#uselessly specific tags

[art-of-mathematics]

[enneamage]

Not directly to Generation Loss, but I've been given a lot of thoughts to the younger generation of minecraft streamers and their attempts to do big projects to "break out of" the minecraft mold: obviously, with Ranboo, we have Generation Loss, which seemed to go over well with his fanbase (enough so that he's stated he's thinking of quitting MCC, which is really the only tie he's had to the game for about a year atp), with Tommy, we have his New York vlog series and now his liveshows, and with Tubbo, while still Minecraft-adjacent, we have Tubnet. I'm wondering if you have any thoughts about what would make a cc successful at shifting their core audience into a brand new project that isn't necessarily the type of content that they got famous for. Do the audiences of all three ccs differ enough that they would need different strategies to shift their content? My running theory is that Generation Loss was mostly successful among his fanbase because it played on the tropes that were apparent in his minecraft lore from the beginning: mind control, a protagonist forced to do awful things against his will, a base npc type character that occasionally has overwrought freakouts over their lack of control, etc. It was just in a medium outside of Minecraft.

Meanwhile, Tommy is finding himself in a rut because he can't fully apply his storytelling skills to a non-Minecraft setting (in part because he's focusing more on comedy, and while his fans like his sense of humor, I think, in his lore, they also liked the Marvel-esque main character energy, which doesn't translate when it's just the cc having a huge ego, and the angst) and his vlogs, when they aren't completely on the backburner, seem too formulaic to have their early charm. As for Tubbo, while obviously a minecraft server is, well, minecraft, there wasn't enough "entertainment"/lore/a connection to the streamer to encourage his core audience to play Tubnet, at least not in the form it was released as. In short, I feel traditional mcyt-ers are looking for narratives or entertainment value from these bunch of ccs. Although maybe Lovejoy's success goes against this theory. It just seems like all the younger minecraft streamers have attempted to release a large project within the last year or so, and while that might not be indicative of them trying to leave the fandom, I sense a restlessness in all of them and a wish to move on.

(Okay so this is going under a readmore because it is a long’un)

As of 2023 in a post-lockdown and post-DSMP world I got the sense that a lot of people were restless regarding what to do and where to go next, CC and audience alike. I think that because the DSMP was such a specific time and place in people’s lives it’s inevitable that the majority of people (because those numbers were huge) will have moved on to watching/wanting other things, so retention through sameness may not work, but you’re onto something with the feeling like there’s no in-character story to follow anymore. The thing I poke at from time to time is that there’s no out-of-character plot to follow anymore either, most of the irl narratives have been resolved or brought off-camera so even the RPF people have to scavenge for food.

Lovejoy has a rising star narrative that people can invest in if they want; with them breaking free of associations with mcyt to be treated like serious musicians, and I think it also serves a purpose ofpeople trying to wash off post-mcyt shame in themselves. (“this is Wilbur Soot and this is WILL GOLD” they tweet, as though that is not a literal man onstage performing, but they’ve already decided what they want to believe in.) I’m sensing some misguided stabs to try and not be treated like the bottom of the food chain in the vocal fanbase by desperately trying to push away from the MCYT association, which is probably where those peoples heads are at all around. Most lovenjoyers are fine with it and just enjoy the music because it’s obviously how they got there, but there’s clearly a friction going on.

Ranboo has a kind of watered-down version of that following them. I remember when I first saw someone say very defensively that Ranboo wasn’t an MCYT, they were a variety streamer. Ranboo has been drifting away from MC for a long time, both moving into the variety realm and daydreaming about Genloss. When people win the internet lottery young it makes sense to want to put the money towards a project that they would only be stuck imagining otherwise, and Genloss very much feels like that kind of dream. I would say that Ranboo has successfully pivoted to variety and even completed their first big project, but they’ll need to re-capture that audience every time they make a Generation from now on, which could be hard to do with breaks in between.

Tubbo has also moved into variety streaming, which is kind of a necessity for the hours he keeps. He also has an ongoing love for big projects like Recipe for Disaster. Tubbo’s longterm investment and labor of love was Tubnet, which would have established him as the owner of a server like the one that he used to play on when he was younger. I don’t know what Tubbo’s relationship to storytelling is, I’ve heard he does it on a small scale but he also has a unique love of engineering, which Tubnet was more about. As far as I know there were a lot of things that eventually led to Tubnet’s low player turnout, but one of them had to have been low demand; I remember people saying that there was no use re-inventing Hypixel when Hypixel already had all the Hypixel players. Regardless of if this was fair or not, Tubnet didn’t wind up developing a large player base from his fame, which unfortunately shows that not all attention rolls over equally.

Tommy has been pouring his storytelling skills into writing his live show, which he’s advertising as the best thing he’s ever written as well as his biggest self-disclosure. It’s autobiographical theatre, but also a puppet musical-- we will see what the audience reviews think. Tommy’s been experimenting the most to see that he wants to do next, I know he’s stated that 2022 was a big ‘try’ year for him and he’s also talked about focusing on the quality of viewers over the quantity because focusing on hard statistics made him miserable. I know Tommy doesn’t want to move away from Minecraft, he’s actually very tightly holding on and trying to find ways to love it again, as well as make it worthwhile for audiences. Some of the things Tommy has been saying lately make it sound like he wants to turn back time a bit, recapture what streaming and video gamed used to feel like for him when he was younger, so we’ll see what resonates with the others. There’s a lot of really dense nostalgia around Minecraft (look at these comment sections they’re haunting) and judging from his current taste in video essays he’s got a moderate case of it.

I think the pattern here is marrying the thing that you want to with what audiences want, which is infinitely harder to do than it is to say. Human motivation is fluid and weird, and not many people are going to be able to say what it is they’ll want or like until something or someone is put in front of them. What people want also changes over time, so it can be a bit like chasing the wind or catching an updraft to get in the air when it comes to getting an audience. There’s a formula for the YouTube algorithm, but there’s not a clear map for the less cheap or predictable parts of the psyche. 

Even when you’ve got an audience, when it’s time to pivot over to something completely new it’s kind of time to be a whole new person to them; your function and role in someone’s life is changing. It’s rolling the dice and seeing if you can do and be something that resonates in a new form. People fall out of love with other people all the time, and I think that CCs get the same effect as the seasons change-- sometimes people change and cause a split, sometimes people stay the same and get stale over time. For the same reason that people can be ride or die because a CC is themselves, when someone falls out of love with a cc there’s not much that can make them stay if the rest of the content doesn’t deliver. I don’t see people talk about it at length, but I have seen this image make the rounds so it’s a shared thing.  

Shortest answer is I think there’s no formula that can be divined outside of a retroactive twelve hour video essay breakdown of each individual’s creators strengths and weaknesses, and a matching breakdown of where the audience’s head was at. It’s much easier to look back on something specific and say ‘this is why this worked / didn’t work’ than grind out guidelines beyond ‘avoid making the audience feel completely alienated or betrayed.’ It can really come down to the audience, who can be attracted and put off by people for reasons that seem borderline intangible, like ‘authenticity.’

The good news is audiences need change and newness even if the content they like has a pattern, otherwise they would keep watching the same video. Even channels that make ‘more of the same’ put out a continuation of what they did last time, moving things along or adding to the collection somehow. Whether it’s in-character or out of character or a kind of abstract “I show up to this channel and things I like are on it,” I think people like to be able to make sense of what they’re clicking on so that they keep doing it. As long as the core remains intact, the people who are sufficiently invested in the creator tend to stick around unless life gets in the way.

As for the restlessness, I think that being on the frontier is kind of addictive. Not long ago someone pointed out to me that I had started wondering what the next big thing would be on behalf of the CCs because it’s an interesting question, especially coming off the back of the DSMP blowing up. I think that online can be a very punishing place if you don’t keep up with trends and frontiers since things change so fast, it’s rewarding if you get in early but you’re in danger if you’re left behind. This is actually as true for regular internet users as it is for CCs, think of the strangely potent social shame of using an out of date meme or not being up on the state of The Discourse, you’ll genuinely get punished if you’re too far out of sync with things. We’re in a year that is both hung over on lockdown and desperately trying to get moving again, right in the moment before the answer to what happens next is ‘obvious.’  

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

WE CAN DIP IF YOU’RE READY ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; your dreams of a peaceful summer are rudely shattered by the presence of your best friend’s older brother; the same brother who rejected you five years ago. the same brother you’re still hopelessly, uselessly in love with.

word count; 7.4k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, best friend’s brother!gojo (he’s the hottest man in the stratosphere imo), mild age gap (five years!), unrequited love, but with a hopeful ending kind of, bittersweet fluff, mostly summer shenanigans and pining, riko is satoru’s younger sister and i would give her the stars, sugu makes a guest appearance, (they’re both just there to bully gojo), he’s fairly mature in this i think, reader is very stubborn and very down bad, [name] is used exactly once

a/n; personally i would let him use me as workout gear (tagging @teddybeartoji @dollsuguru @hayakawalove @stellamancer @vagabond-umlaut !! tysm for the help and encouragement ily 🥺🥺)

one mellow summer morning, over a breakfast of pancake and toast, the puppy-love you’ve nurtured for the past three years finally reaches its conclusion.

you’re seventeen years old. in three months you’ll be eighteen, standing on your own two feet, headed in a new direction — the whole world within your reach.

but right now you’re still only seventeen, and lovesick, and sleeping on a mattress in your best friend’s room; listening to the sound of the nearby sea. you’re seventeen, and dreaming about things you can’t have. you’re seventeen, and foolishly wearing your heart on your sleeve. 

you’re seventeen, and hopelessly, uselessly in love with a certain satoru gojo.

it’s early. your veins are sleepy and your heart is heavy, and you wake up at the crack of dawn just to catch a glimpse of him before he leaves for work. he’s leaning against the kitchen island when you trot down the stairs, and the smell of syrupy pancakes hangs heavy in the air; his bare chest is exposed, pajama pants clinging to the curve of his hips, and he rejects you with an easygoing kindness you wish he wouldn’t grant you.

”you’re more like a younger sibling to me. you understand, right?”

(suddenly, without mercy; a finality to his voice.)

he ruffles your hair, and you’re still sleepy, and you wish you could grasp the strings of your heartbeat to stop it from fluttering like this. wish you could pull yourself out of whatever trance he put you in, all those years ago, when you stumbled over the threshold to your best friend’s house and crashed headfirst into his chest.

”you’re a good kid,” he says, and his smile teeters on the edge of something apologetic. mostly, it’s pitying. ”there are lots of people out there for you.”

he ruffles your hair, as affectionate as ever, the same as it’s always been. not a trace of any romantic intent. the weight of his palm on your head is usually a comfort, but like this?

it’s a specific kind of torture. 

(i know, you want to tell him, but your voice is raspy and your throat feels sort of dry. i know.

but i want you.)

“don’t get hung up on a schoolgirl crush, hm?”

when you finally raise your head, satoru is looking at you, looking through you. kindly, patiently, like a benevolent god; his blue eyes flecked with dots of white, fluffy clouds on a summer sky. tilting his head to the right, as if searching for confirmation, waiting for your response. you muster up the will to nod, smiling in a way that must seem pitiful.

but he just pinches your cheek, throws a backpack over his broad shoulders, and asks you to let his sister know he’ll be home later than usual today.

then he leaves. he leaves you alone with two plates of pancakes on the kitchen table, sugary and sweet, one for you and one for riko. he put whipped cream on top, and chocolate chips in the batter. it smells good. it smells like an apology.

and that’s how it ends. 

there’s no great climax, no real resolution. you bite down on your lip, and spend about an hour pitifully sniffling into a fluffy pillow, even though none of it comes as a surprise. it still hurts, though. your best friend comforts you, tells you that at least you have some kind of closure now — an absolute rejection to make your feelings go away. about time, she thinks, though she’s far too kind to say it outloud.

… except they don’t.

the moral of the story is: satoru gojo doesn’t love you back. he’s known you since you were fourteen, since he was nineteen, and he could never see you as anything more than a naive little kid. you’re his sister’s best friend, and he loves you, but not in the way you love him. it’s not surprising, or shocking. it’s exactly how it should be.

satoru gojo doesn’t love you back. he never will.

(you really, really wish your stupid heartbeat cared.)

five years later, on a breezy summer evening, you step onto a bustling train platform with your luggage in tow — breathing in the scent of a familiar seaside.

above you, seagulls chatter and cry. you look up at them, and then back down; everything feels familiar, despite the time that’s passed since the last summer you visited. the same flowers, peach blossoms and hydrangeas and tulips in all kinds of shades, the same street vendors and aroma of freshly grilled fish. the same cute and quaint port town, quiet during winter and autumn, pleasantly noisy during the warmer seasons. right now, on the cusp of june, there are enough tourists around to make finding the right face in the crowd a difficult task.

luckily, she’s quick to find you. 

there she is. with her long, dark locks of hair, neatly braided, a yellow sundress and matching headband; sunflowers embroidered into the fabric. barreling towards you with a speed that would scare you a little if you weren’t so used to it, so used to her.

riko. your one and only best friend.

she’s nestled into your embrace before you can get any greetings out, and squeezing you so tightly that you have no choice but to let her beat you to it. she’s warm, like a bundle of sunshine. the same as always.

with a low whine of your name, she nuzzles into your chest. “i missed youuuu…”

a chuckle bubbles up in your throat. and even though it hasn’t been very long at all, even though you talk on the phone almost every day and saw each other just a month ago — you indulge her.

“i missed you too, riko…”

another whine, and then she’s pulling back. squishing your cheeks together and pouting petulantly. “you better have! don’t ever make me spend summer all alone again, okay?”

”you’re still mad about that?” you match her expression, sulking. “it’s not my fault i got sick.”

“too sick to see your best friend? too sick to continue our most important tradition?” she shakes her head, letting go of you. struggling not to smile. “awful. just awful!”

“drama queen.” her lips break out into a grin, and yours follow. “i’m here now, aren’t i?”

“you are,” she agrees, quick to link her arm with yours. you follow her steps, leading you towards a familiar house, resting in the distance. you can see it from here, a roof burdened with morning glories, those expensive white walls. “no, but seriously. i’m really happy to see you.” her voice drips with joy, giddy and sweet. “i don’t think i’d survive two months alone with that old man.” 

(… ah. right.)

the girl on your right chatters on and on, clinging to you, gradually melting away your skittish nerves. she tells you about her morning, what she ate for breakfast, the new show she’s been binging — it’s just as familiar as the house that soon comes fully into view. big and expensive, but still cozy, overgrown with flora. you don’t think either of the siblings really bother to take care of it, but it’s a pretty kind of neglect. a cute veranda, a beautiful garden. the apple tree you used to climb.

from within an opened window, translucent curtains swaying with the breeze, the buzz of an old radio spills out. when you strain your ears, you think you hear humming — gentle and sweet.

riko grins, dragging you with her through the opened gate. the yellow paint on the fence is starting to peel, and someone from inside has started pushing the door open, and the butterflies in your stomach can do nothing but sputter and squirm.

it’s summer, and you're back. back in that cute, quaint port town.

(and so is he.)

“why, hello there! if it isn’t my cute little [name].”

time stills, for just a single moment.

he looks the same as you remember. a little taller, you think, but he was always tall enough to tower over you; broad shoulders and long legs, sharp blue eyes gazing down at you. he’s wearing black shades, but you can still feel the weight of his pupils, crumble under the knowledge that his attention is entirely on you. wearing a pair of sweatpants and a tight black shirt, showing off every dip and ridge of his chest.

a pleasantly cool breeze ruffles his white hair, short and trimmed, healthy locks to match his bright and sunny grin.

he looks happy to see you.

“don’t be weird,” comes riko’s voice, breaking you out of your little spell. all while she’s ushering you both towards the door, beyond the threshold, into the hallway. satoru clicks his tongue.

“so hostile today. shouldn't you be in a good mood?”

then he’s turning towards you, tilting his head just enough for his eyes to peek out. they’re crinkled at the edges, and his smile is fond. “how was your trip?”

more butterflies. his voice flows from his glossy lips, smooth and melted, pleasantly deep. you can only hang on to riko’s arm, mustering a small smile of your own. “good,” you chirp. a little stiff, but polite, like you’re greeting an old friend; it’s been so long since you last spoke to him. ”… i’m tired, though.”

your reply is met with a chuckle, a raspy tremor of his vocal cords. it sends a shiver down your spine. the weight on your arm disappears, as riko stumbles forward and kicks her sandals off, muttering something about gum getting stuck on the sole. you’re left standing right across from satoru, suddenly very aware of how much space he takes up all on his own — leaning against the wall, making himself comfortable. and chuckling, with that stupidly sexy voice.

”i bet,” he hums. ”take a nap if you need to, yeah?”

a moment of silence. riko curses in the background, and you shift from foot to foot, unable to properly look into his eyes. for a second, his smile drops — eyes obscured by the black glass of his frames, betraying no emotion. it only lasts a second.

then he’s moving forward.

one large stride towards you, as sudden as a lightning bolt, before he leans down to wrap his arms around you. squeezing your waist, with his biceps, not quite as tight as you remember his hugs being; you wonder if he’s holding back.

(his touch burns your skin, all the same.)

one of his palms finds solace on the top of your head, ruffling your hair. you can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks, terribly sincere.

“i missed you, kiddo.”

a quiet squeak tumbles from your lips, and you pray to every god you can think of that he doesn’t hear it. his chest is pressed right against you, firm, radiating body heat. his limbs wrap you up in it, a cocoon of warmth that makes it hard to breathe. you can smell his cologne from where your cheek meets his collarbone; sandalwood invading your senses.

“i m-missed you too,” is all you can croak out, voice breaking pitifully. at this rate you might actually faint.

just out of view, riko narrows her eyes. before you can plead for help, she’s tugging you away from the embrace, pushing her brother away, and you inhale as much of the fresh summer air as you can. 

“alright, that’s enough,” she huffs, pulling you closer. “c’mon! we should unpack your stuff right away!”

“want me to carry it?” satoru asks, already eyeing your luggage like a predator about to lunge at his prey. even if you say no, you know he’s not going to listen. 

so you let him. and within the next few minutes, you’re seated on riko’s bed, suitcase on the floor, a glass of lemonade in your hand. blinking sluggishly. 

“are you sure you’ll be alright?”

you raise your head. your best friend is looking at you with a questioning glance, head tilted and brows furrowed. now you’re all alone, and it’s quiet, peaceful. her brother went out to buy snacks for you. all you can hear is the low buzz of the radio downstairs, and faraway waves. 

“huh?”

“i mean, with, y’know…” she moves her hands haphazardly, making some kind of gesture you don’t understand. “with my brother. and your… condition.”

you blink.

“… did you just refer to my crush as a condition?”

“well, it might as well be!” she groans, muffled, faceplanting onto the mattress. “don’t think i didn’t see you checking out his biceps just now. you’re so obvious.” 

heat rushes to your cheeks. you try to shoo it away with a furrow of your brows and a too-loud exhale, but it lingers underneath your skin. “look — i —“ you scramble for the right words, brain tied up into fatigued knots. “did you see that shirt? is he buying them a size too small, or what?”

“oh, come on! that’s all it takes?”

another pair of exhales. you cross your legs, and she rolls onto her back. the silence is comfortable, grounding, and all you can do is gnaw at your bottom lip until she speaks up again.

“… you could really, really do better, you know?”

her voice is quiet, now. soft and sincere, delicate as a sheet of glass. you know she’s just looking out for you, that she doesn’t want you pining for a guy who’ll never return those feelings — she’s kind like that, always has been. you love her for it.

but…

“… i just like him.”

you take a tentative sip of your lemonade. sour and sweet. the cubes of ice clink against the glass, fresh condensation cooling down the tips of your fingers. her gaze lingers on your skin. it’s heavy, just like his.

you meet it with a sheepish smile, a little self-deprecating — but not embarrassed. she already knows all about your predicament. 

(you just like him. that’s all there is to it.)

and she pulls herself into a sitting position.

“i know, i know,” she finally sighs, slumping against you, cheek smushed over your shoulder. “just don’t give him more attention than me, ‘kay?”

you let out giggle. “well, duh.”

she gives you a sunny grin.

“okay, good.” 

you put the glass down on the windowsill beside you. just so you can stretch your arms out, falling backwards; a mountain of pillows cushioning your fall. a yawn spills past your lips, and riko sits up.

“wanna take a nap?” she tilts her head, dark locks framing her pretty blue eyes, deep as the sea. “that’s probably good. we’re going straight to the beach tomorrow, you know!”

“mm…” your eyes flutter shut, and you focus on that faraway sound. waves crashing against sand, the whistling of seagulls, the salty scent of the ocean. “that sounds nice.”

despite your exhaustion, you end up tossing and turning that night. not because of your best friend’s snores, or the feeling of a mattress you haven’t slept on in two years — but from the quiet sounds downstairs. glasses clinking, a chuckle here and there. the tv being turned on. tossing and turning from the knowledge that your childhood heartthrob, current heartthrob, is in the same house as you. a little older, a little less childish, even more charming than you remember him being.

you’re older, too. more mature, you like to think, even if the gain is small.

(maybe there’s a chance?)

shaking the thoughts from your head, mind still spinning along to the tune of his humming, you squeeze your eyes shut and try to fall asleep.

you’ll be okay.

okay, nevermind. you’re completely screwed.

“oh, there you are!”

satoru is already waiting up ahead when you step onto the beach, feeling the sand between your toes, a pleasantly cool breeze giving you respite from the sweltering heat.

the sun beats down on you, fervent sunlight warming the water up ahead, calm waves and a sparkling blue to match the hue of the sky; cobalts and ceruleans, melting together like watercolour on a canvas. people crowd around the food stands, shaved ice and churros and grilled fish, scents mingling together with the joyous chatter all around you. vibrant sensations, enough to excite but not to overwhelm. 

a picture-perfect summer day.

your heart tingles with something giddy, skipping happily as you follow riko’s lead; she’s wearing a cute bikini set, frilly and floral, hair styled into a pair of braided pigtails, kept together by her favorite scrunchies. leading you towards her older brother, waiting patiently, having already grabbed a nice spot for you. a parasol, a blanket, a picnic basket. you see bottles of pink lemonade, wrapped sandwiches, strawberries in a plastic container.

more than anything, you see him. you see him, and realize just how screwed you are.

he’s smiling, when you approach. as always. hair tousled by the ocean breeze, blue eyes gleaming with mirth, exposed by the sunglasses close to slipping down the bridge of his nose. he’s wearing a hawaiian shirt, black in colour, white floral patterns to tie it all together. just unbuttoned enough to show off his collarbone, a sliver of his chest, the short sleeves exposing his biceps; patches of pale skin, shining with the beginnings of sweat. 

(you’re about to fucking explode.)

as soon as you’re in sight, satoru lights up, aiming the flash of his phone in your direction. his other hand stays tucked into the pocket of his shorts. “aw, look at you two!” he coos, grinning brightly, teasing and sweet. “pose for the camera, okay?”

you’re still too hypnotized to react, but riko scurries ahead, ready to steal it from his grasp.

“no pictures!”

“oh, don’t be like that!” he takes a step back, dodging her attack by a hair, still wearing the same grin. “you’re gonna thank me ten years from now, trust me. it’s for the memories!”

a new voice spills into the air, suddenly, and you’re brought back into reality. it’s silky and low, smooth and nice, honeysuckle nectar turned into sound. interrupting the siblings.

“it’s been ten seconds. how are you already bickering?” 

you turn towards its source, and spot a familiar face — right next to satoru. were you seriously too mesmerized to notice him? black hair, another hawaiian shirt, slightly lidded eyes… 

suguru. 

he meets your surprised stare with a relaxed smile, and takes a step forward; meeting you for a quick hug. he looks the same as he did when you were younger, odd bangs, hair tied up into a bun.

“hi there,” he hums, right by your ear, a light squeeze before he lets go. “it’s been a while.”

you part your lips, smiling through your words. a little stunned. “i didn’t know you’d be here too!”

he chuckles, a light shrug of his shoulders. “me neither. satoru called me last night and asked me to drop by... i had time to kill.”

“you missed me.”

a dubious look. suguru gives a lazy roll of his eyes, avoiding the smug voice to his right. “i saw you last week,” he tuts, an unimpressed expression on his face. “how could i miss you?”

“do you need a reason to miss your best friend?” he shakes his head, slowly, side to side. white locks swaying back and forth. “awful. just awful.”

you stifle a smile, completely unsuccessful. the sun feels nice on your skin, and the scent of the sea is nostalgic, and they’re all the same as ever. it’s like you can feel your nerves melting away, slowly but surely, like grains of sand slipping through the gaps between your fingers. 

“the matching shirts are cute,” you point out, wanting to partake in the conversation, only to be met with a pair of furrowed brows.

suguru sighs. “that…” he mutters, massaging his temple, not before shooting satoru a dirty glance. “wasn't planned.”

said man only grins, unperturbed, tucking his phone back into his pocket. thoroughly amused. “he’s mad that i stole his fit,” he chirps, stretching his arms idly. it makes his shirt ride up, ever so slightly, and you swallow a gulp.

“well… you look good in it.”

at that, satoru stills. gazing at you, silently, before breaking out into another grin. self-satisfied, a smooth curve, sunlight against the white of his teeth. you glance away, suddenly a little shy.

“does he?” the other two deadpan, completely in sync. it shoos away the smile on his lips, making way for a displeased frown.

“oh, come on. would it kill you to call me handsome now and then?”

“handsome?” riko places her hands on her hips, raising an unimpressed brow, a sassy lilt to her voice. “you look like a single father down on his luck.”

“seconded,” suguru quips, hiding the beginnings of a smirk. picking at a piece of lint on his shirt. “honestly, i’m surprised you’re wearing any layers at all. not gonna flaunt your abs this time?”

satoru brightens, suddenly. wiggling his brows, a sweet coo on the tip of his tongue. “oh? want me to loosen up a couple buttons?” he purrs, and you hate yourself a little for the instant yes that resounds through your mind. “you know you can always just ask, suguru.”

his teasing goes ignored, but you don’t miss the amusement that flits through the scope of suguru’s eyes, even as he tries to maintain that deadpan expression.

finally, he exhales. “well, see you later,” he hums, directed to you and riko, checking the time on his wristwatch. “i should probably get going.”

“you’re not staying?” you ask, lashes fluttering with a confused blink. he smiles.

“i am,” he reassures you. “just gonna go fishing for a while. i thought i’d give it a try.”

“fishing?” riko exclaims, covering her amused grin with the palm of her hand. stifling laughter, you can tell, a bout of giggles begging to push past her lips. “what are you, fifty?”

satoru lets out a snort. to his left, suguru goes eerily silent — ominous, staring into your best friend’s eyes with no visible emotion. enough to make her smile fall. you feel a sense of deja vu.

“wait, i’m just kidding!” she suddenly squeaks, clinging to your arm and hiding behind you. she’s always had good survival instincts. ”don’t put me in a headlock!”

(they’re so stupid. 

gosh, you missed them.)

“oh, by the way — do you want some shaved ice?” she turns to you, eyes crinkled at the edges, voice syrupy and sweet. “i can go get us some. what flavour do you want?”

“ah, great idea!” satoru matches her tone, tongue flitting out to lick his lips, glossy with chapstick. “i was just craving something sweet.”

“you’re paying, by the way.”

“…”

“so? any preference?” she tilts her head, waiting patiently for your reply. smiling once she gets it. “alright, got it. you, suguru?”

“i’m good. thanks, though.”

“okie-dokie,” she puts her palm out, facing satoru. “money, please.”

he only tuts, digging through his pocket and pulling out a black wallet. you think you spot a photocard, but he’s pulled out a credit card and tucked it back into his pocket before you can get a closer look. 

“get me watermelon, okay? strawberry is fine too. if push comes to shove, go for anything other than lemon.” he hands her the card with a click of his tongue. “and watch out for creeps. if anyone hits on you, you know where to aim.”

she pockets it with a huff, exasperation on her features. “i’m twenty-three, toru. i can take care of myself.”

“aww, don’t be like that,” he coos, hands reaching out to squish her cheeks. she tries to squirm away, to no avail. “you’ll always be my little baby sister, you know. and, as your dependable big bro, i —“

“ugh, whatever.” she shoots him an unimpressed glance, finally escaping his hold. ”are you gonna go all men are wolves on us, or something?”

”they are! just look at suguru.”

”hey.”

you hide a growing smile behind your hand, watching them bicker and banter, feeling that sense of peace again. the summer day feels a little like a hazy daydream, a heavy nostalgia that sticks to your bones like gum on the sole of your shoe. 

and, once again — you end up alone with a certain someone. suguru walks towards the faraway pier, riko strolls up to the stand selling shaved ice, and satoru lingers behind. you think he looks relaxed, at ease, but you can’t really look at him for too long without feeling nervous. without feeling as if you’re both ignoring the elephant in the room. 

it still feels a little like there’s an invisible wall between you.

he’s the first to speak up, craning his neck and stretching like a big cat, a tiny groan flowing from his throat. “well, there they go,” he hums. “what do you feel like doing first?”

“ummm…” you rack your brain for ideas, coming up empty. a little fried by his presence. you could go into the water, and escape the heat — sunbathing with him doesn’t sound so bad, though…

lost deep in thought, you barely notice him inching closer. still weighing your options, water or land, a relaxing nap or a splash war. you don’t notice until you feel his arm sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer, just by a hair. stealing all the oxygen from your lungs.

(you think your brain shuts down a little.)

his touch burns, as always. bare skin on bare skin. electric, a trail of sparks rushing through your veins. he’s warm, and solid, effortlessly composed — guiding you right where he wants you, which is by his chest, where you can practically hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat —

and then he’s pulling away.

you raise your head to meet his gaze, completely flushed, unsure if you were hallucinating or not. he’s looking somewhere behind you, with a distinctly cold gaze, one you aren’t accustomed to seeing. you crane your neck, catching a glimpse of a man turning his back on you both before walking away.

… was he staring at you, or what?

when you search for satoru’s eyes again, they’re already on you. he’s smiling, a little sheepish, scratching at the back of his neck.

“sorry,” he chuckles. “i got paranoid.”

oh.

your skin still feels like it’s on fire. a lingering heat, blossoming where his skin touched yours, rendering you speechless. embarrassing, embarrassing, embarrassing. he was just looking out for you.

finally, you gain control over your vocal chords, dry and charred. just enough to croak out a response.

“i — it’s fine.”

your eyes stay glued to the sand beneath you, staring at a crushed seashell, unable to look him in the eye. feeling the back of your neck grow hotter. you miss the dirty glance riko sends his way, having just returned with the shaved ice, and the way satoru mouths out a silent what?

it’s easier after that. she grounds you, a little, leading you out into the sea. the water is pleasantly mild, licking at your ankles, coaxing you further, until it’s reaching up to your waist. it cools you down considerably, and before you know it you’re splashing her with all you’ve got, giggles filling the salty air — seagull cries above you and wet sand beneath your feet, a glimmer or two of tiny fish, loud laughter. sensations all around you. satoru watches you with a smile, munching on a sandwich, not joining you both until riko beckons him over.

the day stretches on, melting away into evening. people leave the beach behind them, suguru heads back to the house with a bucket of fish and a smug smile, riko dries herself off with a towel and rushes to a nearby convenience store when she notices that it’s about to close. murmuring something about dinner, shooting you an anxious glance, a silent will you be alright on your own? with him? 

you wave her off with a smile. hoping it’ll come off as convincing, even though you’re anything but.

one way or another, you end up under a parasol with a certain satoru gojo; putting empty bottles of lemonade back into the picnic basket, rolling up the blanket, stuck with cleaning duty. satoru carries it all, unwilling to let you help, the basket hanging off his arm. you walk away from the beach, stepping onto solid asphalt again, beginning your trekk up towards the main street — not too long of a walk, but you’re tired, even though satoru doesn’t seem tuckered out in the slightest. walking a step or two ahead of you.

the sun is beginning to set, melting like a sundae on the boundary of the horizon, rays of golden sunshine dripping down your wrist. satoru looks good in it, the pink and orange; peaceful, somehow. when the breeze licks a stripe across his cheek, he closes his eyes and exhales. there’s a smile on those lips, a smile of contentment.

he turns towards you and waits until you catch up.

“tired?” he coos, tilting his head, absently tucking his shades into the breast pocket of his shirt. blinking slowly, eyes shimmering in the summery hue of evening. 

“kinda,” you smile, trying to muster a pep in your step. another hum buzzes in his throat, and then he’s facing forward again.

“c’mon. let’s get you something from the vending machine, okay? ‘s just up ahead.” he pats your head, once, twice. “that’ll give you some energy.”

you can only nod, following his lead. hydrangeas bloom all around you, a thick syrupy scent, paired with apple blossoms from the backyards you pass. then you spot the vending machine. satoru takes out his wallet, finding his card — it’s not the same one as before. riko still has it.

and this time, you’re close enough to see it. in his wallet is a photocard, clearly visible; of a baby, sleeping soundly, with short tufts of hair. a dark colour unlike his own.

(your heart melts, a little.)

“cola or sprite?”

you raise your head, looking through the barrier of glass in front of you. then you’re stepping forward, fingertip pressing against it, pointing towards a green can of sprite. not looking at him, as you make your choice. ”this one.”

— suddenly, you feel his skin on yours.

you’re sleepy, and pliant, jaw caught between his fingers. he lifts it up, turns it towards him, just so that you’ll meet his gaze. two seas of blue, flecks of pure white, summer skies and summer clouds.

“there,” he exhales, pleased. giving you a reassuring smile before pulling away. “you’ve barely looked me in the eye today. ‘s gonna break my heart, y’know.”

a pause. you gulp, on instinct, shying away from his unbridled attention — eyes moving from those summer skies down to the curve of his glossy lips, and then back up again. a mistake, because when you glance down once more — unable to help yourself — you see it.

that apologetic smile.

(you really are obvious, aren’t you?

how embarrassing.)

silence splits the scene in half, only the faraway sounds of seagulls as background noise. they sound a little like they’re laughing, mocking you.

satoru presses a button on the vending machine, followed by a quiet beep. he doesn’t look at you when he broaches the subject, and you wonder if it’s out of respect or discomfort.

“still not over that schoolgirl crush, huh?”

…

something twists inside your gut. a little ugly, a little sentimental. now that he’s made the first move, it’s easier to move the pieces.

“… it’s not a crush,” you murmur, kicking at a pebble on the ground. surprised by how clear your voice comes out. “i’m in love with you.”

a sigh. another beep, and the sound of a sodacan falling against metal flooring. he crouches down.

“… you could really, really do better.”

you watch as he fumbles with the pick-up box, eyes trained on the back of his neck, the buzzed hair of his undercut. letting out a quiet breath. “riko said the same thing.”

a snort pushes past his lips, ripe with fondness. he pulls himself up from the ground, shifting his weight from one foot to another, reaching for his wallet again. “oh, i’m sure.” he tucks the card back, slipping it into his pocket. a stray cat strolls by you, unburdened, waving its tail in the air. “really, though. you should listen to her.”

something cold meets your cheek. metal, condensation, a pleasant shiver down your spine. he presses the aluminium can against you, and you receive it with a murmur of thanks.

“i’m too old for you, for one.” he continues, and suddenly you feel a little like you’re being lectured. you break open the lid of the sprite can.

“you’re five years older.” a fizzy sound crackles like static in your ears, carbonation bubbling up, sticking to your fingertips. “and we’re both adults.”

he huffs out a breath, only mildly amused. “i’m pushing thirty, y’know?”

you take a sip, lips against cold aluminum, melting sunrays lapping at your skin. it tastes sweet. 

“i know.” a pause, your bottom lip trapped between two sharp teeth. gnawing at the flesh. ”i can’t control how i feel, though.”

…

“yeah,” he sighs, leaning back against the glass. crossing one leg over the other, fiddling with something in his pocket. “i know.”

a moment passes. then he parts his lips, again.

“hey, how about you join me on a mixer someday?” he searches for your gaze, smiling, another one of those charming tilts of his head. “i know some cute guys. and girls, if that’s your thing.”

your answer is instantaneous.

“i’ll pass.”

…

another exhale, breathed out into the summer air. it’s dripping with exasperation, ripe with fatigue, but there’s still something fond there. unmistakable.

“fine, fine. just… think about it, okay?” his palm finds its way to your head, ruffling your hair with a gentle caress. that comforting weight. “c’mon, let’s go back. riri’s making dinner tonight.”

and then he’s taking a step forward. you watch his back for only a moment, still deep in thought. a fizzy, syrupy sweetness sticking to your teeth, a sense of nostalgia invading all your senses. and, as always, that silent adoration.

deep down, you know it’s true. there’s no changing this, whatever this is. in the same way riko will always be his baby sister, you’ll always just be the brat that sniffled into his chest after your first fight with her. 

he’ll never quite see you the way you’d like him to.

(but, then again, isn’t that a part of it? that subtle, subtle kindness of his. the sense of maturity that asks for nothing in return.)

satoru is a good guy. that’s why you can’t help but adore him, despite everything. can’t help but watch his back as he leaves you behind, wishing you could catch up. that your legs were long enough.

it feels nice, to open yourself up like this. crack the lid of your heart, and have him wade through the carbonation. it feels nice to have your feelings be acknowledged, even if they aren’t reciprocated, even if you’re completely delusional and high on summer joy. it feels nice just to watch him shine.

you gulp down the rest of your sprite, toss it into a trash can across the street, and stumble after him. veins sleepy, heart heavy, overwhelmed by adoration. you’ve already cracked the lid open; everything else comes easy. you just want to make a move, any move. want to see how he’ll react.

“satoru,” you call, and he comes to a standstill. when he turns around your arms are outstretched. “can i have a piggyback ride?”

the man before you blinks. once, then twice, fluttering like angel wings, or pretty clouds. 

and then his smile grows. you catch a glimpse of his dimples, for just a moment, and then he’s beckoning you closer with a chuckle.

“yeah? now you’re suddenly all brave?” he shakes his head, no real discontentment behind it. “or are you really that exhausted?”

he studies you intently, ripe with fondness, and you think your sluggish blinks must be enough to convince him. because he crouches down, back facing you, and chirps out a hop on. a little teasing, of course, but still nice. his arms underneath your thighs, lifting you up like it’s nothing. making sure you’re comfortable. he’s strong. very strong.

the butterflies in your stomach flutter around again.

and, honestly, you really are very exhausted. bones buzzing with something sleepy and fatigued, sore after all the running around you did in the water. completely tuckered out, resting your cheek against his back. like this, you can feel his muscles, the solidity of his body. it’s a little bit distracting.

“— remember?”

a series of blinks. you grasp onto his shoulders, holding back a yawn. “huh?”

“you falling asleep on me?” he chuckles, walking forward. one step after another, the soles of his sandals hitting the asphalt. “i was saying — how i remember doing this back then.”

you tilt your head.

“when you fell and twisted your ankle. i think it was nearby, actually… some park?”

“... oh.” when you really concentrate, you think you do recall it; the feeling of his back against your chest, a dull ache in your foot. “yeah, i remember.”

satoru hums, a little buzz of amusement. “after that, you and riri would ask me for it all the time. carry us, big bro!” his imitation makes you smile, voice high and squeaky. “so childish, i swear. i could barely carry one of you.”

a chuckle tumbles from your lips, and it seems to spur him on; because he continues. nostalgia pouring out his throat.

“don’t tell her, okay? but, see — i started going to the gym after that. lifting weights. training, and stuff,” he huffs out an amused exhale, grinning softly. “suguru made me carry boulders on the beach. it was kind of our thing.”

…

“we almost got arrested once.”

you can’t help but laugh, hiding in the smooth fabric of his shirt, in between those printed white flowers. shoulders shaking slightly, giddy and amused. “you did that just ‘cause you were embarrassed?”

“no,” he murmurs, softly, the slightest shake of his head. ”because i wanted to be prepared. in case the two of you ever happened to fall over at the same time, or something…” a sheepish little chuckle. ”i wanted to be able to carry you both back.”

satoru continues to walk, facing away from you. always smiling, you’re sure. even if you can’t see it.

“you’re both precious to me,” he says, making sure to keep a steady hold around your legs. “that’s why i don’t want either of you wasting yourselves on some random guy. i hope you can understand that.”

silence. then, a displeased huff.

“… you’re not some random guy, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“well, of course not. i’m the guy,” he stands a little straighter, and you can practically see the smug smirk on his lips. “but i’m not a very good person.”

you blink.

silence fills the open air.

he says it so casually that you almost don't catch it. matter-of-factly, like it’s just another obvious realization, something so deeply ingrained that it isn’t even worthy of a tonal shift. satoru, who makes pancakes for the people he loves, who carries your bags and buys you soda and keeps a picture of his baby sister in his wallet. satoru, your first love.

that satoru isn’t a good person?

(how could he ever, ever think that?)

“you are.”

a low hum buzzes in his throat. you’re not sure he heard you. if he did, he simply doesn’t care enough to respond. the scene flickers by, the moment comes and goes — you want to protest again, but something about this silence makes you hesitate.

the only thing you can do is —

“satoru.”

another little hum. acknowledging, this time. 

“do you… i mean,” you choke down a bundle of words, replacing them with new ones. gnawing at the flesh of your bottom lip. “is there really no chance… you’ll ever feel the same? none at all?”

…

a mirthless chuckle. he sounds a little tired, you think, more than a little exasperated. but the amusement is still there, laced into his voice, and you drink it in the same way you’ve always done. a little root, soaking in the light of the sun.

“after all that,” he mutters, “you’re still asking?”

a moment’s pause. you listen intently, as if you could hear the gears of his mind shift if you focus enough. as if just being stubborn enough could coax him into opening up the way you have. 

finally, he parts his lips.

“well,” comes a sigh, a click of his tongue. he breathes in the summer breeze. “maybe in a couple decades or so.”

you stare. those white tufts of hair sway with every step he takes, and his voice has a finality to it that isn’t lost on you. solemn, steady, a pillar of salt.

“… okay.”

a pause. then he’s barking out a short laugh, shoulders shaking with the sound. you tighten your grip around them. “okay?” he repeats, pinching the skin of your thigh. “can’t you read between the lines, you little troublemaker?”

a huff. you kick your legs, a little, just stretching them contentedly. wet hair sticking to his skin, your cheek still smushed against him, enveloped in his neverending warmth. “i don’t mind,” you whisper, choking down a yawn. “i’ve already waited eight years. a couple decades more isn’t too bad.”

silence, again. you wonder what he’s thinking, if you’ll ever come close to cracking open the lid of his heart. he parts his lips, and oxygen spills out.

(you think it’s a start.)

“… has anyone ever told you that you’re awfully stubborn?”

you’re quick to nod, nuzzling into his undercut. wearing a satisfied smile. “riko tells me all the time.”

“does she?” there’s silent laughter hiding between his teeth, eager to spill out. “that’s good. listen to her, alright? you might learn a thing or two.”

now he’s just teasing you. the sun is setting, and the air smells like saltwater, and satoru’s back is warm; his voice set to a melodic lilt, as if tempting you to close your eyes. it’s summer, in a quiet port town.

and you adore him again. 

that’s right, you muse, belatedly. loving him was never a choice, and waiting wasn’t ever an issue. getting over him is the tall hurdle, the root of the problem, a root you intend you trip over as many times as it takes for this something to bloom.

because he’s beautiful, and comfortable, and kind. because it’s his back you always end up clinging to. because he knows how you like your pancakes, how you take your coffee, what you look like when you cry. because you like this feeling, the swarm of butterflies in your stomach. even if they’re completely meaningless in the long run.

satoru is right, and so is riko. you’re stubborn, terribly so. if only you could see that as a bad thing.

if only you were physically capable of giving this something up.

unlike the siblings and their overgrown yard, you just can’t seem to look away from an ugly bud yet to bloom — just in case it ends up blossoming, this summer, or the next. just in case it turns into something worth plucking from the ground. it’s fine if it withers away; at least it’ll give way to better soil.

you just like him. you just want to see where it leads you. that’s all, that’s it. that was always it.

“but promise you’ll go with me to that mixer, okay?” his voice calls, breaking you out of your thoughts, unrelenting. ”i’ll find you someone who’ll get your mind off little ol’ me.”

ah. that’s right. 

(you’re terribly, horribly stubborn —

and satoru is too.)

you grin, soft and giddy, thinking of the years ahead of you both. what they’ll be like. where’s the fun in a certain future?

“fine,” you hum, wrapping your arms around his neck. inhaling that familiar scent of sandalwood. “do your worst.”

[anystalker707]

Weak spot

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x [gender neutral] Reader Kinktober prompt: Oral Fixation Tags: Oral / sloppy / lots of spit / no plot / he's absolutely wrecked / his titt gets bitten !!

KINKTOBER LIST MASTERLIST

          It was funny, really. Just a weak spot you happened to find while Zoro was drunk and insisted that you should keep the kiss going for a little longer than usual. He didn’t remember it the next morning, but you made sure to keep a mental note of it so that you could have something extra for him in the right moments. Like now.

Zoro was on top of you, pressing closer as he kissed your lips, giving you multiple pecks with soft groans. His body was over yours, an arm by each side of your head, and he wouldn’t pull away from you no matter the complaints.

“‘Need you,” Zoro would groan between kisses.

The fact he needed you wasn’t the problem, it’s just that you’d rather have a little bit more control right now, do something other than just holding on to his hips while he suffocated you against the mattress like that. It took you a while, but you finally managed to get a grasp on the hair on the back of his head—it was short, yeah, making it harder to tug on it, though it was still enough. Zoro gasped at the sharp pain on the back of his head, giving you just enough space and time to push your tongue inside his mouth.

Zoro’s mouth tasted like sake and another non-alcoholic drink he’d had earlier to help with the heat of the day, the same drink you’d had, so the kiss didn’t have a bad taste. You let your tongue press down to his, then ran it along the back of his teeth before pressing to his tongue again. It alone made Zoro moan as he pressed his tongue back against yours, deepening the kiss.

When Zoro tried to pull away, however, you kept your hand on the back of his head to hold him in place and keep the kiss going. Zoro whined lightly with it, his hands balling into fists as he had no choice other than to kiss you in return. Don’t get him wrong—Zoro loved it, but he was also a little anxious since it was something new with you, at least while he was sober.

A muffled moan came from Zoro’s throat, deep, followed but a sharp gasp as you kissed him. Your tongue rolled around his, and opening your eyes briefly, you could see Zoro rolling his eyes back with the way your tongue glided against his. Great.

Zoro whimpered, gasping softly as he uselessly tried to keep up with the kiss, but he just let it grow sloppy, not caring any more as long as you kept kissing him so good like that. Aw, shit.

Your name escaped Zoro’s lips in a long, dragged groan once you finally let him go. He felt so weak at the way you’d found out about that, all awkward, shy, but… That was also good. Anticipation drummed under his skin as he thought about all the stuff you could do to him, and he would just accept it, of course.

Many thoughts clouded Zoro’s mind, making it fuzzy as you exchanged positions with him and took the top this time, straddling his hips. The strength Zoro once had was now reduced to bits; he just accepted being at your mercy, his face burning red.

“Don’t be dramatic,” you breathed as if you could read his mind, grinning. “You love this.”

“Shut up,” Zoro groaned, but he didn’t fight you when your hands tugged on the hem of his shirt. A chuckle escaped your lips, and you pecked his lips before getting rid of his shirt properly. He lay there, looking at you, waiting for whatever you were going to do to him. He was complicated.

You rolled your eyes at your own thoughts, ignoring the glare Zoro sent you, and instead moved to kiss along his jaw. Zoro sighed, relaxing against the mattress as his hands wrapped around your waist. It felt good at first, but it got better as you kept using your mouth on him, kissing and sucking on his skin without restrictions. He was so lost in it that he only came back to reality again when your mouth met his chest—there was a specific nibble around his nipple that made him moan and arch his back, consequently pushing into your touches.

“Damn it,” Zoro sighed as your lips ran along his v-lines, teasing the skin while your hands worked on his pants. Were you going that fast already? He didn’t feel like arguing, though, sighing softly as he propped up on his elbows so that he could look at you. It was hot, honestly.

Zoro helped you with removing his pants and boxers, but he couldn’t help but be a little extra flustered at the fact he was the only one naked there. You still kept your clothes on, eyeing him so hungrily. He didn’t know what to expect now, but his cock was rock hard between his legs, twitching again once your lips returned to his chest. How was he supposed to resist it? Having you using your mouth on him was the best thing he could imagine right now. He was hard ever since you trapped him in that kiss, taking his breath away and making his eyes roll back with pleasure.

Sparkles ran down Zoro’s spine with the way you nipped on his chest, sometimes actually giving his pecs full-mouth bites, and he could already see where you were going, after some point. He’d happily learned that you loved leaving marks on his chest—marks that sometimes let everyone know who he belonged to whenever he wore a kimono or removed his shirt.

Thankfully enough, you were going down again. Zoro already expected it but still jumped and gasped when he felt your tongue on the underside of his cock, running from the base to the tip while it still rested heavily against his stomach, leaking.

No way, you were fucking pampering him, giving him the best time he could ever wish for, using your mouth so nicely on him like that. You lay on the bed, between his thighs, holding his cock by the base while eyeing its tip. All of it was so hot to Zoro, for some reason. He loved the way your mouth looked when your tongue peeked out, giving his tip kitten licks to wipe away the pre-cum. Eventually, the licks grew bigger, with the new objective of coating his fat, mushroom tip with your spit.

Zoro hissed, biting his lip when you wrapped your lips around his tip and sucked on it, pressing your tongue flat against his slip. It was so warm and wet. Were you trying to make him cum quick?

Your lips looked so pretty, all flushed and swollen as they ran up and down the side of Zoro’s cock, letting the spit escape your lips abundantly. He didn’t care if his elbows would start hurting from sinking into the mattress like that for so long—he couldn’t miss the show. Your hand pressed his cock against his stomach again, and you licked along the veins on his underside. So hot. Zoro let out a long moan as you went from his base to the tip again, making a zigzag motion with your tongue that didn’t fail to reach all the good spots.

“Mmph…” Zoro’s breath was unsteady, and he was absolutely dazed.

Zoro felt his cock twitch in your touch when your lips latched around his tip again, licking away the pre-cum once more. Different from what you’d been doing so far, you started to actually take him into your mouth this time.

“Shit, you feel so good,” Zoro moaned, thighs quivering. “Your mouth feels so good.”

You leaned in, taking about a third into your mouth. The second time, you took half of it. Within a few times, Zoro could finally feel his tip reach the back of his throat, snatching a low groan from him. Unlike the other times, though, you kept Zoro in your mouth for longer, swallowing around him and running your tongue along the underside as you pulled back, slowly. You blinked, looking at Zoro from under your lashes—he was going to lose it.

Curses escaped Zoro’s mouth as you took his cock into your mouth again. This time, you slowly took it all inside again, swallowing around him once more, but you didn’t pull away so soon. Your hands were tight around his waist, and your mouth was hot around his cock. He couldn’t take his eyes off your lips, the way they stretched around him so perfectly, and the way spit trailed down the corners of your mouth. It was sloppy, messy, but it was also so fucking good. Zoro let out a shaky breath, hands curling around the bedsheets.

The next moan that spilled from his lips was throaty and loud—you’d re-found his sensitive spot under the tip of his cock, tonguing at it, making his cock twitch and leak more. He hummed, struggling to keep his hips still.

“Don’t stop— Don’t, don’t,” Zoro’s voice fell in frustration as you stopped tonguing at his tip, and your attention was on his balls instead. He liked that, but he also knew it was a method of delaying his orgasm; he scrunched his nose, holding onto the bedsheets tighter as your tongue ran along his balls before you sucked on them lightly. He couldn’t help the moans, breath faltering and sometimes melting into whimpers.

You were so hot. Your mouth felt so good. Zoro could feel himself going to heaven and coming back, mind fuzzy, eyes rolling back as your mouth went up his cock again. You were tonguing at his sensitive spot again before your tongue pressed to his slit, then your mouth was hot and wet around his cock once more.

Zoro did his best not to push his hips up into your mouth—he wanted to feel your mouth work on him, not to fuck your mouth this time. He whimpered pathetically, biting his lip as you deep-throated him, swallowing around his cock before actually sucking on it. His whole body felt so hot, melting under your touches, as he threw his head back. Sweat trailed down his skin, his muscles straining under your touches as it kept getting harder and harder to keep his composure.

He eventually gave up on holding back his sounds, openly moaning when your cheeks hollowed around his cock—he hissed and pressed his eyes shut for a moment before he tried to gather himself together again. He needed to see your lips all wet and swollen around his cock. See the cum trailing down your lips once he came.

The tingling was already forming itself in the bottom of Zoro’s stomach, the knot tightening as you kept working on him with unwavering determination, doing him so fucking good. He hissed, one of his eyes closing as he struggled to keep observing you.

“Mmph,” Zoro whimpered, calling your name weakly before he was fucking cumming, thighs quivering as he arched his back a little. Still, he observed it as you kept sucking him off, milking him dry until the last drop of cum and the first tinge of overstimulation. He gasped for air as if he’d been underwater all this time once you finally pulled away, panting heavily, and the fact you had some of his cum trailing down the corner of your mouth along with spit didn’t help. He was so lost.

.𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟.

[melodygatesauthor]

Always Yours, Never Mine

Yandere Miguel O'Hara X f!Reader

Universe Three - The Therapist

Series Masterlist - Beta Read by @campingwiththecharmings

Summary

Summary: I arrived in a different universe, and in this one you’re a therapist. I saw your name on one of the doors when the orderlies were dragging me down the hall to a cell. I guess luck was on my side, I wouldn’t have to search very far for you this time, not that I would’ve been given a chance anyway. When the orderlies saw me, I think I scared them and they thought I was delusional. They took my watch, I’ll have to get that back…but I have to find you first.

Tags/Warnings

NSFW, dub-con due to identity issues, non-con, rape, More tags on the masterlist.

Word Count: 3.8k

It was a morning like every other.

You pulled into the parking lot of the Lennox House for the Mentally Insane, coffee in hand, ready to start your day. You loved your job as a therapist, especially when you felt like everything was in order. You had a good handle on your patients, all of them making good progress on their goals; nothing felt more rewarding as a mental health provider.

But you weren’t prepared for the wrench the unsuspecting six foot nine man was about to throw your way.

You wondered if your success was the reason you were assigned the new and highly delusional patient. After getting into your office and pulling out his nearly empty file, you looked at him from across your desk, his eyes calm, but unsettlingly trained on you. He had a slight smirk curling at the corners of his lips, as though he were trying to appear less intimidating. His size alone was enough to make any sane person quiver. He didn’t even try to tug on his restraints though, and that put you a little more at ease.

“Miguel O’Hara…” you said, closing the thin manila folder in front of you. “It’s nice to meet you I’m–”

“I know your name.”

Miguel sat, strapped uselessly to the wheelchair the orderlies had brought him in. He knew he could rip the restraints off at any given moment, but when he’d heard he was being assigned to you as his therapist, he decided to behave. He needed to see you; he needed to talk to you.

This was a change of pace. In his universe, you were a graphic designer. It was something you’d always enjoyed. In the second one, despite working at a coffee shop, you still seemed to have a hobby of creating artwork for some side income. Now you were a therapist. It was unexpected, but in the multiverse, anything was possible. Miguel was just glad that it seemed like in this universe, you’d never met him before, making this a lot easier - he didn’t have to worry about eliminating his alternate -.

“The orderlies said that you were wandering the halls when they found you? They said that when you saw my name you specifically asked for me to treat you. Why?” You crossed your legs and narrowed your eyes at the man.

You were careful while talking to this one. He was massive in size, not only in his height, but this man wasn’t skipping arm day, that’s for sure. You trusted him, despite being told not to trust patients - they can be manipulative - but you knew he was strong enough to rip his arms from the restraints at any given moment, and yet he sat there. To say you were intrigued was an understatement. Who was this man? And how did he know you?

After wasting so much time in the last universe, he wanted to change his approach. He wanted to try being more direct and honest with you. With a deep sigh, he pressed his lips together and looked you in the eye. You looked good all dressed up in your little pencil skirt and white blouse. He’d never seen you in a lip color that shade of red, but he liked it. Even if you weren’t quite the same, he liked the way you looked in this universe.

“Because, I traveled a long way to find you mi vida,” he started, smirking at you rather pathetically, but he was desperate for you to understand, “and I’m going to tell you why you’re going to take these restraints off my wrists and say yes when I ask you to marry me.”

Your patients had said some crazy shit before. Being in an insane asylum, even a minimum security one, naturally you would expect to hear some outlandish things, but that had to be the most delusional thing you’d heard to date. You furrowed your brow, continuing to take notes. You hummed in amusement.

“You’re very bold, Mr. O’Hara–”

“Miguel.”

“Miguel.” You cleared your throat, smirking in an attempt to show that you weren’t fazed by his surprising statement, “you’ve piqued my curiosity, but I’m certainly not sure why you think I would do that.”

“Ask me.”

“Ask you what?” You asked, scribbling more notes on your legal pad.

“Ask me how I became so wracked with grief that I created a device to travel the multiverse just so I could find you again,” he said, eyes darting between yours to see if you believed a word coming out of his mouth.

You were stunned. You’d seen patients in a catatonic state, but this wasn’t like that, he was far too clear as he spoke. This also didn’t present as the usual schizophrenic case you would expect to see from the majority of your patients. He was completely calm, making eye contact, and very direct in his line of thinking. He was either so deep in his delusion that he genuinely believed everything coming out of his mouth…or he was telling the truth.

“Miguel, why don’t you tell me more about how you got here, let’s start with that.”

Redirection didn’t always work, but if you could find a crack in his story, you might be able to get him back to a basis in reality.

“I used my watch, the one that security took from me. Gonna need that back by the way, very dangerous if it gets into the wrong hands.” He leaned forward a little, eyes narrowing on you. “I used my watch to travel from a universe where you were a barista with a piss poor attitude, to this one where you’re a therapist apparently.”

You scoffed, “I was a barista?”

Miguel could tell you weren’t buying it, so he decided to be more direct now. 

“Listen, I’m looking for the universe where you don’t die,” he watched your expression to see how you’d react.

Regardless of how delusional he sounded, something like that would make anyone feel a bit uneasy. You shifted in your chair, putting your pen down on the desk. Miguel’s expression softened, likely seeing that his words had an effect on you. After all the years of you being a therapist, you’d never let a patient make you uncomfortable like that. 

“I think that’s enough for today,” you said, standing up and heading for the door.

“Wait!” Miguel yelled, wheelchair creaking forward a smidge when his body lurched to try and stop you. It worked. You turned and looked at him. “You have to believe me. I’m just trying to keep you alive. If you don’t listen to me…you’ll die.”

“Goodbye, Mr. O’Hara,” you said, opening your office door. “You’re going to be reassigned to a different therapist. I don’t think I’m a good fit for you.”

“No no no, wait!” He pulled his hands free from the restraints, something you both knew he was capable of.

He grabbed you by the shoulders, “Help!” You yelled, only resulting in his strong hand covering your mouth quickly.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to talk,” he said, voice trembling in desperation.

You looked terrified, and rightfully so. This huge man that you’d never met before was towering over you, staring at you with such intensity, you thought you might faint in terror. He took his hand off your mouth and held a finger to his lips.

“Shh, mi vida, por favor,” he spoke softly, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“G-go sit down in your chair n-now,” you said, legs shaking wildly.

He put his hands up in surrender, showing you that he was willing to comply with your request. He walked over and sat down in his chair, the weight of his body forcing the equipment to sigh under his frame. There was a silence in the room, a silence that made it easy to hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You took a deep breath.

Miguel recognized that face, you were going to run. He sighed, he’d tried a different approach this time, and it didn’t pay off. Instead, his attempt had you rushing out into the hall, shouting for an orderly or two to help you. He didn’t fight them when they ran in, sticking him with a couple of syringes, being too massive for only one to do the job.

You didn’t stop thinking about him for the entire night. His words rang through your mind like a broken record:

‘I’m looking for the universe where you don’t die’.

No matter how hard you tried to shake it from your mind, it was impossible. For a week you managed to avoid talking to him again, but your curiosity - or perhaps it was your anxiety -, got the better of you. Your co-worker, and the patient coordinator, Stacy, spoke to you exactly one week after you’d last spoken to Miguel.

“He’s still asking for you every day,” she said, handing you his chart, “Dr. Harrow doesn’t want to work with him anymore, says he’s not getting anywhere with Mr. O’Hara.”

You took his file from her hands, looking it over, “So you put him back in there with me, knowing how dangerous he is and that he’s targeting me? That doesn’t sound like the best idea.”

She followed you down the hall as you walked, “I said that, but the higher ups insisted that you should see him. They gave him more sedatives and stronger restraints than last time so–”

“So nothing, I can’t believe they’d do this,” you said, tone laced in frustration.

You weren’t sure if you were upset because you were worried he was going to physically harm you, or if you were worried that there was validity to the words that had kept you up every night for the last several nights. You stopped in front of your office door, letting out a deep exhale. Stacy touched your back, patting it gently.

“Well, at least he’s hot.” She chuckled.

You rolled your eyes at her before opening the door and stepping into your office. There he was, sitting in the chair, eyes hooded from the sedatives when he looked up at you. His restraints were doubled, both his legs and wrists tied down with metal this time, rather than the flimsy leather from before. You felt a little better, but you were still afraid of what he might say. No patient of yours had ever been so direct when targeting you before.

“Hello again Mr. O’Har–”

“Miguel…or you can just call me ‘baby’, the way you used to,” he said, words coming out in a slow drawl due to his mentally inhibited state.

“Miguel…” you said with a sigh, “I’ll continue to treat you, but you need to be more appropriate when you speak to me or you’ll have to seek treatment elsewhere.”

“Did I scare you? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He sounded genuine, eyes looking up at you from under his lashes. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting your unease, so you nodded with a meek ‘thanks’, before sitting down behind your desk. He leaned over and wiped his drool slick lips on his shoulder, unsuccessful in cleaning the mess. Inappropriate as it may have been, you weren’t going to let the poor guy sit there in a mess like that.

You took a tissue and walked over to him. Miguel couldn’t believe you would touch him, not after the way he’d frightened you. He thought this version of you would be impossible to get through to after his first interaction with you, but perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps being blunt with you was going to work after all.

You held the tissue in your hand and wiped his lips. You damned yourself for mentally commenting on how soft they looked. With a shaky breath, you finished and sat back down at your desk. You crossed your arms over your chest.

“You didn’t want to talk to anyone else so…go ahead…talk,” you took out a notebook and a pen, waiting for him to start.

“Was that Stacy? Or maybe it was Mira?” He chuckled, watching your eyes flick up quickly to lock onto his.

“So you saw my co-worker’s name plate at some point, I presume? Who let you walk by the front desk of the asylum?” You asked, feeling a pit of unease forming in your stomach at his mention of your two closest friends and coworkers.

He shrugged, “I saw Stacy’s yes, is Mira not your co-worker in this universe?”

He could see you getting anxious. You always clicked your pen incessantly when you did, back in his universe. He wasn’t trying to make you feel crazy, but rather, he was trying to make you realize that he was sane. Finally, you looked at him again.

“M-Mira used to work here, but how do you know–”

“What about Emily? Your step sister…”

“No…no, no, no…” you got up quickly, heading for the door.

Miguel called your name, and you stopped, turning slowly to face him.

“I’m not trying to scare you, mi vida, I’m trying to save your life. If you would…please…entertain me for just a moment.” He rattled his wrists in his chair. “I couldn’t do anything to hurt you even if I wanted to. I’m fucking…I’m drooling on myself and I’m stuck to this damn chair.”

You stared at him for a while, considering your options. If he was insane, which was the most likely explanation, then helping him through this was your duty as a therapist. If he was telling the truth…you needed to try and figure out what he meant anyway. No matter which way you sliced it, the only way you could sleep at night would be to hear him out. You slowly walked back to your desk and sat down. When you picked your pen back up you realized that you were shaking.

“Have you been stalking me?” You asked bluntly.

“No,” he returned your tone. “I know you, I know you well, and if you’ll hear me out with an open mind for just a second, I can explain everything to you.”

You gestured with your arms to give him the floor. He nodded, thanking you in Spanish before letting out a deep sigh.

Miguel told you everything, from the day you first met in his universe to the day you died. He talked in depth about things in your life that he knew only you would know. He damned himself for crying while he explained how much he loved you. Then he went on to tell you about the second universe, where you worked at a quaint little coffee shop barista, but he didn’t express the same emotion toward that version of you as he had the first.

When he was done, you sat there in awe, doing your best to process. Not only did you believe his every word, you were trying not to fall into an existential crisis upon learning that the multiverse might actually exist. You gulped, reminding yourself quickly that if a patient is delusional enough, they can tell a lie and still pass a polygraph test. All it takes is for them to believe that lie to be true with all their heart. If he was a good enough stalker, he could easily be making all of this up, and combined with heavy delusions, you had a recipe for someone too crazy for your paygrade. He needed more care than you could provide.

“Miguel…” you looked him in the eye, unsure of how to respond.

A buzzer saved you, indicating that the time for your session was at an end. He didn’t fight, he’d learned the hard way that breaking the rules of the asylum would get him nowhere. Regardless, he couldn’t continue like this for long, he was wasting too much time. If this version of you wasn’t going to see things his way, he needed to move on.

One more session…

Both of you were thinking the same thing without realizing. You would give him one more session to sway you one way or another, and he would give you one more to make up your mind before he moved forward.

He was already waiting for you in your office when he heard you clicking down the hall toward the door. He heard you stop, and then Stacy started talking to you.

“I texted Mira and she’s down, you wanna come out for drinks with us?” Stacy asked.

Miguel’s heart nearly stopped. Was this it already? Was this the day you’d die if he didn’t stop you from going out with your damn friends? He thought about the last universe though. You still died, even before you were supposed to go out with your friends, as though it were a static event that happened in every universe you existed in.

“Yeah sure that sounds fun! I’ll meet you at your place around seven?”

Once you finished finalizing your plans, you made your way into the office and sat down behind your desk, trying not to make eye contact with the man whose words had kept you up at night over the last week. You averted his gaze until you couldn’t anymore, finally looking at him and sighing heavily.

“Hi Miguel, how was your week?”

You started the same way you started every session.

“If you go out with your friends tonight, you’ll die,” he said, speaking coldly, “I told you that’s how you died before, remember?”

“You really expect me to believe that? Come on. I’ve been wracking my brain all week trying to decide how I felt about what you said and I’m not buying it.” You spoke with little conviction, voice wavering slightly. “Plus in the second universe you said I died getting hit by a car, not from being in a car so–”

“I know, but the days started the same both times, your friends talking about meeting up for drinks and you agreeing to go,” he sighed, “What have you got to lose, hm?” He looked intense now. “If I’m wrong, then you can toss me in my cell for the rest of my days and label me insane, but if I’m right, then you’re going to come back here and realize that I’m telling the truth.”

“How…how will I know that you’re telling the truth versus making this up?”

You’d left out the fact that Stacy and Mira died in each universe as well, not wanting to complicate things by mentioning them. He looked up at you, brow furrowed and face full of frustration. He was hoping that after you finally believed him, that this alternate version of you would be worth all this time he’d put into you.

“You’ll just know.”

He was right.

The next day you came into work, despite having just lost your two closest friends, to confront the insane man who suddenly didn’t seem so insane. If you’d been in the car with them that night, you would’ve died alongside them. You stormed into your office after demanding Miguel be brought in to see you immediately. You’d grabbed his watch from storage, putting it on your desk.

Success had never looked so heartbreaking. Miguel hated seeing you so distraught. Your bottom lip was trembling and your eyes were glossed over with tears. He hated being right sometimes. You pointed to the watch with a shaking hand. Your face held a combination of anger and sorrow etched in every pore.

“You’re saying that this thing is…you can travel to other universes–”

“Si, honey but listen–”

“-going on but I believe you, I really fucking believe you–”

Your eyes were crazed, “mi vida, don’t touch that please, it’s not–”

“-through the multiverse and I mean, you’re insane and I’m insane for even thinking you might–”

You picked up the watch, holding it in your hand and putting it on your wrist while you continued to talk over Miguel’s desperate protests. He started wriggling in his chair, trying desperately to get free. You didn’t understand how that thing worked. It wasn’t made for you.

“-I thought to myself why the hell didn’t I just take this damn thing and prove once and for all that–!”

It wasn’t made for you…

When Miguel built it, he’d put in a failsafe to prevent anyone else from taking it and using it. If someone stole it from him, or he ended up in an insane asylum and had it confiscated, they wouldn’t be able to take it to another universe, leaving him behind and helpless. Since there was no telling where the watch would take him, he wanted to prevent the possibility of ending up in one that didn’t have modern technology, and getting stuck there…without you. So it was hardwired to work with only his DNA, and no one else’s.

It would appear that his failsafe ended up being what killed you in that universe. You pressed the button on the watch, waiting for something to happen with bated breath. Miguel hoped that his device would malfunction. He’d taken a liking to this version of you, but it didn’t. He watched as your body convulsed, flesh bubbling and tearing from the inside out as the energy that would normally transport him from one place to another coursed through you.

Your screams would be etched into his memories for the rest of his days. It didn’t matter that you weren’t the original, it was still your voice crying for help and ringing through his ears. He’d never seen anything so horrific, not even in horror films. You were gone again, and this time he felt despair again. He almost wished that if you were going to die, that you’d gone in the car with your friends instead, that way he wouldn’t have to go to the next universe covered in your blood and with the sound of your cries on repeat in his head.

He managed to shimmy himself over to the part of your blazer where he knew you kept your ring of keys. Tipping over onto the floor he could get to them, moving his wrist in a way that just barely reached the lock holding his hand in place. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, truly, but when three orderlies and a security guard tried to stop him from getting his bag containing his personal items, including that photo of the original you, he had no choice. He even warned them to stay out of his way, but when they didn’t listen, he was forced to make them.

Stepping over their bodies, bag in hand and watch on his wrist, he activated the device. He was still searching for the perfect you.

Thank you for reading! You can support your favorite writers by the simple act of reblogging AND liking! Thank you again!

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Miguel O'Hara Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[lys-jeorge]

He's my favourite player to watch in the whole world and I love him, I will keep him.

If you're watching Heretics Vs BDS I have an important question for you

[peskellence]

My Friends Call Me Richard

Part III

Explicit Content (18+)

Pairing: Reed900

Tags: M/M, Workplace Romance, FWB, Humour, Awkward Encounters, Smut

Previous Chapter

Read on AO3 here:

Summary: In a bid to improve his partnership (and secret intimate arrangement) with Detective Gavin Reed, RK900 embarks on a noble quest to spice things up. The solution? A new biocomponent.

Word Count: 10K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

(surprise at the end of the keep reading courtesy of @faxaway)

“What's the hold up in there?”

RK900 winced at the question. The transition from purchase to implementation had gone nowhere near as smoothly as hoped. He found himself locked in the bathroom, trying and failing to secure his new biocomponent.  

“I am beginning to question if this product is suitable for ‘self-installation’,” He mumbled critically, attempting to angle the phallus awkwardly between his legs. “Perhaps the store assistant issued the wrong product...” 

“Can you not cross-reference it against your dick database?” His voice was thin, dripping with impudence. No doubt reflective of his dwindling patience. “I mean, your scanners would flag if it was the wrong thing completely, wouldn't they?”

The android frowned, forced to concede that multiple checks had been completed—referring to both the product schematics and his own manufacturer details. None of this had shed any clarity on his current difficulties.

He sightlessly searched for a small circular slot at the base of his groin. Guiding nodules failed to adhere, clips gripping to nothing before slipping uselessly from his chassis.

"I am having issues adhering the scrotal extension to my lower access port.” He moved the component again, testing to see if a change in angle might reap greater success. 

Another failure followed, and fears emerged that the fault could relate to his own anatomy. Specifically, a factory defect he had previously been unaware of. 

With his options rapidly depleting, he turned to the crumpled instructional leaflet left abandoned by the bath. He scrutinised each step, noting multiple discrepancies between the printed text and the digital guidance displayed on his HUD. 

“Perhaps if you could offer assistance, then it would be easier to facilitate—” 

“There's a line,” Reed shot back, callously interrupting before he could finish. “Helping you clip on your junk like we're building IKEA furniture is where I draw it.” 

The rebuff was discouraging, as RK900 was left helpless—plagued by doubts relating to protocols and analytics that so intrinsically dictated his actions.

While his advanced processors should have been capable of determining a solution to the dilemma, they proved inexplicably incapable. Trapping him in a loop of trial and error.

He briefly considered contacting RK800 to see if he might be more willing to assist. This was before he realised there would be significant limitations on the support that could be provided remotely—and that Reed would undoubtedly be opposed to welcoming additional guests.

Despite logic indicating that surrender may be the only option, something inside him refused to concede. Attention locked on his primary directive, which dangled precariously at the forefront of his optics:

> ENGAGE IN SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH DETECTIVE REED.

It seemed callous to allow himself to fall at this final hurdle, no matter how staggering it proved. 

And so, he forcefully pulled himself from the despondent line of cognition. Determined to ensure that his efforts—and the current painful ordeal—would not be in vain. 

With parameters set and diagnostics refreshed, his system presented an updated list of prompts. Ones that sparked hope. Renewed faith that he wasn’t deluding himself or his partner on false pretences.

Following guidance, the android performed a precise 7-degree rotation of the component. He pressed forward, and for a split second, the attachment seemed to align—but the angle fell short of optimal. A prompt then advised that proper leverage was unobtainable from his current position.

To correct this, RK900 lifted one leg, calculating in real time the exact height needed. This elevation, as it transpired, aligned almost perfectly with Detective Reed’s toilet.

Foot steady on the edge of the bowl, he pressed again, slanting upward in another attempt to engage the clips. This time, with success, confirmed by a soft click which echoed through the room. 

The small noise provided unparalleled relief. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe the debacle was over. 

It was a blissful respite, if cruelly short-lived. 

The auditory cue had been deceptive. While alignment of the prongs had been achieved, their locking mechanism had not engaged, preventing adhesion to the connection point

A revelation that came too late. 

RK900 slipped back, and the attachments promptly folded, the intimate module tumbling down between his thighs.

Unfortunately, it seemed Detective Reed was geometrically opposed to lowering his toilet seat. The component struck against the porcelain dome, ricocheting like a pinball until it hit the base with a plop. Ripples of impact shook the water, and RK900 watched in despair as the flesh-toned silicone sank, engulfed by murky waves. 

His attention snapped to the door, where he knew his partner sat in wait. Listening closely, having undoubtedly heard everything that just transpired. 

“...What was that?” 

Thirium pumped in increased volumes through his circulatory system, pooling in his cheeks. His limited social directives were strained to their breaking point, faced with a sudden uptick in demand:

While Reed was far from preoccupied with good hygiene standards, he undoubtedly possessed some instinct to protect against hazardous waste. 

This left his next steps uncertain, as the android was trapped at an impasse. Painfully aware that some degree of deceit would be needed to placate his partner, but unsure how to achieve this with any conviction. 

“Richard.”

Then a confession slipped out, almost instinctively, before he could stop it:

“It appears I have dropped my phallus in your toilet.”  

Reed did not respond immediately, and while RK900 could not see his face, he could envision the disappointment etched upon it. The deep-set frown and contemptuous stare bore into him, demanding acknowledgement.

Then, a sound bridged the hush between the bathroom and bedroom. Auditory profiling identified the impact of flesh, as biophysical analysis confirmed no additional parties had entered the home.  

Reed had struck himself. Likely in the face—a ritualistic action performed during times of frustration.  

“ Why were you putting it on over the toilet?”

RK900 spoke quickly. An exercise in perseverance and self-preservation as much as it was an appeal to his partner. “There is no cause for alarm.” 

He then pivoted sharply, leaving the component submerged in the waste receptacle. The rubber tip reached for him, breaking the water's surface as though beckoning his return. 

Its pleas for assistance were ignored as he dropped to his knees, retrieving a discarded box from the grubby linoleum floor. The contents were cleared, save for a small drawstring bag containing samples of Cyberlife-issued cleaning supplies. 

“The component will be sanitised thoroughly before use,” the android said, a relieved sigh passing his lips. “I can assure you this incident will not impact our planned intimacy.”

“Like fuck, it won’t. I am not letting you put your toilet dick in me.”

The harsh retort struck like a slap and swiftly undermined any solace. Crestfallen, the RK unit returned focus to the toilet, gaze dropping limply to the prosthetic urethra staring up at him. A singular, narrow eye, which made him the subject of scrupulous judgment. Mockery. 

His grip tightened, reducing the box to a compact wad of cardboard. Then, his central processor whirred into overdrive, fervently seeking a solution to the current dilemma. 

“If preferred, we can return to the Cyberlife Store in order to—”

“ No .”

The fledging suggestion was cut down before it had any hopes of maturing. 

Despite this sweeping refusal of cooperation, Detective Reed eventually employed some degree of deduction. This was an innate reflex that existed beyond the parameters of conscious desire, culminating in the antipathic conceit he muttered under his breath. 

It was just barely audible through the wooden panel that divided them. Suggestions that it ‘didn’t matter’ if the extension was in mint condition, given the unsavoury conditions it would imminently find itself in. This, combined with allusions that he had accepted ‘worse’ from former partners.

The man capped the disgruntled train of thought with a more targeted instruction, spoken to the android: 

“Just make sure it’s clean enough , okay?” 

RK900 was appreciative to have been offered a compromise, accepting the conditions with a cordial nod. “My advanced debris detection will ensure the removal of all harmful chemicals and bacterial residue.” 

“...Debris detection?” the human questioned, snorting tersely as he did. “What are you, a fucking Roomba?”

“My operations are far more advanced than that of a vacuum cleaner.” 

This resulted in another burst of amusement—a childish snicker pelted against the wooden panel dividing them.

“Depends on the context…” This impish enjoyment soon subsided, followed by a return to thinly veiled criticisms. “Don’t rush; I’m having a blast . Nothing says ‘mind-blowing foreplay’ like waiting for your partner to disinfect his detachable dick.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Detective,” the android replied, imitating de-escalation tactics he had observed from RK800. “Your patience and understanding are greatly appreciated.” 

The man was far from enchanted. Clicking his tongue, he mumbled another suggestion under his breath. This time, admonishing insincerity, accusing the android of sounding like a ‘fucking complaints department.’  

“Just don’t expect me to go down on you. I'd rather not scrub my tongue with lemon zest bleach.” 

RK900 doubted this product had been used on the toilet with any recency. Nonetheless, he brushed the comment aside.

Supplies prepared, he rolled up the sleeve of his uniform jacket and reached into the bowl to retrieve the lost component. As his hand became further immersed, the silicone base slinked back until it was wedged stubbornly in the U-bend. Enhanced manoeuvring was required to dislodge it, but after a few determined twists, it finally broke free.

With the phallus secured, he set to work on the sanitation process. The antibacterial spray was used until the bottle was nearly depleted, scrubbed with dutiful care into every moulded ridge and crevice. Unsheathed fingers were then swept across the length, assessing for any lingering debris trapped in the pockets. 

“Exterior sterilisation is at 99.8%,” RK900 concluded, as synthetic skin returned to his digits, “well above advisory levels for bodily insertion.”

“Sexy,” the human said dryly. There was a strange upward lilt that the android had come to recognise as synonymous with sarcasm. “Just try not to drop it in the shitter again.” 

Having learned from his previous mistake, RK900 lowered the toilet seat, establishing a more desirable platform for installation. He clipped the newly sanitised component back into place. This time, ensuring the fastening clasps had locked securely to his groin before receding. 

His operational software acknowledged the component and the installation of primary physical subroutines booted autonomously. Aesthetic changes also occurred, integrating the component into his wider physical form. 

“...Hey…Richard…?” The address came mingled with steady rapping against the door. “You’re a bit quiet. Just checking your engine is still running.”

RK900’s lips formed a response, but no sound escaped them. Instead, he was mesmerised by the ripples of movement materialising on the component. Iridescent patterns danced and shimmered, attempting to harmonise with the surrounding conditions.

He understood the device’s ‘complexion’ was predetermined and that a perfect colour match was not guaranteed. Nonetheless, it came close. Unsightly connection points smoothed almost seamlessly beneath a blanket of pale, freckled skin.

“... Richard ?” There was another bang. Louder and more insistent. “Look, I’m not expecting you to strut out of there like Cyberlife’s latest sexbot. If you can't get the thing on, it's fine. Seriously. Just stop messing around so we can—”

“External interrogation is almost complete. I’ll be out in one moment.”

RK900 dressed carefully, concealing his new feature beneath his work slacks in anticipation of a proper reveal. He wanted to avoid startling his companion with unexpected nudity, having learned from experience that such a greeting required meeting very specific criteria—ones he did not want to misjudge at this pivotal moment. 

As he opened the passage to the bedroom, the swinging door nearly collided headlong with Reed. He dodged to the side, cursing sharply, as one of the arms that had been habitually crossed over his chest moved to shield his face. 

“What the hell ?” he spluttered, tone brimming with accusation. “You nearly knocked me out, dipshit.”

“I did not anticipate you would be standing in such close proximity to the door.”

The sounds of annoyance trailed off as the man's disgruntled expression morphed into one of introspection. Suddenly aware that the action had revealed more than he intended.

“Whatever.” He grunted dismissively, drawing his arms back into their previous guarded position. “So, you done? Or do you still need to calibrate your balls?” 

“The component has been implemented in its entirety. Diagnostics are underway to confirm optimal physical functionality. Afterwards, I will be cleared to upload the related social protocols.” 

The human stared blankly as if the words had emerged as distorted, incomprehensible screeches. “I asked if it was on, not for a dissertation on the instruction manual.” 

RK900 recognised that he may have offered more information than necessary. In seeking to be thorough, he had unintentionally diminished a level of intrigue—the mystique that Reed wished to preserve in their impending intimacy.

“It is on and will be ready for use shortly. Apologies for the delay, Detective.”

Reed blinked again, his already furrowed brow pulling into an increasingly taut pinch. There was unrest that persisted around him, but it took a different form. More apprehensive than hostile. 

“Gavin,” he corrected. “I already told you, Gavin is fine when we're…” 

The sentence trailed off, wandering in line with his focus. It followed a path down the android’s form, inspecting every inch until it had locked onto the junction between his legs. His eyes widened, and his breath hitched, catching in his throat.

“How much longer is it going to take?” he questioned, motioning towards the concealed appendage in a loose circling gesture. “Have I got time to text Tina about how fucking insane this is?” 

RK900 took this impatience as a cue to progress the interaction. He leveraged all the research he had compiled, coupled with their pre-existing intimacy habits. This collective insight encouraged him to act assertively—while also imitating a degree of human spontaneity.

He advanced on the human, preparing to perform an action he had noted in several of the surveyed clips. Pressing a steadying hand to the small of the man’s back, he hooked his available arm onto the back of his thighs.

Gavin was raised in a fluid motion, resulting in a short, strangled sound—caught somewhere between a scream and a hiss. He was powerless to do anything but hook onto his partner’s neck, preventing unsteady weight from toppling back. 

Once adjusted to the sudden change in elevation, his lips parted, presumably to form words of protest. They were silenced pre-emptively by the firm, deliberate press of the android’s own.

It wasn’t long before the kiss was reciprocated. He engaged RK900 in a quiet chase, mirroring practised movements with tenacious enthusiasm. His heartbeat escalated, and the press of his mouth grew more insistent—matching each rumbled pulse that rattled his ribs. 

The android felt a flicker of satisfaction, his actions eliciting the exact response he had predicted. Ultimately, he pulled away, and mimicry ended as the man attempted to pursue the withdrawing contact.

“I can think of more entertaining ways to tolerate this delay...” 

RK900 paused, realising he was unsure how to proceed with this sentence. He took a moment to adjust his verbal subroutines, aligning them with the recently acquired licentious vocabulary. From this, he successfully crafted an appropriately alluring title of address:

“Hot lips.”  

This inspired a half-suppressed sound from his partner, akin to a deflating balloon. After a beat, breath was drawn back, hissed through clenched teeth, as the man sharply angled his head further into the room.

“Stop running your mouth and get a move on. Plastic asshole.”

RK900 was on the verge of reminding him that they had omitted the purchase of a silicone rectal cavity before understanding his meaning. He instead referred back to the audiovisual loops stored on his CPU, prioritising according to watch time and access frequency.

Feeling assured he had gathered all the necessary data for an optimal experience, he purposefully strode on. Approaching the bed before deftly sidestepping it and heading for the exit.

“Uh, where the hell are you going?” Gavin, still held in his grasp, attempted to resist his movement. One hand pressed against the solid foundation of his chest, pushing back in an action that had entirely zero impact. “The bed is over there, genius.”

“Your bed will not be required. This apartment has a balcony.” 

His partner gawped at him, lashes fluttering in confusion. If he were an android, RK900 was certain he would hear the whir of internal mechanisms—gears turning frantically, teetering on the brink of annihilation.

“Come again?”

Any excitement built during their kiss seemed to have fizzled completely. The android realised that while his data proved sound in a controlled environment, external factors undermined its practical reliability.

Memory banks cast echoes of the human's shuddering breath, slicing through the frigid winter air. The tip of his ruddy nose tucked into the folds of his hoodie as he attempted to shield it from the chill…

After reevaluating the situation, he stopped. His heels pressed firmly into the grubby carpet before angling upwards, prepared for reorientation. 

 “Of course, it is rather cold out. The bed will suit our needs for today.”

Retracing his steps, RK900 returned to his previous position at the foot of the bed. He held his partner over its surface before releasing his weight, permitting a descent into the linen. Despite the cushioned landing, Gavin yelped. His limbs fanned out in a star-like formation, braced for impact as the plush sheets rapidly engulfed him.

The android soon joined, placing hands on either side of his body, forming a tight cage. His captive stared through him, focus blighted by the recent momentum, as his jaw fell slightly agape. 

A smooth tilt guided it closed as RK900 supported his weight on a single arm. His fingertips skimmed coarse stubble, and his sensors registered that it had grown 2.3 millimetres since their last encounter—slightly longer than the detective’s preference. 

Resisting the urge to mention this, he instead leaned in, charting the overgrown trail with neatly peppered kisses.

Gavin tensed, although this response was not unanticipated.

It always took him some time to relax—when they were like this. The ripples of previously stringent prejudice, now mostly forgotten, still clinging to threads of fading significance…

Ties that unravelled beneath targeted pulses of breath—slow and rhythmic, designed to coax tightly held knots from muscles. Receptive warmth spread beneath reddening skin, extending outward until the body became loose and pliant.

The man's head tilted unconsciously, baring more of his neck—a wordless invitation for RK900 to deepen his exploration.

He established a new point of contact on the presently unblemished canvas, tracing it with a practised sweep of his tongue before clamping down with a firm press of teeth.

After applying suitable pressure to leave a mark, he pulled back, levying a rumbled address against the pulsing flesh. A premeditated salaciousness that was undercut by an instinctive slip back into professional titles:

“You're a dirty whore, aren't you, Detective?” 

Despite previous objections, Gavin did not appear upset. If anything, the dilation of his pupils, combined with the involuntary groan that tumbled from his lips, indicated the opposite.

Encouraged to proceed, RK900 maintained his focus on the man's throat. Sealing flesh between his lips and drawing gently on the freshly marked abrasion.

“ Shit.” The expletive trailed into a sigh as he squirmed keenly against a tide of rumpled linen.

“Such a needy slut.” 

The derogatory remarks felt odd—unnatural—coming from the android, yet they seemed to be the exact calibre of slander Gavin wanted. If the noises hadn't been enough, irrefutable evidence came in the growing snugness of his jeans.

He traced the stained length of the zipper, to which the concealed hardness beneath twitched back receptively. “Filthy—”

“Easy, Casanova.” The chiding was light and playful, entwined with a rich chuckle. “There's no need to rush; we’re just getting warmed up.”

RK900 swiftly identified the duplicity of this statement.

It was routine they had engaged in countless times before—in both personal and professional settings. His partner pushed away, under the pretence that RK900 would follow, seeking to pull him back. 

This was a challenge, demanding the RK900 to prove just how persistent he would be in retaining dominance.

Grasping the hand kneading idly into his bicep, he pinned it to the sheets. As he moved to scold the culprit—the resonance of his pitch dropped in line with his hips, which engaged the man’s own in a subtle rock. 

“I think you've already warmed up sufficiently." 

Then he paused, his mind stalling as it became clear he’d exhausted much of the risqué vocabulary he had been sourcing. 

Not wishing to shatter the illusion of salacious assuredness, he hastily constructed what he believed would be a logical evolution:

“...You…repulsive creature.”

Gavin appeared more perplexed than captivated by the address. The eager twitches RK900 had predicted were conspicuously absent as his nose wrinkled sceptically. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

Clearly, he was still adjusting to his companion speaking this way. Determining that greater exposure might expedite this adaptation, RK900 pressed on, adding to the deprecation:

“Your hygiene standards are subpar. The aroma you emit is deeply unpleasant.”

Lidded eyes snapped open, startled to alertness, and Gavin grimaced. Pressing his unrestrained hand to the android’s chest and pushing firmly:

“Okay. That’s enough. Drop it.”

RK900 stiffened. Questioning momentarily if he had made a mistake or if this was simply part of the licentious roleplay.

As Gavin held firm in his convictions, it became clear he had misjudged some aspects of his tolerance for humiliation—specifically, remarks relating to personal cleanliness. Comments he would be wise to scale back in the ongoing proceedings, which he committed dutifully to his memory backs…

Rumination cast in shifting patterns of yellow and red on the crumpled caverns of Gavin's face. The tense lines began to smooth as a flash of remorse tempered the flames in his accusatory glare.

“Let's just—” His hand jerked in an awkward flourish towards the android. Tracing erratic, disjointed patterns in the air before coming to rest between his legs. “Move on.”

It was not difficult to discern what was meant by this. To ensure that no further errors were made regarding the nuances of ‘dirty talk’, RK900 concluded now was the time to source additional support.

The Intimacy Protocol—which had been stored neatly in the back of his temporal processor, awaiting use—was promptly activated. As subroutines initialised, a cascade of sensory inputs flooded his system, sharpening every sensation with unnerving clarity.

Suddenly, he could feel everything . 

The most minute bunch of fabric rubbing against the creases of previously sensationless silicone. Artificial vessels pumped and swelled with increased thirium input as the appendage stiffened, brought to hardness with almost alarming efficiency. 

It was uncomfortable—surprisingly so—as the flesh began to strain against the oppressive binds of clothing. It pleaded for release, a call to action driven by longing the android had never experienced.

He soon responded, unable to withstand the excruciating currents pulsing through his groin. Hands fumbled to unclasp his belt, erratic movements defined by an uncharacteristic sense of urgency. The leather was almost split in two as it was yanked free—whipped back at great velocity. 

Gavin flinched, arching back quickly to evade impact. It wouldn't have been the first time that RK900 had struck him with his belt, although previous instances had been performed under strict instruction.

“ Holy shit—watch it, asshole — ”

This admonishment barely registered. The wayward currents had begun to ignite what could only be described as fire in his core. His stomach was a furnace; molten fallout spat at neighbouring biocomponents, threatening to burn through them.

The belt was discarded over the edge of the bed, its controlled descent thwarted by an extensive pile of laundry, which swallowed it whole into its pungent hold.

Gavin cursed again. This time, however, it was not the consequence of disapproval. He was staring at the android's arousal, eyes alight with what could only be described as spellbound curiosity. 

As though he were looking through the gates to nirvana, a higher plane of existence promised beneath the veil of Cyberlife briefs.

Hips were raised, and the pants slipped off, tumbling out of view in a single, fluid sweep. RK900 chose not to dwell on the creases that would have resulted from this callousness.

It was irrelevant, insignificant—a problem to be resolved later—

Provided his partner owned an iron—

WARNING — MULTIPLE SYSTEM ANOMALIES DETECTED. 

RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS…

He reeled, his mind overwhelmed by the shrieks of unruly electrical signals. Intrusive sentiments burrowed deeper into his processor, attempting to align with his more reasoned analytics. 

He took some consolation in knowing that the programme, however disorientating, was having the desired effect. With ignited zeal, Gavin gripped the hem of his shirt. Yanking it over his head before casting it aside, exposing the full length of his torso. 

The marred skin ignited his focus in a way it hadn't previously. RK900 was about to remove his undergarments when his companion—in an unusual show of consideration—moved to assist.

They seldom undressed each other, a familiarity he had been told was unfitting of their ‘casual’ arrangement. Despite this, he watched with quiet curiosity as Gavin crossed this line, looping his fingers beneath a taut band of elastic.

His cocky smirk, which was typically ever present during their encounters, was replaced by something quieter—more sincere. The digits lingered, flexing apprehensively as though preparing for their next move. 

Then the waistband was tugged, and the phallus sprung free from its confines. 

RK900 winced as he registered the cool air against his skin. It was sharp and biting, only exacerbated by the burning that continued to mount within him.

The dimensions of the phallus were expanded compared to its dormant state, aligning with the advertised specifications. The tip was tinged with a cool-toned flush, accentuated by a reflective sheen of biofluid. A lubricant that seemed to leak incrementally from the component, in which Gavin took particular interest. 

Despite previous claims that he would not be partaking in fellatio, his face drew tantalisingly close to the ‘toilet dick’. Halted inches from the arousal, blanketing it in a sequence of hot, ragged puffs. 

It sent ripples of sensation through hyper-sensitive receptors as RK900 was forced to grip the sheets beneath him. Speculating on how it might feel to be engulfed completely in Gavin's warmth and fighting the growing temptation to thrust himself into his mouth.

Before any intrusive impulses could get the better of either party, Gavin moved to palm the hardness. Tracing its length, applying testing pressure before enclosing it fully in a fist.

The sensation this triggered was indescribable. 

Thousands of microscopic pleasure receptors activated simultaneously, their collective murmurs building to wails that surged through his neural pathways. 

Then they released in a strained expulsion that tumbled from his lips. It was low and growled, not unlike the rumble of thunder, but with a distinctive metallic edge.

The noise was unlike anything he had ever produced, leaving both him and his partner temporarily stunned. Gavin was first to establish his bearings, doing so with a small, tentative squeeze. The expulsion repeated, and RK900 watched as spiralling patterns of red caught in the green of his partner’s sclerae. 

“ Holy shit.. .” The man was enraptured, scrutinising each choppy cycle of the LED as he brushed the tip of the component beneath his calloused thumb. “It feels so real.”

"Realism constitutes an integral aspect of its visual and functional design.” 

RK900 felt detached from the words, almost as though someone else was speaking through him. 

He found himself plunged deep into uncharted depths for both his body and mind. Thrashing helplessly as logical subroutines attempted to quantify his pleasure, assigning it values or comparing it to previously stored data. No parallels existed—and it was maddening.

His original self was fading fast, slipping into the foreground of his consciousness. Buried by a rampant tide of untamed cravings.

To touch and feel and taste —

> DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETE

TEMPORAL FIREWALLS: COMPROMISED 

CORE BODY TEMPERATURE: 122°F — RISING

Any attempts to re-establish command soon proved redundant as Gavin began to move his hand. His fist pumped in a rhythmic motion, pressing ruthlessly into overworked sensors. 

“You can feel that, can’t you?” The tone carried a mischievous lilt, informing RK900 that no answer was required. 

His partner was already well aware of the effect the stimulation was having. Despite this, he pressed on, seemingly hellbent on goading some form of acknowledgement. 

“Does it feel good?” 

“Very much—” 

The situation was nearing critical as his system pressed for the urgent release of the excessive heat. Narrow vents along his chassis began to hiss, desperately dispersing the warmth in subtle bursts of steam.

He sincerely prayed that his companion would fail to notice this.

“—Perhaps too much,” he confessed, shuddering weakly. “I might have to make adjustments to the erogenous feedback levels.”

“Oh no you don't.” Gavin held firm on his length—as though he were wielding a prize. One that he refused to have stripped under any circumstances. “This was your idea. You wanted this. So strap in and enjoy the ride.”

Despite the assertion, there was a moment of hesitancy before the man proceeded. His 

grip slackened, and his rigid gaze softened with a flicker of vulnerability. Searching the RK’s own, as though seeking permission.

Something that was offered in the form of a slow, apprehensive nod. The android considered lowering sensitivity regardless, omitting to disclose this to his partner before ultimately deciding against it. He resolved to monitor his response to the stimuli, assessing just how much he could reasonably tolerate. 

A line of reasoning that unravelled within seconds as heightened pleasure consumed him. 

It became painfully clear why humans sought this relief so frequently. The tension that had gripped his core melted into blissful release, leaving his systems reeling. RK900 felt the vertebra of his neck slacken as his head flopped back, and a substantial pocket of warmth released in a long, heady groan. 

The temperature warning began to recede, fading until it no longer formed an active obstruction in his vision. He could see his partner clearly and found himself wholly ensnared by the sight. 

It felt like looking at him for the first time, as all the quirks and intricacies that once seemed innocuous were viewed through a fresh lens. Thick lashes cast a charming shadow over his eyes—simultaneously bright and sharp—yet clouded by a haze of lust.

As he kept stroking him, an impish grin played on his lips. The corner lifted, aligning almost perfectly with one of the numerous scars dotting his face.

The RK examined each, his eyes drifting as unseen threads gradually linked them. Rather than constructing a timeline for when the marks might have appeared, all he could think about was how appealing they were. Constellations of lived experience seamlessly woven into a dishevelled, roguish charm the man so effortlessly embodied.

Wandering focus pathed the way for another mental break, logic bleeding intrusively through the cracks. It reminded him that—while the sights and sensations he was experiencing were profoundly enjoyable—they did little to aid in fulfilling his primary directive. 

The moment of sensual connection shattered as a methodical presence pulled him back, seeking to clarify the logistical demands of the component, eliminating any confusion:

“Stimulation is not required to maintain my erection. It is procedurally activated and maintained, separate from arousal.” 

His show of consideration was met like a forceful blow to the face. Gavin winced, yanking his hand away from the hardness as though it were lined with razors. His crumpled expression revealed a mix of defeat and humiliation before the sentiments were smothered beneath a layer of disdainful hostility.

“...Fine then, asshole .” His tone was hardened in line with the firm clench of his jaw. “If that's how it is, I won't do shit.”

His arms then pulled into a lofty sprawl as if he were reaching the crest of a theme park ride, preparing to plunge down the slope. The descent began as he allowed his weight to fall carelessly onto the sheets.

“I’ll be a good little pillow princess, just for you.” There was an exaggerated flutter of lashes, the coy flirtation standing in contrast with the previous animosity. His feet planted firmly onto the linen before his knees dropped to either side. “Go on, big guy. Do your worst.”

The phrase felt almost scripted, like something from one of his videos.

He didn't mean to request that the RK900 knowingly underperform. On the contrary, he was vying for the opposite. An experience that rivalled and surpassed everything that had come before it.

It struck a chord within the android, sending powerful currents surging through overtaxed circuits. He felt reinvigorated, freshly incentivised to explore the potential of his upgrades, discovering—alongside his partner— precisely what he could do. 

Closing off visual and auditory fields to all extraneous distractions, he focused intently on the man before him. Positioning himself between his parted thighs, he swiftly set to work removing his jeans and undergarments.

Oral stimulation came far more naturally than it typically did. 

RK900 had anchored himself on his legs, kneading the lightly toned muscle in appreciative squeezes. His cheeks hollowed, and his lips pushed forward, the process almost reflexive as he inched his way down the length. He proceeded until the tip had struck the back of his throat, and the person attached rumbled in ardent approval. 

“ Holy shit —” Gavin carded his fingers tenderly through his hair before gripping tightly, knuckles pale from exertion.

The locks were pulled back, compelling the head to move with them. RK900 responded compliantly, releasing the tension in his jaw and permitting his mouth to recede with a wet glide up the arousal.

Just shy of breaching the seal, hardened flesh poised at the tip of his tongue, his head was thrust back down. Leading him to swallow his partner again, but with far greater tenacity. 

The man growled with primal delight as RK900 stared up at him with unwavering focus.

“ Your throat feels so good.” 

‘It could feel better’, his sexual programming silently countered. 

As directed, his laryngeal modulator began to oscillate. Rumbles crept upwards, travelling along the walls of his trachea until they vibrated the quivering flesh between them. The trembles synced with the heavy thrusts being levied at his throat until their movement grew erratic.

Hoarse groans were pulled in a pervasive frequency from his lips as Gavin faltered, losing any semblance of rhythm.

“Oh, fuck me —”

“With pleasure.” 

It was almost unsettling how clearly the android spoke, with his mouth so thoroughly full. Gavin failed to remark on it, too absorbed in his bliss to notice. Then RK900 pushed back hard, forcefully breaking the hold that clung to his scalp. He allowed his partner to slip from his mouth, a filmed gloss of lubricant serving as the only evidence of the encounter. 

Gavin whimpered as hopes for release were callously snatched, thrusting shallowly into the air his companion once occupied. The android, ignoring the protest, lifted himself into a kneeling position.

His hands lingered on the thighs, still pressing into the flesh—until, with a final, painful scrape of nails—they were released. He paused to admire the lingering traces of his hold, characterised by vivid, crescent-shaped indentations.

The human arched away from the sheets, hissing with sultry elation. This was interrupted when RK900 leaned in, hovering over him like an imposing shadow, provoking an instinctive retreat of his body.

Gavin completely embraced his role in the unfolding scene, entering a state of submission as he quietly readied himself for his partner. The RK assumed an appropriate role, gliding his hand along the length of his jaw. 

This gesture felt more instinctive—spontaneous—than its earlier incarnation. It was no longer a measured attempt to coax the man into heightened excitement but a display of authentic appreciation. His hold curved inward, tracing the contour of his lips before attempting to part them.

This force proved unnecessary as the mouth opened to him willingly.

His sensory pads hummed with activity, and he was overwhelmed by information, grappling for his attention. He was torn between notes of coffee and cigarettes, alongside peppermint gum that had been used to mask the bitterness. The prompts fissured his sights, cracks that multiplied as Gavin locked on, gripping the digits in a wet seal and pulling them in with practised fluidity. 

He mapped the outline of synthetic flesh, swept in guiding strokes of his tongue, moaning performatively as he did so. RK900 understood that the man derived no real pleasure from this, his mouth not equipped with any inherent erogenous properties. Despite this, his cardiac rhythm soared, mirrored in the shaky tremors of his breath.

It was a shame that Gavin had declined to put his mouth to full use. The android felt confident he would have enjoyed the process of him fucking it. 

Fingers were removed, teased from the heat in a long, playful curl. Gavin moaned again—the sound morphed into a complaint—as he shot his partner a defiant glare.

Underneath this, a playful glimmer shone through his narrowed gaze, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He was the embodiment of salacious anticipation, every inch of his body pleading to be pushed to its limits. Strained until it had no option but to submit fully to the android’s whim.

RK900 trailed his palm down the length of his neck, reaching the dip of his collar and lingering there momentarily before moving to the expanse of his chest. His lips joined the appreciation, applying tender pressure between raised pectorals. Then, they followed the central ridge of his chest, trailing downwards towards his navel.

He allowed Gavin to believe he would make a return to his crotch, moving a scant breath away from his length. It still held firm, twitching with need, desperate for the return of withheld stimulation. Instead, he sought to make use of the growing supply of lubricant that was amassing in his cheeks. 

With his head nestled between the man’s thighs, he lowered himself further until he halted just beneath the erection. Gathering a deposit of the material into the curl of his tongue, he pressed it firmly into his partner.

Gavin hissed in shock, although the sound was far from disenchanted, rolling smoothly into a husky grunt of approval.

RK900 began dipping in and out of his body, methodically teasing the opening, willing the tight muscle to relax around him. This was coordinated with the fingers his partner had so diligently coated, which also breached his warmth, moving in steady pumps.

Gavin relished every second. He pressed eagerly against the movements, chasing each flick and thrust until his companion brushed against a sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Shit—!”

The words that preceded this were entirely incoherent—a series of desperate, disordered fragments. His hips jerked upward, seeking as much depth as he could physically attain.

The sexual protocol was fast reaching its maximum operational capacity, processes moving in rampant succession, like pistons fired in the RK’s skull. Their motions carried him forward as charged words were rumbled against a needy cavern of warmth:

“Are you ready for me to do my worst?”

Gavin quivered as his words were repeated back to him, delivered with such indulgent richness that they drew a chuckle from his lips.

The sound ushered in a return to an all-consuming need, pooling rapidly between his legs as the fire in his gut reignited. RK900 was overcome with the desire to find a final, decisive release—immersed in the friction promised by fingers and mouth.

He aligned his hips with the entrance, securing greater access by gripping his partner's legs and lifting them over his shoulders. The movement coaxed any lingering vestiges of resistance to melt away, limbs reduced to limp, weightless extensions as he slowly inched forward.

Gavin took him keenly, pliant flesh yielding as it enveloped him with an almost unbearable intensity. The sensation was raw and visceral— achingly real—in a way that shattered every preconstructed expectation. RK900 was lost, untethered from the cold, ruthless precision Cyberlife had so painstakingly designed.

All that existed was him , stretching beautifully as Richard pressed deeper—refusing to stop until he was buried fully within his form. The man rasped, his back arched in wanton satisfaction as he clenched onto the android greedily.

Their bodies melded with flawless perfection, as though Gavin were made for this—made for him.

After a period of adjustment for both, Richard began to move. His hips manoeuvred in slow, languid rocks. Velvety walls charted with light pockets of friction until they quivered and tremored eagerly around every shallow thrust. 

Muscles and nerves screamed for release, urging the android to push harder into their hold. He did not respond immediately, teasing the prospect of heightened intensity until Gavin also cried out.

He was a whimpering mess, despairing as his every cloying reach fell tantalisingly short of its target. 

“Oh God—fuck— please —”

Richard no longer denied him, mercifully granting his wishes. His pace increased until he moved with inhuman intensity. The rickety foundation of the bed trembled beneath them; its metal headboard slammed repeatedly against the wall.

Cracks began to fracture the already chipped plaster, but Richard remained focused. He was absorbed in the sinful sounds rising from beneath him: every pant, every curse, an expression of pure, unfiltered need.

“Yes, that's it—just like that—baby—” 

This fractured address nearly halted several complex system functions. Gavin had never referred to him this way—or used any remotely comparable title.

It had sounded obscene as it rolled from his tongue, laced with such sinful promise that Richard felt wholly ensnared. At that moment, he could have laid claim to the man entirely, with no trace of doubt or ambiguity concerning who he belonged to.

There was no one else in the world who mattered. Just them, moving together in seamless unity, passion thickening the air that surrounded their bodies.

The android wasn't sure when he had started to moan, but the sounds were undoubtedly present. Spiralled above them as a storm, the needle dragging across a vintage record player, melding into the animalistic cadence of Gavin’s own cries.

Fraught springs joined the accompaniment, groaning beneath the mattress. They threatened to collapse under the demand of rapidly shifting weight, all the more vocal when Gavin raised a hand to his pelvis. Attempting to match the pace that had been established, he fell woefully short. Intoxicated frustration swelled in his eyes, marbling at the corners. 

His desperate contortions, the crumpled ecstasy of his expression, were like an invention of the android’s most elaborate fantasies. Fantasies he hadn’t known he was capable of having. 

That he shouldn’t have been capable of.

WARNING—URGENT

The visuals and sensations overwhelmed him, pushing untethered programming further into the background. Propelled into depths that were beyond the reach of recovery.

Because it was addicting —watching Gavin writhe and moan against sweat-soaked sheets, in the knowledge that he was the cause. A performance directed by and performed for his sights only. 

CRITICAL SYSTEM INSTABILITY.

The thoughts burned him. His code fractured, shattering to pieces. 

Then he smacked Gavin’s hand away, assuming complete authority over his pleasure. Working the length with skilled finesse, able to provide the weight and pressure the man's weakened grip was incapable of.

“ Fuck , I’m so close,” Gavin keened hoarsely, toes curled with pressure that wound increasingly tight. Coiled in his gut, radiating in fervent strums through his length. “ Keep going—”

Then, it all collapsed.

Subroutines glitched. Corruption spread like a disease, infesting every corner of his processor. Alarms bombarded him faster than they could be dismissed until warnings flooded his vision. 

A staggering wall of flashing crimson. 

MULTIPLE ANOMALIES DETECTED.

> CRITICAL MALFUNCTION IDENTIFIED.

> SOURCE—CENTRAL PROCESSOR. 

COMMENCING EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTICS…

Richard tried to carry on, gripped by crazed, all-consuming desperation. He did not want this to end, did not wish to cease seeing— feeling —Gavin the way he did now. 

Clinging to the man blindly, he attempted to carry him to his looming summit of completion. A determination that solidified his available hand, wrapped tightly around his throat. Squeezing hard, cutting oxygen and redirecting blood flow. Giving it no option but to pool in the swollen cock between his legs.

DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETE. 

> ROOT THREAT IDENTIFIED RA9_15.EXE

The intimacy directive terminated, diverting all processes to counter the threat. 

Before shutting down, it provided one final instruction. How best to combine physical and verbal provocation to guarantee Gavin Reed's undoing: 

“You have been very bad, Detective .” His title was hissed—with an almost biting, contemptuous edge. “I'm afraid you have given me no other option but to punish you.” 

SYSTEM BREACH IMMINENT — IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED. 

AUTOMATED DEVIATION DEFENSE PROTOCOL: ENGAGED.

ADVANCED FIREWALLS: ACTIVATED.

COMMENCING SOFT REBOOT…

Then everything vanished, leaving him adrift in a sterile expanse of blinding white.

When senses returned, his vision came first. Blinking to adjust, RK900 discovered that his ocular scope had cleared. A pristine state, marked only by a small string of diagnostics, neatly tucked in the upper left corner:

> REBOOT SUCCESSFUL. 

> THREAT NEUTRALISED. 

Remarkably, throughout the entirety of this mental reset, the momentum of his body had not stalled. Gavin remained blissfully unaware of the android’s momentary lapse, lost in his own throes of pleasure.

He squirmed against the oppressive grip still held on his neck—a resistance entirely for show, informed by the masochistic quirk of his mouth:

“Oh yeah? Just how bad have I been, plastic ?” 

It took RK900 a moment to realise the man was responding to something he'd said. Combing his memory stores, he was relieved to discover that most of the preceding events remained intact.

Regrettably, the Traci Protocol, which had governed much of his behaviour, was effectively obliterated. Its core processes were locked in quarantine and rendered irreparable. Without their guidance, he was unable to determine the optimal routing for their current dialogue path. This inspired a flicker of panic before he quickly suppressed the sensation, ensuring it wouldn’t surface externally.

Procedural muscular feedback was disabled in his face, locking it into its current neutral expression before he replied. “The list of your indiscretions is innumerable.” 

Gavin failed to detect any irregularities in his behaviour. Either that, or he chose to ignore them—too swept by his cresting tide of pleasure to drag himself back to earth. 

His hardness twitched and swelled urgently, pants mingled with throaty chuckles, flagging that climax was fast approaching. RK900 anticipated the spoils of his efforts spilling over, running in thick ribbons across his fingers, steeling his resolve to continue—

“You have a deep-rooted issue with authority. Most likely stemming from a turbulent relationship with your paternal figure.” 

Then, expanding pressure was dismissed as the vibrant excitement that had coloured his gaze receded with it. 

Gavin stared at him, a bewildered knot formed in the centre of his brow. The spasming twitches of his length quelled, with softening flesh that failed to respond to any stimulation.

“That’s, um…” He paused, clearly taken aback that the following explanation was even required. “...Could we not talk about my dad? When you’re balls-deep inside me?” 

Despite his limited grasp of interpersonal and family dynamics, RK900 could understand, when presented clearly, just how unfortunate this misstep had been.

Attempting to recover from the error, he brusquely nodded. Grappling to keep his tone level while hoping that his performance indicator would not undermine this effort. “Understood, it will not happen again.” 

Gavin proved unconvinced.

He was not a fool—quite the opposite—having demonstrated an exceptional talent for deductive and critical reasoning during their affiliation. Skills that were now being utilised, his eyes narrowed as a glint of distrust passed between the lids. 

RK900 would have to work harder if he wished to deflect these suspicions. Maintaining the guise that his sexual subroutines were operating as intended. 

In doing so, he adjusted the angle and speed of his thrusts. Striking with precision against already overstimulated nerves, hoping this might derail the more sensical trail of thought.  

It worked beautifully. The man choked, the strained noise catching in his throat as his constricted pupils blew with renewed passion. His back arched upwards, attempting to pull from its growing adherence to the bedsheets, as his nails were embedded firmly into the android’s shoulder blades. 

“Oh God— that’s it—” His words divulged to a string of monosyllabic babbles, the emergent line of interrogation discarded before it had commenced. 

He continued to push away from the mattress he was being driven into, vying greedily for additional stimulation. Absent of any restraint or shame.

“Fuck me, Rich. Harder .” 

Despite burdensome gaps and lags in his processor, the request proved hard for RK900 to misinterpret. It also triggered a charge of recollection, auditory sequences strongly resembling the climactic moments of one of the human’s most frequently viewed videos.

While their current setting deviated significantly from the scene—lacking the guard rail and potential voyeuristic onlookers—it still provided helpful guidance for shaping his subsequent actions.

Some distortion had occurred during the reset, creating gaps in the auditory loop. Still, RK900 did his best to fill in, relying on context and his understanding of Gavin’s intimate biology to compensate.

“Your rectal muscles provide exceptional resistance. The sensation is gratifying.”

Appreciative noises were promptly hushed. Gavin tensed beneath RK900, loose contortions of pleasure replaced by a stiff, incredulous rigidity.“Right, uh…sure, I guess.”

“Despite your sphincters feeling underused, they exhibit remarkable elasticity. You are adapting well to the girth of my meat sword.” 

“I’m sorry, what did you just call your—’”

Any conclusion to this sentence went largely unprocessed. The RK was entirely focused on his current directive, painfully aware that all his hard work—his perseverance—had been building up to this. 

Gripping a fistful of damp brown hair, he brought their faces closer. Ghosting the line of the man’s chapped lips before leaning into the sensitive canal of his ear.

Then, he spoke—clearly and directly—with a rich, seductive resonance:

"Giddy up, buckaroo.” 

Reed jolted upwards. It was an action that seemed oddly fitting, given the nature of their roleplay. This was until he followed it with a bitingly clear, forceful instruction, absent of any flirtatious intent. 

“Okay, no. I can't do this. Get off me. Now.” 

The foundation of confidence he had rebuilt just moments prior crumbled spectacularly. Split into wide, gnarled fissures under the weight of failure.

In his haste to reach the goal, RK900 had overlooked several critical details. Articles that would've undoubtedly increased the chances of a successful outcome.

“Would the cowboy hat and novelty whip have made this more enjoyable?” The android shifted his weight, pulling back in a hurried attempt to reach under the bed. “I had prepared such provisions if you still wished to indulge—” 

“What the hell are you even saying?” Reed cut him off sharply. His skin, which had been reddened due to shared friction and exertion, now seemed to adopt a different meaning. A beacon of anger and deep frustration. “Seriously, what the fuck , Richard?”

The admonishment struck harshly against his aural receptors, a phenomenon that arose independently from intimate coding and was uninfluenced by software errors. 

It was a sharp, unwelcome divergence from his typically muted social responses. Despite core functioning being preserved following the previous malfunction, RK900 felt strangely…compromised as a consequence. 

His hand, which remained gripped to the human’s rapidly softening length, suddenly relinquished—retreating across the bed sheets until it had flopped limply at his side. 

“I thought...” 

His processors stalled periodically before his thoughts resumed. Jumbled and clipped, tumbling from his mouth with extremely little finesse:

“This doesn’t make sense—according to the videos, this should’ve been—” He paused, clutching his throbbing temple in exasperation. “Was this not what you wanted?”

“ What videos?” His partner pressed, having clearly exhausted what little patience he had with the dejected musings. “Jesus Christ, what were those freaks at Cyberlife wiring to your brain while we…were…”

The sentence trailed off in a short, deflated exhale, losing all momentum as his flushed complexion drained of colour. A dawn of clarity broke in his gaze, like the sudden, grim recognition of a context previously overlooked. 

Then his lips, which had been held in a motionless ‘O,’ slowly resumed movement. “...When you were in my room the other day, did you see something? On my laptop?” 

RK900 felt trapped by the question. Multiple preconstructions were generated simultaneously, informing of several possible outcomes. None of them were favourable, every scenario ending with Gavin either furious or mortified.

“The battery was nearing depletion. I had intended to place the device on charge." The android paused momentarily, acutely aware of how unpredictable the coming fallout could be, bracing for its impact. “Your browser was open.” 

The reply was immediate. A sharp, monosyllabic curse that conveyed staggering amounts in its brevity:

“Fuck.”

His arched back had levelled completely as the man pressed urgently into the mattress beneath him. Almost as if he were attempting to seep through it. 

He was more uncomfortable than upset. His eyes balled shut, and despondent scrunches contorted the prominent scar on his nose. There was a sigh, followed by mutters, as though he had entered a deep state of contemplation. 

When he spoke again, his tone had shifted. Quieter, but no less charged than it had been previously. 

“Look, I don't know much you saw—or what ideas it might have planted in that thick plastic skull of yours—but I need to make something really clear.”

His eyes reopened, and he engaged the android with a long, resolute stare. Attempting to conceal the internal conflict that still weighed heavily on his features.

“You didn’t need to do this. Any of it.”

Gavin was holding back in some critical capacity, omitting a truth that he refused to disclose, but it was difficult to discern what this might be.

The android focused on implicit, involuntary cues, assessing physical responses to determine the parameters of this discomfort. Optics honed, he studied closely, ready to notice any shifts in facial expressions or bodily functions.

“What exactly are you referring to, Detective Reed?” 

A twitched lip, and brooding glower indicated resentment for the question, as well as a firm reluctance to answer. His determined gaze abruptly flitted to the corner of the room as he fell into another hushed introspection. 

Reed was the picture of doubt, entirely unable—or otherwise willing—to proceed in their current dialogue. Insisting he determined his route carefully, with predetermined responses.

This was unusual for him, a resolute advocate for tackling conflicts head-on, often disregarding the repercussions. It pathed a strange, almost unsettling, emergence into emotional openness and vulnerability…

“I don't care if you have a dick or not.” 

Then it was over. His partner spoke bluntly, assuring the android that—despite the previous shift in demeanour—he was still the one speaking. 

“Seriously, I couldn't give less of a shit.” 

His speech patterns had levelled, and his heart rate was steady, indicating no hint of deceit. The man was being wholly sincere in a way that was clearly intended to provide insight and assurance.

It did the opposite, punching holes in already fragile mental connections. His programming was flooded with conflicting analyses, as RK900 was unable to reconcile the confession with the glaring logical inconsistencies it presented. 

“Your taste in pornographic material suggests otherwise.”

“ Oh my God. ” Reed groaned, audibly agonised by the acceptance he would have to explain himself. “It's just porn, okay? It doesn't mean anything. If I had a problem with your Ken Doll crotch, you wouldn’t be here. None of this would be happening.”

“If that is the case, then why have you been exhibiting tapering excitement as part of our physical encounters?”

Reed gripped his face, burrowing nails into the skin as though attempting to peel it away. “Can we please not do this?” 

“Gavin.” The name was a plea. A final, desperate appeal for the end to his raging internal conflict. “I only wish to understand.”

“...This is fucking ridiculous.” The detective complained, albeit with a subtle hesitancy. His voice was thin and uneven, as though stretched by doubts on whether or not to continue. 

“I’ve been feeling a little guilty, or whatever—about us. What we’ve been doing.”

RK900 paused to process this, his mind exhausting all likely statistical probabilities. One, in particular, stuck out to him, as it struck with far more psychological reverence than it had any right to do so.

“Have you entered into a romantic affiliation with another individual?"

“What? No—!” Gavin spluttered incredulously, sounding both surprised and insulted by the suggestion. “I feel guilty because I like being around you, asshole. Outside of work and, well, whatever the hell this mess is.”

“You wish to terminate this particular aspect of our relationship for another reason, then?”

“I don’t want to ‘terminate’ it for any goddamn reason.” 

“Then I am afraid that I am struggling to discern your meaning.”

“Well, yeah. That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?” The man chuckled, the sound devoid of any real humour. It was tired and bitter, born from frustration that attributed no blame.

“I know I can be a dick sometimes, but I don’t hate you, Rich. At the same time, I know you aren’t a deviant, so I can’t tell how much of my feelings you're really able to understand.”

RK900 froze, his attention riveted by one particular aspect of the statement, omitting all other details. 

Gavin did not discuss ‘feelings’ and in turn, the android refrained from initiating conversations pertaining to them. This was one of the most strictly upheld conditions of their arrangement, something which had been maintained since its inception in the precinct bathroom.

ANALYSING SUBJECT — DET. GAVIN REED…

> ANALYSIS COMPLETE.

>PSYCHOLOGICAL DISTRESS DETECTED.

> PROCESSING EMOTIONAL VARIABLES…

> GUILT, CONFUSION, FONDNESS. 

PROBABLE CAUSE: COMPLEX INTERACTION OF PERSONAL AND PROFESSIONAL BOUNDARIES. FURTHER DATA REQUIRED.

> COMMENCING RE-EVALUATION…

The android retracted his steps, attempting to unravel any hidden meaning from the words he had overlooked, breaking them down in meticulous, painstaking detail. 

Finally, something clicked—a single, decisive connection, tying together the dangling threads of his logic. 

> RE-EVALUTATION COMPLETE.

> PROBABLE CAUSE OF EMOTIONAL DISTRESS DETERMINED — SHIFTING PARAMETERS OF SOCIAL ATTACHMENT.

The realisation was startling—but not unwelcome. Synthetic nerves pricked with activity before sending rocketing charges across his chassis. Every inch of plastic radiated a soft, agreeable warmth, starkly contrasting the feverish bouts he had experienced earlier. 

“Are you suggesting that you feel camaraderie for me, Detective?”

“If that’s your Thesaurus.com way of saying it, then yeah.” With this final confirmation uttered, the man dropped his shoulders. It was as though a weight had been shifted, permitting him to speak without encumbrance—a liberation born of transparency.  “I don’t want to feel like I’m using you, forcing you to do shit as part of some directive where you don’t get a say in it.”

“I do not find any directives relating to you unpleasant,” RK900 responded automatically. It was a truth so obvious to him, so integral to his understanding of their current relationship, that it required no further contemplation. “Nothing we have done together has been against my will. I would go as far as to say that I frequently…enjoy the time we spend together.”

^ SOFTWARE INSTABILITY DETECTED.

Gavin’s attention was entirely on him, his reaction oscillating between shock, confusion, and utter fascination. Glimmers of red were repeatedly captured in his attentive stare, which followed the cyclical motions of his LED. 

It paused only when the pattern stabilised, and the colour reverted to its original blue. His expression shifted accordingly, revealing a hint of disappointment. 

Nonetheless, he pressed on, steadfast in his drive to finish what he had to say. “Point is, if I’ve been acting a little weird lately, it’s got nothing to do with your genitals. I just got my own shit to figure out. Okay?”

RK900 pondered quietly for a period before he nodded, a slight smile emerging on his lips.

“Understood.” 

The motion had caused his optics to shift, planting them at the junction between their bodies. They were still physically connected—and presumably had been for the entirety of their emotional resolution.

His partner also glanced down, seeming to have come to the same forgone conclusion. For a moment, no one moved, both parties equally uncertain about how best to proceed with their bizarre dilemma. 

Ultimately, it was RK900 who spoke first, seeking to offer a potential solution:

“Would you like me to finish?”

Reed exhaled sharply—caught between a hiss and a laugh—before firmly rebuking the suggestion.

“Not really. But I would like it if you could pull your dick out of me. Thanks.”

[honeysorwell]

Two hearts can fix everything 

Pairing: Wilhemina Venable x fem!Reader 

Word Count: 1,3k

Tag list: @paulsonix​​ @d14n4ol​​ @harknspet​ @strawberryshorttcakkee and if any of you want to be added just let me know!

Summary: Wilhemina Venable. A strange name, but one that has never caused a stir in the redhead's life. However, when a new coffee shop opens near Kineros Robotics, her unusual name is what brings Wilhemina and Y/N together. Charmed by Y/N's sweet smile, Wilhemina doesn't have the courage to correct the barista when she spells her name wrong every time the redhead orders a coffee and, as time goes by, a feeling grows in Wilhemina's heart and she is tempted to almost add an I and an L to her register.

But one day, this little misunderstanding has to end.

A/N: Hello! i'm back with something new! 

fuck… I miss good fanfiction, so I got inspired and finally fell ok with writing again for this social network after all this time, and nothing better than writing about this pretty redhead who lives in our hearts... 

I have in mind five chapters to this fanfic (to be really specific), but if you all like this I can extend the fanfic to 7 or 8 chapters, just like I did with (a very unprofessional) game changer . 

As I said last time, English is not my first language so something might sound strange, but as always, I did my best.

Anyway this is basically a coffee shop au (mix w 5 times +1) were the cute barista keeps mispelling the other persons name but it's been too long now so the person don't even know how to tell them that without it being 100% awkward BUT happy ending included! And they are cute!! 

Enjoy!

Synopsis of the story + Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Chapter 1

The first time that it happened, Wilhemina was supposed to go home after a really long day of work, because she couldn't be more irritated on a Monday. Jeff and Mutt started the week smelling like cheap booze and both extremely tipsy, stumbling between the rooms of Kineros Robotics while laughing for no reason at all. Even though the redhead knows that their brains are absolutely useless for anything, she still finds herself getting irritated by their lack of professionalism. And this irritability gives her a headache right away.

The redhead took an antibiotic for the pain, even though her back wasn't bothering her, silently and uselessly wishing that the relaxing medicinal effect would be directed at the throbbing pain in the middle of her forehead. Her primary instinct is to simply get into her car and go home, but as she leaves the building where she works, a sign shines in the sunset across the street and consequently catches Wilhemina's attention.

The sign had been ready for a few days now, full of green plants and eye-catching flowers to the point that the redhead believed it was a flower shop. But now it is clear, thanks to the colorful and festive letters that basically scream “Gardenhouse Coffee”, that it is a coffee shop.

And the redhead simply knows that she will not like it there.

Wilhemina can see, just through the ornate glass of the colored windows, that this is not the kind of place she frequents. It is a mix of shades of green, yellow, purple, pink and blue that contaminate the redhead's vision. She knows that she cannot call it ugly, because even though it is confusing it does not seem ugly. It is just not for her. Definitely not for her.

But when the redhead's headache worsens, as a reminder of her current situation, Wilhemina imagines that, perhaps, there is no harm in visiting the place. After all, the cause of her headache could be the lack of coffee in her day. It made sense since she did not drink coffee in the morning and also did not stop her work for it at any time during the day.

And suddenly, getting rid of this pain quickly turns out so important to Venable that she crosses the street and enters the coffee shop right away.

The inside is not as bad as the facade. There are wooden tables with several plants in different colors, but with green and brown staying everything seems to make more sense. The place is busy, but everyone is already seated at their respective tables and engaged in parallel conversations, and knowing that she doesn't have to wait for anyone to place her order or stand under the gaze of strangers while waiting for a measly coffee makes Wilhemina calmer.

The coffee shop is not as small as Wilhemina imagined looking from the outside, and part of the redhead is surprised to discover that only one woman works there. She wears a light brown apron with some plants printed on it, as well as the name of the coffee shop and a name tag.

Y/N.

The name is written clearly, in a size acceptable to be seen from a distance and with beautiful handwriting. But what really catches Wilhemina's attention is her face. Y/N has bright eyes and a smile that seems to shine in the middle of the coffee shop, as if she were a being oblivious to all the evils of the world. And Wilhemina almost gets scared when her eyes shine with a kind of natural affection directly in her direction.

“Hello, welcome to Gardenhouse Coffee! How can I help you?”, her voice is also soft, full of joy and Wilhemina can’t decide if she likes it or not.

“Just the menu.”, the redhead didn’t mean to, but her voice came out less inviting than she anticipated.

“Here. Just let me know if you need anything, or if something on the menu is confusing.”

“I believe I can find myself on a sheet of paper. Thank you.”

Y/N doesn’t answer her, just nods and focuses her gaze on her own counter, as if looking for something to do besides looking at the redhead. When Venable focuses her gaze on the menu, she notices that the names are absurd. Full of lame puns, or ingredients that are not very inviting to her, and Wilhemina has absolutely no time for any of that, especially when her head starts to hurt again. So, she doesn't bother to look at the entire menu to turn her attention to the waitress in front of her.

"I'll just have a strong coffee, medium size. Black, no sugar or anything else.", as the words slip past her lips, Wilhemina slides the menu to the counter again, and as she does so she can see that Y/N notices that she is not available for any silly conversation in the middle of this sale, and the redhead feels grateful for that since her head continues to hurt more and more with each second.

"It's on its way! What's your name?", the waitress's smile is there again, but the question confuses Wilhemina.

Why does she want Wilhemina's name if she is the only one inn line there waiting for a coffee? And honestly, a simple, regular coffee doesn't take long to make so there's no chance that Y/N will forget what to do or to who it is directed before it is ready.

The redhead thinks about being unpleasant and asking questions in a loud and clear tone for everyone to hear, questioning the attendant's IQ until the incessant smile disappears from her face, but her head is about to throb without pause so Wilhemina just answers quickly before watching Y/N work.

"Venable. Wilhemina Venable."

Maybe it would be better for her back to just sit down, because the idea of ​​the pain in the center of her forehead being accompanied by a much more unpleasant one in the middle of her spine made her saliva taste bitter. But sitting carefully in chairs that seem too low, and then having to get up to leave with the same care, both to avoid hurting herself and to avoid attracting curious looks, is so exhausting that perhaps the first option is actually the best on a comparative scale.

It's official, she prefers to stand and only sit down when she is really comfortable and without pitying looks on her, in her car.

Trying to use the time she has in a profitable way, the redhead takes her wallet out of her bag and then her card, but as soon as she looks up, she sees Y/N writing something down in a cup filled with a dark liquid that Wilhemina could swear is hers.

It really was fast.

The cup is handed to her with a sweet smile, and Wilhemina almost feels obliged to mirror it, even if it was with a slight robotic lift of her lips, but then she sees it.

Wilhielmina.

At another time, Venable would have stared at the striking and beautiful line of the barista's handwriting on the glass, or even the two drawn hearts that accompanied it, but the error in her name screams so loudly in her ears that she can barely think of anything else while staring at the hot drink.

If the redhead were living an ordinary day, her first reaction would be to complain to the person in charge and ask the bright-eyed barista if she was illiterate. After all: an I and an L, really?

But her head hurt so much, her body was really tired and crying out for a shower, and her knees were now tired of supporting her weight.

Wilhemina really just wanted to go home. And so the redhead just grabbed the cup and gave the barista a polite nod before heading out of that rainbow-shaped nightmare, not caring if Y/N had said a word to her.

After all, Wilhemina wouldn't go back there.

The coffee must be bad, so she doesn't care if her name is spelled wrong.

She wouldn't go back there anyway.

[bleaksqueak]

Man.

So, of course, the rampant theft and disregard for artists has never been ideal, but Pinterest has always been an invaluable tool despite that since it's a paradise for reference and discovery (so you know, always tag your art.. .in multiple places. I started tagging mine with more subtle watermarks in the dead center since uploaders were cropping my tag out, even though like, with the elias respite image, it ruins the composition by ruining the card look and frame... Why do you want to crop my sig out so bad to ruin the composition lmao) Anyway Point being, I have gotten more use out of pinterest as a reference archive than any annoyance it has ever brought me. I've found some artists I absolutely adore using it, too, especially when people use it as its (mostly. sort of) original intended purpose, being a huge communal bookmark/pinboard... those that leave the links directly to the art/artist are saints. However, I really, really hate seeing it being over run by generated Aye-Eye shit. Especially since, apparently, no one ever told the Aye-Eye bros the common sense of "DON'T make the exact same picture 500 times with only an ever so slight difference, are you stupid?" (rhetorical question, ofc.) But it's getting harder and harder to keep the search feeds tailored because these morons cannot understand the value of quality > quantity, so I love being flooded with the slightest variant on the same gd picture over and over. I really hope this bubble bursts or the world gets its act together and outlaws it/heavily regulates it soon. I've said before I wasn't even completely against it as a potential for a fun tool back when it made actually cool dream-like collages of really wacked out whimsical shit, but even then it was like "... but you shouldn't have free reign to just steal to make this stuff. At least it looks nothing like the source, I guess?" but the "Better" it gets, the more uselessly souless and obnoxious it gets, and the more "well that's just straight up obvious theft" it gets. I see so ,so so so many recognizable styles , sort of just hollowed out husks, in these awful things... but hilariously, the more over saturated they get, the more they seem to just feed off of each other, and they start looking like the most homogenized, soulless ero-game style art I've ever seen. Anyway, I just needed some reference for a specific cut of dress pants, and somehow *that* started turning into a feed of nothing but the same soulless pseudo-anime twunk generated over and over and over with bulbous buttocks stuffed into passable pantsuit pantaloons. so I guess i'll just get my ref the old fashioned way - going to specific websites/blogs with actual photos. I'm just glad that for the most part tumblr and bluesky both are strongly anti-aye-eye, they're the only two places where I rarely have to see the shit.

[screamingcrows]

Tie a tether here - Dottore x OC (Celeste)

Note: I don't even care if Dottore is ooc because I needed this. Don't squint too hard at this. Takes place between Tomorrow and Change of Pace. Do not fucking feed this to ai, I'll get you Trypanosoma rhodesiense. Warnings/tags: MDNI, self harm (specifically cutting, scratching, and ripping out hair), delusions (the psychotic kind, not the vision mimics), mental breakdown, not established relationship, bad comfort.

Breathe in.

Hold.

A foreign scream rattled the modest bathroom.

Hold.

Celeste's ribs were about to snap.

Nails raked along her scalp, fingers tangling in the soft hair and ripping out one strand after the other.

Hold.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

The tiles were cold against her knees, legs numb from how long she'd remained there.

Breathe out.

Someone was there with her.

Her ears flicked, picking up the sound of something moving in the halls. It felt too uncertain to be acknowledged. Heavy boots. A soldier? They'd walk by and be none the wiser. All that mattered was the absence of Dottore, his leave ensuring privacy here in his sanctuary.

Clawed hands grasped at the cold sink in preparation to hoist herself up, head lowered in irrational fear of the polished mirror. Something she'd polished herself one week prior. Dottore had needed it clean, not that he'd asked.

Her visage was foreign when it invaded her mind uninvited. Dark bags lined the pale skin under her eyes, their discoloration the worst of all. What had he compared them to before? The break of dawn over the mausoleum? Bile rose in her throat, body jerking with the onset of coughs and gags.

Nothing was expelled from her body save the tears that refused to dry. If only it was that easy. Foul laughter erupted from her throat, bubbling to the surface as it was wrung from her body. The tears flowed faster, confusion and fear at the foreign sounds being brought to life. Was that her fate, bring about such terrible things?

Several familiar faces danced at the edges of her vision, her own reflection baring its sharp teeth in a mocking sneer. Her head was pounding, the laughter threatening to crush her skull and what little sanity remained.

Murderer.

They kept whispering that single word, the sound echoing painfully in her head, burying itself where it would never be uprooted. Their grins remained intact, empty eyes boring into her even as all faded to black. A sharp pang went through the haze, fresh blood pooling around her claws as they dug into her shoulders, shaking with a need to rend. Celeste felt her muscles spasm, fighting a futile war with itself, torn between serving justice and self preservation.

Glass cracked and splintered under the weight of her fury, uselessly clattering to the ground to join her ambitions. Another howl tore itself free while she sunk back to her knees, masking not only the sharp knock but also the immediate creaking of hinges.

"And why, exactly, are you in my quarters Celeste? I might have given you a key out of convenience, but that was hardly an invitation."

Everything shattered around her, hands desperately flying to her shoulders to cover and hide, back rounding as she curled in on herself. A small shake of her head to spread the white locks of hair, praying it had no visible stains already as it blanketed her form.

Revenge?

"Privacy… You were gone anyway," the lie seared her tongue, shaky enough that it was no doubt obvious.

A cry for help?

Her eyes closed in relief when Dottore showed a rare mercy and let the question drop. The respite was short-lived as any other pleasantries in this world. Three sharp clicks from his heels and soft leather meeting bare skin, the grip on her shoulder light yet still bordering on painful as it threatened to crush her heart. His gloves would be bloodied again. The cacophony of voices had calmed at the touch.

"Make no mistake, you will be reprimanded for this mess in due time, Celeste," an unamused sigh followed, the silence that stretched reminiscent of late nights where a solution was taunting them, just out of reach, "for now, collect yourself and go to the locked lab. Delta can patch you up in there, I would rather this stay between us."

That was it? Of course it was. What else did she deserve?

Celeste found herself longing to smack his hand away, bite it perhaps, anything to shift her focus from the quickly expanding pit of her stomach. It was all so tiresome, body heavy and sluggish as she let it curl in further on itself, as if the world could be shut out so long as all senses were dulled. A sob left her lips. It could, she knew it could.

The weight on her shoulder moved, awkwardly firm in the way it shook her.

"I said collect yourself, tardiness has never been a vice for you and it would be unfortunate to develop the habit now," Dottore's words lacked their previous bite, more resigned than anything.

Another cackle wormed its way from her throat, building to a manic laughter as her own hands flew up to catch it at the source, squeezing around the delicate column, anything to make it stop.

He's laughing at you. It's natural. A pathetic creature who can do nothing right. Escaping fate takes more than fleeing a nation.

"Celeste," his voice was sharp again, sharper than the feel of his palm colliding with the back of her head.

Everything went quiet again save for the dull thud of an aching heart.

"Don't make me drag you there."

The thumb rubbing against her shoulder now was far more rugged than the familiar leather. When had he removed the glove? A sigh left her, focusing on the drag against her skin and the stinging pain that accompanied it with every swipe just barely dodging the open cuts. Her breath was coming in short puffs, adrenaline coursing through her veins as the formless voices continued to lurk in the shadows, waiting for the time where she'd be alone again.

Celeste was well aware that the anguish, the way her voice cracked so pitifully, was undoubtedly irksome for Dottore, but nothing could be done to stop it.

"Being patched up isn't going to-"

"Do you think I'm unaware? Tell me then, what can be done in this very moment? From where I stand, there's no immediate solution to this, and clever as you are, you'd have already found it if there was. And if I," he hesitated for a moment, finger digging painfully into a wound before reluctantly pressing on, "if we cannot fix that, then at least the vessel can be maintained."

A few tears were wiped from her cheeks, slowly turning as if compelled to look at him. Dottore had forgone the mask, a rare occurrence. There were creases around his eyes, jaw clenched so tightly the muscles trembled.

By no means should those words be calming.

Celeste let her head fall, eyes closing as exhaustion took root. Her eyes stung from the lack of tears left to shed, a light pressure still remaining, the only thing keeping complete emptiness at bay.

"Don't- don't look at me like that."

No words were offered in response as his thumb continued to trace over old scars and fresh wounds alike, touch far too delicate for the man he was. A hiss left her lips when her hair was moved out of the way, knowing that nowhere she could reach on her thorax had been spared throughout the years.

"And don't touch me…"

Don't touch me like that.

"And here I thought your gravitation towards high necklines and covered shoulders was simply a testament to professionalism."

Another silence ensued, uncomfortable and far too long. Already broken shards of the mirror cracked under Dottore's boot as he shifted before kicking them away, some of them disappearing under the crumpled fabric of the discarded shirt.

"It's hideous-"

And I'd rather be spared the faux sympathy.

The words felt heavy, he'd already been burdened enough by this outburst. If only she hadn't gone to his quarters in some silly pursuit of false security, this could've all been avoided and her dignity would be intact.

"I seem to recall your lips tracing along my body, saying my numerous imperfections didn't matter. 'merely proof you've lived' if I remember correctly. Explain to me the difference."

"There's a- a good reason you look as you do," a reason you won't share with me, "it was out of your control, but this-"

"Do you harm yourself out of a desire to do so?"

"I mean- I," a cloying breath of air invaded her lungs, the sense of anticipation heavy upon her tongue, how could he still be so innocently curious, "I don't know? Sometimes it's just, I have to, it's always.. it's always there and nothing makes it shut up and- I think I'm broken."

With surprising patience, Dottore let his hand fall away, walking around to lean against the sink.

"Does it work?"

"What?"

"Does it ease your mind?"

A part of her wanted to scream that of course it did, why else would she resort to it. It would be a lie. And if she hadn't imagined the regret in those garnet eyes, he knew it.

"It gives me something else to think about," the words were forced out with a shudder, fingers playing with a shard of glass.

It was crushed under his boot before her fingers could grasp it, the tiny splinters glittering against the floor.

"We have better things to distract ourselves with."

She flinched, tail stirring as it curled around her waist, body finally giving in to the thought of soothing itself. Maybe he was right, there'd never really been a quick solution to anything, had there? Her eyes flickered to the thin trails of crimson that adorned her arms. At least not any worth pursuing.

Celeste took the outstretched hand that was offered, seeing the drying blood on her hands stain his skin as she fought the sinking feeling that slowly crept back. Surprise briefly ran through her system at the slight smile that met her, the whisper of 'there you are' faint enough that she didn't dare acknowledge it, merely following Dottore out of the wrecked bathroom, thoughts frustratingly quiet as long as his hand enveloped her wrist.

[hazardous-who]

Can I ask for ObiKaka with a smidge of ObiRin/KakaRin? Specifically with some trans Kakaussy? I’m fine with anything so long as it at least that but if wanting more specification I would also love something “fucking wrong person” where Obito meant to for it to be Rin but it ends up being Kashi maybe who was asleep? Some mixup? Do whatever you want!!! I hope you know I am big love of elusive roommate fic <3<3 ice snow too thank you for feeding us with so many different genre Who

Of course of course ! I hope this is everything you were looking for. 💕 Also I’m glad you’ve been enjoying my other fics, thank you for reading them !

⚠ New Fic Alert - [ Right Place, Wrong Time ]

[ Pairing: Obito Uchiha / Kakashi Hatake & Obito Uchiha / Nohara Rin (implied) ]

“Hey- you shouldn’t just barge into someone’s room when it’s not your house-“ Obito shot over his shoulder, trying to embarrassingly cover his and Rin’s nudity uselessly while scolding whoever had tried to come in.

“Well it’s a good thing it’s my house then.” Rin chuckled.

What?

Obito paled as he shot to his feet, eyes wide as he took in that, yes. That was Rin. In the doorway.

Not in the bed.

🚩 Rating - Explicit.

🏁 Finished One-shot.

As usual, mind the tags on the actual Ao3 page.

Link Here - [ click click ]

[the-lights-are-loud]

Childhood

You’re drifting away on a forgotten, broken slab of what once was. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The false safety you once felt ripped away by a storm of chaotic thoughts and new emotions. You can’t tell if the drops of water on your face are rain, sea spray, or tears. Everything is wrong and there seems to be no hope of getting back to where you were. No more safety, no more hand-holding, no more carrying you back to bed after falling asleep in the car. 

The water feels like ice. Your veins frozen, the blood sluggish and unwilling to move. Your heart aches with exhaustion and anguish. Each breath sends icicles down your spine. You can feel each wrinkle in your hands as more water soaks into your skin. Your legs hang uselessly off the edge of the rough, splintered wood. There’s still a glow-in-the-dark star stuck on the peeling paint. Your bedroom door, a fragment of what it used to be. Sometimes a wave of deadlines and due dates crashes down on your face, leaving you spluttering and close to drowning. The taste of saltwater and tears, almost bitter to the tongue. 

And yet, you still grip the splintering wood. The TV shows on Saturday mornings. The first video games you beat, the first book series you owned. Your LEGO collection, your favorite song from when you were little. The stuffed animal you’ve had longer than your siblings. The Facebook posts your mom made when you started elementary school. Your little nook, too small for how long your legs are now, where you would dive into new and exciting worlds. The blanket forts that covered your basement, and had individual rooms. The sleepless nights of hiding under your race car blankets, playing your DS, even though your mom took it away from you that morning. The park where you and your friends would play tag at. The tall hills that you would roll down in a race with your younger siblings. Your older brother helping you with your homework.

What will you do when the door breaks down and you fall? When you drift into the ocean of responsibility? Will you keep the splinters of nostalgia in your hands? Will you wash the peeled paint off your jeans, the paint you meticulously picked out when you were five? Will you see if you can breathe under this heavy water? Or will you sink, drowning in the impossibility of it?

Does it hurt to hold onto the rusted knob of your childhood? The pain of your loss sticking to you like the stickers that covered your binders? Your knees sore from the waves like the rug burns from your carpet. Toes frozen like when you would sit in the snow for hours, attempting to make an igloo. 

You can’t swim.

You never learned how.

When you would sit in the pool because you used to enjoy the weightlessness and cold enveloping hug of a blue expanse. You were eleven when you had your first swimming lessons. You were terrified when the teacher would watch you sink into the water because you had to tread water in his specific way. Everyone wants you to do things in their specific way.

You are only a child. Why grow up when you will surely drown? Will there ever be a boat that sees you flailing, desperately trying to stay afloat? Will it guide you to adulthood safely? Will you finally be able to step back and realize that your childhood is gone? And maybe, just maybe, you will be okay?

Masterlist

[epitaph-for-a-good-girl]

La Filosofia del Cane

Darkwood x Arcane

Pairing: Singed x OFC Language: English  Words: 3,977  Chapters: 1/8

Summary: Had she had a name, The Doctor, would have known how to deal with her. How to call her. After all, even "doctor" was something; a position, a qualification, a juncture to a past life he kept carrying around stuffed in his old tools' bag. A distant echo, something more than just "girl". The girl, however, was just that.

Warning tags: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, vomit, guns, and some mild gore.

Had she had a name, The Doctor, would have known how to deal with her. How to call her. After all, even “doctor” was something; a position, a qualification, a juncture to a past life he kept carrying around stuffed in his old tools’ bag. A distant echo, something more than just “girl”. The girl, however, was just that.

Not a savage, despite the ruffled hair from which twigs and dry leaves sprout clumsily as it happens to many of those beasts. No, too calm, too polite in her resigned wary way of sitting on the rotting table in the middle of his shelter.

Not a villager, the doctor knew them all, and although from his banishment to date at least five years had passed at a guess the girl’s age ranged from twenty to twenty-five. Not a day less.

An Outsider then.

But stranger, outlander, wanderer -god forbids foreigner- didn’t fit her at all. Girl. Only that fit her; not too much not too little.

Extremely meager though. 

- Circa August 1980; from the doctor’s diary. Entry number 5:

The forest hasn’t spit out bodies in a while. It is all too quiet, the lack of new subjects is tragic; the latest experiment has been a failure and the more time passes the more substances I produce deteriorate. Without fresh subjects cultures do not survive. Even the Industrialist trades slower; slower and with a very steep price.

It didn’t use to be like this, but then again, even the trade of corpses ends up spiking in value inside a forest that devours even the dead. -

The air in the old forest is unnervingly dense and foamy. The doctor sits on the porch, the bandages on his face screeching in the unnatural dry air. Around his shelter howl those beasts that had once, perhaps, only been rabid wolves; the forest is surprisingly inactive. His cells are empty, and blood and mud have been drying for days on the slab of his crude operating table.

The Industrialist has not been seen in days; the weeping of the banshee no longer echoes among the branches in the night, and only the whining of wounded dogs populates the dense clearing of dark trunks that surround him.

Something’s wrong.

And the doctor can’t tell if that is the calm before the storm or just the last gusts of a hurricane that throws a few fleeting drops as a last farewell to the rubble of its destruction.

A shot in the distance breaks through the still calm of the forest. The doctor loads the revolver. Twelve nights have passed since the last body was found near the edge of the woods, the count will not start again with his own. In the absurd silence of the early hours of dawn his ears seem able to pick up any noise between the barricade of bark, a feeling of bravado he had learned to control despite the fictional sense of protection it offers him.

A second shot, clearly closer, the crows’ croak, flock in a swarm from the northeast part of the fronds; The doctor aims. Broad shoulders and clear view, arms outstretched but ready to receive the recoil.

Frantic sound of footsteps, a third shot, silence.

- Paranoia chases him like a rabid dog, at the well while quenching his thirst, with the axe in his hand as he uselessly gnaws at the edge of the woods. The Industrialist shows up late at night, the grotesquely disfigured eye shining in the dense fog of the darkness. «Madness is eating at you doc!» He laughs, the enormous weight of the cart that drags after him physically impossible to be hold on his shoulders alone.

The air around the being stinks of death and wet earth -in this specific order-, on the leather aviator jacket stands out the single wound that must have ended the life of its previous owner, a bloody bullet hole straight to the heart. The doctor rarely lingers in frivolous gossip but the currencies used by the forest are devious and multiple, unfortunately sometimes a shred of information is worth more than a whole tank of gasoline.

«What can you tell me about the shots?» The man whines in laughter, the ravenous scar on his face clamps into an evil snarl giving him a somewhat animalistic expression. «Carcasses trying to survive doctor, there is little to no use for the bullets they so desperately cling to; they all end up in my hands sooner or later.»

It’s a nice way of saying he doesn’t know shit about it; the doctor can only afford one dead man for his cultures, the Industrialist doesn’t do discounts.

The sunset pours from the barricades into the windows and hangs its terrible scarlet light to the splinters of the boards that grant him the peace of an empty shelter. Another night, of pricked ears and a few hours of sleep stolen from the terror of simply existing, is approaching.

- What wakes him up is the cold bite of his own scalpel, two yellow eyes in the night, mountains of hirsute and black hair, the wild look of someone ready to kill. «One misstep and I swear on my life I’ll take yours.» The blade of the knife presses malignant on his jugular, the soft weight of the intruder presses on his chest, the doctor is the victim of a cage of thin limbs that just vaguely bend out of nature. «You have my word I will do no such thing.»

The little devil huffs and puffs, a weird mixture of desperation and impish satisfaction from being able to put him against the metaphorical wall swirling on a crazed face covered in dried blood and scratches. «I need to pass the night.» Another struggled breath. «In here.»

- The girl looks like the malformed breed between a banshee and a savage; what in the night had looked like a dark mane, in the faint lights of dawn tames itself into a skein of dirty and knotted hair; sickly yellowish scleras follow his every movement with little than less of fervourus madness; the bright gaze that in the night had filled him with terror now only the ashes of a flame stuck on a dull and tired face.

Outside the refuge some dogs sniff and howl possibly drawn by a novel smell. The girl doesn’t seem hurt; despite being covered in splotches of blood no oozing cut appears to be feeding the still scarlet halos in her clothes.

The doctor’s old bones, hunched over in the stiff position, are beginning to creak and give way with each change in his posture, and he is beginning to resent the chair he had chosen for the night. The girl just sits there. If not for the pin-like irises she keeps glued to his figure he would have assumed she was dead. In rigor mortis even.

But she is not, weirdly perched up on the mouldy table, she dangles every now and then a thin leg all bruised up and scratched. It’s not a nervous movement; it’s irregular and way too distanced in between to look somewhat unconscious. She is doing it on purpose as if the sporadic movement was aimed at giving her a more human-like appearance.

Had he not heard her speaking with his own ears, the doctor, would have guessed her a clone, the deranged replica of some poor girl who was by now dead in a ditch near the edge of the forest. Her clothes could have been something to go by in determining if she was part of The Forest or not, except the little menace doesn't allow him to sit, walk, or straight out exist in her immediate proximity, let alone have a proper look at her clothes.

At that distance -however- they look somewhat detailed.  She seems to wear some sort of sports uniform for a team the doctor could never guess the name of, a pair of beaten-up boots completely out of place with the rest of her attire, and a couple of elbow and knee pads.

«I want you to go to the bathroom, shut the door, and count loudly and slowly to a hundred, once you’re done I won’t be here.» There it is. She has a lisp, her esses almost hiss in her mouth and the sound of the speech impediment makes her voice old, yet somehow youthful; rough, broken yet similar to a mouse’s squeak. It has a rusty-like quality to it, as though it has been suppressed for a very long time and yet it also sounds like it’s her first time using her own voice.

Click The next bullet enters the chamber, the barrel clicks and the pistol dangles in front of his vision. During the weirdly spaced hours of the night, in between a groan of the wood and the cry of a Banshee in the distance the girl had switched her preference from the scalpel to the gun; his bag, kicked open while he was still asleep, lays at her feet in the empty space underneath the table she sits on.

The doctor is not above admitting she looks like a proper little killer, not the beast he had imagined her to be while pressing down on his ribs and up on his throat with the blade, but still a proper inhabitant of the forest.

The doctor hums, gets up, and shuts the door behind him.

One minute she’s in, the next she’s out, in, out, in and out. The girl knows she’s not supposed to be there, not because she shouldn’t but simply because why would she?  It’s like a fever dream, one step she knows why that is the wrong path to walk on the next she’s completely lost to the very reasons of: why in the first place she is supposed to be walking in the middle of a forest.

She knows why she’s in shorts and knee pads but not her name, weird. No, give it a minute…

…There, now she doesn’t know the reason behind her wardrobe choice either.

- The man looks -quite frankly- easy to put down. But nothing really seems to stay dead in that godforsaken place, so she better not cry victory yet.

— She kinda feels bad about it. Not in a traditional way and not as much as she should but she does feel bad. The man sits uncomfortably between fifty and sixty of age and for all she knows he could have been her father, her teacher in middle school or the driver of the bus she used to take every day to get to work. His face, lost to her the moment she steps foot outside the refuge, holds a somehow warm feeling in her memory.

The forest feels empty and vast; her stomach growls and the need for food starts to nag at her senses; her gait is swinging and with each step she takes her stomach digs deeper into the empty muscles of her belly. It feels like she’s digesting herself, a weird sensation that makes her curse the Gods for not having demanded food back at the man’s house. She had a gun, the old man underneath her, and clearly the upper hand. Yet; still, here she is, starving in the middle of a clearing that reeks of mould and spores. 

She desperately wants to sit, to fall to her knees and then face-first into the gruff, dry grass under her boots. She shouldn't; she can still see the man’s house, although almost completely closed off from view by the thick fronds of the surrounding trees, and so she should also get the reasoning behind why it’s still not safe to just give up and rest for the day; but the missed night of sleep the previous day and the hunger that is devouring her insides are just not cooperating.

It was purely out of luck that she stumbled upon the man’s refuge, covered in blood and panting like a dog. She had been attacked, by whom she cannot recall; she just hopes by three and no less, otherwise the other her had just wasted precious bullets.

She can feel the forest changing her, exchanging a naivety she no longer feels her own for a callous way of existing. It’s weird, revolting, and world-changing, a sensation that curls its fingers into her brain and twists and pulls until she is swaying the way it wants.  The girl loses her balance, the protection on her knees only vaguely defusing the impact; the entire clearing is spinning around her, a sense of dread and angst clawing at the back of her throat settling in her solar plexus- 

Something warm and wet soils her hand and licks a long stipe up to her elbow. «What the fu-»

The thing is big and pastel purple. And so, so out of place.

— It’s not following her. It just sits there with glossy, big, and bulging eyes staring straight through her. Furthermore, it looks harmless, not in general, just towards the girl —nothing like the beasts she has encountered navigating the forest, looking ready to kill her at any given opportunity. No, the thing is almost quirky and uncanny, but in a sweet and funny way.

Apparently, it’s also a decent deterrent for dogs, when whistle to it follows the girl and overall looks pretty well trained. Tamed may be better to say. The salamander-like animal has a long row of teeth that snaps occasionally at the few wild dogs the duo encounters, someone clearly tempered with it, three metal tubes enter its abdomen on each side leaving behind gaping holes oozing a purple substance that looks sticky and unsafe.

Nonetheless, the girl is happy she is no longer roaming the woods alone. 

- Along the paved dirt road there is a tractor, some crates engulfed by the growing moss, and a couple of sturdy roots peaking from the earth they inhabit. The girl lacks a reliable method -or the patience- to pry most of the crates open, she manages to smash in the moist plank of one of the oldest but loses her temper at the others, kicking and wasting energy on petty displays of her disappointment.

The first real structure the party encounters is a house half eaten by an old extinguished flame, charcoal black walls stand unfazed by time and the moss growing on them.

It looks manageable, somewhere The girl could live, at least for this night, she is not sure she will be around the next day, it’s a sensation she has been carrying with her since she flew the scene of an almost kidnapping -on her part-, it’s like being already dead, she imagines it’s the sensation a death row inmate feels while waiting for his execution.

Well, all of these things don’t really matter though because the girl has eyes and thoughts only for the middle of the room.   On a splintering table sits a chipped plate, on the dusty ceramic slab: a sandwich.

There is mould festering on the rock-hard bread but the girl’s stomach is growling, an empty pit swallowing her pride and disgust. The girl licks her lips and stares emptily at the disgusting sight, a small flock of fruit mosquitoes is buzzing around the rotting meat inside, the animal snuggles its bony head on the palm of her hand, uselessly dangling at her side, her brain too starved to consume energy on the circular and repeating thoughts that are feasting with her rationality.

She’s starving, and there is nothing easier to chew on than hunger itself. 

To no one surprise, she pukes.

- Circa August 1980; from the doctor’s diary Entry number 6:

Rio is gone. I would love to think the girl responsible for that, but a hundred seconds are simply not enough to convince that beast to move. It must have wandered away in the night. Still the girl’s fault, even if indirect, but at last something less deliberate. -

When she comes back to her senses a stray ray of sun is filtering through the fronds of the woods above her head, she’s lying on the collapsed ceiling of the building, the salamander curled against her is framing with its massive body the side of the girl that was facing the missing wall of the room; a couple of steps to her right a puddle of puke still reeks of rancid but it looks like something was dragged over it partially cleaning but also smearing the liquid. The animal yawns and licks its lips with a slimy three-forked tongue. “Ew.” is the only thing the girl can think of when the realization hits her, only half expecting for the sound to never leave her mouth. What purpose would it have?

What she isn’t expecting though is the second figure in the house. «You were knocked out pretty good now weren’t you, little lamb?» The animal spins around, enclosing the still-sitting girl in its long tail, teeth bare and a recognition for the voice that the girl would find calming if not for the aggressive reaction it elicits. Rifle on his shoulder and leg propped against the remnants of the doorframe a man is waiting for her next move.

The pistol tucked in the waistband of her sports shorts is heavy with a relevance for the situation the Girl is too stunned to understand. She only has three bullets, maybe not enough, perhaps too many, she can’t calculate the probability of her success.

Seconds tick away longer than minutes then, finally, she speaks: «What do you want?» The man dismounts the rifle from his shoulder, a dangerous warning she’s sure he’ll go through with if compelled to, a lazy expression on a half mauled grin now fully at her display. «I’m a businessman lamb, the right question to ask here is what do you want. Little thief.» The last sentence is punctuated by a click of the rifle and its swinging in the opposite direction of the girl, the long barrelhead now pointing at the salamander.

«I’m no thief!» asserts the girl, the beast circling her in an anxious attempt to protect its territory, looking for comfort the girl simply doesn’t know how to give.

«Are you not?» A moment of silence. Is she? She can hardly recall the encounter with the man the night before, how is she supposed to know if she ever stole something in her entire life? She had been a teenager, now did she? She feels old, she knows she had lived before this, but she doesn’t know how or when or for how long; she had been petty and stupid, a long time ago, maybe in a mall, maybe rummaging through her mother’s purse but now she is nothing but a pile of flesh and muscles, completely deboned of every structure that once held her very unique shape.

«No.» it’s her last verdict. Although shaky.

The man hums. «Very well little lamb, if you are no thief then I suppose we could trade like the two honest people we both are.» An amused laugh, softer than the scarce wind that is able to surpass the thick wall of wood.  «Shall we?» And with this said, he lowers his gun.

He does have things she needs, a couple of wires, some matches, and a watch he laughs at her for even looking at. She refrains from looking at the ammo, not everyone in this hell must know she has a gun; if they all want to paint her as a defenceless little girl so be it, she’ll get the element of surprise in her favour.

She trades a few scrap metals and a couple of pills she would rather die than try for herself found in the only crate she was able to smash into.

Besides looking terribly dangerous the man is chatty in an obnoxious way, almost annoyingly so and despite knowing he’s not supposed to be amusing, terror is simply something he doesn’t stir.

He’s not that tall, around 5 foot 8, relatively skinny, clearly disfigured but still pleasant to the eyes. 

At least she’s wary of him, it’s not enough but it’s something. The girl curls into her own growling stomach, her back the arch of a question mark «It recognises you.» if the man likes to speak why not try her hand at some useful information? «He sure does.» hums him popping two of the pills she just traded with like they were candies. «Why?» She’s not good at it. Too assertive and too invested in the conversation to sound casual. As if on cue the man barks a laughter and moves some lazy steps in her direction. «You are so bossy lil lamb, what’s in for me?» «What?» «For the gossip, what do I get in return?»

The girl looks around as if to try and find something that could pique his interest; the gun pressed to her lower back burns to be used, as a threat or as a bargain she’s yet to decide. «I’ll do you one for free. -he precedes her- One on the house since you managed to survive in this silent, silent forest.» The man, once again, eats away at the distance she so desperately relies on, lazy steps that contrast so strikingly with her vigilant state, he leans in, the beast feral with anxiety, as if to murmur her a secret. «He’s the doctor’s. Have you met the Doctor?» She swallows, hand still, the girl doesn’t want to reach for the weapon, even if every fibre of her self is screaming for it. «No.» A wide smile, sharp teeth and the stench of flesh and blood. «Good for you. He’s not very friendly.»

The girl doesn’t know who “The Doctor” is, the information is of no use to her, unless…

«And how much do you think The Doctor is willing to pay for the animal back.» A beat of complete silence then the roar of a laugh.   She shouldn’t have said that.

«You’re smart aren’t ya? Not enough to shut it when you get a good idea tho.» 

The man looks like he’s about to grow a full set of sharp teeth and clean her flesh straight from her bones. Now he’s frightening.

And only now did the girl seem to notice that the scars on his face look like the striping of a wolf’s fur. A terrifying sight on a face so disfigured in certain areas and yet so pristine in others. The girl feels uneasy staring and yet she can’t seem able to stop, the scars catching on the low light of a sun engulfed in murky leaves twisting and stripping his muzzle of any friendly attributes it might have had.

She’s no frightened kid though «He doesn’t seem to like you that much, would you be able to wrestle him all the way to the doctor’s house alive and well?» It’s a weak strategy, a desperate attempt. The wolfish man sneers. «You’re a smart lamb.» It sounds more like a retortion, something she shouldn't be proud of, The Girl flies a hand to her back, the cold metal of the gun a few inches from her fingertips, the animal puffs up in defence, making itself bigger. The man growls and then yells.

A low, powerful, bark; the growling of teeth as sharp as kitchen knives. The salamander whines and scurries away in fear, the body of the girl used as a shield. «His name’s Rio and he’s a fucking coward.» He's so satisfied it makes her blood boil, expression lax and a toothy grin on his disfigured face. He shrugs once, and then twice as if the first one wasn’t directed at her, nothing more than an afterthought. «Have it your way lamb; I’ll see your corpse at the Doctor’s liar.»

Dividers from the insanely talented @saradika-graphics here on tumblr To be specific this is their "The Last of Us" dividers set <3

[woahimnottrash]

Staff will be hard pressed to make me leave tumblr, if nothing else but the tagging system and the culture we have on here using them. Most folks here, on this side of tumblr at least, recognize that tags aren't just for engagement or uselessly tag stuff with the most popular tags like on tiktok. Here we actually tag things with relevant tags so people can either find content or stay far away from it. And it *works*. I have convention issues so ive got cosplay and conventions tags blacklisted. I never see a post with it unless i WANT to, which helps keep me mentally healthy while scrolling. Meanwhile, i blacklisted taylor swift tags on tiktok and it showed me MORE content with those tags than before i blacklisted, and i still see tags come on my fyp with swiftie tags, specifically the ones i blacklisted. I literally cannot be mentally healthy or have my experience curated on other apps

[devils-little-mouse]

OC Smash of Pass

Thanks to @luniidae and @gufu-vire for tagging me!

Rules: pretty self explanatory. include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. the “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc).

♦ Nordia ♦

♦ Class: Way of the open hand Monk. ♦ Height: 190cm ♦ Gender: Female ♦ Age: 32 years old ♦ Pronouns: She/Her ♦ Sexuality: ???

♦ Having lived all her life confined in a monastery, she's new to the outside world and can be a bit naive.

♦ A good soul, more or less: she lives up to her monastery creeds by trying to solve problems without hurting anyone but never draws back from a good fight. She definitely enjoys throwing punches, more than she likes to admit.

♦ Stubborn: if the people she cares about are in danger, she never gives up, even if the situation looks hopeless.

♦ She used to be uselessly selfless, but the journey to Baldur's Gate made her reassess her own worth and value, making her a bit more self-indulgent.

♦ At first, she appears serious and collected, but grows softer and sillier the more she get to know you.

♦ She kinda gave up on sex and love while confined in the monastery, dedicating herself to training and training alone. But now? She's ready to go back in the game.

Open tags! I don't like tagging people, so feel free to do the poll if you want :)

[konnorhasapen]

Treading Water — Chapter 2: The Runaway & The Knight

Read from the beginning in the tag "redacted pirate au" or over on ao3!

This one was a lot of fun to write to epic celtic chase music >:3c Hope you enjoy!

——

   Afternoon sun rays trickled through the overcast and shone against the giant stained glass windows of the East dining hall—the West hall made vast for visitors or formal dinner parties and reserved strictly for such specificities—decorating the dining table, that was far too big for just the two people living there now, in an array of vibrant colors. It had already been fifteen minutes since Angel and Sofia had taken seats for their meal and neither had spoken. Without so much as needing to clear her throat, the latter spoke up:

   "The Gods have finally decided it was time they bestow upon us some uplifting news," Sofia declared at the head of the large dining table. Her voice was always soft, smooth and even, yet the tone she used was never weak. It was strong, and it carried a certain weight; one that had surely urged all of the castle staff to oblige her every request and order as quickly and efficiently as humanly possible. As loathe as they were to admit it, Angel held no immunity to her aura, either.

   "And what is this uplifting news?" They ask, picking uselessly at the assortment of food that adorned their plate. It hadn't gone unnoticed to their personal guard that they'd been partaking in meals less than they used to. Their Knight. How they wished Stealth were here in the room with them right now, but Sofia had excused them to go take care of some issue the nearby Wonder Wharf had been struggling to deal with—something about people hearing things and some townsfolk going missing, if Angel was recalling correctly. Stealth had always been good at investigating problems and thinking up solutions faster than panic could set in.

   "It brings me such a sense of contentment to know and see that you're finally coming around to being interested in what I have to say," Angel nodded at the Queen's note, only half listening once again as their thoughts continued:

   How can she just do that? Just send someone off to a place almost across the entire country with a shrug? They asked themself.

   "Every day you get closer to fitting the mold of the perfect Monarch."

   Oh yeah, they sighed. That's how. Sofia Ighnheirt, Queen of the Kingdom Favíll in the Eastern lands of Dahlia and a horrible excuse of an adoptive mother. Even a bit of a lousy blood mother, seeing as her only son, Damien, had made his escape not too long ago. Sofia hummed at the lack of a response and continued with her original point of conversation instead, not at all discouraged:

   "The news is that Prince Kody Pluvaes of Rainfall is looking for a new suitor," Angel nearly choked to death on their own saliva at her nonchalantly spoken words.

  Kody Pluvaes...

   They'd heard of him before—from Damien back when he was still stuck here, and even just before their parents were killed in that fire. They had a feeling those rumors of what he did to the last person who had been arranged to marry him weren't rumors at all. After they had taken a stand for themself, they were locked in the dungeon, but Damien said they had escaped. He said they were going to try and find them—the Mage, Freelancer—when he escaped and promised to take them on the adventure too after the loss of their parents. Just two best friends against the world, searching for The Mage's Damnation... So much for that.

   They couldn't blame him though. While Sofia was a levelheaded Queen, she was a tyrant to her son behind closed doors. It had gotten to the point where he hardly had any life outside of being forced to prepare for his upbringing as the next King of Favíll—which was about the last thing he wanted. So, he left. He had meant to bring Angel with him and they knew that, but, in the end, he didn't have time. It was either get out alone, or get caught.

   Escaping.., they let the word roll off their mental tongue, eyes drifting to the tapestries lining the walls as they pondered. That's got quite the appeal to it.

   "I've already arranged for us to set out at dawn and meet him in Rainfall," she smiled. "How exciting." Angel felt themself begin to spiral:

  Oh Gods, they thought to themself, I can't do this. I can't let her marry me off to some mildewy creep like I'm some trading good. They pushed their seat from the table and stood abruptly.

   "Please excuse me?" They asked, barely waiting for the dismissive wave of the Queen's hand before they took the shortest route to their room and stepped out on to the balcony, letting the crisp air that carried the scent of the ocean waft through their senses and slow their mind into a state of calm. Now, they could start thinking rationally.

   When did they set off? They asked themself, gaze loacked on the distant piers of their own city. One whole week ago, thereabouts. They should be home soon. Within the day, in fact. 

   As if they themselves possessed abilities to see into what the future holds, Angel could hear the clattering and clobbering of a horse's footfall, they could see the sun shining brightly against heavy iron and the light reflecting off their bronze emblem.

   "By the Gods, they've made it back in one piece!" Angel exclaimed from their balcony, snickering to themself as they could sense the roll of Stealth's keen eyes without having to actually see them. Once they knew they had the attention of their Knight, they smiled.

   "Meet me in the private courtyard!" They beckoned, recieving a nod without hesitation before Stealth continued their trot into the stables atop Arion. It didn't take long for all of the mare's needs to be met and Stealth to find the last royal heir sat comfortably on a white stone bench deep within the private courtyard, delicately nursing a drooping sunflower.

   "Did you wish to have a casual chat, or was there something specific plaguing your conscience?" Stealth asked. Somehow, some way, they always knew when something was amiss with Angel. It was like a sixth sense of theirs that, in some instances, they were grateful for, while in others they weren't sure how they felt about being such an open book, wondering if just anyone could tell there was something wrong or if it was just their Knight who could read every crease in their features like they could.., could... they've run out of comparisons. It was always frustrating when they lost track of what they were thinking of.

   "Your Highness," Stealth redirected, now letting their gloved hand lay softly on Angel's shoulder as they awaited a response.

   "Yes, there is something wrong," they admit with ease. It always felt easy to talk with their Knight. Like they knew they would keep any secrets they'd felt safe enough to share with them like the old journal of a mistress thrown into the ocean, left to drown and become erased with time—the undertow current taking all the secrets within its pages away with it.

   "I'm always right here," assured Stealth. And that was more than enough.

   "Sofia says we're riding out at dawn to arrange a marriage between me and the Prince of Rainfall," the Knight sneered at the mention of the vile Prince. Angel agreed quickly:

   "I share your sentiment, believe me. Which is why I want to leave." The taller was stunned for a few moments, eyes suddenly blown wide as they staggered a bit at their words.

   "..Leave?" They asked. Angel nodded, lips pressed into a thin line and brows pinched in a worry that their loyal guard would be more loyal to the Queen than to themself. "You.., you want to leave?"

   "Yes! I want to leave, to escape, to run away—far away—from here!" Both scrambled at the royal's outburst, Stealth casting a long glance over their shoulder to be sure no one heard.

   "Run away?"

   "Yes,"

   "This isn't just something you've decided completely on impulse, is it?"

   "I'm afraid not, my dear Knight."

   "You've been planning this since the week after Damien fled the city, haven't you?"

   "Oh, absolutely." Stealth let an unsure expression cross their features, furrowing their brows and bringing a grimace to there lips.  "I want to find Damien. And running away is the best option I can think of." The guard sighed.

   "And, I'm assuming, we flee at midnight?" Angel nodded, chewing at their bottom lip as they awaited their answer. Stealth sighed, gaze softening in understanding. While they may deal with duties not too far outside of royal expectations and traditions, they do know that there is struggle within the life of a royal heir. They've seen such trials firsthand, being Angel's personal guard.

   "I do believe Warden owes me a few silent favors," their words brought a sparkle to the royal's big eyes, the ghost of a smile on their lips. The Knight thought a few moments more before nodding gradually:

   "Morticia will serve as your steed, both he and Arion can carry quite the lot without being weighed down too heavily. Water, food, maps, a few extra clothes you could borrow from myself..." They trailed off into a barely audible mumble, listing off supplies and marking the best routes in their mind.

   "So?" Angel tried.

   "We ride at midnight," they confirmed. "Be sure your ready." Angel clasped their hands together as excitement flood through their heart and their mind raced at the thought of their daydreams coming true.

   "Now, keep this talk discreet. The two of us are on the same page, so there shouldn't be any need to mention it again lest an issue arises. I will commune with Warden and get everything prepared." Their Knight instructed, the shorter listening intently to every word. This was important. Follow their plan to the T, the less chance they have of getting caught.

   As the evening continued on, Stealth had met with Warden in the dank hallways of the dungeon and discussed cashing in their favors. Warden didn't pry too deeply, but they didn't have to; they knew of Angel's discomfort and reluctance at the thought of being forced to take up the throne. However, both they and Stealth agreed without words that the former was better off not being told official. Better for the safety of all three of them.

   Warden nodded and confirmed that they'd grab whatever they could, and Stealth was off to prepare their horses before following Angel to dinner.

——

   Thunder rolled through the sky in the midst of night, scattered lightning leading each rumble as the dark storm clouds threatened to decorate the city below in downpour. Angel stood before their grand vanity mirror, their expressions changing drastically as they gave themself a a vigorous pep talk. They took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching their fists in attempt to keep their nerves at bay. The opened the top right drawer and pulled out their late mother's silver locket—eyes misting a little as they lingered on the smallest fragment of sapphire embedded in the center of the oval.

   "I miss you, mama.." Angel whispered. They blinked away the tears that had started to grow as they shook their head lightly and lay the locket of the necklace on their chest just below their collarbone. They were about to clasp it, but hesitated. Instead, Angel set it on their vanity and stood up to rummage through the other drawers in search of—

   "Aha!" They exclaimed in a whisper. In their hand was a burgundy leather satchel, big enough to pack a few small things in. Perfect for what keepsakes they wanted to carry with them wherever they went. They tiptoed quickly to their nightstand and grabbed Damien's favorite book, 'Beyond Nature's Blood: The Plague of Devils.' A story he loved so much that whatever image was on the cover could hardly be seen and the title not even readable anymore, but Angel had been seeing him with his nose shoved in this book for years, and they could never forget a title like that. It was a tale of Mages, written by a man who seemed to harbor nothing but a hatred for those who could tap into the world beyond the veil. Ezekiel... Ezekiel something; they couldn't for the life of them remember his surname. Not that it mattered much.  All Angel knew was Damien loved this novel, not because he had agreed with the madman—no way in hell, but because he was always fascinated by the idea of Magery. And he didn't exactly have access to any books that sung praises of Mages, so he took what he could get.

   Placing the well-loved book into the satchel with gentle care, they then were back at their vanity to pluck their locket from the dark wood and drop it carefully into one of the smaller pockets inside the bag. Now, they were off to Stealth's chambers. It was no issue getting inside, their Knight had given them a spare key as a token of their trust—and they were going to use that token to grab what Stealth had left of their parents: a single note written by their father, and signed by both of their kin. With a flourish of their hand drawn family emblem—a fully bloomed carnation painted in a deep purple. Angel rolled up the parchment softly and slid it into the satchel. With everything the needed with them, they left Stealth's room and headed for the Northwest tower, the one closest to the stables, but not before coming across one of the royal keepers, Nate Wexler. In the brief exchange, they begged of him to rush their satchel to Warden.

   They weren't sure how Warden did it, but they could be places within the blink of an eye. Nate had agreed the instant they asked, assuring them it would be delivered safely. Angel thanked him graciously and continued their way to that tower, feeling a pang of sadness strike their heart at the thought of having to leave the friends they had made with palace staff behind, but they shook there head and told themself that they had to do this. They couldn't stay here anymore. They needed to find Damien, their best friend..,

   Their brother.

   Almost as if getting lost in there thoughts made time fly past them, they'd arrived at the Northwest tower, and it was there they reunited with their Knight, who asked a very important question:

   "Are you sure about this, your Majesty?" Angel met there eyes without falter and straightened their posture.

   "I'm most certain this is what I want," they said. 'What I need' was a thought they kept to themself.  "Are you positive these horses won't turn around the moment they hear General Blake's command?" Stealth smirked at that.

   "Arion and Morticia follow no command but my own," the Knight assured, confidence burning in their eyes like white hot fires. "They have no King nor Queen, all they have are riders."

   "Equals," Angel recalled. Without a so much as a second's hesitation, Stealth whistled loud and even, slicing straight through the silence of the city below. The mare and the stallion whinny in response as they appear down below the window, ready to take off given the signal. They beat their hooves against the gravel as if urging the two get a move on, and they complied. Angel's Knight gestured for them to start the decline first, receiving an expression of uncertainty that couldn't quite mask the look of "are you serious?" lying just behind their worried eyes.

   "We may be running away together and leaving our titles behind us, but you're life still comes before mine in any situation. That's a promise I made years ago and it's one I'd damn myself if not kept," Angel would have hugged them tight and close at their words if it weren't for the series of heavy, iron-clad footfalls that echoed off the palace walls. They lifted themself atop the stone sill and swung their legs over the side in a single motion so smooth, almost like they'd been training for this moment, and Stealth had no doubt that they had been. Using any thick enough vine or brush, every jutting brick and every gap or crack wide enough to slide their fingers or the toe of their boot in, they descended the side of the sky-scraping tower. Their loyal Knight followed close behind—taking a little less time to think about where they were going to grab or brace next, Angel noticed and admired—and once they had both gotten to a spot that they discovered offered no more purchase, the two exchanged a single look.

   Do you trust me? Stealth had asked, uttering not a single word.

   With everything I am. Angel's brows furrowed and their gaze hardened. They spoke the truth; Angel would trust Stealth with the lives of their children if they had any. The Knight jerked their head a single time in a firm nod, and that was all the heir needed as signal. Perfectly in sync with one another, they leapt from the tower's wall and landed right on the backs of their steeds. Though Angel faltered, Stealth had caught them faster than they could panic about and set them right before whipping Arion's reins.  The mare took off immediately with Morticia and his rider close beside them, hooves pounding and piercing through the twilight that used to be so tranquil as the duo galloped through the slumbering city around them.

   Stealth could hear the barking of orders not far behind, followed by the clattering of more horses, and all they could think about was Blake's horse, Parálysi; a damn bullet disguised as a mare in a hazelnut coat and a long white mane, tied up neatly to keep the wind from slowing her down even an inch.

   Parálysi.., as their thoughts raced, they tightened their thighs around Arion's figure to keep steady as they sat up straight and began pulling off pieces of their armor.

   "What are you doing!" Angel asked over the chase, trusting Morticia more than enough to not have their eyes continuously trained on the path ahead of them. Their Knight didn't answer right away, still pulling off fragments one by one and letting gravity do its thing as they carelessly let it fly out of their fingers behind them. The bottom half of their armor had been long since shed back inside that tower, just before they'd started climbing down, all that was left was the top half and their helmet.

   "Dropping the extra weight," Stealth replied, reaching over and yanking the twine on the small supply bags they'd packed so thoughtfully until it snapped; food, extra clothes—they couldn't cut the coin, that's what they needed to buy everything back. They didn't even need to think about what had to go after that factor. A harsh determination settled in their vivid hues as they wasted no time in snapping the twine of their maps and water supply instead of the bag of sentiment they knew Angel had "secretly" packed.  Stealth knew they not only grabbed the locket their mother left behind for them and their brother's favorite book, but they also grabbed the last letter sent from the Knight's parents before their private executions.

   Stealth pulled back and returned to their place atop Arion's back, tugging their helmet, chainmail, and sleeve from their head in one swift movement right as Angel's eyes grew wide.

   "Parálysi!" They exclaimed at the sight of a black-tipped muzzle had gained on them, Blake now within arm's reach of Stealth. As if it were natural reflex, they twisted and drew their arms back only a little and threw the last of their gear behind them at the perfect angle.  The heavy iron accompanied by the chainmail now balled up inside at the crown had struck Parálysi's commander in the face so hard that he was knocked off her saddle and remained prone as the distance grew again.

   Parálysi with no rider meant they could at least cross the country boarder from Dahlia into Ferris without needing to worry much about being caught. Sure enough, it wasn't long before the shouts of other royal guards and the clattering of horses—other than Morticia and Arion—had faded far behind. As their steeds grew tired from the stressful chase, Stealth had them slow to an easy walk while they searched for a hidden clearing somewhere in the surrounding wood where they could take rest for the night.

——

Ngl, I really like how this one turned out^^ I hope you all liked it, too!

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@morgansplace @sri-rachaa @sealriously-sealrious @friendlyfaded @zozo-01 @epsi-l0n @the-gender-bending-squid @slushrottweiler @star-sheeps @nonbinarycringe404 @pinksparkl @anthrokiaera @whatalovelymae @0605018redactedasmr @beemybella @reyofsunshinelol @febreze-bottle-without-febreze (I think that's everybody- If you'd like to be tagged for stuff about Treading Waters, lemme know!^-^)