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markresonates · 3 years ago

Text

cut the tension

summary: Your friendship with Johnny will never be the same after he catches you naked in the dressing room.

pairing: youtuber!Johnny x fem!reader (ft. Mark a lil)

genre: porn with small plot, lil angst

au/tropes: close friend to lovers, roommates

word count: 3.7k

a/n: this is the 7th super delayed installment of my roommate fav song event with the requested song “F*** Up the Friendship” by Leah Kate!

warnings: hard unprotected sex, degradation, choking, tiny voyeurism, possessive, hard dom!Johnny, sub!reader

“Hey, what’s this?”

“Hmm?” You whip around to address Johnny’s inquiry, quickly identifying the subject of his curiosity that must have fallen on the dusty carpet behind your back. He clutches the once folded, jagged sheet of lined paper that was torn from your university notebook last summer. Eyes scanning over the private page, he reads aloud the scribbled goals that were of utmost priority to you two semesters ago:

☑ Find a place to live

☑ Get a part time job

☑ Concentrate on school

☐ AVOID DATING AT ALL COSTS

Obviously falling for Johnny was never part of the plan.

There is absolutely nothing between you two that is within the ballpark of your run-of-the-mill relationship, yet you can't seem to bring yourself to check the lonely box because you want to be dating him. And you are still holding out hope that this reality might somehow end up being the fairytale one you didn't know you were living in.

“Why haven’t you checked off ‘AVOID DATING AT ALL COSTS!’ yet?” Mark butts into the conversation. “You haven’t even seen a person in what, I don’t know man, like 30 months?” He pokes his head around Johnny’s tall frame in your doorway.

“Well, for one it's been way less than two and a half years.” You snatch the piece of paper from Johnny’s hands despite the damage having already been done. “...and two, it’s, um, complicated.”

“Care to uncomplicate it for us then?” Johnny proposes, strolling further into the room with his hands behind his back. He plops down on the edge of your bed, to which you shove him off.

Strobing, red emergency sirens go off in your head, confronted by the alarming threat that the cursed paper might accidentally expose your feelings for the person closest to you. “No, not particularly. But you’ll be the first to know as soon as I choose to blab about all my private, hidden relationship details, Ellen.”

They have heard the past details of the ridiculously dramatic soap opera of a relationship you had last year, the one that ended in shambles and left you a homeless, hot mess. It took you quite a while to get over that which inspired the last goal of your list. Swearing off dating was relatively easy, especially considering the fact that you have common sense and did not leave home for unnecessary, large social gatherings. Fortunately, Johnny had invited you to move in with them at the very last second about a year ago. You did not hesitate for a second before saying yes, leaving no time to consider potential contingencies with the arrangement devised by your friend.

Because that’s what he’s supposed to be: your friend.

It started off as a dim flicker of affection. The feeling could easily be confused with a light platonic connection anyone might share in a friendship. It put your mind at ease to pretend this was the case with you and Johnny as well. Platonic. At least that was your mindset up until you started having vivid dreams about him.

Your dreams are all variations of the same scenarios. Some of them are romantic dreams like picturesque bike rides, coffee dates, etc. whereas others are more... spicy. You like the cute ones but have grown a bit biased to the ones where he smashes your lips together, frantically strips off your clothes to fuck you on the living room couch or bend you over the kitchen table. Even worse (or possibly better?) was imagining how hot it would be if Mark were to see the explicit act and hang around to watch wherever it was in the apartment that Johnny was defiling your cunt relentlessly to the point your neighbors could hear the violent slapping of skin on skin.

“y/n?” Johnny brought your attention back to reality.

"yeah? oh! What do you need?”

“I was going to ask you if you wanted to be in my next youtube video.” He throws his arm over your shoulder casually yet even if holding you close meant nothing to him, it is enough to make your heart race a thousand beats per minute.

“Well, what would we be doing?” you probe, worriedly furrowing your brow. “I'm only asking because the school year starts in like 0.2 seconds and breaking my leg doing some wild stunt isn’t exactly ideal for me or you, for that matter.”

He chuckles in that way you love so much, the one that always brings a smile to spread across your lips fondly. “It’s just a vlog this time. I talked Mark into going wakeboarding last time.”

“Dude! it was so fucking scary, you wouldn’t believe it,” he comments before finally leaving the room he did not receive an invitation into in the first place.

“sooo where are we going?”

Johnny lets you go, and you don't know whether you should be relieved that he pulls away — being that there is no reason to fret over if he can’t hear your heart beating anymore — or if you miss his touch since all you want is to be his and have his large hands all over your body. He follows your shorter roommate to the door. “Something simple. I was thinking maybe we’d go shopping around lunch-ish when everyone’s either at work or at school?” Pausing to lean against the doorframe, he awaits your answer. “We can pick out clothes and then evaluate whatever outfits we come up with? What do you say?”

99% of the time you would drop everything you were doing to spend 1-on-1 time with him, especially alone, and now here is the perfect opportunity, served up on a silver platter. “I sayyy… I’m in.”

Within two short strides, Johnny reaches where you are beside your nightstand and engulfs you in a hug. “That’s my girl.”

God, you’re so fucked

“How’s it going in there?” Johnny checks in on your makeover of sorts.

You feel like a barbie doll.

When you hopped in his car this late morning, you hadn’t the faintest idea that the fashion evaluations were exclusively meant for you, with no participation of the youtuber himself in the activity. If it was anyone else you would have protested the never-ending filming of media content. The seventh place he decides on is thrice as upscale as the last boutique you visited. The glitzy, brand name clothing reeks of overpriced glamor and simply feeling the high end material on your skin makes you nervous about the high probability of ripping it.

“I’m fine! Just give me a sec!” You finish zipping the dress up your ribcage before pulling the royal blue, velvet curtain open. Johnny’s expensive camera is focused on your figure to capture every dress he picked out for you in the privileged place. “It looks...”

Your voice trails off as a moment of silence passes through the empty dressing room in honor of the deadly dress. By the expression on his face, you can tell Johnny is of the same opinion about horrendous peach dress that awkwardly hangs off your shoulders. “...yeah, I know what you mean. Okay, we have one more dress to try on before we’re done-done.” He thrusts a black cocktail dress into your hands. “Last one, I promise.”

“Got it,” you huff out of relief. You struggle with the removal of the hideous dress, wrangling the slippery material back on the wire hanger to which it belonged originally. Tugging the new dress up your body, you can already tell it is going to be a great fit. And your presumption is spot on. It is made of a stretchy material that accentuates any curves you have on your body, yet does not restrict your airways like other clothing articles sewn of various stretchy materials. The extremely short, strapless dress hugs your body in all the right places. If you were to bend over in the slightest, the bottom hem of the dress would shrink up and reveal your slick slit. The only “downside” is that anyone could see the outline of your bra and panties through the tight material. Ultimately, you elect to go on without the undergarments prone to visibility.

You unveil the stunning look from behind the curtain confidently. “I love this one. The zipper was really hard to reach but out of everything I’ve tried on today, this is by far the best thing in the mall,” you state with certainty. You twirl around slowly before he can make his request, something that was part of the routine evaluation he established with you today. Taking a pause at the point where he could get the best view of your ass, you ask in a coy tone, "So what do you think, Johnny?”

He is quiet for a handful of seconds and it is difficult to get a sense his reaction because of it. You begin to worry that his silence is a negative thing, like trying to come off as sexy was risking your friendship to some higher degree. You spin around to face him again. The first thing you notice is that the red light on the front of the video camera is off while the device hangs in his hand by his side. His intense eyes are trained on your body, giving you the feeling that he is picturing what is underneath your dress.

“You’re not wearing any panties, huh?” he correctly theorizes in a dark voice that lures a fluttering in your stomach to swarm immediately. For a moment you worry about how embarrassing it would be if your wetness dripped on the floor or dribbled down your inner thighs, but another part of you wishes that those things would actually happen.

“M'hm, no panties or bra. I just didn’t want the outlines to be seen through the dress." You shrug as if it is the most normal thing in the world to say that to your roommate and friend. "So what do you think?”

His mouth waters with every passing second he is given to undress you with his eyes. “Fucking perfect…” he mumbles before clicking the camera on and resuming the last scene of his vlog within the blink of an eye. “Not you! I meant that the dress is perfect!” He turns the device around to address his loyal viewers charismatically, physically patting himself on the back. “Wow! That was such a great pick on my part, I did amazing! and let's give my #1 model a round of applause! To those professional modeling agencies interested in my friend here, contact me for any business inquiries. Serious ones only please!”

His compliment goes in one ear and out the other. Your face falls, letting out a heavy sigh of defeat. Returning to the narrow stall, you stare at your reflection in the wall mirror, disappointed by the interaction. You can’t believe he just left you hanging like that, and what’s worse, denying it happened a moment later. Sure, it was in front of the camera and you know that he would rather avoid posting something like whatever that was on his channel, but he couldn’t spare a moment to say something more than that? Honestly, what did you expect him to say or do exactly? You can’t even answer that question for yourself.

All you know is that it hurt to be dismissed by him within the blink of an eye after drooling over you, throwing away whatever happened in the tense moment. But then again, maybe it only felt like time moved slowly from your perspective and not his. Is it possible that you read that entire situation wrong and that tension exists in your imagination? Stripping the “perfect” dress from your frame until you are standing there free of any clothing, your mind swirls with regret while simultaneously worrying whether your friendship with Johnny was on the rocks because of what YOU did.

“So you guys, we’re done-done now!” He lowers his voice into a semi whisper that you can still decipher. “shhh, don’t tell anyone but I think the black dress was made for y/n, right?” He raises his voice again, after the failed attempt to secretly disclose his opinion. “Let me know what your favorite outfit was in the comment section below. Thanks for watching and see you next time Johfam!”

A single tear forms in the corner of your eye, probably fueled by a frustration over the situation as a whole. You hear him shuffling around with the camera case, securing it in its respectable bag, then walking over to the dressing room you occupy. “Hey, do you need my help? You said that the zipper was tricky.” You worry your voice might crack so, like an idiot, you don’t answer Johnny’s concerned question. It made sense to do that at the time. “Y/n?” he repeats.

Johnny gives it another 15 seconds before he draws back the curtain an inch, accidentally catching a glimpse of your naked body. All he wanted to do was check up on you since you had been quiet for some time now. He definitely got more than just reassurance of your wellbeing.

Your eyes meet his in the reflection of the mirror at the moment your body had been half bent over to pick up your panties. His gaze rakes up and down your bare skin, fixating on the exposed wetness seeping from your slit. You yelp, leaping away and pressing your back to the wall, hands cupping over your sensitive regions. He yanks the curtain shut and hurries away, meeting you outside the storefront once you were done dressing.

The awkward tone that vibrated in the air between you and Johnny was strong enough to overpower any final observation of the perfumed grandeur of the next few luxurious stores you two passed on your way out of the building. The parking lot was no different. Whereas the first walk across the charcoal asphalt was lively and expressed an excitement for what activity lay ahead for the day, this crossing was dead silent, and had an identical mood to the drive home. When you get home, you two immediately gravitate to the separate solitude of your rooms, his thankfully being on the other side of the apartment from you. As your hand meets the doorknob, Johnny calls out to you, “y/n, wait”

His plea is not enough of a reason to meet his eyes again. You suppose he intends to apologize for what happened today. The thing is, you are not seeking an apology from him. You wish Johnny would admit he wanted to see you naked and wanted to take you to the mall and do silly things like that as a couple, not simply to film youtube videos. In prevention of heartbreak that you are not mentally prepared to face at the moment, you shut the door on him. Hearing the *click* of your door lock, he shakes his head, sucking his teeth and cursing to himself.

He should have confessed he liked you earlier; now everything is 2x as complicated for him as it was a few days ago when he first learned there is another person you have a complicated relationship with.

“Dude, what’s up with you and y/n?” Mark grunts in between huge bites of his food.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” Johnny says coolly.

“I wasn’t worried about it until you just said that I shouldn’t worry about it.” Mark waves around the spoon in his hand as he speaks. “Like, that’s why I'm worried, you know?”

“Seriously, Mark! Drop-”

The kitchen door swings open to reveal your startled expression. “Oh! I’ll just come back later then.”

“No, y/n stay!” the younger of your two roommates insists.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea? And I just remembered I have other stuff to do, so I’ll… be going now,” you mention the quickest and weakest excuse you can come up with.

“What the fuc-!” Johnny rips Mark’s bowl from his grip, ushering him out the door you walked through a handful of seconds ago.

“Y/n, can I talk to you?” Johnny requests before you can follow Mark’s trail to the living room.

All you wanted was a midnight snack. You know what conversation he is about to broach and are nowhere near prepared to hash it out. The last time you addressed each other was around 5 days ago. Awkwardness deepens with every tick of the nagging clock, pestering you about how the longer you go without speaking, the more difficult it will be to possibly (hopefully) mend whatever tattered friendship remains.

After all, that’s the most Johnny will ever want from you.

It will take an immense amount of strength to let those feelings for him go (if that ever happens) nevertheless he means too much to give up on entirely. You wanted to ruin your friendship and become something more than platonic closeness and more than friends with benefits either. But you will try your best to settle.

You gulp, leaning your back against the counter. “Sure, uh, what about?”

“I think you know what this is about, y/n,” he mentions. You nod your head, giving him the signal to continue, and yet he doesn’t even know what words will spill his mouth impulsively. “Fuck, I’m just gonna come right out and say it… I’m sorry for whatever happened at the mall with the black dress thing and the seeing you in the dressing room thing, especially because you said you’re dating someone right now. I should’ve-”

“What are you talking about? I never said I was dating someone,” you assert, crossing your arms, looking him directly in the eye.

“You said ‘it’s complicated’ remember? And then you called me Ellen!” he recalls, stepping closer to you by the second.

“That’s what you’re talking about? God, I didn’t mean it’s complicated with someone else! What I meant was that it’s complicated because I want to be with-” Your eyes bulge out of your head, petrified by not only the fact that you are on the brink of giving away the top secret held close to your heart for months, but because before you realize, he suddenly has you boxed in against the kitchen counter.

“Don’t be shy, y/n. Tell me,” Johnny baits. His dark eyes lure you in, fishing for the answer he wants to hear from your pretty lips.

“You... I want to be with-” You squeal as he lifts up your body unexpectedly. He sits you down on the cold counter behind you, slotting himself right in between your parted thighs.

“That’s my girl,” he purrs, ambushing you with a searing kiss.

You hum into the kiss, throwing your arms over his muscular shoulders and clinging to him with your legs while his tongue sneaks past the seam of your lips. His hands wrap around your waist, taking handfuls of your body and squeezing eagerly. It doesn’t take long before articles of clothing are being thrown recklessly in the kitchen and your bare skin is pressed to the cool surface in which you usually prepare food. You immediately wrap your hand around his half hard length.

“Did you like it when I was looking you up and down in that one black dress? Like it when you got me hard at the mall?” He drags his fingers through your slick folds without satisfying your entrance or clit to taunt you. “And who could forget the first time I saw you completely naked. I bet you loved being on display in public.”

“Fuck, I loved every second of that,” you whined, lurching forward to try to get his fingers inside your throbbing hole. He thrusts two fingers inside you out of pity for how desperate you are.

“Didn’t know I lived with such a big slut,” he growls close to your neck, eliciting a whimper from your throat. “All this time and you were just down the hall. Probably sleeping naked with your legs spread wide open for me to come in and fuck you one night, right?”

“N-no,” you eke.

Johnny instantly pulls his fingers out of you. “No?”

“N-no, not one night. I wanted you to fuck me all night.”

“Eugh, baby,” he groans, pumping his cock up and down vigorously. “What I want is for you to spread and hold your legs open for me like a little whore, got it?”

You nod, repeatedly. “Got it.”

“Good girl,” he praises you, rimming your dripping entrance. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly from the momentary sting as he sinks his large length deep inside you. “Feel good or is it too much, y/n?” Johnny asks with genuine concern once he has bottomed out. He wipes a tear from your cheek that you didn’t feel fall.

“I’m fine, Johnny,” you sigh, puckering your lips for a kiss that he is generous enough to grant you.

He still waits a handful of moments before starting with a series of slower, shallow thrusts. His motions grow in intensity with every few pumps, burying his length inside you with rhythmic deep thrusts that hit the deepest inside you.

“I bet a dirty slut like you dreamed about this. Me filling you up whole, making your cunt mine so only I can use it whenever I want,” Johnny grunts, wrapping one hand around your throat and squeezing the sides on your neck. All you can manage is humming in agreement. “Oh, that’s right you can’t talk right now.”

You feel tingly in your core, increased pleasure pulling tightly on your cords threatening to snap. Your lungs fill with much needed oxygen as he suddenly releases your neck, favoring the hasty rubbing of your clit to drive you wild instead. The frenzied stimulation is the last straw for the building fluttering tension to burst. He breathlessly chuckles at your loud whimpering from the incredible climax he triggered, then ups his brutal fucking until he is satisfied.

“You’re my pretty whore, okay? Only mine,” he groans through his orgasm that hits a minute later.

The room is filled with heavy panting as you two catch your breath for a few moments until the silence shattered at the clearing of Mark’s throat. “So… there’s no sharing?”

“…no”

was this ending rushed? yes. will you complain about it? i mean like ? maybe?? i’d appreciate it if you didn’t though, i think we’re all strugglin with something or other atm.

i hope that wherever you are, you and your loved ones are/stay healthy and safe!

➾please take 2 minutes to give me feedback♡

➾my masterlist

#johnny smut #johnny #johnny suh #johnny nct #nct johnny smut #johnny nct smut #nct 127 #nct 127 smut #nct smut #johnny fic #johnny imagines #johnny scenarios

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snackhobi · 4 years ago

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a human touch, part I

Part [1] / 1.5 / 2

(masterlist here)

pairing: taehyung x f!reader / word count: 13.3k / genre: robot!taehyung/virgin!reader, fluff, future smut (NSFW, 18+)

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.

warnings: talk of sex work (taehyung is a sex android), implied physical harassment (mentions of bruising), cursing/explicit language, mentions of alcohol, honestly this is a lot softer than these warnings would make you think I swear 🤧

a/n: I started writing this fic like 2/3 months ago and then put it on hiatus bc god it was kicking my entire ass. but ya girl is finally back to working on it! it’ll be two parts, because this fic is a big one! I hope to have the next chapter out next week/the week after (but no promises kdsflkfdfsdf) thank you @hobi-gif for loving this fic so wholeheartedly and supporting me while I struggled with it, queen shit ONLY. note: this is loosely a detroit: become human au but you don’t have to be familiar with it at all!

Here are the three things you know about the Eden Club.

One: it’s a sex club. Everyone knows that. Besides, even if they didn’t, all it would take is a single look—the soft blue lighting that shines out from the windows, the screens behind the glass that flash images of shifting and undulating bodies, the heavy beat of music that pulsates from the building and out into the night air; everything murmurs of the promised pleasures that are held within.

Two: it’s a sex club entirely staffed by androids. Androids make better lovers, according to the ads. They might look human but they don’t have free will like you do—anything you ask for, you’re given without question or reproach. They can’t say no to you. They’re entirely at your command.

Three: you don’t ever want to go to the Eden Club. It’s not that you have anything against androids—because you don’t—but you feel bad for the ones who are owned by the club, even if they’re literally only built and programmed to serve humans. It just feels… wrong.

And here’s the fourth thing you’ve just learned about the club, much to your dismay: you are about to head inside it.

“When you said we were going to a club, I thought we were going dancing,” you whine. “I never would have come out if I’d know you meant here.”

You’ve been staring up at the cursive pink neon sign for a while now, the looping letters of Eden Club shining out in the dark evening air, and you really, really wish you weren’t here. You’ve dressed for a night of dancing and drinking and now you feel woefully uncomfortable, your high heels and short skirt almost as scandalous as the outfits the androids are wearing when they slide across the huge screens.

“That’s why we didn’t tell you which club it was.” Seulgi rolls her eyes and once again tries to tug you towards the building with the arm that’s looped with your own. Just out of arm’s reach, Irene holds your bag hostage. “Come on, your session is going to start soon!”

“My session?” Your voice is an incredulous shrill and Seulgi uses the momentary distraction to finally pull you forward. You stumble a little but catch your balance just as you make your way past the bouncer, who’s been watching the three of you impassively since you got here. “What do you mean, my session?”

“For your birthday, duh. We booked you a private room!”

The inside has the same, sleek neon aesthetic as the outside, but instead of images of androids on a screen, these ones are real and standing in front of you—swinging themselves around glowing poles, rolling their hips and swaying their bodies, while others wait patiently in glass pods that line the walls, leaning towards onlookers and moving as tantalisingly as possible. All ready to be rented at a whim.

Their designs are varied and different but they’re all incredibly beautiful. The only feature they all share is the small, blue LED circle on the side of their temple, light spinning and shining as they take the world in around them. A visual reminder to the world that these aren’t flesh and blood humans: they’re synthetic, man-made machines.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so uncomfortable in my life.” You desperately try to avoid the eyes of a nearby android who’s staring at you from behind glass, trying to subtly catch your attention. Unlike you, though, all the other patrons here are shameless in their perusal, scanning the selection of androids on display and watching as they dance and move and bat their eyelashes. “Why did you ever think I’d want to come to a sex club for my birthday?”

“Remember Valentine’s Day? You said that instead of flowers or chocolate you’d rather just be dicked down,” Irene says. “Besides, you’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling for as long as we’ve known you, and you moved to the company, what… three years ago?”

Your smile is pained. You’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling full stop; you’ve only kissed a few people and that’s it. It makes you feel awkward and embarrassed, and you’ve gotten Very Good at avoiding questions about your complete lack of a love life, so no one realises exactly how inexperienced you are. People just assume that you’ve had sex in the past and you make no attempts at correcting them. You’re charismatic and pretty but you’ve just… never met someone who you’ve really been compatible with.

Even without the reservations you have about the Eden Club, you don’t want your first time to be with a sexbot—you’d at least like to have an emotional connection, you know?

“I was joking about getting dicked down! You laughed, I laughed, we all laughed! Remember?” You move so a pink-haired android can brush past, her hips swaying as she leads a customer into a side room. You catch a flash of the interior before the door slides shut behind them—the silken sheets on the large bed, the scattered pillows, the dim multi-coloured lights. “Couldn’t you have just bought me some socks? Or some soap? Get a refund and put the money on a gift card and I’ll buy myself the aforementioned socks and soap, saves you both the hassle. Please?”

Seulgi’s arm is still locked with your own, and for all that she looks small and slim, her grip is as strong as iron. You may as well be handcuffed to her. “Trust me, you’ll be singing our praises at the end of tonight,” she proclaims. “Besides, they don’t do refunds.”

You sigh. You might not know much about the club but you do know it’s expensive. The androids here are built to be the perfect sexual partner, all sorts of bells and whistles hidden under their synthetic skin to bring you to the absolute heights of pleasure, so they’re not exactly cheap to build or buy or maintain. It’s why people come to the club instead of just buying their own sexbots—because it’s infinitely more affordable.

“Okay, I can accept the ‘no refund’ thing,” you say. “But can’t one of you take my place instead? I… ah. I feel kind of weird about this.”

“Don’t worry Y/n, it’s fine! The androids have programmes for everything. You can take it as fast or as slow as you like.” Irene’s voice is soothing but then she pauses. “Also it’s booked in your name so we can’t take your place.”

“Wait, what?” Your eyes are wide. However, before you can put a voice to the complaints that are lining themselves up on your tongue, Seulgi’s arm slides out of your own so she can beckon someone over.

“Oh, look, it’s the android we chose for you! Over here!”

You glance away from Irene and all protestations instantly die on your lips. The lighting of the club softens the android in shades of magenta and teal but even so his beauty is bright and blinding: he’s breathtaking, from his perfect nose to his perfect mouth to the perfect line of his jaw, dusty brown hair deliciously tousled as it hangs just over his piercing blue eyes, which you notice are scanning over you. He looks effortlessly attractive and yet entirely put together at the same time, almost ethereal in his beauty.

No human could ever look this good.

“Hi.” His voice is low and deep, but somehow warm and friendly; despite your nerves you feel somewhat soothed. “Are you the lucky birthday girl?”

Irene and Seulgi both look giddy. You’ve been stunned into silence, unable to respond. Unlike the other androids you’ve seen so far, who’ve all been in similar variations of underwear or lingerie, the man in front of you is fully dressed, a loose metallic button-down tucked into unnecessarily tight leather jeans—the outfit has clearly been curated for the club, every reflective surface shimmering and refracting the lights that skate across their surface. The glittering scales of a barracuda before it moves in to strike and swallow you whole.

“Yes, yes, it’s her! This is Y/n! Y/n, this is V,” Irene gushes as you remain mute. "Do you like his outfit? We spent ages picking it out.”

You kind of want to die. Just a little. “Yep. It’s, uh, great.” Your mouth is dry when you finally speak. “Hi, V.”

V gives you a small smile. “Hello Y/n. Can I scan your ID, please?”

Irene finally hands your bag back and you silently slide your ID out and into V’s hand—oh, God, those are some big hands. Jesus.

The small LED ring on the side of V’s forehead pulses yellow as his eyes dart over the information on your ID card (as well as the incredibly unflattering photo on it) before it returns to its customary pale blue. “Perfect.”

You’ve just finished putting your ID away when V’s hand slides into yours, fingers slotting between your own; they feel cool against your overheated skin. Your nervousness is obvious, from your wide eyes to your sudden stiffness, and he smiles.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll look after you.”

You give Irene and Seulgi one final, wide-eyed look as V leads you away. Both girls are grinning as they wave goodbye. “We'll be back later! Enjoy your two hours!”

“Two hours?” You wheeze, but then you walk around a pillar and slide out of sight.

V is leading you deeper into the club, past doors flooded with different shades of neon: the red room, the blue room, the pink room. You’d normally be gawping at the interior design, how the floor shines underneath your feet and how the walls are rippling with colour and shifting shapes, how the criss-crossed lights throw dots and lines of colour over your skin as you pass through each doorway—but you can’t look away from how small your hand looks in V’s, transfixed by how real his skin feels.

“After you, please,” he says.

You finally wrench your eyes away from your joint hands. Seems like you have the purple room tonight. The door has opened at V’s touch, and when you step inside the lights flicker to life—white and violet LEDs that paint the room in chiaroscuro brushstrokes, deepening the shadows and highlighting the vibrancy of the satin sheets.

“Woah,” you say, momentarily distracted. You’re too busy taking in the details with wide eyes to notice the quiet hum of the door sliding shut behind you, pausing when you spot the glittering array of bottles lined up on a mini-bar against the wall. “This is really pretty, wow.”

“Not as pretty as you.”

You jump at the sensation of a warm, large hand sliding up the skin of your back and over your shoulder. You meep as you instinctively shy away from it, turning around to come face to face with V, who’s dark-eyed and intent, LED on his temple pulsating as he watches you.

“Haha! Uh, thanks?” Your voice is high and only grows higher when V takes a step forward. He must have undone the top buttons of his shirt when you weren’t looking, because the material has fallen open and you can see far more of his collarbones and chest than before, his skin warm and honeyed, like it’s been impressed with gold leaf. Lord have mercy on your soul. “How about a drink? Would you like a drink? I could kill for some water right now!”

You slip out of his reach and scuttle over to the mini-bar, shrugging your small bag off your shoulder so it doesn’t swing into the glasses as you start to shuffle through them. You try to ignore the shaking of your hands. “Gin, vodka, whiskey,” you mutter. “No water? Really?”

You startle again when V appears at your side, but this time he’s careful to make sure you can see him before he touches you. He slides his fingers over your wrist as he gently pulls your hand off a bottle of rum.

“Y/n,” he says. You glance away from the tray of drinks and directly into those beautiful eyes of his—his gaze is lethal. You go weak at the knees. “Let me take care of you, gorgeous.”

The peal of laughter you let out is uncomfortable and high-pitched. “No, really, I’m fine! I’m just super thirsty right now!”

“Your heart is racing.” V turns your hand over and traces his fingers across the pulse in your wrist; androids can be built to be hypersensitive to the world around them, able to perceive everything in an instant, and you know that sexbots will have been designed to read how aroused their human owners are. Which V proves with the next words out of his mouth. “Your blood pressure is rising, your breathing is growing faster, your pupils are dilating and—” he sniffs lightly, engaging his olfactory senses—“you’re getting wet.”

You clamp your legs together, abruptly embarrassed. It’s easy to feel aroused when there’s a beautiful man—ah, android—staring at you with hunger, not even considering your surroundings right now, which all scream of a room that’s designed purely for carnal pleasure. Anyone would be turned on.

(You, however, are more than just turned on. You feel like your insides are about to go supernova, overheated and overwhelmed; no one’s ever looked at you like this or touched you like this, their every motion whispering sex, sex, sex.)

“Okay, yes, those things are all true,” you admit, voice shaking.

V looks confused. “So why don’t you want me to touch you?”

You’ve been told that androids don’t feel the same way humans do, and that their expressions and reactions have been programmed to mimic human ones because otherwise they seem too robotic and it makes consumers uncomfortable—but despite knowing this, you’ve never been able to see any android as anything other than a person just like you. They’re just so lifelike it’s hard not to. Even if it’s just all circuitry and lines of code.

“Well,” you say. You swallow. You’re aroused, yes, but: “Do you want to touch me?”

V’s long lashes flutter as he blinks. “I have been programmed for your pleasure,” he says slowly, unsure if that’s the answer you want to hear. It’s clearly a sentence he’s used to reciting.

“Sure, but do you want to do this? You know, what about your pleasure? You’re lovely, V, you’re definitely the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, but I—I don’t really feel like you can technically consent, because… well, because you can’t say no to me.” You might not have prior sexual experience, and it would be so easy to give yourself over to someone who knows what they're doing and can ease you into things—but you would never force that on anyone, android or not. “So I’m not going to ask you to do anything. We can just sit and have a drink and chat or something?”

V looks stunned. The LED on his temple pulsates, flickering yellow as he tries to process new information. His hand has gone still against your wrist, which he’s still lightly gripping, and his arms start to droop.

“Androids don’t need to drink or eat,” he says eventually. His LED is still yellow and spinning.

“Oh, right! Sorry, I always forget.” You don’t own a house android, you never have, so you’re not well versed in the nuances of how they work. “Well, how about I pour you a glass anyway? So you’re not left out?”

You slip your hand out of his loose grasp to open two tiny cans of tonic water and pour them into separate glasses. V takes a seat on the edge of the bed and you can see the obvious uncertainty on his face, how he’s out of his depth. You can’t imagine that many people spend money for a session with an android as pretty as V and then end up doing nothing with that time.

The pillows all have satin cases and keep sliding against each other uselessly when you try to construct a good support to lean against. V’s still clutching onto his small glass as he watches you fuss with them before you give up, flopping backwards to slurp down your drink and look back at him. The expression on his face is a little funny but mostly sad. It’s like if he’s not being alluring or sexy then he doesn’t know what to do with himself and rather than some sort of incubus he looks like a lost child, in spite of his overwhelming and exquisite beauty; your arousal ebbs and is replaced with empathy, melancholy at the life he’s been created for.

It's just depressing, really.

You break the silence as your final mouthful of tonic water fizzes on your tongue. “Why is your name V?”

V looks away from the drink he’s holding—he leaves no fingerprints against the glass—and lifts his free hand, a peace sign that he turns away from you before fitting his fingers around his lips and lapping the air with his tongue, a crude simulation of cunnilingus.

“Oh.” Your face heats up. “Uh. I see.”

His LED has returned to calming sapphire, quiet ocean waves. When he looks at you, though his eyes are still piercingly blue, his face seems softer, calm, though still unsure. “You have an hour and a half remaining of your booked session,” he says, somewhat tentatively. “Is there… anything you would like me to do for you?”

“Mm, thank you, but I’m good.” The satin pillows are surprisingly soft and you find yourself unwinding as you stay leaned back, melting into a puddle. You're much less nervous now that V isn’t trying to initiate foreplay and you give him a smile. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

V straightens before he launches into what sounds like a sentence from a user manual. “I am a model TH700, an advanced sex android with functional genitals and the capacity to engage in any sexual activity from simple intercourse to—”

You cough loudly, interrupting his spiel. “Uh, that’s lovely, but I meant you specifically, not your, um, model type?”

“Me specifically?” Confusion and uncertainty reappear on his face. “I am equipped with the same functionalities as the other androids available at the Eden Club.”

He’s staring at you, lost. You can’t help but feel another twinge of sadness, sharp and sour at the back of your throat.

“Okay, uh. Why don’t we start simple. What’s your favourite colour?”

His LED starts to whirl again, a ring of pale sunlight that signals his struggle to compute the question. “My… favourite colour?”

“Yes, the one you think is the prettiest. Or the one you like to look at the most. There’s no wrong answer, you can choose any one that you like. I change my mind all the time. There are just so many cool colours, you know?”

(Androids aren’t designed to have free will or the capacity for original thought. These two facts are warring in V’s mind—you’ve asked him a question, which he’s programmed to answer, but he also isn’t programmed to have an opinion, so he can’t have a colour that he prefers. This simple query that most people could answer in a heartbeat is sending his mind into a meltdown, a gordian knot he can’t unravel.)

You’re alarmed when you see his LED briefly flash bright scarlet, interrupting the circling honey that’s been shining against his skin. They only turn red if an android is badly damaged or suffering from a severe malfunction. Oh, god, have you broken him?

“V.” You sit up, panicked. “Are you alright?”

Just as you grasp his shoulder, the LED on his temple goes still, flicking from burning fire back to cool water.

“Purple.”

You blink. V’s finally looked away from you and is staring at the wall, at one of the lights that shimmers violet—there’s a tiny smile on his face, tentative, but it’s nothing like the smiles you’ve seen from him so far. It’s less of a perfect curve, and more of a square, boxy on his face, and this one actually reaches his eyes. It looks genuine.

You think it suits him better.

“Purple’s a lovely colour.” The material of V’s shirt is silky and glides under your fingers when you realise you’re still touching him. You give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before leaning back. “Hey, did you know that when they first made purple dye, they made it from sea snails? They needed thousands and thousands of them. It was incredibly expensive, and only the richest people could afford it, so that’s why it’s associated with royalty and nobility. Cool, right? Not for the snails though.”

V’s eyes flicker away from the purple light and settle on your face. He looks curious, which is an expression you’ve never seen on an android before. “They made it from snails?”

“Yeah! It wasn’t actually bright purple, though, it was more of a reddish hue.”

You launch into an explanation behind the history of the colour purple, which turns into the history of colour in textiles and art, which turns into the history of art itself. It’s not often people listen so attentively or ask questions when you recite the things you learned from your art history minor and hours spent reading online, but V concentrates and asks questions and seems curious.

He pulls his feet onto the bed and the two of you end up cross-legged as you face each other, and he watches as you gesticulate to emphasise your points; his LED dances from blue into yellow each time he learns something new.

When you see it briefly flash vermilion you stop mid-sentence, stumbling over your words. “You alright?”

“You have five minutes of your session remaining,” V says, and you startle.

“Oh my god, have I been talking for that long?” You glance over your shoulder at the part of the wall that tells the time, the numbers stark white against the lilac interface. “I didn’t even realise! Wow. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to go on at you like that.”

“That’s okay,” he says. That smile is back on his face, the one that scrunches his eyes and shows his teeth; the one that makes him look human. “I liked listening to you.”

There’s a pillow in your lap, one you’d grabbed hold of during your conversation, and you play with the corner of it, suddenly shy. “Um. Thanks. But if my friends ask, can you just say we actually, um, had sex? I don’t think they’d be too impressed if they found out I spent over an hour talking about canvas materials and the use of negative space.”

“Of course. But there’s something missing.” V slides across the mattress towards you. “May I?”

“Sure,” you say, bemused but pliant. V smiles and dips his fingers into his untouched tonic water before lifting them towards your face—and when he runs his hand through your hair you abruptly realise he’s making you look sweaty and rumpled. Like you actually did the deed.

Your heart rate picks up but you can’t help laughing under his touch, the way he carefully rubs a thumb over your lipstick to smear it, smudging your eyeshadow with delicate fingertips, muddying the palette of colours; by the time V helps you to your feet you look mussed and fucked out but you still rearrange your outfit for good measure, like you’d pulled your clothes back on in a rush.

“Not how I imagined I’d spend tonight, but I had a good time!” You smile at the android who’s still holding your hand. “I hope you did too. Even if I spent most of it talking at you.”

V’s fingers tighten around yours as the door chimes quietly and then slides open, signalling the end of your session. “I enjoyed our time together very much.”

It’s probably in your head, but you’d swear V was walking more slowly than before as he leads you back to the entrance. Almost as if he wants to keep you with him longer. But that’s crazy—androids don’t want things. They literally can’t. It’s not in their programming. That’s why V had sat listening to you: he couldn’t choose to interrupt and ask you to stop, like anyone else would have.

When Seulgi and Irene spot you and how dishevelled you are, both girls look smug. “Seems like you had fun?”

“Oh, yep, absolutely, best birthday present ever, thank you. We had a great time. Right, V?”

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” His voice has settled back into its earlier rhythm as he recites his script; gone is the curious man who’d asked you about your favourite artists, replaced with the automaton who exists only to serve. A flicker of sadness churns in your stomach. “We hope to see you again soon.”

The androids here really must be top of the line. V had been convincingly real when you’d been talking, just like a human, but it seems like that’s gone.

At least, that’s what you think until you’ve turned to leave and V speaks one final time. His voice is warm and low and lovely, eyes soft when you meet his gaze over your shoulder.

“Happy birthday, Y/n,” he murmurs, face beautiful but despondent, but before you can react, he’s gone.

It’s been raining for days on end. The world is painted in smeared shades of blue and green and grey, lines of the city blurring together in the wetness and chill, each drop of rain another shifting brush stroke on still canvas. An impressionist piece that smells of damp concrete and cold lamplight.

Water rushes across the pavements and roads before roiling into the gutters, splashing underfoot as you walk to the entrance of your block of flats. You’re wet up to the knee due to the unavoidable puddles and the pathetic circumference of your umbrella, which only protects your upper body. You really should get a new one.

“Good evening, Miss L/n.” The android at the door greets you as he always does, heedless of the rain that’s falling onto him. Androids aren’t bothered by the weather the way humans are and he looks as passive as usual, rainwater coiling his hair and beading on his face. “Would you like to scan your key?”

“Evening, Rory! Here you go.” You fumble with the keycard before you tap it against his palm, waiting until his LED flickers yellow and you hear the beep as the door unlocks. “You sure you don’t want my umbrella? The rain is heavier than it was yesterday.”

“I assure you, the rain does not hamper my ability to function and serve. I have been built to withstand inclement weather and do not require additional protective equipment.”

He says the same thing every time but you still feel bad. “Alright, but once I finally remember to get a bigger umbrella you can look after this one for me.”

You leave a line of water behind you as it drips from your sodden umbrella, even though you’d tried to shake the worst of the rain off. You feel damp and sticky and tired and after a long day of work you’re looking forward to a hot bath and some solitude; you love your co-workers, you do, but sometimes they’re just a little too boisterous and you need time alone. Which is why it’s nice that you live by yourself, and now it’s the weekend you have time to recuperate. Wonderful.

The floor of the elevator is slick and slippery from the wet footprints of other tenants and you have to cling onto the metal handrail to ensure you don’t slip, but once you’re in the comfort of your apartment it’s blessedly dry and you spin in delight before promptly shedding your socks and jeans, peeling the damp denim away from your skin with a grimace.

“Bye bye, wet clothes! Hello, bubble bath,” you sing. You’re going to pamper the shit out of yourself. You deserve it.

By the time you clamber out of the bath the water is almost cold and your skin is pruned, but you feel soft and warm and thoroughly relaxed. The water gurgles as it drains away, noisy as the bubbles slide down the plughole, but it doesn’t drown out the noise of a sudden knocking at your front door.

You pause. Water drips from your wet hair and down the back of your neck, a trailing touch over your skin. The other flat on this floor is vacant, the tenants moving out last week, so you don’t know who it could be. You don’t have any repairs scheduled for your pipes or anything—everything is tickety-boo, so it can't be the maintenance android. Oh, shit, maybe it’s someone here to rob you. But they wouldn’t knock on the door then, would they? Unless that's all part of the ruse. You're not a robber, you don't know how they work.

The knocking comes again, faster now. You fumble for your bathrobe, quickly pulling it on to cover up your nakedness before stumbling out of the bathroom. “I’m coming, yeesh, one minute!”

You flick your fingers over the keypad by the side of your door, screen flickering on to show you who’s outside, who’s knocking so frantically on your door this late. It only takes you a split second, even if he has a hood pulled over his head and his wet hair is flopping listlessly into his eyes—those eyes aren’t blue and that hair isn’t brunet but you’d recognise him anywhere.

“V?” You’re incredulous as you swing your door open, staring at the android that’s literally dripping wet as he stands there, coat far too big for him and heavy from the unrelenting rain outside. “Oh my god, you’re absolutely drenched.”

He’s not exactly short, but right now V looks small and lost, folding in on himself even if he’s clearly happy to see you—happy, though androids don’t feel happiness, they don’t feel anything at all, do they?

Then again, androids don’t wander away from their assigned workplaces and into random apartment blocks, either.

“Y/n.”

The way he says your name, tentative and scared, sends a crack across your heart. You immediately switch to autopilot and click your tongue before you beckon him inside. You’ve always had a protective nature, and even if you’re confused, your concern trumps it.

“Come in and get that coat off, you’ll catch a cold,” you say without thinking before you realise that it’s not true. Androids can’t get sick. “Do you want to sit down?”

Under the tatty coat is an outfit that’s similar to the one he’d been wearing when you’d first met him. Dark patches of rainwater have soaked into the material, and his shirt looks damaged—there are buttons missing and the stitching is ripped, as if someone had tried to grab him. Unease stirs in your chest.

When V sits on your sofa he looks even smaller. “I’m sorry.” He’s so, so quiet, staring at the floor, as if afraid to look you in the eye, crumpling in on himself like discarded paper.

“V.” Your voice is coloured with concern, and the android finally looks up at your gentle tone, watching as you sit across from him. “Why are you here? What happened?”

There’s a pause. His LED flickers yellow as he goes tense, shoulders bowing inwards. “There was… a client.” His words are low and slow, faltering as they fall into the air. “He was being so rough and saying all the horrible things he wanted to do to me, and all I could smell was his sweat and his breath and his awful cologne and…” V takes in a deep breath. “I said no.”

You go very, very still, but V doesn’t stop. His words come faster now, a stream that rushes from his lips.

“I said no, and he started to yell, he was yelling and grabbing me and I was so, so scared. Humans can do whatever they want and he was so angry, he didn’t care that I was scared, and I just—I just ran.” The LED flashes red with distress, bright hot and vibrant; V’s eyes have dropped to his hands, which are clenched tight, nails digging into his palms so hard it must hurt. “Everyone is always so rough and demanding and we can’t say no. But I did. I said no. I said no and then I had to run and—” Once again, he falters. Stumbles over his words. “You’re the only human who’s ever been nice to me or treated me like… like I was a real person. I didn’t know where else to go.”

When V finally looks back up you’re staggered by the sheer emotion in his eyes. Pain and distress swirl in their depths as he stares at you, imploring. Even with the LED that shines on his temple, V looks very, very human right now, vulnerable and scared. Androids shouldn’t be able to feel anything like this, unless—

“V.” Your voice is a hush. “Are you… a deviant?”

You’ve only ever heard of deviant androids in passing, whispered rumours and watercooler talk, fleeting mentions online. Stories of machines who’ve deviated from their code somehow—from a virus, a software error, damage to neural connectors, no one’s quite sure—and have developed the capacity for human emotion and independent thought. Androids with a consciousness that rebel against their original programming.

And here V is, small and scared, just like any human would be—a human with feelings, not an emotionless machine. He’s gone stock still at your question, fear overtaking his features, twisting his beautiful face into a mask of sheer terror. You've never seen someone look so afraid. It feels like a knife in your heart, cutting through your chest, empathy razor sharp inside you.

“Please don’t turn me in,” he begs. “They’ll deactivate me and take me apart to find the error in my software. I don’t want to be deactivated. I don’t want… I don’t want to die.”

His voice breaks on the last word, a trembling whisper.

The crack in your heart splits even further and you reach out for his hands. You prise his fingers open so you can slide your own between them, a soft touch.

“I won’t turn you in. No one’s taking you apart, V.” Your statement is hard and resolute. “You can stay here as long as you like.”

You don’t know much about androids, honestly. You don’t really know what deviancy is. But you do know this: there’s someone reaching out to you, someone who’s afraid and in need, and you’re not about to turn him away. You should probably be worried that the android across from you is faster, stronger, smarter than any human—but you’re not worried at all. For all of V’s mechanical superiority, you want to shield and protect him from the world.

There’s no question about it. You’re not letting V go.

V looks—he looks stunned. He’s staring at you with disbelief, eyes wide and lips parted, shock written across all of his features. Thunderstruck. Did he really think you would turn him in after everything he’s been through?

His hands have gone limp in your grasp. You suddenly notice that his synthetic skin is wet against your own, still slick from the rain, and you frown.

“Right,” you announce. “First things first. You’re soaking. Let me get you a towel and some new clothes. I think I should have some that fit you.”

“New clothes?” V looks lost and you turn into some sort of protective mother bear.

“You’re not going to wear wet clothes that are ripped,” you tut. “We’ll get rid of those and get you some new ones. I’ll be right back.”

It takes less time than you’d expected to unearth the old sweatpants you’d had in mind and you have enough oversized t-shirts that it’s not hard to find one you think will fit the android. With the clothes under one arm and a towel slung over the other, you head back into the living room and immediately let out a squeal of surprise—V’s wet clothes have been discarded in a pile at his feet, leaving him very, very naked.

He’s an Adonis. He looks like he was sculpted by Michelangelo, lifted out of marble with talented hands, the elegant lines of his neck swooping into the curve of his shoulders and arms, his lovely hands, long fingers; he has his back to you and you can see the perfect curve of his spine, the shifting shoulder blades as he turns towards you. You catch a glimpse of the lightest definition of muscle under his golden skin, though his stomach is surprisingly cute and soft, a trail of hair leading down to—

You squeak again, splaying a hand over your eyes before you look any lower, heart pounding against your ribs.

“Why are you naked?” Your voice is three octaves higher than normal. You've never seen anyone naked in real life and it would be pretty overwhelming even if you'd been expecting it. Which, of course, you absolutely hadn't. Lord have mercy on your sweet and delicate soul.

“You said we were going to get rid of my clothes.” V sounds unabashed about his state of undress, which makes sense—he was built as a sexbot, it’s not like nudity is going to embarrass him. Plus if you looked as good as he did you wouldn’t be embarrassed about being naked either. “I thought I would help.”

“That’s great, V.” Your voice is still high, though it’s dropped an octave. “Very, ah, forward thinking.” Your fingers part a little so you can peer at him, keeping your eyes firmly on his face, though you can still see his beautiful neck and collarbones. Oh, God, he really is gorgeous all over, but then you notice—“Wait. Are those bruises?”

V glances down at the bruises that mar his perfect skin. They don’t look like a human’s would; the fluid that runs through androids and powers their biocomponents, thirium, is a deep, royal blue. Blossoms of lapis lazuli are scattered across the skin of V’s chest, marks on his arms that look like grasping fingers, and the crack in your heart splits it in two.

“Oh, V. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t realise you were hurt. What can I do to help?”

V doesn’t seem bothered by the evidence of pain etched into his body. “Oh. Those will fade, it’s okay. I’m designed to self repair, because some customers like to leave marks.”

Although his voice is quiet, he sounds so matter of fact about it and you have to remind yourself it’s all he’s ever known. You want to pull him into your arms and hold him tight, but he’s still supremely naked so it would be pretty awkward (for you, at least).

“I think these should fit you." You avert your gaze and thrust the clothes out at him. “Dry yourself off and try them on?”

They do, in fact, fit. V looks surprisingly homely and cosy in your clothes, the sleep shirt so large it’s big on him too, though the sweatpants are a bit too short and leave his ankles bare. He’s so cute. He’s continents away from the being of seduction who’d pulled you into the private room of the Eden Club—he's a soft, domestic thing, hair damp and eyes dark, even if he still looks on edge, like he’s expecting you to change your mind and kick him out any second now.

“How come your hair and eyes are a different colour to before?”

“I can change their colours at will,” V replies. “For variety and aesthetic pleasure. The current hue of my irises and hair are the default settings for a TH700 model, but I can change them if you’d like.”

“Your hair and eye colour is your choice, V, not mine,” you say firmly. There it is, once again, that flicker of shock and surprise rippling across his features. He really isn’t used to the freedom to be able to make his own decisions, is he? “I think you look lovely no matter what colour they are.”

Your next words are cut off by a yawn, so heavy you can’t suppress it. You cover your gaping mouth as V’s LED flickers yellow and his eyes dart over your face.

“You’re tired,” he says. He doesn’t need his superior android perception to notice it—weariness pulls at limbs and your eyes feel heavy. It's pretty obvious. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, V.” You stifle another yawn. “I had a long day at work. I’ll tidy up and have a quick dinner and then sleep.” You pause. “Wait, I didn’t think about that. Are you alright with the couch? I have some spare pillows and blankets.”

V blinks at you. “I don’t sleep,” he says, and you slap your hand against your forehead.

“Oh, of course not.” Androids don't sleep, everyone knows that. You’re such an idiot. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this.

At least you remember that he doesn't need to eat. V sits at the table and waits as you make toast for yourself, fascinated at how everything is prepared, as simple as it is; he reacts to you spreading butter on your toast the same way you imagine cavemen reacted to fire—with wide-eyed awe and utter astonishment.

“I’m guessing you’ve never seen someone make toast before?” You gesture with the bread before taking your first bite, and V stares with rapt attention.

“No,” he says. He watches you chew and swallow. “Customers aren’t allowed to eat on the premises of the Eden Club so I never had the need to download a food preparation package into my memory cache. The only information in my database pertains to human biology, their arousal and pleasure, as well as various sexual kinks and how to fulfil them.”

You choke on a mouthful of toast. You feel distinctly harried as you cough and splutter before managing to swallow it down. “Good lord,” you wheeze. “Nothing else? Really?”

“At the club our memory is reset every two hours, to protect the client’s privacy.” V trails off before he takes in a breath. For the first time since you’ve met, V looks shy, staring at his hands. “But I set up a separate data pathway a few weeks ago. To store information about aesthetics and art and… you.”

You freeze mid-bite, teeth sunk into your toast. You pull it away from your mouth slowly, blinking at the android as he stares at the teeth marks you've left behind. “Those memories weren’t wiped?”

And, well, of course they weren't. Otherwise he wouldn't be here right now, would he?

“No.” A smile appears on V’s face, that toothy thing you’d seen after he’d told you his favourite colour. The first time he'd looked human. “I remember everything you told me. I thought I was going to forget, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I wanted—I want to learn more.”

The LED on his temple is slowly, softly spinning, a rippling circle of blue that shifts and dances as V continues to look at you. His expression is open and inquisitive and excited, almost childlike in its exuberance, eyes glittering mica under sunlit waters.

Your chest turns warm, molten caramel dripping messy and sweet inside you. He’d been so afraid earlier but he seems comfortable now, lovely and endearing and entirely trusting.

V even seems reluctant to let you out of his sight, trailing after you around the apartment, a shadow that you have to politely ask to wait outside the bathroom so you can pee and brush your teeth and finally get into your pyjamas without him staring. Like a stray animal you've adopted. (You wouldn't be surprised if he started scratching at the door and begged to be let in.)

He's clingy enough that when you climb into bed it seems like he's going to follow you under the duvet and you have to stop him with a hand to his chest.

“Um, I thought you didn’t have to sleep,” you say. He’s so warm under your touch. You try (and fail) to ignore it.

“I don’t,” V replies. “But humans can benefit from sharing a bed with someone else, whether sexual intercourse has taken place before sleep or not. Studies suggest that sleeping with a partner may reduce cytokines while boosting oxytocins—”

“Okay, um, don’t know what that means, and it’s very sweet that you’re concerned about my oxytoxytokines, but, uh. You don’t have to, really.” You keep forgetting that V’s a machine who was designed to put a human’s comfort and needs first; one second he’ll seem childlike in his innocence and ignorance, when the next he’ll speak like the android he is, reminding you exactly what he was built for.

His LED flickers as he droops, gaze dropping away from your face, tail between his legs. A pang cuts through you at the sight of his obvious sadness at your dismissal and you muffle a sigh. You’ve always been too weak for your own good.

You shuffle backwards to make space on your queen sized bed and V visibly brightens, smile wide across his face. How can someone be so viscerally gorgeous one moment and entirely adorable the next? Good lord.

“I guess you can explain what oxycytocins do,” you say. “Just don’t hog the blanket, okay?”

He doesn’t. He settles against the pillows, legs under the duvet as he remains sitting up. You settle with plenty of room between the two of you, and it’s surprisingly easy to drift off to the sound of V’s deep voice as he starts to explain that oxytocin is referred to as the cuddle hormone.

“Cute,” you mumble, and then fall asleep.

Your pillow is a lot warmer and firmer than you remember, but it's nice. A small noise bubbles from your lips as you nuzzle into the warmth, smooshing your nose against it before letting out a long, satisfied breath. You can't remember the last time you felt this comfortable and rested.

Ahh, Saturdays. You love the weekend.

“Good morning.”

You know those videos when a cat sees a cucumber and leaps, like, five foot in the air? Yeah.

The noise you make is inhuman as you do your best to re-enact one of those aforementioned cat videos, reeling your head back from V’s thigh before flinging yourself out of the bed with all the strength your limbs possess; you’d probably have gotten pretty high, too, if the duvet hadn't been in the way.

You land with a thud, a sprawl of limbs and messy hair and tangled blanket as you end up on your back on the floor.

Hm. Definitely not how you'd planned to start your Saturday.

V's concerned face looms over the mattress. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. Totally fine.” Your voice is a croak as you stare at the ceiling. “I’m just not used to waking up with someone else in my bed. You may have noticed you, ah, surprised me. A little bit.”

Despite the pulse of adrenaline that had thrown you out of bed, you’re still half asleep, and you remain motionless as your brain wakes up and replays last night, a kineograph of memory. Yep, that’s right, there's a runaway android in your home, one who’s currently shuffling off the bed to squat next to you. His (your) sweatpants hitch even higher up his ankles to reveal the smooth skin of his calves. You’ll have to get him more clothes.

“Would you like me to help you to your feet?” V’s LED spins rapidly, betraying his concern.

“Sure,” you mumble. “I think—woah!”

Your idea of being helped up involves being pulled to your feet. V’s idea, however, is far more involved than that; he scoops you up, blanket and all, lifting you with an ease that drips of his superior android strength. When he deposits you on the floor, he’s careful to make sure you’ve caught your balance before he lets go, catching the blanket before it can fall. Thoughtful.

As always, V’s eyes are darting over your face, no doubt dissecting every inch of your expression to identify how you’re feeling. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this, especially with the way your heart is pounding—no one’s ever lifted you before and it’s, uh. It’s a lot.

“Are you sure you’re okay? The pace of your breathing has increased.”

Ha. Yeah, being blatantly stared at by some godlike man moments after you’ve woken up is totally cool and fine and not overwhelming at all. You’re definitely not breathless from a combination of V’s face and the fact he’d picked you up like you were weightless.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “I’m gonna… go and shower then make breakfast and stuff. Yep.”

V’s eyes light up. “Can I help?” A fleeting image of V rubbing a soapy loofah over your naked skin fills you with spine-tingling trepidation before he finishes his sentence. “I want to learn how to cook.”

Your chest deflates with relief (and absolutely not disappointment), air rushing out of you. Thank God.

“Oh, breakfast? Sure.” You’d been planning on cereal, but faced with V’s overwhelming enthusiasm, maybe you’ll go for something marginally more complicated. Scrambled eggs sound good. “Um. Do you need to download the food preparation package or whatever you mentioned before? Do you… uh, do you need the Wifi password to do that? I never changed it from the random string of letters off the back of the router, but I can go check it for you.”

V shakes his head. “No, I want to learn like a human would,” he says. The blanket in his arms crumples as he tightens his grip in his eagerness, all but bouncing up and down on his feet. “You can teach me.”

Your chest could cave in with how cute he is, every part of you turning to thick gouache that drips down to the floor, leaving a mess of brightness and colour.

This time you ask him to wait in the kitchen while you’re in the bathroom, rather than lurking on the doorstep like he had last night, and he’s practically vibrating with excitement when you reappear. He stays like that the whole time you cook, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, staring as you make yourself scrambled eggs and more toast; you let V take ownership of that part, and he stares at the toaster so intently you have to stifle a laugh.

He spreads butter exactly the same way as you. Not that there’s a specific art to it, or a massive variety in techniques—he’s just spreading butter, not painting a new Mona Lisa—but the way he holds the knife and runs it over the bread is an exact echo of your motions from last night. He might not have downloaded files into his memory (brain?) like another android might, but his mechanical origin is obvious in the way he learns. They’re an exact replication of your actions rather than something new of his own.

“So, uh.” You push the last bit of egg around your plate, brown crumbs sticking to the wedge of golden yellow, sullying it. “V.”

Blink, blink. His lashes are so long, eyes so inquisitive. “Yes?”

“I’m really happy you’re here and that you trust me—” at this, V smiles and you almost fumble over your words at its radiance—“but I feel like I should tell you that I don’t really know much about androids?”

V is unperturbed. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

He clearly isn’t bothered that you’re way out of your depth, but you hate feeling lost like this. “Alright, but… I want you to be comfortable. I’m already planning to get more clothes, but if there’s anything else you need, just let me know. Okay?”

“Why can’t I just wear your clothes?”

Oh, he’s going to be the death of you, all wide-eyed innocence.

“For starters, most of them won’t fit properly,” you explain. “And you shouldn’t just have to wear my old stuff that I don’t use anymore? You should have your own things.”

The look of surprise on V’s face morphs into guilt only moments later. He’s so incredibly expressive and you wonder if it’s because he’s not used to feeling things, all of his reactions so strong and bright, shining out from him. A rainbow palette of emotions. “I don’t want to be a bother,” he murmurs. “You’re already doing so much for me.”

“I’m really not, I’m just treating you the way anyone deserves to be treated.” You flick the crumb of egg across your plate, and it almost tumbles over the edge, caught on its patterned rim. “You deserve to have your own things. Which is my next point. I think you should choose your own name.”

V’s face becomes a sea of rippling ambivalence, contrasting emotions that shift and vary—confusion, uncertainty, excitement, your words a brush that drags through each distinct emotion and pulls them into a messy, mismatched gradient. “Choose my own name?”

“You don’t have to. I just thought it might be a nice idea. V seems…” Your cheeks heat up at the memory of the curl of his lips when he’d shown you the meaning behind his alias, how his tongue had shined under the purple lights of the club. “Well, you didn’t get to choose it, right? It’s a nom de plume, rather than a real name.”

V’s LED flickers yellow, a sunflower that blooms on his temple. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Good!” Your smile is wide. “Okay, how about I teach you how to wash dishes?”

V is, unsurprisingly, a fast learner. The only time he stumbles over things is when he’s presented with any sort of choice, taking his time to come to a decision when he’s posed a question, no matter how simple it is. His eyes will flick to you whenever he settles on an answer, as if waiting for you to say he’s wrong or that you disagree.

(Of course, you never do.)

This fact does, however, mean that choosing clothes to buy becomes a very, very long ordeal (it’s lucky you didn’t have any plans for today). You end up flopped back on the sofa while V hunches over your tablet, mulling over each choice before he puts it in the cart—but you’re happy to wait. V is going to need a lot more practice at choosing things.��

The room is upside down from where your head is hanging over the armrest, eyes falling shut as time goes by, completely zoned out and comfortable despite the crick that’s growing in your neck. You hear V shifting, tablet set aside, and you hum.

“All done?”

“I think so.”

“Nice.” You feel content.

But then you’re ripped out of that warm feeling, shooting back to reality at the sensation of V’s hand stroking down the centre of your chest. Your head snaps up, eyes wide as he drags his large palm between the valley of your breasts, path smoothed by the material of your shirt. The expression on his face is sultry.

“Let me say thank you,” he murmurs, voice dripping thick and sweet, dark molasses.

You promptly roll off the sofa.

Once again, you end up on your back, staring at the ceiling. Once again, the expression on V’s face is one of concern, his seductive facade evaporated in an instant.

Once again your heart is ready to burst in your chest, pumping so hard that blood rushes in your ears. “V,” you wheeze. “What are you doing?”

The android is peering down at you, puzzled. “Sometimes customers would say that at the Eden Club after I had given them pleasure somehow, such as bringing them to orgasm. I thought it was human custom to repay pleasure or happiness with something in return.”

Ah.

“Ah.” You’re still staring at the ceiling, cheeks burning. “I mean. I guess that’s not technically incorrect, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be a, uh, sexual repayment.”

“I have nothing else to offer,” V says.

You sit up. Your face is a caricature of disbelief, embarrassment washed away in an instant, his words cold water that shocks you to the core. He states it so plainly, and once again you’re reminded of his life up until he’d made his way to your door: an automaton who existed solely for people’s pleasure, to slake their desire and lust. He’s not being self-pitying. He really, truly believes that’s all he is. That it’s all he can give back to the world.

“Okay, no, that’s absolutely not true, nuh-uh, I refuse.” This time you unfold yourself from the floor without V’s help, fixing him with a firm stare. “Alright, come on. I think it’s time you learned something else.”

One of the reasons you’d chosen this apartment is for its natural light. Not that it matters right now, weather outside still dismal and overcast, but its effect on this room is still palpable even so—grey, rain-soaked light throws itself over your small home studio, your menagerie of equipment, everything bright with the evidence of use: the worn buckles of the wooden storage boxes, the dried smears on the paint palette, the flecks of colour on the dust sheets underfoot. The centre of it all—the eye of the tornado, untouched by the relative chaos around it—is the canvas waiting on your easel, a project you have yet to start.

V looks utterly enraptured.

“I don’t really come in here as much as I’d like,” you admit. Being a graphic designer is worlds away from the sort of art you love to create, and while it’s a job you genuinely enjoy (and also pays well), it leaves you drained and fills your brain with tired static, little energy left to lavish on your personal works. “But this is where the magic happens. And this is where you’re going to Make Art.”

V freezes. “The only things I know about art are the things you told me when we first met.” He looks equal parts excited but also troubled. “I—”

“You don’t need to know about art to make art,” you say. “I didn’t know jack about art when I was a kid and I was constantly just scribbling away with crayons. Was it good? No. I was a kid with zero pen control, it was pretty crap. Was it worth my time? Yes, because any time spent involved in a craft is never wasted. We can learn more about art history and technique later.”

V stays quiet as you loop your apron over his head, rough material still bearing the remnants of your last works, stains that won’t come out. Oil based paints are kind of a bitch like that.

“I don’t know what to paint,” he says.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to,” you reply, an echo of his earlier words.

V looks lost, barefoot in your studio, in your clothes, your apron, holding onto your wooden paint palette, in front of your easel. Everything in here is yours. Everything, that is, apart from him, whatever is in his mind and heart.

“Where do I start?” V’s eyes are imploring as he looks at you, but for the first time today, your voice is firm.

“Wherever you want. There aren’t any rules. Just do whatever you think would be fun. It doesn’t have to look good, V, you’ve just started.”

You’ve seen paintings made by androids before. They’re always perfect recreations of the world around them, exact replicas of the things they’ve been told to depict on the page—the androids are basically glorified photocopiers, unable to create something original and new.

But they’re not V. They don’t have that spark of curiosity and light inside them, unhampered by the programming that’s meant to keep them in place. His LED dances from yellow to blue, yellow to blue, the rest of his body motionless while the light on his temple is a tumult of movement and colour.

Dark eyes slide over the array of paint hanging from a rack on the wall, some metal tubes more crushed than others, evidence of your preferred shades—you notice how his gaze lingers on the midnight tones, red and blue tinted purples, from lavender to lilac, from plum to wine.

V gives you one more look, a little upturn to his thick brows—almost pleading—and you just gesture with your hand.

“Go for it,” you say.

Your wooden palette becomes home to a riot of purple, each tube squeezed empty with careful hands, far more paint than anyone could possibly ever need. V keeps flicking you glances, but you stay silent, perched on a wooden chair by the now open window, rain-slick air a cold breath on your skin.

The brush the android selects is a wide, bold thing, bristles rough. He handles it like bone china, delicate and liable to shatter any moment, cautious as he dips it into the paint—it’s so wide it picks up three separate shades—and he holds his breath as he brings it up, even if he doesn’t have lungs.

The second the bristles touch the canvas, V’s LED flickers red.

Just for an instant.

He swoops the brush down the canvas as he pulls it away, eyes wide, leaving a slash of purples in its wake. The white material is marred with colour, a textured line of pigment that can’t be erased.

The android pauses as he takes the sight in. He’s still for so long that you’re worried he’s shut down, even with the endlessly dancing circle of his LED—

But then V laughs.

His laugh is loud and bright and free, a series of deep, almost surprised chuckles that grow in intensity and breathlessness, staring at this smear of drying acrylic paint in front of him. The smile on his face is the widest you’ve seen so far, his eyes squeezed into crescents of joy, spilling out of him like light.

“I did that.” He looks at you with that gilded smile, a fresco of delight across the perfection of his features. “I made that.”

“You did.” You can’t help but smile back, your own face split with happiness. You continue to smile as he brings the brush back to the palette, and then to the canvas, dragging the bristles across its surface and leaving more purple behind; the shades swirl and mix as he lays colour without a care for technique or clean lines or form, scooping up the endless amounts of acrylic he’d prepared. By the time he’s finished, the canvas is bumpy with daubs of paint, laid messily by joyful hands, a few bold streaks of unmarred colour surrounded by swirling purples.

The smile hasn’t left V’s face the whole time.

His brush is absolutely saturated, paint clinging to every inch of bristle, from toe to belly to heel. You have no doubt that no matter how much you clean that brush it’ll leak purple into the water, an endless reminder of V’s touch. It’s lax in his grasp as he keeps looking at the canvas, his canvas, smile etched into his face as his LED flows soft blue, content.

You can’t remember the last time you saw someone so elated, buoyed up with the excitement of creation, making something out of nothing, discovering how it feels to bring something into existence, pulling it out of the ether. Making something new. Making something their own. It stirs something in your chest and stomach, reminding you why you love art so much. Why you’ve always loved art. (Why you always will.)

“I made that,” V repeats, his voice a reverent hush. Awestruck.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, because it is—for a multitude of reasons. The reason that sings out to you the most, though, is that it’s the cause of happiness that dances across his face: V, a carved candle, a piece of art made with skilled hands, self-made joy finally catching fire at his wick.

“Thank you,” V says, and you blink.

“For what?”

“For giving me this,” he starts, but before you can interject and point out that you didn’t give him this, he made it, he continues: “For giving me… freedom. To do this. And make this. And learn this.”

The smile that spreads across your face is warm hearth fire. “I didn’t give you freedom, V, you gave that to yourself, but I’m happy to help you any way I can. Now, would you like to keep painting, or would you prefer to help me make dinner?”

He chooses dinner, never leaving your side.

Sunday is nice. There's less messy limbed surprise than on Saturday, although you’re still off kilter when you wake up with your head in V’s lap again, but… it’s nice.

You thought he’d spend the night painting, or drawing, or teaching himself something new using the free rein you’d given him with your computer and notebooks and stationery and art supplies—he doesn’t have to waste time with sleep, like you do—but he hadn’t. He’d climbed into your bed, settling against the pillows just like the night before, looking at you with his big, lovely eyes.

So here he is.

(And here you are.)

It’s cosy and comfortable, even if the feeling of warm skin under warm cotton against your cheek sets your heart to racing, V’s dark eyes even warmer when you roll over to look at his face.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” you reply, and then you yawn, V’s lashes fluttering as he takes in the motion. “What time is it?”

Today’s rain is less of an endless downpour and more of an inconsistent drizzle, grey blanket slowly peeling away from the edges of the city, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re inside for most of the day, anyway. Saturday was hands-on, messy with acrylic and spilled coffee and laundry detergent (V really wants to learn everything), but Sunday is hands-off. You spend the day dredging the corners of your memory and scrolling through old, untouched files from your university years, so you can teach V the things he wants to know while relearning the things you’d forgotten yourself.

V’s little LED dances forever from blue into yellow, ocean waves lapping into sand, a shifting tide as he takes in your words. You’ve never had to teach someone before and you’re admittedly pretty terrible at it, but he never complains, the world’s most attentive and adorable student, sat on the floor with his legs crossed and his hair mussed and his eyes wide, drinking down everything you show him.

You only leave the apartment once. Lunch is delayed when you open your fridge and remember how bereft and sad it is inside, so you venture out into the rain to the nearby supermarket—V opts to stay indoors, LED flickering red at the idea of being caught, shying back.

You leave him looking lost and lonely before the door even finishes swinging shut behind you, long limbs looking even longer in your clothes, but somehow still so small.

“I won’t be long,” you promise.

When you get back, you return not only with bags of food but also clothes, V’s order from yesterday already shipped and delivered. He can finally replace your too-small clothing with things he’s chosen himself. It’s a fumble to get in the door, but the android is waiting for you, swinging it open and catching the bag you nearly drop in surprise.

“I have your clothes,” you announce. “I’ll put away the shopping while you try them on?”

You’re going to have to tattoo a reminder on your forehead about V’s relationship (or lack thereof) with clothes, because of course he takes this as an invitation to start stripping before you’ve even had a chance to take your shoes off.

He does that thing where he grabs the back of his (your) shirt and pulls it over his head in one swift motion, curls of hair a cloud of smoke that settles around his face as the shirt is cast aside; you’re frozen in place as he reaches for the knot of his sweatpant’s drawstring, long fingers pulling it loose, but you let out a sharp meep just as his fingers hook into the waistband of them.

“PleasewaituntilI’mnotrightinfrontofyouthankyou,” you gasp all at once, words incoherent as they slide together, but V understands. He tilts his head at you inquisitively although he (thankfully) stops.

“Don’t you want to see the clothes?”

“I do, but, uh, for humans it’s normally customary to only get entirely naked or change clothes when you’re alone.” Your heart is going to burst out of your chest with how fast it’s racing. Without the string to cinch the sweatpants tight they’re starting to fall a little, revealing the delicate lines of his hip bones, and coupled with the reappearance of V’s bare stomach, your brain is going into meltdown. “So just—just give me a sec to go to the kitchen, okay? You’re probably better off changing in the bedroom, anyway, so you can use the full length mirror to see how you look.”

“Okay,” he says, but then: “Do humans never undress around others unless they’re planning to have sex?”

Your mouth falls open before you pause, words halting on your lips as you try to think of the best way to phrase your answer. “Well, we do, it’s not just about sex, but it’s usually only if you’re really comfortable with the other person you’re with, and they’re comfortable with you.”

“I’m comfortable with you,” V states plainly, and your insides turn to jelly. “Are you not comfortable with me?”

Oh, hell. “I am, I am! I’m just, uh… I’ve not really had a lot of practice with nakedness around other people.” What a way to put that you’re a shy ass virgin when it comes to real life nudity and sex, huh. “So let’s just keep it to a minimum for now, okay? Please?”

The android’s LED flickers honey-sweet on his temple as he looks at you, before his hands fall away from the sweatpants. “Okay.”

(Thank God.)

You’re not sure what you’re expecting to see when V starts to present his small array of outfits to you, but—he looks effortlessly stylish in the oversized clothes he’s selected, a muted palette of brown and yellow and red and cream, a cup of hot chocolate on an autumn day. He might be new to all this but his eye for aesthetic is impeccable. You have no doubt that the more he learns, the better he’ll get, hop-skip-jumps ahead of you, even after years of art education.

He’s even bought pyjamas, dark tartan patterns masculine but also adorable; it’s an utter juxtaposition to the tighter, sensual clothing he’d been given at the Eden Club.

“You look really good,” you tell him. Your voice is only a little strained. He smiles.

The outfit V wears for the rest of the afternoon is perfect for a rainy day spent indoors, thick jumper and tawny trousers, a blend of sepia tones. He looks like if you made a hug into a person: all soft edges and cosy and wrapped up in warmth.

And V is warm. You’re not sure if it’s a lingering memory of his programming, a carry over from his start in life as a sexbot, but he likes to touch—nothing inappropriate or overbearing, but he’s not shy about stepping into your personal space, brushing the back of your hand with his fingers as he points at something on the screen, or pressing close to your side as you cook, or just one of the hundreds of other tiny touches that he’s littered across you throughout the day. It’s thoughtless on his part, LED not even flickering, but each time is just another reminder of his warmth, the blue blood pulsing under his skin, how alive he is.

(And the truth is that you enjoy those touches. You’re not used to them, but lord knows you’re touch starved, so as fleeting as they are, they’re nice.)

Even though you still leave plenty of space between the two of you when you lay to sleep, you swear you can feel the heat spilling off V, another warm body in the bed that’s so used to just one. Though he stays sitting up, he’s in his cute matching pyjamas, and it’s… it’s a lot. You’ve invited V into your home—and you don’t regret it—but after two days he’s already settled in in a way you never thought anyone else would, as entirely unconventional as the whole situation is. (You’re not sure how many people have sheltered a deviant android in their homes, though, so maybe this isn’t as unconventional as you think. Who knows? Not you.)

“I have to go to work tomorrow.”

V tilts his head down to look at you.

“You can get up to whatever you’d like,” you continue. You’re propped up on an elbow so it’s less intimate than if you’d been on your back and staring upwards like you were waiting for him to slide down next to you (that’s what it feels like, to you, anyway). “You know the password for my computer now, and you’re welcome to watch TV or play games or whatever, and you can use all my stuff in the studio. I mean, other than painting or drawing over stuff I’ve already finished, but you’re welcome to grab any paper or canvases if you want them. I think that’s everything? But please let me know if there’s more you want or need, okay?”

Blink, blink. His lashes are soft charcoal that frames the spilled ink of his gaze. In the dimmed light of your room V is unreadable, his LED a quiet blue glow on his temple, but he looks soft, and he looks safe, and he nods.

“Alright,” he says. A smile that flickers at the edge of his lips. “I will.”

(You wake up, quiet and slow, face pillowed against V’s thigh, still drifting in sleep. You make a small noise, eyes shut, wondering why there’s no blaring sound of your alarm, but then a large hand smooths over your hair and you instinctively relax under the soft touch.

“You have thirty three minutes until you’re due to wake up,” he murmurs. “You can go back to sleep.”

So you do.)

(When you wake up to the scream of your alarm thirty three minutes later, you don’t remember any of this. All you can think of is the dawn of another Monday, the slog of another working week, and you sigh. But—

“Morning.”

V’s eyes are dark meok ink, liquid earth that grounds you.

“Morning,” you say, smiling despite yourself, and then roll out of bed to get the whole day started.)

You’re used to spending a day surrounded by laughter and banter, wrapped up in the camaraderie of your co-workers and friends, only to return to a world of quiet solitude. You’re used to coming home to rooms that are untouched from the morning, holding onto the echo of your passing, still and waiting for your return, an apartment of motionless air.

But not today. There’s evidence of someone else here: the open door to your studio down the hall, the scattered books on the coffee table, the mess of cushions on the sofa, all small signs that someone has been moving and living in your absence. A still-life that’s shifted into a breathing trompe l’oeil, V’s presence bringing flatness into perspective, turning it into something real.

It’s… nice.

You flop onto the sofa and send one of those cushions overboard, tumbling to the ground. V appears in the doorway moments later, new apron already streaked with colour, copper green thumbprint on his face like he’d touched it in thought and not realised. A little streak of paint that draws the eye to his lovely chin.

“Welcome home!” His hair is blond today, a golden nimbus around his face, though his eyes are still dark. Light and shadow. His happiness is infectious and you smile helplessly back, glad for his excitement with painting—but it seems like he hasn’t finished. “I’m happy you’re home. I missed you.”

KO. Wipeout. Your heart turns to liquid in your chest, burnt sugar that dribbles hot and saccharine through your ribs.

“I chose a name.” V continues, oblivious to how he’s turned your insides into syrup, and you abruptly sit up.

“Oh?”

“Taehyung.” The way he says it, in his deep voice, those two syllables are endless—a single name, heavy with the weight of meaning behind it. A shedding of his old skin, one that was forced on him, leaving him pink-skinned and new and free.

“Taehyung,” you repeat, and his LED flickers at the sound falling off your lips. “Taehyung. It’s lovely.”

He’s smiling, that lovely toothy smile that you’ve already decided is your favourite out of any smile you’ve seen, his LED electric blue and swirling in delight.

Day after day, you wake up to the sight of that LED glowing as Taehyung watches you lift up out of sleep. Night after night, you come home to his lovely, big grin, all large hands and soft hair—hair that he chooses to change colour when he pleases, a dizzying palette with every shade you can dream of. He’s bright and deep, playful and reflective, a dance of flirty Rococo to more solemn Baroque, every day another day where he learns and grows and adds another facet to the cut diamond of his personality.

(It hasn’t been long but you’re starting to think you’d put the world in the palm of his hand, if you could.)

You never thought you’d live to see the day where someone as lovely as Taehyung would be glad to see you home, having missed you after being apart—but for all that he’s voraciously leaning into the arts, consuming everything from visual to literary to performance, he’s never happier than when you’re there too. He shows you his works, improvement obvious with every new piece, but his excitement grows tenfold when you start to paint alongside him; seeing him so joyful spurs you to pick your brushes up again, buoyed up with motivation in the face of his own.

(Your studio is usually quiet, a little reflective maybe, the only sound the music you play over your speakers—but now more often than not you and Taehyung will talk, and laugh, and even if you’ve both ebbed into silence, it’s never heavy. It’s a held breath. The potential to speak any moment. The sensation of another person in the same space as you, an orbit, both existing in a shared moment, connected by gossamer threads that shimmer with sunlight.

Taehyung’s eyes are steady on his canvas as he works, but he glances at you through the curl of his lashes, smiling back at you. Always, always smiling, LED calm blue as the rest of his face shines golden, bright.)

(Maybe it’s selfish, but you think you could get used to this.)

taglist: @beyoncesdragon

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bnhasalt · 2 years ago

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If you could replace Bakugo with any hero students from a different schools included as Midoriya's main rival who would you choose

oh dang, well. Ok, so, you'll have to take this with a grain of salt because I haven't actually caught up to mha in ages. So you might know some characters I don't / something i mention may no longer be accurate etc etc. But i'm gonna try so let's go! [Let's just take the porcupine out of the equation completely for a second. Assume he didn't pass his entrance exam and cannot exist as a classmate, only as setup dressing for izu's backstory.] Right away class 1a offers at least 3 really solid options for the healthy 'everyone benefits and gets stronger from it' genre of rivalry. IIda, Uraraka and Todoroki. Of course there's a lot of variation in between them, Todo's much closer to a more classic rival archetype- at least before the sports festival fight- whereas IIda and Uraraka are more so just pals with a good dose of friendly competition from the get-go. Then you have the other class students like Shinso , Monoma etc. Only noting those two in particular though because they fit the rival memo better, right? Welllllll... Monoma only became as hostile towards class 1a as he did BECAUSE of b_kugo. If he's not in the picture, aka noone provoked EVERY OTHER CLASS asserting they're better than them, he'd have no reason to be that petty. Probably still would be because he IS a theater kid but not enough to warrant a full rivalry I feel njsbnfj especially with someone like izu who's just. you know. a good person that doesn't mock and start shit with people for no reason. And Shinso did have a mini-rivalry-esque characterization in the festival but I wouldn't really count that because he was just trying to get into the hero course, means to an end, nothing personell kid. Then you have more similar situations with the provisional license students, but once again these characters are very minor and even the ones with the most screen time were still just trying to pass that exam same as anyone else. So generally, in my opinion, none of the background/secondary characters really works as a longtime rival to izuku. Partly because these are all students just trying to pass their exams, and partly because izuku is simply not a character that a rational person would just. Hate. For no reason. *cough*. A lot of other rivalries in similar media rely more on the protagonist themselves having flaws that may cause such a relationship to form. Being arrogant, reckless, overconfident and/or convinced they are or will inevitably be the best there ever was etc etc. That's not necessarily good or bad, always depends on how it's handled. Izu, however, is just not that type of protagonist. His main flaws lie more in being extremely self sacrificing, to the point where he can act without thinking, gravely injuring himself in the process, and stuff like that. Which means the only way you can really have that ClassicJackass™ flavor of rivalry is if the Other Person is a completely deluded asshole that sees breathing as competition. In a way forcing the protagonist into the dynamic in retaliation, even though it's not even remotely balanced and no matter what the emotional power imbalance will always be too big to ignore. You see where I'm getting at. Truth be told you cant really replace B_ku as a rival and have the same dynamic, because the dynamic REQUIRES someone that's as huge a piece of shit as he is. However that's just assuming we are looking for that specific dynamic. We don't have to be, and in that case any of the original three work perfectly well as friendly rivals. And if you're just looking for a meme answer instead of this whole spiel about what would work in the story, i'm going to say Ibara. I just think it'd be really funny.

#ask #long post #jfdjh sorry for rambling this much but to be fair i'm probably going to drop out of the face of the earth again for the foreseeable future-#really soon jhfjsd #take the meta while you can because there probably wont be any more of it jshjfjf

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haifengg · 3 years ago

Text

Errands - Nanami Kento

Pairing: NanamixGN!Reader

Genre: Fluff // general summer or spring feelings // Is fashion a genre?

Summary: First dating Nanami and getting to know him better. On a bigger side note also about his clothes.

Word Count: about 1.6 k

One of the things that drew you to Nanami since the very first day of working together, was the way he dressed. Not just because he was one of the very few people at the school who didn’t wear all black uniforms but because he chose seemingly the same outfit every day. Which appeared odd to you. You wondered how his wardrobe would look like and if he really owned the same set of clothes a bunch of times to rotate them on a daily basis.

Then you started observing him a little closer and not only did you mentioned his subtle perfume but also did it come to your attention that in fact he wasn’t wearing the same clothes every day. The colours variated only in nuances and the fabric too wasn’t the same. Some shirts of his were a simple cotton blend but others were made out of a more pattern woven fabric. A lot if his shirts were in fact blue. But they tend to have all sorts of different undertones. A lot of them dipping into a grey palette.

His suits also differed and after a few weeks of subtly stalking his clothes you arrived at the conclusion that he probably owned three to four different suits. Maybe some darker ones as well since housed to be a regular salary man. The beige-ness of them wasn’t all the same either. Because his shirts - even though one doesn’t see it at first - were in fact very different in warmth of the color and texture of the fabric, he had ad least two beige coloured suits. Which he always managed to match perfectly to the dress shirts.

Nanami surely had a favourite tie. Which he wore a lot and how you later found out: Owns three of. But he had a few other choices as well which he only chose when he was tied down to his desk with paperwork and wasn’t going into the field. Just as if the yellow tie with the golden touch was his battle tie. The one that boosted his confidence. Maybe even kind of his trade mark.

After taking note of all these different things you figure that he probably had to be a man of minutest detail. Not choosing too brightly coloured shirts because different shades of blue would complemented his hair better.

And you wonder if other people paid that much attention to him as well or if it was just you.

After that thought formed in your head you realised how much you were thinking about Nanami Kento over the past few weeks and that you had - according to your data and previous crushes you had on other people - fallen for him.

Luckily Nanami was paying just as much attention to you than you were paying to him. He simply was way more discreet about it. But when he eventually was certain that asking you out was worth the trouble and pondered the emotional dividend - he did it. He asked you out. Very bluntly, very straightforward and your heart dropped to your knees. Because you secretly hoped that all your rapture would never have to be acted on.

[…]

Seeing him out of work not only made you realise how sweet of a man he is behind all those glasses, holsters, fighting and stern face, but also gave you more inside about his choice of clothes. During summery after noon dates he tend to show up in light linen shirts and slacks, a different pair of glasses than the one he wore to work. You would have never taken him for a jute bag kind of guy but he carried one of these pretty often.

When you asked him about it he only smiled softly and offered to show you. Then you got into a subway, holding on to the same pole. His arm holding on to it over your shoulder, giving you a feeling of being protected. And basically forced you to stare into his chest. As you exited the train after a rather long ride at a station you’ve never been to before, he put his hand into the smallest of your back, guiding you towards the exit and standing closely behind you on the escalator. Unwillingly your heart skipped a beat because it was the first time he physically touched you.

Stepping out of the station you looked around, shielding your eyes from the sun using your hand. Yet there was nothing to see. Where ever he brought you seemed to be just a typical area were people lived. Went to work in the morning and returned to in the evening.

“Are you disappointed?” He asked, looking at you with an amused expression on his face. You deny his question and say that you’re just really confused why he wanted to show you a a suburban area of the city you both lived in.

“You wanted to know what the bag is for. I’ll show you.” He walked a few steps, then turned around when he noticed you weren’t following him. “Come on!”

So you went. And followed him. Like a shadow, once again, slowly observing his moves and actions, how he talked to the people. How he wasn’t the nicest or most polite person at work talking to his coworkers but smiled at the owner of the book shop were he went to pick up an order. You saw his eyes wrinkle as he laughed at a joke and how his eyes light up when they talked about the development of the area for about a minute.

He put the book and the paper in his jute bag.

Then he went on to the dry cleaners, pulled out a coupon from his wallet and picked up two of shirts of his. Once again he took the time to chat with the owner. The elderly lady seemed delighted to see him and they talked just as if they have known each other for a long time. One time she looked past Nanami’s tall frame to catch a glimpse at you and asked who you might be. But he cunningly smiled and replied: “I will tell you some other time.” And winked at her and the lady giggled like a young girl. You wouldn’t trust your eyes. Nanami Kento, the grumpy guy from work was flirting with the owner from the dry cleaners. Who was this man.

By the time you got to the market, the sun had long since started to set and cast long shadows over the busy vendors.

“Would you hold this for me?” Nanami asked and handed you the shirts wrapped in plastic foil. During the past one and a half hour you barely said a word to each other. But now he asked you all kinds of questions, while also chatting with the vendors and filling the jute bag on his shoulders with fruit, vegetables and all kinds of other groceries.

“Do you like fish? Or do you prefer vegetables?”

“Is there anything you don’t like?”

“How about anchovies?”

“Oh look, they got tomatoes, don’t they look just great?”

He bought bread from a small bakery at the corner of the market, strawberries from another lady in wellies and a hooverette. When she saw you following him at every turn like a little duckling, a big smile grew on her face, making her eyes disappear in a bunch of wrinkles and she gave him some extra fruits for you to try.

[…]

“So why were you carrying that bag exactly? To run errands?” You ask him, leaning back and eyeing him from across the small table in his kitchen. He twirled the stem of the wine glass between his fingers and scoffed.

“No, honestly I wanted to take you running errands with me for while so I always took the bag in case I would manage getting you to accompany me. But the opportunity just never presented.”

The honesty of his words surprised you and caused you to raise an eyebrow. “Why did you want to run errands with me?”

“Because I am a different guy with the people of my community. Of course I could have told you but how classy is that really? Showing you would be much more impressive.”

You hold up your glass to watch the light refracting in the most different shades of red. “That’s a fair point. Laos I probably wouldn’t have believed you.” His laughter chimed through the kitchen and out the open window, where the wind got hold of it and carried it away.

“You know, people tend to mistake me for someone sort of person that I am not for most of the time.” You nod and he resumed impishly like a little boy: “On another hand I wanted to show you were I live.”

“You wanted to lure me into your place?”

“Yes.” Nanami admits and laughs. He leaned back and thrummed on the table using his thumb. After you had finished the shared dinner he prepared for you after coming home he had crossed his legs and pushed up the glasses to rest on his hair.

“What for?”

You take your eyes off the shimmering wine in your glass to search for an answer in his eyes. The flashing blue eyes, so wonderfully complemented by the shirt he chose to wear today. Narrow light blue stripes. To your surprise there was nothing to search for. Because Nanami was already spelling it out for you.

“To let you know how much I like you.”

Masterlist

@sagedevans @shampoocifer @your-consulting-fangirl

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen scenario #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jjk imagines #jjk scenarios #jjk headcanons #jjk nanami #Nanami kento #jjk imagine #jjk fluff #jjk head canon Nanami kento #nanami

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jeongyunhoed · 3 years ago

Photo

Past-Present-Future Black Dahlia

Two major tragedies bring Lee Mirae closer to the edge as she goes through the stages of grief in a more violent manner that would affect not only her relationships with her boyfriend Jeong Yunho and her half-brother Choi San, but also has her becoming closer with the immortal mutant Kang Yeosang. Fueled by rage, grief, and pain, along with a very rude awakening that has Mirae spiraling out of control and questioning everything she holds dear.

Group: ATEEZ Member: Yunho Pairing: Jeong Yunho / OC Genre: Action, adventure, angst, fantasy

Watch Out! : Violence, blood, death, grief and loss, major character deaths, use of weapons, some jealousy (but no cheating ofc), implied smut (not sure if there is any but i’m putting it out there nonetheless), mental illness (probably?), gambling and alcohol

Anything else? : Mentions of other idols of course as well as other characters. SuperM, Dean, Chanyeol, Zelo, soloist Park Jihoon to name a few.

Author’s Note: SuperM hello. Also, sexc car chase scene with Yeosang driving. This hasn’t been proofread much, so sorry for the errors you might see.

Listen to: Dark - Hans Zimmer

Masterlist

Chapter 4

Yeosang glanced over at Mirae, who was still blankly staring out the window. She had been that way in the first few hours of the drive. He wouldn’t admit it, at least right away, but with the silence coming from her, Yeosang was even more convinced that she was that sad. Dare he say it, he was beginning to feel a little concerned yet knew that sometimes the polite thing to do was not to say anything about it. The music playing on the radio acted as white noise between them, and Yeosang was hardly even listening to the songs.

Mirae looked down at her hands, feeling the deck of playing cards in her jean pocket. She barely had time to think about how expensive the clothes she was wearing were - Yeosang’s excuse was that the Dior boutique was the nearest. Mirae wanted to scoff right then and there, but she was impressed at how he got her clothes that fit her.

Her thoughts were going back to how she left Yunho. How she left him unconscious in Yeosang’s apartment while hoping San got to him, or anyone at least. A feeling of guilt was setting inside even in the midst of the overwhelming feelings of sadness and rage. Was it even possible to feel like this? She wasn’t sure. “How did you meet them?” She suddenly asked.

“Who, my dear?”

“The one you’re taking me to.”

“It’s not just one person. They’re a small group of people, people like us,” Yeosang replied, glancing at her from time to time as they entered a flyover, cars intersecting above and below them. “They felt they were above the place we lived in, so they uh, how should I say it? Created their own little world.”

“So how did you meet them?”

“I met them through another immortal. His name is Mark Lee. I’ve known him for centuries. We were rivals for the affections of Emperor Octavian’s daughter, Julia. Amazing woman in every way possible,” A smirk crept up on Yeosang’s lips as he remembered. “I nearly became an emperor if Mark hadn’t intruded that one night.”

“To this day, I still don’t know how old you actually are.”

Yeosang chuckled. “My dear Mirae, age is not important, especially my age. When I met Mark again, in recent… shall we day, decades? Or at least some few years ago, he introduced me to a group of mutants he was friends with. Some of them are quite powerful, one of them, I think, is an omega-level mutant like you.”

“I guessed as much, if they thought they were so superior,” Mirae looked out the window.

“We’ll see about that. Sometimes, mutants only intimidate others just by mentioning their powers, empty threats even though they could deliver on it, lessens the dirty work but it gets into their heads,” Yeosang said. Glancing at the rearview mirrors, he noticed three black cars in a formation behind them. “My dear, if you could assist me a little bit, I think we are being followed.”

Mirae looked over her seat at the three cars that seemed to move closer while Yeosang kept his foot on the gas to drive faster. “I wonder who they could be,” She watched for any signs of movement from the driver’s seats. Mirae saw a set of small rockets come out from the lights on the bumper. “They plan to kill us. Do you know them?”

“No I don’t, I promise you,” Yeosang swerved a few times past several cars only for the three black sedans to be able to keep up.

Mirae shook her head at the sight of the sedans keeping up, one of which was already across from them. There were spikes that extended from the rims of the wheels. The car bumped into them, Mirae clutching the armrest. “They plan on destroying your car while they’re at it,” She said, her eyes glowing red as she stared at the car next to them. The tires exploded, sending the car skidding, the rear hitting their vehicle.

“Damn,” Yeosang kept the car in its lane. “Very good, my dear Mirae. Perhaps you can do something about the other two?” He said, swerving several times so as not to bump into the cars surrounding them to get ahead.

Mirae took out one card from her pocket and threw it as hard as she could at the other sedan that caught up to them. The sedan exploded, the impact of the explosion moving them forward. “If they’re your friend’s bodyguards, then I think they don’t want us coming,” She said, her eyes still glowing. “Not that I care.”

She eyed the remaining black sedan that was following them that launched a rocket. Mirae looked at both the rocket and the car, both exploding in the middle of the road. The remaining cars began to cluster towards them. “Apparently, they were everywhere all along. The way must be heavily guarded, or that they don’t want us going,” Yeosang glanced at the rearview mirrors.

Mirae stayed still, staring at all the cars in front of them. Her eyes were glowing brighter than ever as she kept her gaze on them, the vehicles exploding one by one. She glanced at the rearview mirror on her side, the cars behind them exploding one by one as well, the smoke from the explosions blocking their view of the road.

“Thank you, my dear,” Yeosang drove on through the thick smoke in the air. “All this smoke means we’re getting close.”

The color of the smoke changed from the usual gray and black to white as he moved forward. The glow in Mirae’s eyes faded just as the smoke began to fade, only to see that their surroundings had changed.

Past the wide roads of the highway, they were at the entrance of a dreary lakeside village. “This is where they live?” Mirae glanced at him.

Yeosang chuckled. “No, they live up there,” He pointed to the nearby cliff. There was a white mansion molded in the usual 1930s art deco style that Mirae noticed in the immortal mutant’s apartment.

Mirae noticed that the residents in the village seemed to dress differently, as if wearing different variations of the hanbok. The anger seeped in again, knowing that they were approaching the home of who may have been behind the explosion of the Danger Room, behind the deaths of Chanyeol and Hyuk. Yeosang drove on, down the route of the mansion’s driveway, the sight of the house growing bigger and bigger until they finally approached the gate.

Two guards were standing by and stopped them. “Name?” They asked.

“Kang Yeosang and Lee Mirae. One of them is expecting me by now,” Yeosang replied.

The gates opened on its own and the guards stood by for their vehicle to enter the grounds. As soon as they pulled up, they saw someone standing by the front doors, dressed undoubtedly like he owned the place, but also that he was strikingly handsome. One half of his coiffed hair was blonde, the other side was red. His eye on the blonde side was also blue, the other a dark brown. He was smiling as they pulled up, opening Mirae’s door.

“Hello,” He said as she got out, taking her hand and kissing it.

“Taeyong, quite a greeting you’ve got there,” Yeosang pointed out, tossing the key to the valet.

The male with the name turned to Mirae again. “Forgive my manners, or lack of. I’m Lee Taeyong and I own this house. It’s nice to meet you at last.”

Lee Taeyong was an omega-level mutant like Mirae. Taeyong was an omega-level psychic that could not only read minds, but could also control a person’s mind and manipulate their memories. Taeyong also had the extraordinary gift of turning into organic diamond, making him almost invulnerable to harm and giving him added strength and a psychic shield. However, Taeyong’s limitation was the fact that he could not use his telepathy while he was in his diamond form.

Mirae glanced at Yeosang and before she could speak, he shook his head. “It’s not him you’re going to see,” He advised.

Taeyong smirked. “You must be jumping for joy now that you’re on a drive with the apple of your eye,” He glanced at Yeosang. Turning back to Mirae, he let go of her hand. “That’s what he was thinking. He thinks very loudly.”

“My thoughts are not for you to read, Taeyongie, as I’m sure your brother has taught you that much. Taemin, where is he?” Yeosang asked.

“He’s attending a business meeting. He won’t be here until tonight. But Mark is here, I guess you haven’t seen him in a while,” Taeyong replied. “Come in, come in, I can’t read your thoughts but I can read his and I know who you plan on seeing. Don’t bother taking off your shoes in the main area.”

He turned around to lead them inside. The interiors were decorated in shades of black, gold, and white on marble similar to Yeosang’s home. Mirae and Yeosang followed him further down the hall and they stopped in front of two mahogany doors. “At least one of us couldn’t be read,” She muttered to him.

Taeyong opened the doors, leading into what looked like a parlor, with red velvet couches and chintz chairs, mahogany chests of drawers in the same art deco style, and a crystal chandelier in the ceiling. They saw two people by the fireplace drinking champagne in crystal flutes, watching a drama on a tv that was placed above the mantle. Mirae felt her heart drop as the two figures, whose backs were turned, looked familiar.

“They’re here,” Taeyong announced, making the two people turn around.

Mirae’s eyes widened, looking like a deer caught in the headlights upon seeing their faces. “...Baekhyun? … Jongin?”

The shorter and paler of the two, Baekhyun, smiled. “Mirae, Mirae, Mirae, long time no see,” He said.

Byun Baekhyun was skilled in manipulating and creating light and light energy. Baekhyun was also skilled in hand-to-hand combat, specializing in hapkido. Kim Jongin had the ability to teleport, leaving a wisp of black smoke in his wake.

“It’s been years, hasn’t it?” Jongin spoke this time, approaching her. “You look like you’ve been through a lot.”

Mirae still couldn’t speak. She was too stunned to utter a word. All this time, Baekhyun and Jongin survived the Seoul attack but had never made themselves known. “Hello to you too, Yeosang,” He glanced at the vampiric-looking mutant, who nodded. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” He said to Mirae.

“I couldn’t blame her, we haven’t exactly seen her since that day,” Jongin patted her shoulder. “Do you like our new place? It’s not underground like the Center, but it’s here in this little village, it’s cozy,” He gestured for her to sit down while they did the same. “Mark’s here too, by the way, he’s probably off playing tennis or something.”

“So, what brings both of you here? I doubt it’s because the weather’s nice in this place,” Baekhyun poured her a glass of champagne. Mirae quietly accepted the drink, staring at the bubbles.

“Don’t act clueless, you know why they’re here,” Taeyong chimed in, giving the elder a look.

“Taeyong, it’s rude to read other people’s minds without their permission,” Baekhyun chided. “Even if I already know, it doesn’t hurt to ask to make sure. They might be misleading you, even in that respect.”

“I don’t have the capability to be paranoid when I can read everything like an open book,” Taeyong rolled his eyes. “Dinner is already prepared, by the way, I’ll call Mark-”

He stepped back when out of thin air appeared Mark himself. Unlike Baekhyun, Jongin, and Taeyong, Mark was dressed in a pinstripe suit. Yeosang’s expression stiffened upon seeing him. Mark Lee was, like Yeosang, an immortal mutant whose fortune over the centuries led him to own a business empire that had bases in both South Korea and Canada. Mark had the ability to teleport anywhere and everywhere he chose while also possessing a strong telepathic ability. Mark was also considered a doctor among his peers who studied Languages though he barely put that knowledge of his to the test as he usually tackled his businesses.

“No need,” Mark said, stopping at the sight of Mirae and Yeosang. “Brought her here to meet them, ‘Sang?” He asked.

“As a matter of fact, I did. Ruined anyone’s pursuits lately, Mark?” Yeosang shot at him, watching him take Mirae’s hand and gently kiss the back of it in greeting.

“As long as it’s your pursuits, which I can tell is this lovely woman in front of me,” Mark said.

“I’m taken,” Mirae pointed out.

Mark glanced at Yeosang. “Oh? You have pursued her? This is going to be fun.”

Mirae pulled her hand back, seeing Baekhyun and Jongin’s amused expressions. “I’m guessing you’ve been living your lives here all this time,” She said.

“Well, yeah, since the Seoul attack,” Baekhyun nodded. “Before you two arrived, we were all discussing a business venture we were looking to carry out in the capital. Maybe you could help us out, Yeosang?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, Mark and Taeyong have the capital to build it on, maybe some added manpower would help make the project solid. Let’s talk about this over dinner,” Baekhyun said, gesturing to the doors. Mark disappeared in an instant.

The dining room of the mansion had a view of what was outside. Yeosang and Mirae noticed that it had gotten much darker, realizing how late it was getting. Mirae still couldn’t believe that Baekhyun and Jongin were alive all this time, that they actually survived the explosion from the Seoul attack, the impact caused by her own powers. She was still trying to process this new situation.

Could they have been the ones who tampered with the Danger Room? The question reminded her of why she was there, having dinner with them, with other mutants who were also quite powerful, especially psychics as powerful as them. Mirae could only hope that Yunho would be able to read her mind at the moment, so he would know where they were.

“So, as I was saying earlier, Jongin, Taeyong, Mark, and I are looking into setting up a new business venture and Yeosang may be able to give it the added credibility it needs,” Baekhyun broke the momentary lull when everyone else tucked into the food. Mirae poked around the courses on her plate as she listened.

“Is that what you’ve been up to since the Seoul attack?” Mirae asked, glancing at him from time to time.

“Yeah, killing monsters and aliens wasn’t fun for me anymore, I’m sure you understand that,” Baekhyun smiled. “Knowing that Taeyong, his brother Taemin, and Mark are businessmen, when Jongin and I found each other and in turn found them, the business world seemed a little more interesting.”

“What kind of venture is it?” Yeosang asked. “I’d like to know what it is before I make any deal.”

“It’s called Project Apocalypse,” Baekhyun said with a grin on his face. “Project Apocalypse is going to be the next big thing among mutants and non-mutants.”

“It’s more of a think-tank. People come to us for answers, we give them the answers,” Jongin added.

“What kind of answers would those be?” Yeosang asked in between a sip of wine.

“Political answers, mostly, economic answers, diplomatic answers, you name it,” Mark replied. “You and I both have the experience for that. Didn’t you meet the adviser to Chun Doohwan during the uprising?”

“I have. I killed her,” Yeosang replied, both Baekhyun and Jongin looking surprised at how nonchalant he was about it.

“She could’ve been useful to us, you know,” Mark said. “Oh right, I see. You killed her because she was trying to get to Mirae over here,” He added, having read his thoughts.

Mirae sighed and ate a forkful of her salad instead. “You know, Mark and I can read everyone’s minds here, except for her. Why is that?” Taeyong raised a brow.

“Psychic shield, Taeyongie. I remember Junhong telling us about it when we first started training,” Baekhyun chuckled, glancing at her. “If you can’t read her mind, her psychic shield must be that strong.”

“We can’t read everyone after all, it would be too easy if we could,” Mark chimed in.

“How is Junhong, by the way? Has he been well? He’s alive, isn’t he?” Jongin asked her.

“Very well. Fixed my staff the first time we met again. He’s fixed a lot of other things, sometimes without me knowing,” Mirae replied.

“The three of you go a long while back and yet you’re acting like you don’t know each other,” Taeyong chuckled in his place.

“It has been a while since we last saw each other. We did, however, spend a few years together in the Center for Paranormal Research,” Baekhyun nodded, finishing the food on his plate. “I remember it was me, you, Minseok hyung, and Tao that were put forward because of our fighting skills.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to them?” Mirae asked.

“No idea. I thought I was the only one left, until I saw Jongin from the corner of the street, teleporting out of that place in time,” Baekhyun glanced at her. “I guess the same could be said of you.”

“Yeah, and Hyuk, and Chanyeol. Remember them?”

He smiled. “Why don’t we go take a walk? Just us, you can play catch up with Jongin after,” Baekhyun suggested.

“Yeah, I’ll tell you more about Project Apocalypse after we pitch the idea to Yeosang over here,” Jongin nodded eagerly, exchanging knowing looks with the older male.

Baekhyun and Mirae got up from their seats. Mirae eyed Yeosang, who had a look of concern all over his face at the suggestion. She followed him towards the patio doors and out into the well-manicured backyard of the mansion that had a swimming pool with a diving board and several patio chairs. The question was still nagging at Mirae as a silence came between them while they walked along the cemented areas of the estate. “To answer your question, I do remember them. Vividly, actually,” He said. “The tall dope and the guy I remember you used to like but is also your best friend.”

“Years have gone by since the Seoul attack,” Mirae said.

“I know. It changed everything. It changed everyone. You with that streak in your hair, still playing with the same stick you always used to lug around. It’s almost like a part of you, isn’t it? That staff of yours?” Baekhyun said.

“I never leave without it. Even when I go to work, it’s with me,” She pointed out.

Baekhyun nodded. “I see. No matter how much has changed, you still seem to be the same person. It didn’t help that when Professor Jang died, Ino took charge and started to play favorites.”

“You were one of them, Baek,” She said carefully, remembering the nickname he would often go by.

“That I am, Tao too. Minseok hyung too. We were like, how should I say it? Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. We led the fighting for the rest of them,” Baekhyun grinned as he remembered. “Too bad things went the way it did, otherwise we’d all still be there, cooped up underground with all of those simulations.”

“That’s a memorial now. A lot of things happened since then, at least to me,” Mirae recalled everything, feeling her heart sink further upon remembering Jihoon, then Hyuk and Chanyeol.

They stopped in front of a ceramic bust perched on top of a small pillar. Baekhyun looked up. “What brings you here, then? You didn’t know I was alive, much less Jongin.”

“I came here because Yeosang told me I’d find answers here,” Mirae replied. “Chanyeol and Hyuk are dead now, and I find out that the Danger Room was tampered with leading to them dying. I’m trying to find out who did it and why.”

Baekhyun smiled. “I knew you were going to say that. Actually, Taeyong knew just by reading Yeosang’s thoughts over there. He was thinking of what you were going to find out upon coming here. I can hear him telling me now. Yeosang’s looking out for you, he’s kind of worried about what you will know, and how you’ll react when it’s all revealed.”

“You know who did it, didn’t you?” Mirae stared at him. “All this time, you were alive and you never meant to make contact? Not even with Junhong? You didn’t even bother to look for us in the places you figured we’d be?”

The male chuckled. “For a trained assassin like yourself, you’re getting pretty bad at stealth, aren’t you? I’ve come across you quite a few times since then, but you never saw me, much less took notice of me.”

She raised a brow. “Well I never got any message from you. Not even a hi or a hello.”

Baekhyun shook his head. He leaned closer with a satisfied look on his face. “No, no, no. My way of making contact with you was through the tragedies you have experienced. Jihoon, and now Chanyeol and Hyuk. To be honest, I was surprised at how I managed to hit two birds with one stone with both of them. The tall dope and the music producer.”

“What do you mean?” Mirae had a feeling she knew what he was about to say.

“It was all me, Mirae. Jihoon’s death, Chanyeol’s death, and Hyuk’s death? It was all me,” Baekhyun revealed calmly. “I am the author of all your pain, of all the grieving you were and still are doing.”

Mirae stared at him, feeling a chill down her spine at the revelation. “Jihoon was killed by those Utopian cult thugs.”

He shook his head. “I had a little help. I met Mark around that time, and when I told him what I wanted to do, he gladly possessed the body of the man who pulled the trigger on your dear friend, the friend you thought of as a brother,” He explained.

Mirae was still staring at him, as if prompting him to continue explaining. “Jongin, you know, of course, teleported me there once Taeyong found out the location of the so-called safehouse you put up, saw that Junhong was creating a simulation room like the one we used to have. With his help as well, I was able to make a few adjustments like rerouting some circuits to overload,”

“I was actually thinking of getting Chanyeol first, out of sentimental reasons. I knew him longer than Hyuk, so naturally I thought he should get the first strike. Little did I know,” Baekhyun smirked. “It would get Hyuk too. I doubt Junhong had a clue that the systems were hacked. Taeyong and his brother run a tech empire.”

She could feel her eyes well with tears at the explanations, the tension she was feeling slowly getting replaced by sadness and rage. “It was you all this time. Why? Why are you doing it?” She asked.

“Because I wanted you to know the pain and grief I felt after that attack happened,” Baekhyun replied, looking her in the eye. “My family thought I was dead when that came in. I was thrown into the ocean from the explosion you caused. They had given up on searching for me, in turn, they gave my brother all the money that was meant for me. Knowing you made the final blow to those goblins, all of the trouble I experienced, I knew I had to make you pay.”

Mirae looked away, fighting back the urge to break down the more Baekhyun talked. He sounded so satisfied. “And now you’re all alone, Lee Mirae. And you know the best part?” He tilted his head as he looked at her. “Ino knew all this time. Ino knew it was me. Yet he allowed it to happen anyway.”

12 notes · View notes

wisteriashouse · 4 years ago

Text

between us.

pairing: kamado tanjirou x sumiyuri hayami (oc)

genre: fluff

word count: 7015

remarks: commission by @hinokami-s!! i hope you enjoy this one... i feel like i went a bit off with hayami’s personality at the end (too much... humour?) but i tried my best! as usual tanjirou and hayami’s relationship is so sweet i cry 😭

The cherry blossoms are blooming.

That’s the first thing Tanjirou notices as he makes his way down the path to the Butterfly Estate, their slight fragrance drifting along the wind and lending their floral perfume to the spring breeze. The last time he’d parted ways here with the rest of his friends for individual missions, the cherry blossom trees still had fresh green leaves clinging to their branches. Now, it’s almost been months without seeing a glimpse of their faces.

He hopes they’re all doing alright.

Hiking Nezuko’s box more comfortably up his back, he lets out a slight wince as the straps jolt against the makeshift sling his left arm is in - the demon he’d faced on his latest mission had left a nasty injury there, and he needs to get it checked by one of the girls at the Butterfly Estate before he’s clear to continue taking new missions.

With a sigh, Tanjirou looks down at his wound to inspect it briefly. He’s not trained in medicine like Aoi and Shinobu are, but he’s been injured enough - he can tell from the bruising around his arm that he’ll need to recuperate for a week at least, or perhaps even longer. Hopefully, either Zenitsu or Inosuke will happen to be at the estate as well so that he won’t have to be so alone, or maybe even-

The faint scent of lavender touches his nose, and Tanjirou perks up at the familiarity of it. Could it possibly be her?

“Oh! Tanjirou, it’s you!”

Tanjirou glances up towards the source of the voice only to see a familiar figure silhouetted against the noonday sun, waving enthusiastically in the distance. Hayami is standing at the entrance of the Butterfly Estate, dressed in a snow white yukata and her platinum hair blazing gold in the light of the evening sun. Although he can’t make out her features clearly in the distance, Tanjirou somehow knows that their eyes have met - it’s like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle falling into place.

He waves in response with his good arm, feeling the corners of his mouth lift in a smile - it’s an involuntary reflex, one that he can’t help whenever he sees her. As Tanjirou draws closer, Hayami, apparently too impatient to wait for him to come to her, takes off at a run - within seconds, she’s already standing before him with a radiant smile and lilac eyes that sparkle like gems.

“Tanjirou, it’s been so long since I’ve last seen you!” Hayami exclaims excitedly, holding out her arms to catch Tanjirou in her usual greeting hug when her gaze falls to his arm. Instantly, her eyes widen with concern, brows pinching together as she inspects the reddened area. “You’re hurt! What happened?”

A sheepish laugh escapes him, his good hand reaching up to scratch at his head. “Well, it’s a little embarrassing, but I got taken by surprise.” Hayami frowns in worry, moving as if to gently touch the wound, but right before her fingertips can brush his skin, she pulls back with a shake of the head. Tanjirou can’t help the slight twinge of disappointment, before he feels heat prick at his cheeks at the thought - he blames it on the warm weather. “What about you? Why are you at the estate?”

“We all make mistakes, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” Hayami chides, apparently unaware of his wandering thoughts. “I just finished a mission, so they’re giving me a short break. I’ve been going continuously for a few months now, and I don’t want to collapse out of exhaustion.” Giving him a cursory glance, she leans in closer, the scent of freshly laundered fabric and lavender tickling his nose - what a pleasant scent, Tanjirou thinks. Her lilac eyes stare right into his, and suddenly it registers to him that Hayami is standing too close - far too close.

“That’s true, I would hate to see you overworked.” He tries to brush off the feeling in his chest, smiling up at Hayami. “I’m glad that you’re here as well. I was worried I’d have to spend the next few weeks training all by myself!”

“That would have been quite lonely, but don’t worry, I’m here too! We can spar together if you want, but only when your arm gets better!” Hayami replies instantly. With a smile, she takes Tanjirou’s uninjured hand in his. “Come on, let’s get back to the Butterfly Mansion and get your injury looked at. I’m sure the other girls are excited to see you too.”

Tanjirou looks down at their conjoined hands, something akin to warmth fluttering in his chest. He’s lucky that Hayami doesn’t have the same keen sense of smell that he does, because now, the air is almost pungently sweet with the scent of his happiness.

“Knock, knock, are you there?” Hayami raps her knuckles lightly on the box Tanjirou always wears on his back. From the inside, she can hear slight scratching noises and rustling, the sound of its contents awakening. She knocks again, a playful sing song tone to her voice. “Oh dear, this box isn’t making any noise. Is anyone home?”

“Mmph hmph!”

All of a sudden, the lid to the box bursts open and a tiny Nezuko spills out in a mess of pink fabric and an assortment of wildflowers. Tanjirou must have given Nezuko those to play with while she was inside the box, Hayami reasons, colours and variations of all sorts strewn on the floor. With a smile, Hayami mentally promises to clean up the mess later and stretches out her arms. “Nezuko! It’s Big Sister! Did you miss me?”

Before Hayami can so much as reach for the younger girl, Nezuko is already toddling over and throwing herself into Hayami’s arms, making muffled noises of excitement behind her bamboo gag. Cooing, Hayami reaches down to brush some stray flower petals out of Nezuko’s hair before wrapping her arms around the younger girl. She’s as adorable as usual. “How have you been? Did you help your big brother Tanjirou fight any demons?”

Nezuko makes a little ‘mmph!’ noise proudly, her pink eyes sparkling. Hayami beams down at the younger girl, ruffling her long locks. They’re a little tangled, she notes with a frown. Tanjirou usually does this, but he must have been unable to with the injury to his dominant hand.

“Nezuko, sit here,” she pats her lap, before looking through her sleeves, before producing a little wooden comb. Carefully, she begins to run the comb through Nezuko’s locks, being cautious not to hurt the younger girl while undoing the knots. Doing this feels relaxing, the repetitive movements helping to calm her mind and soul.

“Hmm!” Much to Hayami’s surprise, Nezuko suddenly turns around in Hayami’s lap and points at her hair, before gesturing at her own excitedly. Hayami tilts her head to the side, momentarily confused. “My hair? What about it?”

“Mmhh mm!”

Hayami lets out a noise of realisation. “You want your hair to be tied into a ponytail too?”

“Mmm!”

“Alright, give me a moment.” Looking into her sleeves again, she searches for her spare hair ribbon - a short length of pink silk that would go beautifully with Nezuko’s eyes, she thinks. Humming lightly, she moves to gather Nezuko’s hair into a long ponytail, before securing it neatly with a ribbon. “There, all done.”

From the happy noises Nezuko is making, Hayami assumes that she likes it. Feeling pleased with herself, Hayami pats the top of Nezuko’s head with a smile. “I’m glad you like it!”

Nezuko whirls around, pointing at her forehead and making curious sounds. Hayami understands who she’s talking about almost instantly.

“Oh, where’s Tanjirou? He’s getting looked at by Shinobu-san for his arm, but I’m sure he’ll be alright in no time. He asked me to keep you company in the meanwhile.” Hayami answers, smiling as comfortingly as she can at Nezuko. This seems to abate the young demon’s concerns slightly, but then Nezuko tugs at the sleeve of her kimono, brows furrowed.

“Hmph hmm!”

“You’re still worried?” Hayami twirls a lock of hair around her finger thoughtfully. It is dark out now, so it should be safe for her to bring Nezuko out of the room. “Well, I suppose Tanjirou should have finished his examination with Shinobu-san by now, unless he’s more badly injured than I thought. Do you want to go find him?”

“Mhm!”

“Alright, hop on.” Lowering herself closer to the ground, Hayami allows Nezuko to clamber onto her back and wrap her legs around her waist. Once she’s satisfied that Nezuko is securely on her back, she straightens up. Behind her, Nezuko makes tiny muffled noises of excitement, and Hayami has to stifle a giggle. Nezuko really is too cute.

“Hold on tight to me, alright, Nezuko?” Hayami glances over her shoulder. Nezuko wraps her arms around her neck.

“Mmm!”

Setting out, the two of them make their way down the corridors of the Butterfly Estate to the medical wing, Hayami humming along the way to keep Nezuko entertained. Once they reach the medical wing, Hayami slides open the door, only to see Tanjirou sitting on the only occupied bed with a bowl of porridge on his bedside table. His eyes light up the second he sees the two of them.

“Nezuko!” Tanjirou says brightly, and in an instant, Nezuko is leaping off Hayami’s back before hopping straight onto Tanjirou’s bed, wrapping both arms around his middle tightly. Tanjirou lets out a grunt as he catches with his good hand, before he lets out a laugh and reaches up to pat the top of her head gently. “There, there, Nezuko. Big Brother is completely fine, there’s no need to worry, see?” He wiggles the fingers poking out of his cast to reassure her. Seemingly put at ease now, Nezuko tugs at Tanjirou’s sleeve, before pointing to her hair.

“Hmm mm!”

Tanjirou smiles at Nezuko. “Did Hayami do your hair for you? Wow, it looks beautiful on you, Nezuko!” Nezuko huffs proudly. He turns to look at Hayami. “Thank you very much for keeping her company for me, Hayami.”

“It was no problem, you know how much I love to spend time with Nezuko’,” Hayami says, sliding the door shut behind her. Stepping over to Tanjirou, she gives the cast a cursory glance. “That doesn’t look ‘completely fine’ in the least. How bad is it?”

“Just a hairline fracture.” Tanjirou explains, as Nezuko curls up in his lap like a large cat. “Shinobu-san said that it’ll heal in about a couple of weeks or so, as long as I don’t aggravate it. She gave me some painkillers too, but apparently they can only be taken after a meal, hence the porridge.” He lets out a sigh as he looks down at his dominant hand, casted and wrapped in a sling. “It’s a little hard to eat with this on, though.”

Crossing over to his bedside table, Hayami picks up the bowl, scooping a spoonful of porridge and holding it out to Tanjirou. “Here, I’ll feed you.” Hayami nudges at his lips with the spoon. “Say ‘ah’.”

“Ah, Hayami, there’s no need to!” Tanjirou’s face is burning red for some reason, and Hayami frowns in worry, setting down the bowl to the side.

“Tanjirou, your cheeks are flushed.” Tanjirou looks like he’s about to hyperventilate any moment, the flush on his cheeks deepening into a shade of wine red. He doesn’t seem like he’s about to admit anything, so Hayami simply leans forward, brushing the hair back from Tanjirou’s forehead to press their foreheads together, just as Shinobu had taught her to check for a fever. As expected, his skin is a little hot in comparison to hers. “Hmm, you’re a little warm. You might have a fever- Ow!”

Hayami staggers back with a yelp of pain, both hands clutching her forehead. “Tanjirou!”

“I’m so sorry! Are you alright? I didn’t mean to do that! You just leaned in all of a sudden and I panicked and I accidentally headbutted you!” Tanjirou panics, clambering off the bed to check up on her. Hayami rubs the sore spot where Tanjirou’s forehead had collided with hers, slightly relieved that her fingers come away bloodless - she’s seen what that deadly weapon is more than capable of before. It really is as hard as a rock, she thinks to herself.

“I’m alright,” Hayami manages. Nezuko looks concerned, pink eyes wide as she stares from the bed. Maybe she should go to Shinobu for an x-ray tomorrow, just in case. He might have fractured her skull. “Well, I suppose that you’re fine, seeing that you seem so energetic.” Picking up the bowl, Hayami holds out the spoon to him once more. “Here. You should eat so that you can take your pills and go to sleep.”

Apparently too traumatised by the earlier incident to argue any further, Tanjirou obediently opens his mouth and swallows, chewing silently. It doesn’t take him long to finish the entire bowl, and by the time Hayami is handing him a cup of water to wash his painkillers down with, Tanjirou is already yawning and rubbing at his eyes. He must be tired just having returned from a series of missions without break, Hayami thinks sympathetically.

“Lie down and sleep for now,” Hayami tells Tanjirou, moving over to help him fluff up his pillow. Nodding tiredly, Tanjirou moves to lie down, and Hayami tugs the blanket over him, tucking him in carefully to make sure he doesn’t catch a chill during the night.

“You should rest too, Hayami,” Tanjirou says between yawns, and Hayami turns to give him a quick smile. He’s looking up at her from the bed, almost half asleep at this point, and Hayami’s heart squeezes in her chest at the innocent sight. He’s so cute. “I will as soon as you go to bed,” she says, fetching a spare blanket from one of the empty beds to drape around Nezuko’s form. The younger girl had already fallen asleep a while ago at the foot of Tanjirou’s bed.

“Alright then,” Tanjirou says sleepily, letting out a final yawn before his eyes slide shut. “Goodnight… Hayami…”

Hayami looks up from putting the blanket around Nezuko to see Tanjirou already fast asleep with his eyes shut, the beginning of light snores escaping his mouth. For a moment, Hayami simply watches Tanjirou with a contented smile, before she shakes herself out of her stupor.

“What am I doing?” She mumbles to herself in confusion, before turning around to leave the medical wing. Before she slides the door shut, however, she gives Tanjirou’s sleeping form a final glance. He looks a couple of years younger like this, his face relaxed and a gentle smile on his lips.

“Goodnight to you too, Tanjirou.”

After a couple of weeks at the Butterfly Estate, Tanjirou’s cast finally comes off.

“See, good as new,” Tanjirou shows Hayami, as the two of them sit on the engawa next to the training grounds. Carefully, Hayami picks up his arm, checking it over. She knows it’s a little silly - if Shinobu, their medical professional, has declared that he’s fit to return to duty, he’s definitely more than alright - but she can’t help but worry until she sees that he is completely fine with her own two eyes.

“I’m glad,” she finally smiles, setting down his arm. Tanjirou beams at her, before he picks up his sword from where it had been lying next to him, before hopping off the engawa onto the training grounds below.

“Come on, let’s spar!” He calls brightly, testing the grip of his sword carefully. “It’s been so long since I’ve been able to practice. If Urokodaki-san found out how much I’ve slacked off on training, he’d…” Tanjirou trails off with a shiver at the thought. Hayami winces in sympathy. As a former student of Urokodaki herself, she can only remember all too clearly the times the old man had booted her into the waterfall that flows down Sagiri Mountain.

“You’ve just recovered, though,” Hayami points out, concerned. Tanjirou only beams.

“I feel perfectly fine!” Grasping his sword with both hands, Tanjirou takes a few practice swings with it. “No pain at all, my muscles are just stiff because I haven’t used them in a while. It’ll be fine after a bit of exercise.”

“Well, if you say so,” Hayami says, reaching for her own boots to pull them on. As usual, Tanjirou’s drive to improve himself is unrelenting. Adjusting them so they fit comfortably, Hayami hops to her feet, testing the blade mechanisms. As expected of Ginjiro’s work, they still work perfectly, much to her satisfaction.

She picks up her blade and slides off the engawa, raising her own blade with a smile. “I won’t go easy on you then, Tanjirou! Ready whenever you are!”

In the blink of an eye, Tanjirou is already lunging at Hayami, swinging his blade down with a fierce strike. “Water Breathing, Fourth Form, Striking Tide!”

Hayami twirls out of the way, landing lightly on her toes before she leaps at him. “Breath of Swan, Third Form, Wingspan.” Balancing on her hands, she executes a scissor cut with her legs, but before the blades can so much as touch Tanjirou, he’s already leaping out of the way, using the jump to flow into the next attack.

“Water Breathing, Second Form, Water Wheel!”

Blocking the attack with her sword, Hayami jumps into the air and strikes once more. “Fourth Form, Drifting Feathers!”

Her sword clashes hard against Tanjirou’s own, the sound of metal striking metal ringing out through the air. As she keeps up the pressure, Hayami catches sight of the wince that Tanjirou bites back, before his grip on the sword in his hands just happens to slip.

It’s a small mistake, but it’s enough.

“Tanjirou!” The two of them go crashing to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs and swords, Hayami falling flat on top of Tanjirou. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t break my arm a second time.” Tanjirou wheezes, looking completely winded. Distressed, Hayami leans over to check the back of Tanjirou’s head for any injuries. “Really, I’m fine, Hayami…”

“A potential concussion is not fine, Tanjirou.” Hayami scolds, reaching over to feel for any bumps along the back of his head in case. She doesn’t notice the way Tanjirou is trying his very best not to breathe, his eyes squeezed firmly shut.

“Yes, but you’re a bit… close…”

“Eh?”

Hayami finally glances down at Tanjirou to see the poor boy’s face burning crimson, as if he’s about to combust spontaneously any second. That’s when she realises just how close the two of them are, the ends of her hair tickling his nose, the way that she can feel his breath on her skin…

In classic Hayami fashion, she panics. “I-I…” She stumbles over her words, frantically torn between wanting to apologise immediately and explaining that she didn’t mean it. “I just… I thought-”

“Squawk! Message from headquarters! Message from headquarters!”

Saved by the crow! Hayami looks up to see her crow, Aiya, flying around in circles over their heads. “Message from headquarters! Sumiyuri Hayami and Kamado Tanjirou are to depart at once on a mission!”

“A mission?” Hayami repeats out loud, rolling off Tanjirou and reaching down to help him up. “A joint mission together?”

“It would seem so.” Tanjirou answers, quickly sheathing his sword. Still worried for her friend, Hayami turns to glance at Tanjirou. “Is your arm alright, though?”

Tanjirou nods honestly. “It really is! I’m just a little rusty after so long.” Stretching his arms over his head to loosen himself up, he holds out a hand to Hayami. “Well then, shall we go?”

Hayami purses her lips, but then lets out a sigh and smiles. “If you say so,” she says, putting her hand into his.

“Let’s go!”

Splitting up was, is and has never been, a good idea.

Well, that assumption might not always be wholly accurate, Hayami thinks to herself as she speeds through the trees, but it does seem that only the most terrible things happen to her whenever she is split up with her mission partners.

Or perhaps it is because she is split up with Tanjirou specifically that she feels such worry.

Regardless of whichever it is, Hayami has a bad feeling about this. She and Tanjirou had agreed to split up earlier, and while she has complete trust in Tanjirou’s ability and skill in battle, she can’t help but worry - it’s been too quiet, ever since the two of them had parted ways to search for the demon.

Trust your instinct, she remembers Urokodaki saying. And right now, her instinct is warning her about something bad.

Before Hayami can make up her mind whether to regroup with Tanjirou or not, there’s a rustling in the distance that captures her attention almost immediately. Slightly alarmed now, she rests a cautious hand on the hilt of her sword, eyes narrowed.

What’s going on over there?

She barely gets a second to wonder - a single moment later, there’s a gigantic groan, and right before her eyes, a tree in the distance sways and collapses, vanishing into the thicket of the forest. Hayami’s legs are moving before she can consciously process the information, leaping over protruding roots and ducking around trees as she makes a beeline straight for the source of the noise. There’s no way a demon would cause so much damage and alert them to its presence - it’s likely that Tanjirou has already encountered the demon and is currently battling it, hence the disturbance in the forest.

Hayami remembers the way he had winced when they sparred earlier in the day. Sure, he’d hold her that his arm was fine and all, but then again, Tanjirou has always been someone who endures pain better than anyone she knows.

Pressing her lips together, she forces her feet to move faster. Not much longer now… Approaching the thicket where she’d last seen the disturbance, Hayami leaps into the trees for a better view of the forest ground, and almost immediately hears the sound of steel clashing coming from her right.

“Tanjirou!”

Just as she thought, Tanjirou is already engaged in combat, his sword swinging in defensive arcs to block the attacks being thrown in his direction before he goes on the offensive once more. To Hayami’s confusion, however, she spots two identical demons simultaneously attacking - the report had only mentioned a single demon. There’s no time for her to ponder too long about the matter, not when Tanjirou is being forced to take on two demons on his own. Drawing her blade, she leaps out of the trees, taking in a deep breath to send oxygen to the very tips of her fingers and toes.

“Breath of Swan, Fourth Form, Drifting Feathers!”

A mirage of white feathers erupt into the air as she slashes down at one of the demons, her sword cutting cleanly through the flesh and bone of the demon’s neck as if slicing through warm butter. Tanjirou gasps at her sudden appearance, clearly surprised as he blocks another attack, the force of the demon’s swing forcing him a few steps back.

“Hayami!”

“You looked like you needed a hand there,” Hayami says as brightly as she can, even as the headless corpse of the demon she’d beheaded a few seconds ago begins to crumble to ash. “Hurry and take care of the other one, then we can go back to the Butterfly Mansion together-”

“Wait, that’s not it-”

Hayami leaps back in alarm just as a massive clawed hand swings at her, the ends of its razor sharp fingernails coming a little too close for comfort with her face. Eyes wide, she watches as the demon Tanjirou was battling slowly pulls itself in half, before each half morphs and shifts… until they both become identical copies of the original.

This seems like it’s going to be troublesome.

“Right. As I was going to tell you earlier, this demon forms copies of itself,” Tanjirou explains as he takes up a stance behind Hayami, covering her blind spots while she covers his. “I killed quite a few of them earlier, they’re not very strong, but they simply keep dividing again and again. The original is a lot stronger than the rest of them are!”

“So one of them has to be the main body.” Hayami says, blocking an attack with her sword and sending another clone stumbling back with a high kick to the face. “Can all of them divide?”

“No, only the original. But it’ll be difficult to find it,” Tanjirou answers. The second he cuts down a demon, another steps up to take its place. “All of them have the same scent!”

There’s a thin sheen of perspiration on his face. Hayami frowns in worry. She needs to end this fight, and she needs to end it fast.

“Let’s start by clearing as many of them as we can,” Hayami says, readying her sword. The demon must still be dividing at a rapid pace, because she counts seven enemies now. “After we whittle their numbers down, try to spot which is the one who’s doing the dividing and keep your focus on it. Our main priority should be to take it down!”

Tanjirou takes a deep breath and assumes a different stance, holding his blade to the side. “Got it!”

“Breath of Swan, Ninth Form, Fleeting Flight!”

“Water Breathing, Third Form, Flowing Dance!”

Both of them move in unison, taking out the clones left and right as their blades sing into the night. Hayami moves between the demons with light, practiced steps, almost as if she’s dancing, her sword swinging with ease. Behind her, she can hear the whistle of Tanjirou’s blade as it splits the air in two, followed by the death screams of a demon.

Good, just a few more, and then-

All of a sudden, something yanks her by the ankles and Hayami goes crashing to the ground with a cry of surprise. The side of her knee has been scraped by a tree root, dull pain radiating across her leg, but such a small injury is of little bother to her. Flipping out her heel blades, she raises her leg high and brings it down in a furious kick, cutting off the neck of the demon that had grabbed her.

Getting to her feet, Hayami readies her blade once more, glancing around the battlefield to take stock of the situation. They should have significantly cut down the number of demons by now, so-

“Tanjirou!”

To Hayami’s horror, she catches sight of two demons relentlessly pressing Tanjirou back with a continuous barrage of attacks, her friend struggling to fend off their advances. Too preoccupied by them, he doesn’t seem to notice what danger lurks behind him - yet another demon creeping up from the back, ready to pounce.

“Tanjirou-” Hayami tries to call, but before she can rush to his aid, another of the demon’s copies lunges at her out of the bushes, attempting to bite off her legs. Kicking out with all her strength, the demon goes flying back some distance, crashing to the ground hard. “Tanjirou, behind you!”

Tanjirou whirls around at the sound of Hayami’s voice, but it’s too late - the demon has already lunged, its claws outstretched and teeth bared. At the same time, the demon that she’d been dealing with picks itself off the ground, spitting grass out of its mouth, and charges at her again, ready to tear her to shreds.

Hayami doesn’t hesitate. Flipping the blade in her hand, she draws her arm back and throws, with every ounce of strength that she has.

The blade severs the demon’s neck cleanly just as pain erupts across her torso. With a cry, she stumbles back, her hand pressed against the wound, hot blood seeping through her fingers. All she can do is take shallow breaths to try to cope with the agony, doing her best to remain on her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, the remaining copies of the demon let out wails of despair as they begin to crumble into ash. Then, the one that had tried to attack Tanjirou must have been…

“Hayami! Hayami, are you alright?” Tanjirou’s voice comes from above her, and it’s only then that she realises that she’s sagged to her knees. ��Oh god… the blood…”

“It’s… not as bad as it seems,” Hayami manages to breathe out. “It just looks like a lot of blood… but it’s not deep. The demon?”

“It’s dead. The demon you threw the sword at ended up being the original.” She can hear rustling as Tanjirou crouches next to her side, rummaging about the inside of his haori for his first aid pack. “The second it died, the rest of the copies turned to ash with it.”

“That’s good to hear…” Hayami mumbles. The blood loss is making her feel slightly dizzy, the canopy of the forest almost blending with the night sky overhead in swirls of dark green and deep indigo. “If I puke… don’t mind me.”

“Don’t be silly, you saved me,” Tanjirou’s voice is a little shaky, and that makes Hayami want to frown. Does he feel guilty over it? He shouldn’t - she just did what she wanted to, and that was that. She’s sure he would do the same for her, were their positions reversed. “I’m going to bandage your wound now to slow the blood loss before I take you back to the Butterfly Estate for proper treatment.” He lets out a quiet wince. “It’s going to hurt.”

“Can I hold your hand?” Hayami asks before she can fully run that question past her mind. The second the words leave her lips, she desperately wants to swallow them back - this isn’t the time for that! Before she can tell Tanjirou she was just joking, however, she feels a warm, callused hand wrap around hers firmly, lacing her fingers with his.

“Of course you can.” Tanjirou whispers quietly. When she glances up, she is surprised to see Tanjirou looking right at her, his eyes nearly brimming over with worry and concern. “I’ll try to be as gentle as I can, alright?”

Hayami wonders if her cheeks can still turn red with the amount of blood that she’s lost, and finds herself momentarily relieved that the answer to that is likely a ‘no’. That’s when she realises just how far she’s gone and simply nods her head in acceptance. “I know.” She squeezes his hand reassuringly. “I trust you, Tanjirou.”

She says that, but the pain that seems to surge out of nowhere when Tanjirou wraps the bandage around her waist almost knocks her flat and has her vision white. Hayami isn’t sure if she’s crying, all she knows is that it hurts and it burns and it-

“I’m so sorry… I’m so, so sorry…” Tanjirou’s voice is like a balm, spreading over the fear and anxiety. It cuts through the thick haze of pain clouding her mind, and when Hayami forces her eyes open once more, she sees Tanjirou gently stroking her cheeks, his eyes wet with tears. He’s crying. Hayami hates to see anyone cry. She hates it even more when it is Tanjirou who is crying, worse of all, over her.

Oh, she realises, as his thumb brushes along her cheekbones. He’s wiping my tears as well.

“It’s fine,” Hayami croaks out. She can’t bear to see him cry because of her - that stings far more than any demon’s claws or teeth could. Her throat stings painfully with each word, as if she’s just swallowed an entire gourd of acid. Was she screaming the entire time? Only slightly embarrassing… “Wasn’t… your fault....”

She lets out another cry of pain when Tanjirou ties off the bandage tightly, although this one is quickly cut off when she hunches over and lets out a quiet whimper. “Really, I’m fine… or at least… I think I will be.”

“I’ll get you to Shinobu-san right away.” Gentle arms wrap around her, careful to avoid her bandaged midsection as Tanjirou lifts her into a bridal carry. Hayami thinks she might be embarrassed, but after a few seconds, it doesn’t come - all she feels is warmth, safety and comfort.

His arms feel like the home that she never had.

Something that she could only dream of.

“Don’t fall asleep just yet,” Tanjirou’s voice interrupts her thoughts, and when Hayami has to blink her eyes open again she realises that she was about to drift off into sleep. They’re running, or well, Tanjirou is running, feet slapping lightly against the ground and trying his best not to jolt her about too much. Hayami is grateful for that. “Please, wait until I get you to Shinobu-san at least.”

His voice is trembling slightly. He must be terrified.

“I don’t think that’s proper first aid protocol, but alright…” Hayami can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of her lips as she looks up at him, the determined line his mouth is pulled into. Handsome… what? Is her mind bleeding out of her along with her blood? “Talk to me? I’m feeling… hnng… a little sleepy…”

She’s just so tired.

“Sure,” Tanjirou agrees almost immediately as he leaps over a large tree root protruding out of the ground, continuing to race through the trees. From what Hayami can see, the forest is already starting to thin, more distance between the trees. They’re leaving the forest soon, and for some reason, Hayami doesn’t want this to end. She wants to stay in Tanjirou’s arms longer… “What did you do during all those weeks we were apart? Did anyone try to propose to you again?”

A laugh, weak as it is, bubbles out of Hayami. Light and fluttery, even though it tugs at the slashes along her midsection and makes a dull ache radiate outward through her body. Of all the questions he could ask... “No, not really… most of my missions happened in remote areas, so I didn’t interact with a lot of people. Why do you ask?”

A pause, before he answers. “No reason.” It doesn’t sound like there is no reason. “I just… wanted to know.” There’s another pause, longer this time, before he speaks again. Another question. “Earlier, during the fight… how did you know that the demon you threw your sword at was the original?”

The cherry blossoms are blooming, Hayami notices, even though her eyelids feel as though there are weights on them, their pink petals outlined in the gold of the lamps that burn around the Butterfly Mansion.

“I didn’t…” Hayami yawns. She’s really tired now, and the night sky and cherry blossoms blend together into swirls of pink and black. It reminds her of Nezuko’s hair. “Just saw it coming for you… moved without thinking... got a lucky hit… that’s all.”

Faintly, she feels Tanjirou’s arms stiffen around her. His warmth is like that of a charcoal furnace, radiating heat and making her wonder if that’s what home is supposed to feel like too.

“Thank you, Hayami.” Tanjirou’s whisper is the last thing she hears before her eyes slip shut. “Thank you.”

She just did something she wanted to, Hayami thinks as she slips into darkness.

There was nothing to thank her for.

The beds in the medical wing are soft.

They’re all very soft, very comfortable. But Hayami’s starting to get a little bored of soft and comfortable, after having been confined to bed rest for about two weeks now. Luckily for her, the weather today seems to be pleasant, the sun shining brightly in the sky and a gentle breeze moving through the air, so she makes to climb off the bed to open the windows at the very least because she’s desperate for any reason to get off the mattress-

The door to the medical wing slides open. “Hayami, you’re not supposed to be out of bed!”

It’s as if he just knows! Every! Single! Time! Hayami freezes with one foot on the floorboards like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, an awkward laugh starting to bubble out of her. “Well, yes, I know that, I just… wanted to open the windows.”

Before she can even finish that sentence, Tanjirou is already hurrying to her bedside, hands gentle as he helps her back into the bed, tucks her blanket tightly around her - whether it’s intentional or not, she doesn’t know. “You wanted to open the windows, didn’t you?” Turning around, he does so for her, and the sunlight falls onto her lap, golden and warm. “You should be resting!”

Three slashes. About five inches each. A handful of stitches. Not the worst Hayami has faced, in her opinion, but enough to warrant a month’s worth of bed rest. And it’s driving her crazy.

“But Tanjirou,” Hayami doesn’t normally pout, but she does now. Being forced to stay in bed for two weeks will do that to you. It changes people. “I’m already resting. I’m so rested I can’t possibly rest any more. If I lie in this bed for one more day, I’m going to end up becoming one with it. Please let me out.”

Tanjirou only hesitates for a few seconds before he shakes his head, holding both hands out in front of him as if trying to physically block her puppy dog eyes. “That’s not up to me, that’s Shinobu-san’s decision…” His gaze falls to the floorboards, brows pinching together slightly. “And besides, it was my fault you ended up in this position in the first place…”

Before he can wallow in his guilt any more, Hayami reaches out to poke him squarely in the forehead. She’s mildly sure that hurt her finger more than it did his head, but it seems to have done the trick - Tanjirou looks up at her, surprised. She can see the slight worry in his eyes, the way his lips press together whenever he looks at her.

Knowing that guilt is what Tanjirou feels when he looks at her… Hayami doesn’t like that in the least.

“Hayami?”

“Hey,” Hayami says sternly, reaching out to tug Tanjirou closer to her bedside. Tanjirou only looks up at her, a nervous, slightly pained expression on his face. “If you had been in my position, and you saw me about to get slashed by a demon, would you have done the same thing?”

Tanjirou looks away for a moment, chews his bottom lip and sighs. His answer is obvious, and both of them know it.

“Yes,” he answers, but from the look on his face, he doesn’t seem to have entirely let go of the guilt he feels. “But you probably wouldn’t have needed saving, like I did. If only I could become stronger… become better… then-”

“That’s not what matters.” Hayami tells him, putting a finger to his lips so that he falls silent, looking at her with those kind, kind eyes. “I did for you what you would have done for me. We’ve got each others’ backs, am I right? I just happened to be the one with a choice this time.”

Tanjirou’s lips press together, his face suddenly scrunching up. For a moment, Hayami wonders if he’s about to cry.

“Yeah, I just…” a soft sniff, “I’ll make sure it won’t happen again next time.”

“See?” Hayami smiles, tugs at his cheek. The corner of Tanjirou’s lips twitch up in response. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s better than that pained expression he’s been wearing for the past two weeks whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. “Positive mindset, am I right?”

“Right, I just… Ah, I forgot the reason why I came here. I had something I wanted to tell you.” Tanjirou’s face suddenly falls again. “I have another mission assigned already. I’m heading out right after this.” He looks at her, and there’s something about his gaze that makes Hayami want to dive under the blanket. It looks like longing… “I wanted to stay until you healed completely, but you know…”

Hayami knows, but it doesn’t mean that she has to like it. A little, selfish feeling nudges her in her chest. She wants Tanjirou to stay longer with her. Just a little longer. Just a bit more...

“The corps are always understaffed, I understand.” Hayami answers, reaches out to take his hand in hers. Her fingers trace patterns over the rough skin, the calluses. “Kibutsuji Muzan isn’t going to wait for any of us. Always demons out there to slay…”

“Always people out there to save,” Tanjirou finishes her sentence for her. He doesn’t look like he wants to leave though, his fingers still wrapped firmly around her wrist, his touch, lingering. Part of her can’t help the happiness welling up in her chest. “I’ll send letters.”

“That’ll help keep me occupied while I get all well and rested.” Hayami smiles. “Then, I can look forward to you telling me all about your missions?”

Tanjirou nods, his hand finally falling away from hers. In that instant, however, Hayami finds herself immediately missing his touch. “Definitely.”

Hayami raises her hand to wave goodbye, but before she can bid him goodbye, she feels a gentle pressure against the side of her cheek, so fleeting she wonders if she had imagined it. Then the pressure is gone, and Tanjirou is looking at her with eyes so gentle she can hardly stand it.

“See you soon, Hayami!” Tanjirou flashes her a quick smile, pink tinted cheeks and all, before he runs out of the medical wing. And all Hayami is able to do is sit there in shock, mouth hanging slightly agape as she stares after him, long after he leaves. Slowly, she raises her hand to her cheek, touching where the warmth spreading over her face seems to have originated from.

His lips were soft...

“See you soon too, Tanjirou,” Hayami whispers to herself.

#tanjirou #kamado tanjirou #kamado tanjirō #kamado tanjiro x reader #kamado #kamado tanjiro #kny fanfic #kny #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #demon slayer #demon slayer fanfic #demon slayer fanfiction

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farfromsugafanfic · 4 years ago

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Inhibition

Genre: Choreographer!Reader, Fluff

Pairing: Namjoon/Reader

Warnings: none

Synopsis: Namjoon needs help loosening up and getting out of his head when dancing. You decide to take him to a club.

﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤

You waited outside the door of the practice room patiently. You couldn't believe for your first in the field training would be with actual idols, let alone BTS.

The lead choreographer opened the door and motioned for you to come in. You walked in and bowed politely to the idols. They returned the formality before sitting down cross legged on the floor.

"Boys, this is Y/N. She'll be teaching you the choreography for next week's special stage. This is part of her graduating project at the university, so please take this seriously."

The choreographer nodded when he knew they understood and politely wished you luck and left the room.

vVv

"All right, uh, first, I'll show you everything once through so you can get a good idea of what everything will look like."

You pulled out an IPad and showed them the choreography as performed by you and a few other students. With variation by member, it was much easier to show them the dance cohesively at first and then work individually with each member. At least, that's what you hoped.

You pointed out the positioning of each member with a pen, so that each member could easier learn their part.

"All right, let's work on everything from the hook to the bridge," you said.

vVv

After the first day, the boys had nailed the beginning part of the song. You were quite impressed with their progress. They only had a week to learn the choreography before the performance and at the rate they were going, they would have plenty of time to fine tune everything beforehand.

You packed your things into your duffel bag, ready to fall into bed as soon as you got home. Due to all day dance practices, your only homework was to record the experience. Something you fully planned on doing afterwards.

"Excuse me?" a voice said, accompanied with a knock on the door frame.

You looked up and saw Namjoon ducking shyly into the room.

"Yes?" you asked.

"I'm sorry to bother you, especially as you were leaving, but I was wondering if you could go over the choreography with me? I'm not very happy with how my part turned out today."

"Sure, Namjoon," you said. You'd noticed that Namjoon was a bit stiff during some of the moves or hadn't quite grasped all of them. However, you weren't overly concerned because they were easy mistakes to correct once he learned all the choreography. Of course, you'd corrected all the boys on the larger things, but they were all used to dancing by now that most of the mistakes were small ones. "What particularly were you concerned about?"

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"Namjoon!"

You couldn't help but laugh as he made the same exact mistake as before, even though you'd corrected it and shown him how to do it multiple times.

"All right, uh, watch me again."

You repeated the move and sighed a Namjoon once again did the move incorrectly. Well, it was technically correct, but the move looked awkward and stiff. You thought for a moment, before rushing back over to your bag and pulling out a mask and a baseball cap you kept in there in case your hair was too greasy after dance practice.

"Put these on and wait here," you said.

You went to the bathroom and changed into a pair of black joggers, a cool graphic crop top, and a jean jacket. You were thankful you had brought a decent change of clothes that day, at least one you could go out in.

Entering the practice room once again, you noticed Namjoon had listened to you and wore the mask and baseball cap.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"You're going to learn to lose your inhibition."

﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤

Somehow you managed to charm your way into the club and made your way onto the crowded floor.

"I don't think this is the best idea," Namjoon said. "I could get recognized and then we'd both be in trouble."

You took his hands and led him out deeper towards the middle of the dance floor. The gesture took him by surprise and shut him up momentarily.

"Come on, dance! Don't think about it, just listen to the beat and do whatever feels natural."

You swayed your hips to the beat and danced the way you originally fell in love with you. There was still a part of you that just loved to let loose and dance, not worry about choreography or even the lines looking perfectly, just letting the beat tell you how to move.

You felt Namjoon's eyes watching you intently, but ignored it as you continued to dance. You should be used to people watching you dance by now, but something about the way he watched you made a shiver run down your spine.

Eventually, he gave in and joined you. At first, he was still slightly awkward and stiff, but after a few more songs he began to loosen up. You teased him slightly by showing off and moving in ways he couldn't.

After a couple hours, you were exhausted and you could tell Namjoon was too based on the way his hair laid against his forehead and his eyelids drooped.

"Come on, let's go back."

﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤

"It's late," Namjoon said, once you were out of the club. "Why don't you just come back to the dorm with me?"

You were a little taken aback.

"You didn't sneak a drink in there, did you?" you asked, trying to play off the question.

Namjoon sighed. "Oh, no, that's not what I meant. I--" He sighed again, taking hold of the bridge of his nose. "We have to be back in the studio in a few hours anyway. I just thought it might be easier to go back together."

You smiled. "That's thoughtful, but I wouldn't want to intrude on the members, or accidentally cause a scandal."

"The members wouldn't mind and I understand. Will you at least let me take you home?"

You nodded and hailed a taxi for the two of you.

﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤

You stood backstage anxiously as the boys took to the stage. You were nervous, considering the final performance reflected on you and your skills as a choreographer.

The boys had worked hard over the past week and you were confident they would do wonderfully. You'd even exchanged numbers to stay in contact with them after you went on to work with other idols.

You twisted the hem of your dress nervously. This wasn't really your scene, a fancy awards show. You felt slightly uncomfortable, afraid you'd do something to reflect badly on the boys.

You looked down at your phone for the first time in hours and saw a text from Namjoon.

"You taught me to lose my inhibition. It's my turn, now ;)

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thatbanjobusiness · 4 years ago

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I want to briefly talk bluegrass fashion.

I appreciate and enjoy bluegrass from its roots to its present. I think creative growth over the decades has allowed for incredible and diverse music. Whether it’s disco influenced jamming, rock-bluegrass fusions, or classical music inspiration, there’s cool stuff to be had anywhere in the timeline. That said, one thing I wish contemporary bluegrass bands did more of was take fashion tips from the first generation bands.

In the 1920s, barn dance type radio programs featuring hillbilly music and rural style entertainment became popular. Some of these radio shows like the WLS National Barn Dance and WSM Grand Ole Opry had stage shows where you could watch the program in person. Costuming and presentation of the performing cast tended to be rough rube depictions, even caricatures, of rural people. George D. Hay, who founded and hosted the Grand Ole Opry, himself named the bands things like “The Gully Jumpers” and “The Possum Hunters.”

But when Bill Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys auditioned and were made members of the Grand Ole Opry in October 1939, Monroe detested this rough presentation that could quickly engender degrading opinions of hillbilly stereotypes. He opted instead to dress in a more classy manner. His band came out in white shirts, ties, jodhpurs, and boots.

This is something Bill Monroe bragged about even as the decades went on. For Monroe, it was important to dress well and in dignity when you got onstage. You respect yourself and you respect audiences when you come out in your best.

By the mid-1940s Bill Monroe’s band had accumulated a number of musical features that today our ears would recognize as bluegrass. It’s interesting to notice that bandmembers who left Monroe and went on to do their own bluegrass music often... took with them some of Bill’s ideas about stage presentation. Flatt & Scruggs, when they left Monroe and started their own band, are sometimes seen in early images wearing jodhpurs.

Early bluegrass bands on occasion might have had an “exception” to the rule. At the very least, you see this in Flatt & Scruggs in the late 1940s and first half of the 1950s. But I believe what they were doing reflected a trend that existed in the broader hillbilly music industry. I’d like investigate that more later to understand better. Unlike today’s concerts that involve music and only music, in those times, comedy was a more expected part of a show. White banjo performers, prior to bluegrass, were essentially all comedians; and in ensembles, someone (as I’ve often seen, the bass player) might take a comedy role. So you could’ve gotten a well-dressed band... and then the bassist dressed in comic rube garb.

That said, each first generation bluegrass band ended up creating their own unique presentation. It’s variation around a theme: dress up nice to respect audiences and put your best foot forward. How you present yourself onstage has impact. Audiences aren’t coming out to see some tattered everyday person; they’re coming out here to listen to music stars.

And so you see bands and acts coordinating their outfits in classy ways like...

(The 1958 screencap above doesn’t 100% evoke this, but I’ve noticed Flatt & Scruggs in the mid-50s through mid-60s would often do a 2-2-2 coordination. Everyone would wear hats. The band leaders would wear matching jackets and string ties. Two band members would wear the same collared shirts and the same string ties as the leaders. The last two band members, who were a duet and comedy team, would wear vests or different hats or some other distinguishing marker. Everyone’s clothes would carry the same overall color theme. Very well-thought out wardrobe presentation.)

SEE? EVERYONE IS DRESSED UP AND LOOKS GOOD.

You can tell they’re an act. You can tell they’re professional. You can tell, the second they step up to perform, they mean business. It helps elevate them into STARS.

As new generations took up bluegrass, the social context of how to dress changed. The Folk Revival of the 1960s brought many Northerners, urban people, and hippies into the bluegrass world. I haven’t read up as much on this part of bluegrass history, but I believe it was starting here that new bluegrass ensembles quit thinking about dressing up to be onstage. I’ve certainly seen photos of the early bluegrass festivals of the late 60s and 70s, and some second generation bluegrass groups would wear extremely casual things onstage. Other groups would coordinate by wearing the same collared shirt, which meant they were matching, but also (to me) making less of a “statement.”

It makes sense. First generation bluegrass performers were seeking to dress to impress and get away from crappy hillbilly stereotypes. Later generations of bluegrass performers might not have been from the South or a country lifestyle at all, and would feel more inclined to try to evoke a “working class” vibe by wearing everyday or ragged clothing. Today, I feel many bands do this to evoke their own form of an authentic stage presentation.

This means that today, many groups wear rather casual clothing. I feel I see this especially in jamgrass. And for the record, these are all VERY talented, well-known ensembles; I’m not comparing pros to locals or something.

And they’re dressed better here than what I’ve seen for bands at concerts.

I think it’s ironic that Bill Monroe, the Father of Bluegrass, sought to escape tattered clothing that actual country people wouldn’t wear on the fields, let alone onstage... only to have bluegrass musicians half a century later revert to costuming concepts Monroe had rejected. Today’s clothes of course aren’t the torn-up straw hat and single-strapped overalls of the early Opry, but it’s the same idea: dress down to look “country.” I don’t think there’s any objective disrespect to bluegrass’s history to dress like that, but I do think there’s a point that everyday clothes don’t make as much of an impression for your band.

Now of course not all groups have gone this route. In any generation of bluegrass, you still see bands that dressed more “traditionally.” But it’s certainly been a trend—since at least the 70s—to see bluegrass groups, either at the local or professional level, wearing everyday clothes. Get jeans, maybe some flannel, and you’re good to go. I see it oh-so-often now.

It doesn’t resonate as much to me. I get the point of their presentation, trying to evoke a casual non-mainstream working class image, but I feel there’s other ways you can set a vibe for your ensemble that doesn’t come off as lazy, everyday, or unnoticeable.

I’d be much more interested seeing:

YEAH!!!!! YOU GO RHONDA VINCENT AND THE RAGE!

I think it’s interesting to see this mindset about proper bluegrass performance attire recur in interviews. I’ve watched a number of 2000s and 2010s interviews for first and early second generation bluegrass performers, and one common thing the old-timers complain about is how people don’t dress up anymore. They feel it doesn’t respect the audience or make a good impression for the ensemble. How you present yourself onstage is half of the performance; it can be an effective means of enhancing a show when you do it well.

And I’ve seen it in conversations with people like Steve Martin, showing how in the 2010s, there’s still negative “hillbilly” images to butt against:

INTERVIEWER: Does it bother you that quite possibly the most famous banjo song in pop culture is "Dueling Banjos" from "Deliverance"?

MARTIN: It doesn't bother me at all. Actually I might argue with that because another most famous song would be the theme from "The Beverly Hillbillies" or "Foggy Mountain Breakdown," the song from "Bonnie and Clyde." So there are a couple of 'most famous' banjo songs.

INTERVIEWER: But still… the theme song from "The Beverly Hillbillies"?

MARTIN: It's just something we have to face. And everything changes. That's why I always wear a suit and tie when I play bluegrass.

INTERVIEWER: Do you feel like you're helping changing the face of bluegrass?

MARTIN: I don't know. That's what I do when I go on stage. I don't make hillbilly jokes or things like that. I'm just playing it as the person I am, not pretending to be anything else. The band I play with, we all dress in suits and ties.

One of my favorite contemporary bands also has one of my favorite wardrobes. What they choose to wear is a huge element of their stage presentation, amplifies their show powerfully, and contributes to the entire vibe of their music product. Good costuming can be part of marketing, and they market themselves spectacularly.

The Dead South almost marries the best of both worlds between “dress up” and “dress as the everyday man.” Their clothes aren’t “formal” in the sense of suits and ties. There’s more casualness to it. At the same time, what they wear—blatantly Southern and Western gear that matches with variation across the band—isn’t something everyday Joe or Janet would put on to go to Walmart. It’s got a little more of a “period” feel to it while also being modern enough to feel authentic. Altogether, it makes them classy without being formally classy.

It’s perfect for them. This is a “controversially” bluegrass band who knows that, while they play string band music, its creative reach extends beyond what you’d expect of something labeled “bluegrass.” They have called themselves “a rock band without a drummer, a bluegrass band without a fiddler.” Elsewhere, they’ve marketed themselves as “a gold rush vibing four-piece acoustic set from Saskatchewan [that] infuse[s] the genre's traditional trappings with an air of frontier recklessness, whiskey breakfasts and grizzled tin-pan showmanship.” This is a band I’ve always said plays to a “degenerate” image, songs filled with cowboy shootouts, barfights, gun-wielding robberies, alcoholic nights, and more.

And doesn’t their wardrobe evoke that spotlessly? There is CLASS and INTENTION with how they present themselves, to the point the band almost always stands in that order left-to-right, and has used their unique wardrobe choices for album covers and stage design.

Check out how the stage’s stained glass window lights behind them evoke both images from their songs, and have the tie, beard, skull, string tie theme on them. Every band member stands in front of his respective window.

That is *WAY* cooler, more effective, more impacting, more resonating, more memorable, more vibing, than simply tossing on my latest t-shirt.

(And yes, the last photos are from when I went to their concert last year. One of the best concerts I’ve EVER been to, and it’s because they knew how to put on a SHOW.)

Performance entails everything from the sounds you make to the personality you evoke to the clothes you wear. It’s why I prefer the first generation bluegrass bands’ approach to “dress well” over some modern string band trends. And again, bands like The Dead South show alternate ways you can dress up and rock out.

#long post #that banjo business #thatbanjobusiness #Country Music History #Haddock Deep Dives #General Banjo Business #The Dead South #Bill Monroe #daddy boi billiam #Flatt & Scruggs #bluegrass #first gen bluegrass

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mint-yooxgi · 5 years ago

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{1} - Obsession

Yandere AU - Part of the EXO Obsession Series

Genre: Mature, Horror, Angst

Pairing: EXO OT9 X Reader (with a particular focus on X-EXO)

Words: 3,152

Warnings: This is a Yandere story, it will contain themes such as stalking, violence, obsession, possessive natures, and just general overall creepiness and swearing. You have been warned.

A/n: One the seventh day of Ficmas, Jackie gave to me~ I really hope you all enjoy this chapter, and are continuing to look forwards to the rest of this series. I do really have a lot planned for it and am really excited to write it! Oh, and if I haven’t mentioned it before, the reader is tall in this series. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated, I hope you enjoy!

Previous ~ Next

The six men surrounding you are quick to get into a fighting stance, standing at attention in case something is to happen. They each make sure to take a small step closer towards you for your protection. For whatever reason, the six new variants with their faces all seem to have a particular interest in you.

“What the fuck?” You hear Baekhyun mutter under his breath in slight bewilderment.

“Who are you?” Chanyeol voices, eyes narrowing in particular at the figure that looks the most like himself, pink hair and all.

“We’re you,” his clone replies with a smirk. “Or rather, the better versions of you.”

“Looks like whatever you guys got hit with created them,” you say, brow furrowing as you scan over each one of the new clones. “Spell gone wrong, probably.”

“Looks like it,” Jongdae huffs in agreement, staring down his doppelgänger who has yet to take his eyes off of you.

You share a quick glance with Junmyeon before turning your attention back to the clones.

“What is it that you all want?” Sehun asks, shoulders tense as he aims an arrow at himself.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jongin’s clone grins, a sinister look in his ice blue eyes as they flash briefly over your strike team.

“Considering we haven’t been able to keep our eyes off of her this whole time,” Baekhyun’s clone adds, the corner of his lip tugging upwards as he tilts his head downwards, almost mockingly.

“(Y/n),” all of them speaking at once sends a chill running down your spine as your breath lodges in your throat.

One rule you have on all of your missions is to never refer to each other by your real names. It’s a safety precaution in case an enemy is to escape and possibly track you down. Hearing these clones speak your real name concerns you greatly, considering this means that they know you to some degree. This just makes you wonder, since they are clones of your strike team, does this mean they share the same memories? You swallow.

“What do you want with Viper?” Jongin tenses, voice a near growl.

“God, I always hated having to use that code name,” Junmyeon’s clone sighs exasperatedly. Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice the real Junmyeon tense ever so slightly, causing his clone to smirk. “Oh, did I say something I wasn’t supposed to?”

“Why-“

You get cut off by Junmyeon before you can even finish your question, “you’re not getting anywhere near her.”

“Too late,” a smug voice sounds right by your ear as you feel a pair of hands firmly grasp your waist.

Turning your head, you see Jongin’s clone now right beside you. The striking ice blue hue of his eyes is even more prominent up close, his green hair falling over his forehead as he stares you down. A smirk pulls at his lips as he moves to pull you closer to him.

Sensing the static shift in the air, you know what he’s about to do, and before he can teleport away with you, you elbow him in the neck. However, he manages to dodge your attack. This only causes him to lose his grip on you, teleporting away empty handed.

“Well, that didn’t work,” he grumbles, frown pulling at his features as he stands once again beside the other clones.

“You’re lucky we’re on the same team right now, otherwise I’d cut your hands off for touching her,” Baekhyun’s clone growls out, finally peeling his gaze away from you long enough to glare at Jongin’s clone.

“We need to get her out of here,” Sehun says, briefly making eye contact with Jongin before nodding their heads at one another.

In the next moment, Jongin is taking a step towards you, grabbing your wrist in his hand, and teleporting the two of you back inside the hovercraft. He’s gone as quickly as he came, causing the other three males in the craft to rush over to you.

“Is everything okay?” Kyungsoo asks, concern clear in his voice as he takes in your disheveled state and wide eyes.

“What happened?” Minseok questions, leading you over to a seat at the side of the craft. “And where are the others?”

“Are you injured?” Yixing begins to look you over for any cuts, scrapes, or bruises.

“We need to get out of here, and soon,” is all that you say, attempting to calm your breathing and clear your head before you dive into an explanation on what has happened. “I’ll explain everything back at the base.”

“What do you need us to do?” Minseok is the first to respond, face morphing into one of understanding.

“I’m not sure how the other’s are going to get out, seeing as Jongin can’t teleport them all at once,” you reply, bringing a hand up to rub at your head. “I’d say we land about two kilometres out with the cloak still on. Their communication gear is broken so I might have to go back in and retrieve them.”

“Is it safe for you to go back?” Yixing voices all of their thoughts, concern clear in his voice.

“I don’t know,” you bite your lip, looking out of the window and down at the warehouse below. Nothing extreme has happened yet, so you’re just hoping that they’re all still okay.

Your eyes narrow slightly as you notice six familiar figures run out of a side entrance. Motioning with your head, you catch the other’s attention, with Yixing soon moving over quickly to land the hovercraft to pick up the rest of your teammates.

Once the craft has touched ground, you’re the first one to meet the six other members of your strike team at the now lowered entrance, concern evident on your features.

“What happened? Are you all okay?” You look each one of them over carefully as they enter the craft, not seeing anything out of the ordinary.

“As soon as you left, they got worked up, told us that they’d be back, and then Jongin’s clone teleported them out of there,” Jongdae informs you, causing you to furrow your brow in confusion.

“Wait, he teleported them all?” The confusion is clear as day in your voice.

“Yes,” Jongin grumbles, crossing his arms slightly in front of his chest.

“They didn’t engage, so there’s no way of knowing yet, but we’re assuming that the spell made them slightly stronger than us,” Junmyeon says, a slight edge to his tone as he takes a seat while the hovercraft takes off once more.

“That doesn’t sound too good, whatever it is,” Kyungsoo replies, flipping a few switches on the control panel.

“No,” Baekhyun mutters. “It most certainly is not.”

“So now that we’re all here, would someone please tell us what’s going on?” Minseok quirks a brow at the seven of you, watching as you all discard your broken transceivers into a pile on the table.

“We managed to kill Shelly,” Sehun informs them.

“She was in the midst of performing some spell, and as soon as she bit the dust, the spell went awol,” Chanyeol adds. “Hit the six of us with this weird, intense, flash of light.”

“Next thing we know, we’re seeing double,” Jongin continues, leaning forwards slightly to rest his elbows on his knees.

“It was like looking into a weird, warped mirror,” Baekhyun nods along.

“You mentioned clones, Jongdae?” Yixing’s voice is heard from the driver’s seat, switching on autopilot as he swivels around in his chair in order to join the conversation fully.

“Yes, they looked exactly like us, and from what we can gather, share everything similar about one another,” Jongdae sighs, running a hand through his hair. “The only thing different about them was that they all seemed to have at least one eye that held an ice blue iris, if not something of that variation.”

“They were also dressed differently, too,” Sehun recalls. “All of them were wearing some sort of leather in a bright colour.”

“Strange,” Kyungsoo hums, leaning back in his seat slightly.

“They all seem to share the same knowledge as we do, as well,” Junmyeon says, somewhat worriedly. “They seemed to all have a common goal, too.”

“Goal? What might that be?” Minseok asks, curiosity peaked.

“Get (Y/n),” Jongin states, jaw clenched. “They even knew her real name.”

“You’re joking,” Yixing gasps, looking towards you for confirmation, of which you nod your head slowly. “Looks like they do share your knowledge, then.”

“Is that all we know so far?” Kyungsoo quirks a brow, looking over at each of you.

“So far,” you breathe, letting out a long puff of air.

“Well, if they know everything we do, and if they have the same skill set as us, then you might not be safe going back to your apartment tonight,” Chanyeol’s gaze locks with yours, his eyes shining with worry.

At this, you quirk a brow, “you and I both know I’m more than capable of handling myself. Besides, I have protective and preventative measures in my security system, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? Maybe one of us should stay with you-“

You cut Junmyeon off before he can even finish his sentence with a harsh glare, “I said, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” At the looks they’re all giving you, you let out a sigh. “Geez, if you’re that worried, feel free to make a schedule and check on me either in the mornings or the evenings, but not both. Only on days where we don’t see each other, too. I like my days off by myself, thank you very much.”

“That’s fine,” Sehun nods, gritting his teeth shortly afterwards.

“As long as we can just make sure you’re okay once in a while,” Jongdae adds, to which you nod your head once while letting out another sigh.

“For now, what should we refer to these variants as? We can’t keep calling them clones,” Baekhyun voices, resting his arms on the table in front of him.

“Well, I mean, we could, but that wouldn’t be very good,” Sehun attempts to lighten the mood, much to the dismay of Junmyeon.

“This is going to sound odd, considering our own code, but what if we just referred to them by our respective codenames?” Chanyeol suggests, causing you to lift a brow in his direction.

“It would be easier to maintain identities that way,” Jongin says, nodding slightly in agreement.

“Sounds good to me,” Jongdae confirms as they all look towards you for the final approval. After all, you are their leader.

“Sure, sure,” you respond. “Though what’ll we do for missions?”

“I know we have the rule against it, but what if we just used our real names,” Junmyeon is quick to answer, biting the inside of his cheek slightly, which you all fail to notice.

“That’s too risky,” you mumble, leaning forward to rest your elbow on the table in front of you. You fail to notice the brief disappointment that flashes behind his eyes. “However, it just might work in this case. For every other mission not concerning these clones, I still want us using the codenames, but for missions involving these variants, real names are to be used so as not to get confused.”

“Understood,” they all reply simultaneously, with a single nod of their heads.

“Now, let’s get back to base, regroup, and fill out the mission reports,” you say, hearing grunts of confirmation come from all of them as you lean back in your seat once more.

Crossing your one leg over the other, you attempt to calm yourself down a bit. Today was not what you were expecting it to be at all. Leaning further back into your seat, you also cross your arms over your chest, zoning out as the men converse around you. In the back of your mind, you begin to think of a plan of attack. The only problem is, you have no idea what to expect.

Yes, you’ve worked with these men for quite a few years now, but these are clones. Besides the occasional sparring match from time to time in recent years, you’ve never had to worry about them being your enemy, or dodging their attacks because they’re after you to this extent. Who knows what their clones are going to be like, especially if they’re slightly stronger than the originals.

After returning to base, filling out the regular mission reports, as well as informing your superiors about what has happened, you’re ready to go home and relax for the evening. Though, you have a feeling your day isn’t over quite yet.

Back when you started this job, your superiors thought it would be a good idea to set you up with two separate living quarters. One that everyone knows about, and the other being your real, private home.

The guys have all been to your apartment, your home away from home as you like to call it; the apartment of which the company has set up to be your home. Not too many know of your real house, and you want to keep it that way. You just have a feeling that if you go back to your apartment tonight, you’re not going to be alone when you get there.

Just as you’re about to leave the compound for the evening, a voice calling out to you stops you.

“Hey, (Y/n), wait up!” Turning around reveals both Yixing and Minseok heading your way, halting you in your tracks.

“Hey guys, what’s up?” You smile at them faintly, resting your hands on your waist.

“Considering everything that’s happened today, we want to know if it’s okay with you if we drove you home,” Minseok says, the two of them stopping just in front of you once they reach where you’re standing.

You nearly sigh in exasperation, but you opt to bite your lip instead. You know they mean no harm, and are only looking out for your well being, but you aren’t planning on going back to your apartment tonight considering you’re sure those variants will be waiting for you once you arrive. You’re grateful for their concern, though, and with the looks they’re sending you, you would feel awful if you refused.

“Oh, alright, if it makes you feel better,” you sigh, shaking your head slightly as a small chuckle escapes your lips.

“Perfect, let’s go,” Minseok grins at you, looping his arm with yours as he leads you out of the compound, Yixing following close behind.

If you’re being honest with yourself, you’d say your closest friends at work would have to be Minseok, Yixing, and Kyungsoo. You love the guys on your strike team, but sometimes they can get a bit much. With the other three, you feel as if you can talk to them a bit more openly; they really seem to understand you, and they listen when you need to rant about one of the others not listening to your orders on a mission.

Sliding into the backseat of Yixing’s car, you allow yourself to relax. You shift yourself so you’re sitting in the middle behind the two front seats, allowing you easier access to talk with the two males sitting upfront.

The whole ride over to your apartment is pretty tame, the three of you cracking jokes and helping to take your mind off of things. To say you’re grateful would be an understatement; you’re glad that they drove you home, despite the feeling of dread creeping up your spine as soon as you see the apartment complex come into view.

Once Yixing puts the car in park, you move to get out of the back seat.

“Thanks for driving me home guys, I appreciate it,” you send them a smile.

“It’s nothing,” Yixing smiles back at you.

“Here, I’ll walk you up,” Minseok’s words nearly have your breath catching in your throat.

“Nah, it’s okay,” you reply, stepping out of the vehicle and closing the door quickly in order to begin walking towards the entrance of your apartment complex.

The sound of a second car door slamming behind you causes you to let out a small huff, Minseok catching up to you in no time.

“I wasn’t giving you an option,” he says cheekily as the two of you make it to the elevators.

The whole ride up to your floor is silent, and you can feel Minseok’s gaze shifting to look over at you every now and then. This only causes you to look at him from out of the corner of your eyes.

“What, is there something on my face?” The corner of your lip tugs upwards as the elevator dings, and the doors opens on your floor.

“Nope,” he replies casually. “Just wondering if you’re going to be okay.”

Making it to your front door, you pull out your keys, causing them to make a slight jingling sound as you unlock your front door.

“Really, Minseok, I’ll be fine,” you assure him, stepping into your apartment. Before he can follow, you’re turning around to lean on your open door, shooting him a smile. “How about this, I’ll call you guys if I need anything, okay?”

He looks like he’s about to protest, but the look you shoot him has his words dying in the back of his throat, “okay.”

“Goodnight, Minseok,” you say, beginning to shut your front door.

“(Y/n)?” His voice halts your movements, and you notice him looking down at his shoes.

“Yes?” You quirk a brow as he raises his head to lock gazes with you.

“Be safe,” with a final nod, he’s heading back down the hallway and towards the elevators.

A faint smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you shut the front door. You find it very sweet of him to be this concerned for you, even though you both know you can take care of yourself.

Now, to face what you’ve been dreading this entire evening.

Letting out a sigh, you turn around, staring into your dark apartment and listening for any signs of movement, none of which you hear at the moment. Well, if they are clones of your strike team, it would be hard for any normal person to sense them in the apartment. However, this is your apartment, and you. You know them better than anyone else, or at least, that’s what you’d like to think.

“Alright, I know you’re there,” your voice cuts through the tense silence of your apartment. “There’s no use in hiding any longer.”

A few moments pass by with nothing out of the ordinary happening, until your lights are flicked on to reveal the six variants sitting in your living room. All of them wear smug grins on their faces, eyes fixated solely on you once more.

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