

 “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “I didn’t want to interrupt. Please, continue.”

 “I, er…” Logan swallows, something about the movement of Roman’s fingers holding his focus captive. “I hurt Patton.”

 From his other side comes a sharp intake of breath. Logan looks away.

 “I hurt Patton. I could not do my job properly. I had compromised the conversation. A ‘skip all’ button appeared and…”

 “Patton pressed it,” Virgil finishes when Logan doesn’t speak, “he told me.”

 Logan doesn’t say anything. The crook manifests around his throat again and he shudders.

 “…Logan,” Roman’s worried voice says, even as it sounds like it’s coming from underwater, “Logan, did…what did that do to you?”

 “Janus,” Logan croaks, “he—his staff, it—I—“

 “Hey, hey,” Virgil croons, reaching for the hands that tug persistently at his collar, at his bandages, when did they get there?— “don’t do that, L, you’re gonna hurt yourself, stop that…”

 “Logan, can I hold your hand, please?”

 Logan lets Virgil tug his hands away from his neck. It—why—what’s happening?

 Why are Virgil’s hands so warm?

 Judging by Virgil’s expression, he’s as concerned about the stark difference in temperature as Logan is. Several emotions flit across his face before Logan can name them until they both register Roman’s question. Roman holds his hand out, all but pleading for Logan to let him.

 “Please,” he whispers, his hand starting to tremble, “please, Logan, may I…can I just hold your hand?”

 “Why are you so worried,” Logan wants to ask, “what is it that makes you so insistent about holding my hand?”

 Instead, when his voice is barely about a strangled whisper and his first attempt makes his hand phase completely through Roman’s, the question emerges as a stifled scream.

 “Shh, shh,” Roman whispers, moving in as close as he can, trying to curl his hands around where Logan’s should be, “it’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll—we’ll figure it out, Logan, we’ve got you, it’s okay—“

 Roman burns.

 “R-ro—“

 “Easy, Roman,” Virgil mutters from behind him, “take it easy, you’re gonna freak us all out.”

 “I know, I know.” Roman clutches the air of Logan’s hand tightly. “Okay…okay, Specs, we gotta…we’re gonna take some deep breaths, okay?”

 No, no, it hurts when Logan does that, what’s…

 He does as bid. The air whines in protest as he slowly breathes in and out, in and out, focusing on Roman’s thumb rubbing small circles into his hand. Roman seems to calm a little as he watches, bringing Logan’s hand close enough to cradle it in his lap as they breathe.

 “Good,” Virgil manages, still clutching Logan’s other hand tightly, his own voice shaking slightly, “okay, now we’re all just gonna calm down, yeah? Just…nice and calm…”

 Logan has no idea how long they sit there, on the floor, only that after a few more deep breaths, it no longer hurts. Roman’s hand no longer burns, it’s just warm. Virgil no longer trembles, he’s just there.

 “My apologies,” he manages, “I did not mean to be so…inconvenient.”

 Roman’s cry of protest is quickly accompanied by: “hey, no, none of that, Logan, you’re not being inconvenient. It’s been a hard day for all of us.”

 “But was I not—“

 “No,” Roman interrupts gently, “I’m sorry for interrupting, but…no, Logan. Nothing that happened today was your fault. Absolutely nothing.”

 “…I���m the one who hurt Patton.”

 “That was an accident and you didn’t know it was going to do that,” Roman says firmly, “and it was our fault we didn’t listen to you. So much that you felt that was your only option.”

 Logan swallows. “…what about Janus?”

 “What about him,” Virgil prompts, “the fact that he…came into the video?”

 “It was my lowdowns that enabled him to do so.”

 “And we pressed the ‘skip all’ button,” Roman says. “And I’m the one who gave him tips on how to impersonate the rest of us better.”

 Roman is right, even as Logan begins to feel cold again. Still, he opens his mouth.

 “I…I’m not…I can’t…it…”

 “Logan,” Roman says quietly when Logan can’t seem to find the words, “none of us are angry with you. I’m certainly not angry with you, and I’m…I’m sorry about everything that I may have done and have done to give you the impression that I do not hold you in the highest esteem possible.”

 Logan’s mouth drops open in shock.

 “I think you overdid it a little there, Princey,” Virgil chuckles.

 “But it’s true,” Roman insists, still cradling Logan’s hand in his lap, “Logan, you’re…you’re so important. And if I have done anything that makes you think I don’t care so much about you, then I…I will do everything I can to fix this.”

 What?

  What?

 “You…but we..we fight,” Logan manages weakly, “all the time, you…you disagree with me every chance you get, how—“

 “I told you on movie night,” Roman says, the corner of his mouth tugging up, “I poke fun at the things I love.”

  Love.

 Logan’s brain stutters to a pause.

 “You’re my family, Logan,” Roman continues, oblivious to the fact that Logan.exe has stopped functioning, please try again later, “and I…you are so clever, so sharp, so good that of course I want to talk to you about things. I respect your opinion so much and I want to hear everything.”

 “Yeah, if you ever stop teaching us stuff I might actually start crying and never stop.”

 “Virgil!”

 “What, like you’re any better?”

 “Of course not! I would be devastated!”

 “Wait, wait,” Logan mumbles, “you—you what?”

 “L,” Virgil calls softly, still chuckling a little as Logan turns to look at him, “L, we care about you so much. We wanted to give you space, especially after today, but…dude, you know we need you, don’t you?”

 “You need Logic,” Logan mumbles, “you…of course you need Logic.”

 “We do,” Roman confirms as the cold threatens to open up in Logan’s chest again, “but we also love Logan.”

 “You have got to stop throwing that word around,” Virgil murmurs, “you’re gonna send him into a full-blown freak-out.”

 “But we do, Virgil. We do love him, so much, and if he doesn’t know that…”

 Roman squeezes a surprisingly solid hand in his lap.

 “…then we have to remind him.”

 Virgil huffs, scooting closer. “Yeah, well, that’s easy enough.”

 No, no, it very much is not.

 Logan’s brain is still struggling to come to grips with the first thing Roman said, about poking fun at the things he loves. He hasn’t come close to tackling the fact that Roman just said they loved him.

 And Virgil agreed.

 “This…this doesn’t make sense,” Logan says weakly, “this doesn’t make sense.”

 “What doesn’t make sense?” Virgil’s hand is a warm weight against his side. “That we love you?”

 “…y-yes?”

 “Oh, sweetheart,” Virgil murmurs, “what makes you so convinced that you’re unlovable?”

 “I…I can’t…I am emotionally compromised. I cannot do my job properly. I will not be as useful as you—“

 “Do you need to be useful to be lovable?”

 “Don’t you?”

 “No,” he says firmly, pressing Logan between the two of them, “no, you don’t, Logan. We love you for you, not for what you can do.”

 “Don’t leave us, Logan.” The sheer amount of pain in Roman’s voice aches. “Not because you think we won’t want you.”

 A horrible laugh bubbles up in his throat. “And here I thought you were going to leave me.”

 “Never,” Roman promises, “never.”

 “We did threaten to break down your door because it was starting to fade from the hallway.”

 “…I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

 “You don’t need to know right now, we’ll help you.”

 “I don’t know how good I’m going to be at this.”

 “We’re all working on things, it’s okay.”

 “But I—“ Logan swallows heavily— “I don’t know if I can stop believing that I…that it is just Logic you want and not Logan.”

 “If it makes you feel any better,” Roman calls, squeezing his hand, “I still struggle with that too.”

 Logan’s eyes widen. “You what?”

 “Believe that you only keep me around as long as I make things that you think are useful?” Roman smiles sadly. “Yeah.”

 “But you’re—you—Thomas would not be able to exist without you!”

 “Wouldn’t he?”

 “No! It’s not just—Roman, you’re so much more than Creativity, if you weren’t here, we…” Logan takes a deep breath and swallows. “Something would truly be lost if you weren’t here.”

 He stops.

 “…oh.”

 “Yeah, Specs,” Roman whispers, “‘oh.’”

 “…oh.”

 “Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, opening his arms and letting Logan fall into his embrace, “don’t you leave us, okay?”

 Virgil drapes himself over them, wrapping his arms tightly around Logan’s waist. “We’ll figure it out, L, but you gotta stick around, okay? Don’t—well, try not to worry about whether or not you’re being the perfect Logic. We want you.”

 “…promise?”

 “I promise.”

 “I promise too,” Roman murmurs, letting Logan rest against his chest, “now why don’t we all get into something more comfortable and we can have another look at your neck?”

 “Yes. That sounds…good.”

 “And Logan?” Logan cranes his head up to look. “If you ever stop teaching us things and telling me about stuff I will start crying.”

 Despite everything, Logan smiles.

 “Don’t worry,” he says quietly, the chill finally beginning to thaw, “I’m not going anywhere.”

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[katsukikitten]

Part one, no real warnings yet. Enjoy!

Bakugou's personal phone rings from the pocket of his hero costume for the umpteenth causing his skin to pop. All the while Kirishima allows his ruby gaze to fall over the hot head, having a good guess about just who is blowing up his phone. Worry snatches at Kirishima's heart for a moment forcing the question from his lips, even if it meant regretting it. 

"Are you sure your mom is okay?" Bakugou freezes in his step, inclining his head to fix a garnet glare at his so called friend. He sucks in a breath to yell, body tense and in a fighting stance before his phone blares again.

"FUCK!" He shouts into the night with only Kirishima and the moon to hear. The trees swallow his frustration as he rips his phone from his pocket, answering it so harshly the LCD beneath the screen ruptures. 

"What?! What the fuck do you want you God Damn hag?! I'm WORKING! Saving LIVES!" It had been a long time since he had called his mother hag, long enough there was silence on the other line for a moment. 

Then much like her son she takes a deep breath and now Kirishima, the moon and the trees know why Mitsuki was calling at such a late hour. Kirishima sighs with relief nothing is so dire as life and death, although for Mitsuki it is. 

"IF YOU DON'T BRING THIS GHOST OF A GIRLFRIEND OF YOURS I SWEAR TO KAMISAMI THERE WILL BE NO MORE NUMBER ONE HERO WHEN IM THROUGH WITH YOU. IM GETTING OLD I NEED FUCKING GRANDKIDS. THINK OF YOUR SWEET OLD FATHER HE AIN'T GETTING ANY FUCKING YOUNGER!" 

"That's what this was about?! Ma for the last fucking time I don't-" 

"You don't what? One of those hoes you sleep with has to like even your rude ass. Bring a decent one home." And with that Bakugou is left with the sound of three tones and a ringing in his ear. He grips the bridge of his nose, having no earthly idea of how to get his mother off of his back, let alone find a woman. The phone rings in his hand again, the screen filled with dead pixels and rainbow lines causing him hot to be able to see. Somehow it registers his touch as he goes from memory to answer. 

"What you fucking hag?!" He screams into the receiver. 

"Wow. Rude." You reply with a bite, "Just calling to tell you boss that I'm clocking out, dickhead." 

"I-I thought you were my mom." 

"Oh and that makes it better?" What an ass! 

"Fuck you." He growls, looking at Kirishima's watch, "You're clocking out way too early." 

"No, fuck you. I requested to be off by this time MONTHS ago. You can ask Eijirou-san, you approved it so he made the schedule accordingly." You quip, twirling one of your knives in your hands, "Besides I've been working waaay too long today. Oh and I found that perp hours ago." 

"What the fuck?! Why didn't you tell me hours ago?" 

"I fucking tried, you ignored my call. This was my third attempt." You slam the knife through the paperwork on your desk wishing it were the hot head's thigh. You rise as your eyes glance over the clock. If you didn't hurry this stupid phone call up, you were going to be late. You needed to sneak in before midnight. 

"Still too early for you. Normally you want the OT." He bites, causing you to roll your eyes. 

Gods you hated this guy. 

"Yea, well tonight is different." You'd pay in the long run for leaving so soon but tonight was special. She asked you to be there the last time you saw her and you promised. 

You never break a fucking promise. 

"Some subordinate you are bitch face." He growls then an idea pops into his head. 

Subordinate. 

As in you reported to him, as in Bakugou Katsuki was your boss. And well you had to listen to your boss to some extent and he knew you needed money, you tell him day in and day out it's the only  reason you would even dream to work with him. 

Although he has no idea why you are so hard out for cash. 

So he sets the bait, offering you a deal you can't refuse. 

"Tomorrow is your planned day off right?" 

"Yea what fucking of it?!" 

"I've got a special mission for you-" 

"No." You interrupt, already feeling the exhaustion of your seventy hour work week stacking up. 

"You didn't even let me finish you ungrateful brat. It will be three times your pay for half a day's work. Cold hard cash." The other side of the line goes silent. Licking your lips you think over his offer, fuck, that would actually help get your head above water. 

The light at the end of the tunnel. 

If only you knew how dark this tunnel was going to be. 

"Fine. I'll take your stupid fucking offer." 

"Promise?" His voice sounds a bit different, a little bit of a tease to it, as if he knows something you don't. 

"What are we in kindergarten. Yea I promise, fucking headass." With that you hang up, rushing down the steps of the agency building and into the cold air. 

Your phone buzzes with a text 

BakaBoss: Meet me at the agency, 11am sharp.

You roll your eyes, turning your phone to silent as you watch the nightly set of nurses do their normal routine. Barely making it in time for the security guard and head nurse to make their way outside by the one way back door for a smoke. Both too lazy to walk around to the front of the hospital, sticking a thin splintering wood block between the jam and the door, giving you easy access to the stairwell. When they were far enough away you slip into the door, sure to place the wood where they left it before climbing the stairs two at a time, racing the clock at the top half of the 11th hour. The janitor would have already mopped her floor and the only nurse on floor six was currently on the ground level half way through the small tobacco stick, she wouldn't be sticking her head into room 609 anytime soon. 

You draw in a deep breath, collecting yourself and forcing back the tears as you picked the lock, a skill set that not only were you amazing at but the very same skill that landed you here. 

And by here you mean stupid ass hero work all thanks to some "reforming" program by Izuku Miydoria. Still it was better than having to break out of jail in order to make cash, her bills weren't going to pay themself. 

You stick a stolen credit card in between the door jab and the door, right at the locking mechanism, although you could break out of just about anywhere, this would be the faster method of escape. 

"Hey, sis, I made it!" You say softly but with excitement, watching as she keeps her back to you. Her eyes wide from a mixed cocktail of chemicals and trauma, she stares out into the sky, counting the stars. 

It would be one of those nights where she was too warped to tell you were there. With a sigh you sink onto her mattress. If you could even fucking call it that. It was more like a box spring with a fitted sheet over top of it, you were still figuring out how you could sneak a mattress in. 

"I got you something." You say crawling to sit next to her cross legged, she turns to you and it's like looking in a mirror. Except one of you is covered in visible scars and the other is not. Hers are more than skin deep. Seeing her dull gaze never gets any easier, she stares through you for a long time before she does as she always does. 

Lifting her hand gently to cup your cheek so her thumb can slide over your scar. 

"How'd you get this?" Her voice is barely hers and it grabs a fist full of your guts pulling them downward. Everytime she asks that question you see the shine of a blade, a swipe of a strong hand and vision filled with blood.

Yours, there's but never hers. You like to tell yourself that's what counts but maybe you had a hand in breaking her. 

You clear your throat, pulling a bag onto your lap. 

"Nevermind that." You gently guide her hand away from your cheek and to her lap. When she makes no motion for the gift bag you force a smile as icy guilt collects in your chest. 

"It's for our birthday silly! Can you believe we are 26 today?" You place the pillow on her lap and her hands slowly go to the plush material. 

For a moment she has returned, flashing you a smile as she pushing into the soft material before she flickers out again. Like a light with just enough current to wink in and out of existence. 

Time passes and the clock strikes midnight, white clad shoes stomp against the polished floor signaling it was time to leave. 

"I'll try to see you soon okay?" You lean over kissing her hairline before grabbing at the old, flat pillow. Shoving it into the gift bag as you silently bound the room. Pushing the door open slightly as you slip the stolen card into the back pocket of your black jeans.  With that you are down the hall and through the backdoor without raising any sort of alarm as usual. 

Suddenly your phone weighs heavy in your pocket as you think of what kind of stupid errand that asshole was going to put you on. The stolen card sings in your pocket, begging to be used. So you slip into a bar to give it a good use. 

&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*

A blaring alarm yanks you from the bed in a sweating panic. Knife instinctively slashing the air before you send the blade into yet another digital alarm clock. Falling back into the mattress for just a moment's peace.

That peace doesn't last long once you show up at the agency. If anything is sours as you see Bakugou leaning against the bright white brick and in civilian clothes no less. 

"What's this?" You pick at his black dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his banded forearms.  He's paired it with a pair of black jeans, one knee ripped. Oddly it looks good together. Not overly dressed nor too dressed down. His vermilion eyes glide over your figure in your black body con hero suit. He sucks his teeth, hating this next part. 

"Called clothes dumbass. Speaking of we need to get you something fitting."

"For what? What exactly is this 'mission'?" 

"I'll debrief you later. Right now we need to get you new clothes." You laugh in his face before your rich expression turns deadly 

"With what money?" 

"Calm down, it's my treat Princess." He says with satire, the name sits odd on his tongue and even more odd in your stomach. He snatches at your wrist, "Come on before the stores get crowded and we get noticed." 

You find yourself in a shop filled with dresses and fancy blouses. All of which you hate. Bakugou seems to hate them too, too guady for his taste. Still he shifts through the soft silks because he knows his mother will love it. 

"Oi, you can't find a single decent thing here? I thought women loved shopping." 

"Yea for shit we like asshole." You hiss to him, having only found a pair of dark blue jean's. 

"Heh." He scoffs, rolling his eyes until he finds the perfect top. It looks decent and it could be your style. The one thing he learned about being undercover was to not stray too far from what looked natural or from the truth. 

"Put this on. While I find a necklace." He shoves the silky top into your hands and you look at the price tag. Suddenly anxiety burns in the soles of your feet soaring up to close your throat. 

"Bakugou. This is too much." Katsuki stops to glance over his shoulder, this is the first time you've used his name since he hired you three years ago. He sees your hand gripping at your bicep and he watches the rare tell sign that you're nervous as you chew on one of the scars that creeps onto your lip. He comes up to you, closer than he ever has been before, your senses flood with spiced caramel. 

"Oi." His voice is smooth, almost soft as he touches a ringed index finger to your forearm. You fixate on the shining black ring and your old habits have you thinking of six different ways to get it off of his finger. The thought soothes you as much as his voice surprisingly does. 

"I said I'm buying, remember you brat?" The teasing returns back to his voice before it turns gruff, "Now go change to make sure I like it. I'll be back in a second." 

A woman unlocks a small dressing room for you and once inside you hold your breath. Counting as you remind yourself that you cannot and will not steal anything of value while your boss was here. 

If you were any other person you would tap this Prohero's account dry, really rack up that platinum card you know sat in his wallet and sell the clothes marked up for a profit later. 

But even as much as you hated Bakugou, you couldn't bring yourself to do it. 

Instead you slip into the the outfit adjusting yourself this way in that as the neckline says enough without saying too much. The jeans curving against your figure in such a way doing as good as a job as your hero suit. You keep your steel toed boots as you step into the small hall with the three mirrors. As you turn this way and that Bakugou appears behind you, almost earning a knife to his gut. He forces the silver blade away before pulling out a necklace from a bag he just bought.  The gold chain is dainty, going through the top of the garnet making it seen as if it were a suspended droplet of blood. 

It marches the eyes that roll over you as he takes a step back before his harsh mouth breathes out a word. 

"Fuck."

Instantly it kills your mood as your lip pulls back over sharp teeth.

"Tsk. It's not that bad, God how do you get any pussy." You grumble, smoothing down the black blouse. 

"No, dumbass. You look...you look perfect." He stares into your eyes through the mirror, his smile growing wider as they wander over your scars and finally land onto that minimalistic drop pendant necklace. 

Over something you've never been able to have, something you always had to swipe from an unsuspecting neck and then pawn. 

"Now. I'm going to tell you here, in this store of crowded people so you don't cause a scene." 

"What?!" Anger already begins to bubble in your blood. The blades that kiss your flesh start to scream for relief. 

"From now on you have to pretend to be my girlfriend. Paparazzi are starting to swarm outside of this fucking boutique and my mom follows this particular trash tabloid since they love to use me as click bait. You just have to make it through dinner tonight and if shit goes south I'll pay you even more." 

[rhyselinn]

Gather round folks, it’s time to talk about Shovel Knight characters’ canon heights!

First things first, let’s talk about our friend Reize Seatlan.

His creator, Seizui, has been building canon around this character for years, and this link tells us that Reize’s canon height is 160 cm (5'3").

Let’s take a look at this boy’s sprite: (complete with blue Photoshop rulers in case you want to see where I measured from)

*caveat: Reize’s hair is extremely fluffy. It runs in the family, so I counted his height as being shorter than the height of his hair. It makes sense and it makes the math easier

Counting the pixels in Reize’s sprite, we can see that he is 32 pixels tall. So when we divide 160 cm by 32 pixels, we discover that each pixel in the Shovel Knight universe is 5 centimeters in real life.

So, what does this mean for the rest of the Shovel Knight cast?

Great question: I’ve got the rest of the math (with screenshot proof) under the cut:

Alright, in no particular order, let’s talk about Plague Knight next.

--Worth noting that I’m using playable/Showdown sprites as opposed to boss sprites when possible. This helps keep characters proportional to each other

--Plague Knight is 31 pixels tall = 155 cm tall = 5 foot 1. Tiny plague knight, but as we’ll see later, not the tiniest member of the cast

Tiniest member of the cast, you say? Could you mean... Tinker Knight?

--Tinker Knight slouches in almost all of his sprites, so I tried to find a sprite of him NOT slouching. That extra pixel makes a difference for this tiny character lol

--27 pixels tall = 135 cm tall = 4 foot 5. tiny tinker. But still not the tiniest member of the cast, believe it or not!

Shovel Knight:

--fairly straightforward. i did wonder if his victory pose was any taller than his regular pose, but it's not

24 pixels tall = 120 cm = 3 foot 11. tiny. tiny shovel. the average 9 year old child is between 120-145 centimeters. So not only is Shovel the size of a 9 year old, but he might actually be the shortest in the class...

Black Knight:

--there are interesting things i could say about the bird feather situation but eh. imma go with eh. bird feathers do not count as height, final answer --other than that, pretty easy here

24 pixels tall = 120 cm = 3 foot 11. same size as shovel, aka also the size of a 9 year old. adorable

Propeller Knight:

--slouches REALLY BAD. ALL THE TIME. --his least slouch-y sprite is his tuxedo sprite from the end of Plague of Shadows, so I used that initially... only to realize that he's the exact same height in his other sprites as well. How about that! Maybe he has some kind of a battery pack for his propeller hat in the back of his shirt. It would explain his terrible posture.

--39 pixels tall = 195 cm tall = 6 foot 4. Tall, but not unreasonable.

Mole Knight:

--has some fascinating squash and stretch in his sprite sheet --fabulous from an animation standpoint. difficult from a math standpoint --i refuse to count his fire-hair as height lol

Squash sprite: 32 pixels tall = 160 cm = 5 foot 2 Normal: 36 pixels tall = 180 cm = 5 foot 10 Stretch sprite: 46 pixels tall = 230 cm = 7 foot 6 (!!!)

I have no explanation for this other than artistic liberties lol

Specter Knight:

--i'm so glad player sprites exist lol. Specter's boss fight sprites are just piles of cloth with him slouching underneath. I will gleefully ignore them for this exercise --that said, even with player sprites, specter knight is HUNCHED OVER ALMOST ALL THE TIME. AUGH. --fortunately, cold shoulder sprites exist, and a few other action-y type poses. they’re pretty consistent with each other (within a pixel or so) --how much of Specter's hood is fluffy cloth vs actual height? good question. I compared to one of Donovan's sprites to give us a good estimate, give or take 1 pixel or so

37 pixels tall = 185 cm = 6 foot 0. Pretty average here.

Treasure Knight:

--also slouches in a lot of his sprites, but at least has a few non-slouchy sprites for us to examine. I chose the taller of the two for consistency (difference of 50 vs 51 pixels)

Treasure Height: 51 pixels = 255 cm = 8 foot 4 (!!!?!) This man is huge!

King Knight:

--his normal standing sprite met my requirements, so I used that --I included his boss sprite without the crown for comparison, because a crown does not actually make one taller lol (sorry not sorry, king) --this also shows the importance of using player sprites vs boss sprites. the difference between the two is pretty obvious here

32 pixels tall = 160 cm = 5 foot 2. tiny. tiny king

Polar Knight:

--hunched over. like, all the time. --there aren't really any sprites of him not hunched over, but the least hunched over is him doing his shovel up attack, so I'll use that, and his normal sprite for comparison

Normal sprite: 47 pixels tall = 235 cm = 7 foot 8 (!!!) Tall sprite: 58 pixels tall = 290 cm = 9 foot 6 (!!!?!?!?!) tl;dr polar knight is a beast of a man and we all knew that already hahaha. the tallest man on record in medical history was 8 ft 11. This is absolutely bonkers

Shield Knight:

--while she does have hunched over sprites, i simply avoided them lol. --how tall is her head inside her helmet? great question! the world may never know. Since our only reference for this is concept art (which does little more than tells us her head is shaped like a human’s and not, say, a squid’s), I kinda winged the exact pixel count. --also worth noting is that she grows a few inches when she sticks her leg out lol

Normal sprite: 35 pixels = 175 cm = 5 foot 8 (tall but normal height for an adult woman) Tall sprite: 40 pixels = 200 cm = 6 foot 6 (!!!!) (hOLY MAMA beautiful big buff lady)

And just for fun, I added a few other important characters from the main stories:

Mona:

--we know she is a tall lady, but exactly how tall? --all of her sprites seem pretty consistent in height, which makes my job easy!

48 pixels tall = 240 cm = 7 foot 10. (???????!!!?) She is the size of Shovel Knight and Black Knight stacked on top of each other. Amazing. I have nothing but awe and admiration for this incredibly tall lady

Luan:

--He has a bunch of funky tumbling/hunched over sprites and very fluffy hair. like father, like son. I did my best to pick the most reasonable sprites of the bunch --after that, I decided two pixels of hair is enough. voluminous hair is impressive but is not height --similar to Shield Knight, he grows a few inches when he sticks his leg out lol

Normal Sprite: 39 pixels = 195 cm = 6 foot 4 Tall Sprite: 43 pixels = 215 cm = 7 foot 0 (!!) All the better for reaching those hard-to-reach platforms in the Tower of Fate, I guess?

King Knight’s Mom:

--last but not least, the best character in king of cards (you know it's true lol) --she also has somewhat fluffy hair. i'm not counting her bun as height.

41 pixels = 205 cm = 6 foot 8 (!!!). It's not Mona tall, but it's still very tall. Tallness may run in the family, but King Knight seeems to have missed out on all of those genes hahaha.

Special thanks to https://www.spriters-resource.com/pc_computer/shovelknight/ for having all the sprites in one easy place! Thanks for reading!

*disclaimer: I am only human and if I flubbed the math or measurements on any of this, I hope you’ll forgive me. I promise I didn’t mean to slight whichever character was affected

[fandom-collective-writers]

a two player game | obey me | leviathan

title | a two player game fandom | obey me! character | leviathan genre | smut, mild comedy? (situational)  warnings | includes sexual activities kinks | tentacles, bondage, suspension, sensory deprivation intended gender audience | female pov | second word count | 2869 words (haha, 69)  written by | @mythiica requested by | @jennacat84​ other comments | i return, and ofc it’s with smut. this turned out pretty well! there’s more banter than usual and i had a grand time writing it

“And what are you doing with this game~?” 

It’s an innocent enough question until Leviathan tips his head back to glance at the game in question. 

“How did you sneak hentai into the House of Lamentation? I would have expected Lucifer to have some anti-porn devil dog to confiscate these types of things.” Your fingers are perfectly curled over the main character’s lewd expression as she’s ravaged by… tentacles. 

“Uh–” 

You smile slyly and drape your arms over his shoulders as the blush settles across his cheeks. 

“I got it as part of a promotion. People pay me to review games, y’know.” It’s the best excuse he can give really, but he is at fault for not hiding it better. “Now give it here so I can put it inside of my desk. If Mammon finds this, I’ll hear about it for the next century.” Leviathan paws at the box, but you hold it just out of reach. 

“You haven’t opened it.” “It’s a two player game.” “You plus me equals two.”

Leviathan laughs a bit and scratches the back of his neck. “Very perceptive. You don’t even know what the game is about.” 

“Play as Haru or control the tentacle monster that has her locked up in its underwater dungeon. Win the game by resisting the orgasms or by bringing the second player to their knees,” you read from the back of the case. “Sounds easy enough. Wouldn’t it be funny if you were getting pegged by tentacles though, and I was the one to control them?” 

Levi finally manages to swipe the game from your hand and sets it down on a stack of papers. “You’re into that? I think we skipped over that in last week’s kink-meeting.” The demon laughs at his own joke. (There had not, in fact, been a kink meet between the two of you, but it makes you giggle as well.)

“You never asked! I’d be down to try it with you.” 

His nose brushes against yours gently and his hand finds yours. As Levi’s fingers lace with yours, you reach for the box with your opposite hand, click it open, ignore the surprised hey! and hold on tight so that the game absorbs the two of you. 

Maybe you jinxed it when you teased Levi about getting pegged, because now you’re the one bound and half suspended in the air. When you try to move your wrist, the kelp-like ties around your wrist only grow tighter. “Kinky,” you mutter under your breath. 

There’s a loud crashing sound outside of your cell, but it is quickly followed by Levi’s familiar voice. He looks damn good as a merperson: dark purple hair floats just above his shoulders, an iridescent tail, and of course (likely the best scene of them all) his more-than-usual pronounced abdominal muscles flecked with purple scales. 

“Finally! I found you– I’ve been going through this maze for ages, just looking for you.” 

“Did you miss the sign that says ‘human sex prisoner here’? Maybe turn the neon lights on.” 

This earns a laugh from Leviathan before he leans against a pillar. “You look good,” he comments, checking you out in the same manner you had. When your face turns into a quizzical frown, Levi fetches one of the mirrors on the other side of the room. Upon holding it up, you realize he’s not entirely wrong. You are sporting a half ripped bikini top (calling it meager would be generous) and a sheer skirt that hangs from your hips. 

“Are we underwater?” 

“Technically, yes– at least according to the game we’re meant to be. Don’t question things too much, this game is still in its beta stages.” He pushes his bangs back and fusses with one of his gold rings. 

“Oh, I see.” You continue to hang in place. “...What now?” 

Leviathan lifts a hand. “Well… you read the instructions. Either you cum and I win, or you hold out and win.” 

It takes a moment before you hear similar crashing noises. Swallowing hard, you turn your head back and see shadows darting around in the shadows. Finally, they emerge into the light: tentacles. They’re not attached to anything in particular. In fact, you can’t tell where they have come from, but your attention is quickly pulled back towards Levi. 

He grasps your chin with one hand and smiles almost devilishly. “Y’know, I was going to be nice, but you were so cocky that I think I’ll just edge you and make you cum.” Levi has the ability to control these tentacles, and suddenly, you’re being held in place by said appendages rather than the kelp bindings. 

“So, what, you’re going to take meme with your fancy new toys?” 

One of the limbs climbs up your right leg, pulling your thighs apart. It doesn’t feel sticky in particular, but you can’t help but yelp at the sharp sensation of cold air hitting your now semi-exposed cunt. You yelp meekly and try to keep your legs closed, but there is no way you can overpower the tentacles. 

Levi makes his way over to you and brushes his fingers over your collarbone. “Hm.. I think I will. This will be entertaining, no?” He lowers his head slightly to press a kiss to your lips. “Tell me if it hurts, alright? There might be some glitches because of the game.” 

You’re not entirely sure how he’s controlling the tentacles, but before you can manage a response, one begins to prod at your entrance. It’s cold and sticky, but makes you moan nonetheless. “Levi!” 

“What, did you orgasm just from that? I’m only testing things out.” 

“Get on with it–” 

“Oh? Gladly..” Levi covers your eyes with his hand and keeps the other at your jaw. Driven by a seemingly animalistic urge, he presses his hips against yours while stealing wet kisses from your lips. The tentacle moves in sync with Levi’s motions: every body roll translates to a languid stroke from the extra appendage. When he captures your nipple with two fingers, a suction cup finds your clit and pulls at it teasingly. 

It’s a plethora of sensations, all at once, and is almost overwhelming. You’re being ravaged by Leviathan and his tentacles at the same time, but the worst part is that you can’t even see his beautiful expression as he wrecks you. How could anyone last in a game like this? 

Saliva dribbles from your swollen lips and you open your mouth to say something, call his name– anything to warn him that your underwater tryst might come to an end faster than you could have anticipated. 

A pathetic moan rolls off your tongue, but it’s cut short when something smacks your ass. Another tentacle?! How many are there?! 

Not that you could count them, even if you wanted to, because Levi keeps his hand firmly over your eyes. It’s torture at this point, feeling every little thing and listening to the intense lewd sounds, but not being able to see them. 

“Levi,” you whine with desperation. “I can’t see– I want to see you.” 

“Eh?” He moves his hand back, and you nearly squeal with delight at his expression. Leviathan is blushing more than usual, as if he’s feeling pleasure from what the tentacles are doing to you. “Better? Does it hurt?” 

You shake your head. “You’re so cute…” 

“Cute?” Levi huffs. “I’m fucking you with tentacles made of pixels and you call me cute?” Now he laughs a bit and a few suction cups stick to your ass, pulling your cheeks apart. “I can’t do you anally though, that’s Level 2.” 

Now you’re the one laughing, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes. “Are you serious?” 

“Yes, I actually am. No matter who wins, with each level increase, more toys and positions are unlocked. That’s kind of smart actually.” 

“But Levi, don’t you want to put your tentacle in my ass?” 

This makes him shiver, and you know what the answer is. Regardless, it seems like any attempts to make the tip of the tentacle get closer to your second hole, nothing happens. With a pensive sigh, your hips meet the side of his tail so that you’re grinding on both Levi and the tentacle simultaneously. “This will have to do.” 

Up until this moment, the tentacles hadn’t actually entered you, but instead danced around your hole and focused on your clit. However, your momentary leap of authority gives him a figuratively boner, since he doesn’t technically have a visible dick. It might be in his tail somewhere… but you aren’t about to ask where he’s hiding his cock. That would be weird. 

“Hey Levi?”

He grunts back in response, obviously focused on other things. 

“Do you think you can penetrate me? I’m sure you’ll win if you do–”

“It’s not as easy as you think– I have to give each thing something to do or my stats drop.” “You have stats?!” You lean back slightly and eye Leviathan. 

“Yeah, just flex your palm.” You give Levi a flat stare. “It’s kind of difficult to do that when my wrists are bound.” 

The tentacle holding your right hand releases slightly, giving you enough room to do as he’s suggested. A small screen appears in front of you. “Moaning level 2, cockwarming level 1– wait I can change the size of my breasts?!” 

Levi pauses for a moment long enough to look at the small screen. “Oh, yeah, I had dick options too, but I didn’t mess with them yet.” 

This makes you blink a few times in astonishment, thinking that this game is far more complicated than the first one you played. You want to look through the menu more and see what other things you can do– your mind drifts to the actual purpose of the game. Could there be a power up that would help you resist the tentacles? 

Before you can continue scrolling, the slick sound of something penetrating you fills your ears. He’s done what you’ve asked him to, and is absolutely merciless about it. Now that Levi’s found a way to fuck you hard, he’s not going to let up any time soon. In fact, chances are that he won’t stop until the Congratulations, you’ve made your bitch cum screen pops up over his head, if that’s even how the game works. 

A string of curses fly off your tongue, meant to be praises than anything else, but you don’t hear your own voice. “Why don’t it let me say ----?!” you screech, dragging your fingernails across Levi’s bare shoulders. “I just wanna moan for you, Levi–” 

“Curse words are censored, but that’s stupid, I don’t know why. Is it possible you changed the settings?” 

You’re frustrated now because, now you’ve finally accepted that you’re his and the stupid game won’t let you call out for him. It’s not a problem for very long though, because the next thing you know, he’s kissing you. A burning sensation ignites your entire body now, and your mind can’t anchor a single coherent thought for more than a few moments at a time. 

The strangest thing: it actually feels like he’s the one fucking you. Not the tentacles, but rather, it feels the same as if Leviathan were fucking you in his bed. This makes you happy, so happy that saliva begins to dribble down your chin as the inevitable pressure of an orgasm starts to fill your lower abdomen. You arch your back in such a way that the bikini straps give away, releasing your breasts from the fabric. 

Next thing you know, you’re subconsciously grinding against the biggest tentacle– the one fucking your mercilessly– in search for more delicious friction for your clit. At this point, it doesn’t matter who wins or loses, you just really want to cum and see if those tentacle things of his will splurt out some cum. 

“Levi–”

“Hm?” His lips dance over the crook of your neck, and the last thing you need now is for him to suddenly decide to be all daddy-merman. You bet anything that his tongue is wetter than your pussy is right now, and the way his teeth graze over your skin–

And then you’re cumming. 

Something breaks inside of you, and then it feels as though you’re drowning but breathing at the same time. Is it part of the game? Is this what a simulated orgasm feels like? Your body pulsates like never before and you understand the appeal of sex games. Another moment passes and your mind goes blank, but only for a second because you feel the budding warmth of seed running down your legs. 

So the tentacles can cum.

You manage to find the minimal strength it takes to just open your eyes, and you’re met with Leviathan’s beautiful expression as he crashes down from his high as well. He freezes for a split second, almost as if the game is glitching or overloading from the sheer impact of both orgasms taking place. You pray that he remains like this for just a bit longer, giving you the chance to lean your head against his chest. 

Levi’s skin is soft, but covered with a thin, inexplicable film of perspiration. If anything, it just makes you giddy again, but you’re not sure that either of you could last for Level 2 in this sorry condition. Running your tongue over his pronounced clavicle, you nip the skin there and suck on it just as he buffers for a moment and releases a painfully loud moan. 

His heart thunders loudly, echoing in your ears. It’s the only thing you can hear until his hand lands on your cheek. “Are you okay?” Leviathan’s voice grounds you, and then you realize that the tentacles are no longer in sight, but have retreated into the shadows the first emerged from. 

“Yeah… but I think you froze for a second there– we should do it again, y’know, to make sure we can review the game correctly.” 

This makes him laugh. The beautiful sound prompts a giggle from you as well, so you throw your arms around his neck for a tight hug. It doesn’t really matter that your skirt has magically disappeared, you’re pleased with the experience. 

A screen flashes in front of the two of you, but you’re actually surprised to see the congratulations message. 

“We both lost?!”

“How? I made you cum.” 

You read the small print: “Haru successfully made the sea monster cum first, but unfortunately succumbed to the tentacles.” With a huff, you scroll through and read the extended audit log of your ‘underwater’ sex adventure with Levi. “That’s bull----! Ugh! I still can’t ----ing curse!” 

Levi shushes you gently before brushing your hair back and offering you a consolation kiss. He taps the ‘return to main screen’ button, and the two of you are transported back to the real world. 

Nothing’s changed since you left: in fact, it’s only been a few minutes, according to the clock on Levi’s nightstand, that you even opened the game in the first place. Before you can say anything, Leviathan closes the box and throws it into the desk drawer. “No more hentai games for you. I need a cold shower and something to eat after that.” 

You stretch and massage your wrists. Although there is no physical evidence of the bindings, you can sure as hell feel where his tentacles kept you in place. Disappointed though, your eyes follow the outline of Levi’s body, happy to see that his normal legs have returned… with a third, very aroused, appendage sitting comfortably between the two of them. 

“Levi~” 

“Yeah?” 

“Two things. One, give it a good review, but say that I need to be able to curse when I cum.” 

He raises an eyebrow, but then nods. “And the second thing?” 

Now, you’re smiling and reaching for the bulge in his pants. “I think you need a second orgasm to take care of this, no? But no game– this one, I’ll give it to you and make sure it’s real.” 

Levi just swallows and shoos you away, calling you silly and that he doesn’t have any energy for that because he knows you’ll leave him an absolute mess. You can’t help but laugh at his reaction though, because now he’s both painfully hard and blushing brighter than a virgin on a windy day. 

“Hey Levi?” 

“What is it now?” 

You just smile and wave your hand. “No, it’s nothing like that– I was just thinking, maybe next time we’ll be in reversed positions. Wouldn’t that be fun?” 

He contemplates this for a second. “Why, you want to try and win?” 

“Well yeah!” “In your dreams, Haru.”

“I was really worried you’d moan the in game character’s name instead of mine. That would have been awkward as hell.” 

Levi extends his arm, offering you a place to sit on his lap. “I wouldn’t do that. But let’s keep this between the two of us for now. Okay?” 

You nod and nestle against his chest. Regardless of who the game declared, or didn’t, the winner, you like to think that both of you won. At least for a moment.

. 

[queenk00k]

red wine lips part 4 // rafe cameron

warnings: you know the drill, it’s smut baby.

word count: 1.6k

READ PART 1 HERE

READ PART 2 HERE

READ PART 3 HERE

author’s note: this is the final part of the red wine lips series! thank you so much to everyone who has read, supported and loved this series with me. look out for plenty more rafe content to come.

For two months now, you and Rafe have been enjoying each other’s company in more ways than one. Never one to waste any time, but certainly one to avoid discussing anything remotely serious, you were quick to fall into a rhythm with your best friend/fuck buddy/whatever else he may be. After the incidents at the winery and the tennis club, there was an unspoken agreement between you and the self-professed Kook King that you’ll continue to hang out as friends and sneak off whenever possible to let out that pent up sexual frustration you knew too well.

And, since Rafe seemed to constantly want to get his dick wet, there was rarely an outing or event that went without a sneaky quickie in a hidden corner or locked bathroom.

You recall sneaking up to Topper’s roof during one of his parties, Rafe bending you over the railing that looked over the backyard, answering Rafe’s “wanna fuck u now” texts with a coy smile and raised eyebrow and, more recently, the memory of Rafe pressing you up against the wall in a changing room as you decided on your dress for Midsummers.

What you can’t seem to remember, however, is when your feelings for Rafe extended beyond how much you liked the feeling of his body flush against yours, lips attached to your neck.

Maybe it was when you started talking with one another for longer after having sex instead of just leaving, or maybe that one time when he lifted up your chin with his index finger to kiss you (the cool metal of his ring a stark contrast against your flushed skin), or when seeing him flirting with a Touron made your blood boil.

You’ve found yourself completely and hopelessly falling for Rafe Cameron.

It’s a few hours before the start of Midsummers, a night you’ve been looking forward to for the last few weeks, and yet you can’t seem to get yourself out of bed. You’ve mostly got a handle on your anxiety but on days like this you’re brought right back to square one. It’s a tough job to keep up with Rafe and your extended group of friends and show your face at every event on the Figure 8 social calendar, and right now you can’t think of anything worse than spending hours around other people.

Your stomach twisting in knots, you look at your pale pink tulle gown hanging on your bedroom door (something different, at Rafe’s request) and sigh. Rafe was going to disappointed but there was no way you were going to force yourself to do something you’re completely uncomfortable with.

You roll onto your side and pick up your phone, choosing to ignore the dozen or so text messages from Claire (“where are you? I thought we were pre-gaming? This champagne won’t drink itself!”) and scroll until you find Rafe’s number.

He answers on the second ring. “Y/N, hey! Are you on your way to Topper’s? I don’t want to start without you,” he says.

You gulp before answering him. “Hey Rafe, look, I’m really sorry but I’m not coming to Midsummers-”

“Why not? What’s wrong?”

“I just feel like garbage, I really don’t feel up to partying tonight,” you say.

“Do you need me to come over?” Rafe asks, sounding concerned.

You brush him off. “No, no, it’s okay. You guys go and have fun, I’ll see you later.”

There’s a long pause before Rafe replies. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

“Yeah Rafe, it’s fine. Bye!”

“Bye. Feel better.”

He hangs up and you’re left to stare at your ceiling, feeling deflated, before closing your eyes and falling back asleep.

--

Not long after, a soft knock on your bedroom door wakes you up. Assuming it’s your mum coming to convince you to come, you don’t bother to raise your head off your plush pillow as you begrudgingly say “come in.”

Rafe Cameron was the last person you expected to walk through your door, much less dressed in grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt instead of his baby blue suit and bowtie.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, smiling fondly. “Feeling a bit better?”

“What are you doing here Rafe?”

He walks across your room and takes a seat gingerly on the edge of your bed, placing his hand on your leg.

“You felt like shit and I wanted to make you feel better. Here I am.”

You’re touched by his sweetness and find yourself at a loss for words.

“Can I get in?”

You nod and Rafe pulls off his t-shirt, before getting into your bed and wrapping his muscled arm around you, pulling you into his chest.

“C’mere,” he says and you snuggle into him, feeling both content and confused.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble against Rafe’s chest.

“For what?”

“I know you wanted to show me off tonight, and we had that plan to sneak off to the locker room-”

Rafe chuckles. “I don’t care about that. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You’re my best friend first and foremost, Y/N. I gotta look out for you.”

You breathe in shakily. “I know but….you’re not my boyfriend, Rafe. I would have understood if you went to Midsummers and got with Olivia or whoever.”

There’s a painfully long silence and you’re terrified of Rafe’s response.

“I’d like to be,” he finally says quietly.

You lift your head up, heart racing, not entirely sure what you just heard.

“What?”

Rafe looks down at you. “I’d like to be your boyfriend, if you’d let me.”

You grin.

“Of course, Rafe. Of course I’ll ‘let you be my boyfriend.’”

Rafe smiles sweetly and kisses you on the forehead, then the tip of your nose, before finally brushing his lips against yours.

You hum with contentment and shift your position so you’re facing him, your elbows braced on either side of his head as you continue to kiss, his tongue slipping in your mouth as you move together.

Rafe’s hand rests on your waist as the other sneaks up your t-shirt, cupping your right breast and running his thumb over your quickly hardened nipple.

The pace is slow and languid, syrupy sweet and completely different to what you’re used to. There’s no hasty pushing clothes aside or feverish kisses, the two of you are almost lazy, taking your time and taking it all in.

Soon enough, you’re lifting your arms above your head as Rafe slowly pulls your t-shirt over your head and he’s blinking up at you like you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, his eyes glazed over with complete adoration.

You’re suddenly acutely aware of the fact that this is the first time Rafe has actually seen you naked like this, and you cross your arms over your stomach instinctively. Rafe shakes his head and pulls your arms down, kissing you passionately.

“You’re beautiful,” he says and you smile into the kiss.

Rafe plays with your nipple with one hand as he finds your clit with the other, pressing gently into your heat as you whimper, the rolling pleasure almost becoming too much as he slips his finger inside.

You whimper, rocking against him, asking him for more and moaning louder as he adds another finger, and then another, before he’s slowly pumping three fingers inside your hot centre and you’re cumming around his fingers with a shudder.

There’s a pause as you catch your breath, and you smirk as you feel how hard he is beneath you.  

“Feel good babe?” Rafe asks you.

You nod.

“You’re severely overdressed,” you say, rolling off Rafe to give him the space to pull off his sweatpants, his underwear coming with it and his hard cock springing out, a bead of pre-cum glimmering at the tip.

You move to get into position on the bed, lifting your ass up, before Rafe tuts and moves you onto your back.

“I want to look at your pretty face,” he says, pumping his cock with some lube he found in your bedside table.

You nod, almost nervous, as Rafe lines up the head of his cock with your entrance. He pushes into you slowly and you feel your walls tighten around his length.

As if he feels your slight nervousness, Rafe kisses you on the forehead once more and asks “are you okay? We can stop.”

“I’m more than okay,” you reply and you grab his ass with both of your hands, pulling him deeper inside you.

Rafe groans and rocks into you, picking up his pace as you both move together, enjoying this new closeness you’d not experienced with one another before. You make sure to pull your new boyfriend in for a deep kiss intermittently, and he makes a point of staring deeply into your eyes as he whimpers.

After some minutes of him pumping his cock inside you, Rafe’s movements start to sputter and become irregular and you can tell he’s close to finishing.

“Baby, I’m going to cum,” he says and you simply wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace as he moans one final time, pushing his cock into you and spilling his cum inside you.

You can’t quite put your finger on why but this time feels so unbelievably different, and better, than all of the other times.

Rafe stays inside you for a few moments, and then presses his slightly sweaty forehead to yours, his eyes fluttering closed.

“You’re incredible,” he says, and you feel happier in that moment than any other time in your life.

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