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cinnamonest · 3 years

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Yandere Profile - Link (Legend of Zelda)

ABSOLUTELY YES. MY BOY. LOVE OF MY LIFE.

As some of you may know, today is the release date of Skyward Sword HD for Switch!! So I decided to release this one now in honor of that :3

NOTES:

I went towards the idea of a Princess!reader because that just opens the gate for sooooo much potential. I'm leaning heavily towards the ZeLink interactions in BoTW and Skyward Sword just because those games have the most interaction between the two.

Also! This is great bc it gives me the opportunity to explore an idea I've actually had a long time! I've always thought about how many opportunities there have been across the games for Link and Zelda to be kinda like "haha well seeya later" and just... bolt, run away from everything, abandon their roles and responsibilities and all that. Like, if OoT kid Link got her before Ganon did and ran, if SS Link just decided to get her on the bird and bolt before everything went down, if botw Link was just like haha what if we ran away from everything together... jk... unless...?

And final note, Link is a great pick for the very traditional yandere -- sweet and : ) but can snap into darker personas. I really liked writing this bc I tend to have more self centered yans and less of the "worships the ground you walk on" type of yans like I think Link would be, so it's a nice change.

As usual now the nsfw section is divided by a ---- line.

TWs: fem reader, heavily implied Zelda!reader, stalking, murder, very brief mentions of gore/dismemberment of rivals, manipulation, very brief suicide mention, themes of reincarnation (I’ve been told this can be triggering to some people so just in case)

TWs (nsfw section): noncon, somnophilia

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Severity Scale

Intelligence/Perceptiveness: 4 Brutality: 8.5 Physical capability: 8 Mental/emotional instability: 7 Restrictiveness: 6 Sexual sadism: 5 Stubbornness: 8

What are they generally like? Lucid, aware? Obsessive? How do they behave?

The primary trait of Link that any darling -- any person, really -- would notice is that he is, well, quiet. He has always been a man of few words, and really, he often doesn't know exactly what to say. On his own, at a first glance, he really does seem like a gentle, humble spirit, someone who blends into the background pretty well, who isn't particularly prideful or reckless or aggressive.

Which is why, to be honest, he might sort of evade the gaze of most people -- he doesn't stand out. You remember him as the boy that smiled at you now and then, it's a soft, gentle sort of smile, one that you feel conveys nothing but the utmost innocence and contentment with the world. You know he's pretty good at fighting, but doesn't get into fights needlessly, he's accomplished and respected, but has never been the guy everyone is talking about -- he's in the background, against the wall. Never speaking, always looking out, sometimes at the sky, sometimes carefully watching people. Sometimes you see him, gaze blank and tranquil, and wonder what he's thinking about. Whether he's the village boy in the time of Twilight, the trained and honored warrior that slept for many years, the boy that came down from the sky -- you can't help but feel at ease around him, safe, you can't help but find him endearing and pleasant.

Yet, you always seem to notice him. Other people... forget he exists, sometimes, he's so quiet. You never do, for whatever reason.

When he needs to get something across, he prefers to express himself through actions, not words. If you lived in Skyloft, or Ordon village, you might find problems mysteriously solved, work suddenly done that you don't remember doing. That fencepost outside your home that broke has been replaced overnight. A village child went missing and he comes back a few hours later with them in tow. Always humble, never demanding or expecting thanks, he tells you in his quiet voice that he's happy to help you.

And should you ever ask him for anything, he'll drop whatever he's doing to help. Anything for you, he says with a smile, which makes you feel a bit guilty when, honestly, you're not even sure you're remembering his name right.

And yet, sometimes, you feel so at ease around him it seems unnatural. He seems so easy to trust. You feel like you've known him forever. And sometimes you feel... for just a split second, less at ease. You find yourself randomly stiffening at his calm, sweet voice. You find yourself looking around when you're alone, as if you feel someone is there, and for some reason, his face flashes through your mind. Sometimes when he looks at you, you feel sort of cold. It's almost like invoking a memory you don't have, like some kind of learned instinct you can't recall a reason for. But those moments are fleeting, they come and go before you can even process them, replaced by warmth and comfort.

If you do spend time with him, if you find yourself gazing out your window when he's training, the next thing you notice besides him being quiet and sweet is that he's strong. It's almost ironic, how all the other knights or village boys are so aggressive and rowdy all the time, many of them taller or bulkier, and yet, none of them could ever dream of defeating Link. Not one can match his agility, speed, prowess. Such a pleasant, calm person, with so much skill, strength, and power, but that power is so rarely seen exerted. People marvel at his talent, they say it's as if he has the experience of lifetimes and lifetimes of battle in his blood.

And it's why you feel at ease when he's assigned the task of guarding you. His capabilities are unmatched, and yet you'd never fear any harm to you from him. Both of those traits put together make him the best candidate to protect you.

Of course, you do find yourself doing most of the talking. Sometimes you find yourself rambling to fill the silence, and you fear you're annoying him, but when you stop he raises an eyebrow and asks why you got so quiet. Did he do something wrong? He seems to worry about that a lot -- has he done something bad? Has he made you upset? Are you mad? At first you think he's worried about his position security, but after a while you realize he genuinely worries about it.

And when you do continue your ramblings, you're surprised to find he remembers your words -- every little thing you say. Things you don't even remember telling him. He asks you about that relative you mentioned one time, his eyes light up and he walks a bit to the side because look, it's your favorite flower over there, he'll get it for you. It's impressive, really, how he manages to remember such things. He must take his job very seriously.

He does enjoy giving you such things -- he loves giving you gifts. It's usually things he finds, wholesome little things -- makes a crown out of the flowers you like so much, finds something interesting here or there, while he was off-duty he saw something in the markets he thought you'd like and got it for you. You almost feel guilty, it's so constant that he's giving you things.

Sometimes you ask him about himself, you realize he knows so much about you and you so little about him. He blushes, he rubs the back of his head, he insists there's nothing interesting about him, he wouldn't waste your time like that. It takes time to get him out of his shell, but eventually, he tells you this or that, little stories from his life.

Sometimes you take long walks, you like to get out of the stuffy walls and have fun outside, he accompanies you across Hyrule. Sometimes it feels familiar, you pass places you've never been that give you a feeling of nostalgia, deja vu, a sense that you've been here before.

He’s protectiveness incarnated. Insanely so. He can spring to his feet at a moment's notice and deals with anything that comes for you before they can even get close.

It makes you feel safe, but there's something else there. It's a ferocity that is so contrasting to his normal self, different even from the times you've seen him fight as he trains. It's a glint in the eyes, an aggression in his expression, that almost makes him seem like a different person. And it lingers for a moment, once the creature is dead and his sword hand falls to his side, he turns and glances at you to his side, a hand raised to wipe the blood off his face, and for that lingering second, it's still there, his blank expression and wide eyes -- a ferocity so intense it starts to look like bloodlust, chaos, destruction. And then, it's as if you imagined it. Smiling and telling you it's gone now, you're ok. You're glad he's so truly devoted.

In fact, he's so dedicated to his job that he starts... doing it... outside of his job hours...? Well, today he was given the day off, and you were told to stay inside because you didn't have to go out. He comes knocking on your door, says not to be startled if you hear someone outside your door move or shift or anything, but he just wanted to let you know in case. He'll be right here. Keeping watch. So don't worry. You're safe.

And likewise, he was supposed to have a day off when you were supposed to enter the town. You were assigned two other guards to watch you, since it's a special trip, so you're surprised to find just Link waiting for you. He took care of it, he says, he didn't feel right leaving your safety up to someone else, he doesn't trust them. So they agreed to let him take over for today.

All of this said, he doesn't have to grow alongside you, he doesn't have to be the childhood friend, the knight who guards you. He doesn't even have to have met you. Fate works in odd ways like that. There's a sort of inexplicable instant attachment he takes to you, almost as though it's some kind of destined, divinely inspired sort of thing. He would describe it as saying you feel familiar to him.

He's also, notably, prone to a more traditional trope of what you might call humility whiplash. For the most part, he's got that overly humble, worshipping, "I don't deserve to even stand in your presence" sort of mentality. However, although it's rare and requires a lot of wearing down his mental state, if pushed far enough, he can have brief moments where he snaps into more or less the complete opposite -- entitlement, arrogance, aggression, getting mad at you for the behavior he'd normally take with a smile on his face. Thankfully, unlike some yanderes that have a whole snapping episode towards their darling, his are very very brief, usually only a matter of seconds or a single snarled sentence before he snaps back to normal, wide-eyed and apologetic and telling you I don't know what came over me. It’s... a little frightening to say the least, but you blow it off, tell yourself that hey, everyone has moments like that... Right?

How likely are they to kidnap their darling? How quickly will they do so?

For the most part, he doesn't need it, he can pretty easily cling to your side well enough to be assured of your safety, and he manages to scare off the undesirables not with a glare, but a smile that's just a little too sweet and far too persistent -- it unnerves people. You hear a lot of people say that something about that guy rubs me the wrong way. Or that he gives me goosebumps for some reason. Even the people he scares away themselves can't pinpoint exactly what it is, all they know is that, despite being reputed as kind and quiet (and maybe a little dense), somehow a lot of people agree that something about him puts people at unease, and that's all he needs. Because they stay away from him, and if he’s by your side all the time, that means they stay away from you too. Why keep you trapped when you can just be isolated?

An aware Link is a a unique scenario. One scenario that's rather... interesting to imagine is a Link that defies fate itself, a Link that decides to be selfish in one of those rare snapping moments of his. Perhaps he makes a decision when everything starts going down, when the chaos is beginning, or perhaps he has somehow managed to gain knowledge of the bigger picture at work, the reality of the nature of your existence and his.

Perhaps he begins to think it's unfair. To suffer again and again. To prove himself again and again, and not always even to reap any benefits, to work so hard and yet still -- still -- you slip out of his grasp. He longs for a life with no tribulations, no struggle, no fights to be fought. He begins to feel like it's what he wants the most. He begins to feel like maybe it's what he deserves. So many lifetimes of struggles, if the higher powers won't give him a reward, he'll take it himself.

And perhaps, for all their higher power, not even the great goddesses themselves would have ever predicted it -- humans are ultimately creatures of will. To defy fate and to run away from destiny -- it wouldn't be the first time a human has tried such a thing. Sure, Hyrule may be destroyed. The people may all die. There may be nothing left. But you know what? He's stopped caring. If you're alive and he's alive, tucked away in your little corner of the world where you've found respite, well, that's all he needs. Even if you're on the run from forces that would want to find you, even if the threat of the final third of the triforce owner looms over your head. He'll ignore it, he'll look away.

You'll live a quiet little life together, a happy life without suffering, without quests and enemies, without strife, without worry. That's what he tells you when he steals you away, lifts you out of your bed one night. Says to be quiet, there's danger outside your door, he's rescuing you. You have no reason to not believe him. He waits until things go down, a castle under siege, but rather than taking you to where you're supposed to go, he climbs onto the horse and starts... riding away. It gets further and further into the distance, and you might ask why, what's going on? You have a job to do, he has a battle to be fought. But he says you're going far, far away, someplace you'll be safe.

But what about the divine beasts, the seals, the Twilight, whatever threat runs in this world in this time, what about the threat of Ganon, you ask? He says it doesn't matter anymore. You were doomed to fail, he thinks, it's either stay here and die, or run away. All that matters is you. And he'd like you to feel the same way for him. You will with enough time, don't worry.

He just wants this happy, quiet life with you that he’s been denied time and time again. It’s all he wants. If fate won’t give it to him, he’ll make it happen himself, and carve out the life he is determined to have, defying even the will of higher power.

How difficult is it to escape from them? How do they keep you restrained? How do they deal with attempted escape?

He gets it. Really, he does. "Stop following me!" You yell. Well, he understands why you might feel that way, but this is kinda his job. He thinks you're naive. Not that he would ever, ever have a thought that you're imperfect, of course! It's because you're so perfect and pure that you're... less aware of the dangers all around.

He'll let you think you're free, perhaps. He's more than capable of being quiet, quiet is kind of his thing. Watching you from a short distance is easy. Of course, his horse might make a noise, he can't really help that, or he might misstep on a branch or something. And then you turn around and get all mad again. Now you're even more angry. Well, he can also tell your guardians/father, who will encourage you to accept it. You can't help but feel a little bad -- he's just doing his job.

Now, our aware, runaway Link, well, does he really need to keep you restrained? What would you go back to? Certain death, a land destroyed? Sometimes you mention home, and he's quick to remind you that home doesn't exist anymore. His home is where you are. Can't you feel the same way? You found peace here in this little place -- a village far far away. Travelers, you call yourselves. What's the point in going elsewhere? How would you ever survive without him? He's not very good at being subtle or skillful about the psychological manipulation, it's obvious he's trying to scare you into not leaving, but... it still works, because really, he has a point.

He doesn't want to have to use physical restraint, in any case. And for the most part, it's not needed, because one important aspect of your relation is that his job kinda revolves around you (in some incarnations), or, perhaps you live in the same little village, but either way the thing is that his presence does the job well enough -- he's always there, perhaps more so than almost any other yandere. Even when you think you've managed to get away from him for a moment, somehow his face pops up out of nowhere. How he manages to pull it off is a mystery, you swear he manages to find you so well and predict your movements it's inhuman.

But if you really, really pose a problem, a smarter and sneakier darling that somehow manages to keep slipping out of his grasp and running off (you never get away for more than about 20 minutes or so, but nonetheless), you keep trying to run off when he's sleeping (he wakes up in approximately 25 seconds if your presence is absent from the bed, but that's still enough time to run out the front door), every time he turns his head (which isn't often) you're trying to disappear... well, in that case, he can reach a point of deciding more straightforward measures are necessary. He hates to do it, really, at least when he's not yet at a snapping point. But it's for your own good. And he says so, quite apologetically.

But it's not so bad, it's not like you're being chained to a wall or anything. For one, he got leather ties so you'd be more comfortable, but more importantly, as your guardian, he figured the best thing for you to be tied to would be... himself. Think of it like friendship bracelets! It's just... got a 5-foot chain connecting them. This way you can't sneak off at night, and you won't get too far when he's distracted. It's a safety measure.

How easy are they to trick, deceive, or manipulate?

He's a learner. At first, it's easy. Honestly, he is a rather naive, gullible boy, sometimes he reminds you of a happy dog with his bright eyes. He likes to believe the best of people, give them the benefit of the doubt in all circumstances, and that goes double for you, who he believes can do no wrong.

And even when you do lie to him, it's still not wrong. You didn't do anything bad. Clearly there has simply been a misunderstanding, and you thought you had to lie. Or perhaps you simply forgot a detail or were confusing something with something else. It wasn't malicious on your end, he knows that.

He's actually significantly smarter than he lets on in practical knowledge, though. Those dungeon puzzles pay off, you know? He's got pattern recognition down. So over time he learns how to distinguish when you're lying to him or attempting to deceive him, and sees through it increasingly well.

And yet, he doesn't really... get mad over it, most of the time. Again, he's just capable of deluding himself into believing there's a reason. He believes so strongly in your goodness that he finds a way to interpret everything you do as out of benevolence. So you snuck out the window and didn't tell him you were going for a walk because you just wanted to get away from his suffocating presence for once? You were just thinking of him. You didn't want to burden him and wanted to give him a break. Well, that's thoughtful, but don't worry, he doesn't need a break. He thinks it's precious you're so considerate of him though!

You don't tell him you were talking to that person, and you lie and say no when he asks, because you don't want him to worry, and because you underestimate how dangerous others can be. He's told you a million times and you don't listen, but that's ok, it's because you're just so pure you see the best in everyone. Everything you do is good.

Because he perceives your lies, he will still work against and around it. He won't confront you on your lies, he'll just make sure to deal with the situation -- you lied about sneaking out, well, he'll just keep watch and be ready to meet you outside next time. You lied about talking to a person, well, he'll just have to make sure they stay away from you instead.

If you're trying to trick him, he just plays along until necessary. Smiles and nods. He gets the suspicion you're planning a break-out when he told you he was leaving to go get something from town... rather than saying so, he just decides, you know what? Why don't you come with him? Oh, you're feeling sick, you tell him it's ok, go without you? Well, he can't leave you alone then! Because you're clearly not and just trying to get him to leave... or, as he says, he can't just leave you alone. He'll go another day.

He's fairly manipulable when it comes to praise and affection. You can easily Pavlov him into certain behaviors or patterns with just the slightest words of praise and affection. He's not a very outwardly expressive person, tends to stay quiet, but you can tell how he feels inside when you give the slightest praise, a hug, a kiss on the cheek -- you can see that soft hint of a smile and tell that inside, he's basically melting, even if it's not obvious to most people. And, much like the lying, he’s honestly often aware of it, but he just can’t help it.

How lenient are they? What privileges can you have, and what will you be denied?

He tries to get you the things that he feels will make you happy. Your happiness is incredibly important to him, and he usually thinks about how any action he plans to take might affect you, spends a lot of time debating choices of things to do or say and try to determine how each one will affect you and choose accordingly.

As such, he goes out of his way to support the things you want to do. Have a hobby? He'll find the best materials available. Want a book or a food? He'll obtain it through some means. Even if procuring it involves a side-quest-y set of mundane tasks or scouring the world for 70 of this and 50 of that to exchange it for the item from an obscure specialist, it's all worth it.

The only thing he just doesn't give up on is the constant vigilance and insistence on being by your side more or less every waking second. And every sleeping second. And just every single moment you're alive. It's for your safety.

This is actually one of the things he can get a little nasty about when it comes to how he deals with it, because he quickly has the bright idea that if you don't get it, he'll make you understand. Of course, he can't actually risk you getting hurt, so he stages it. Allows you to sneak off, or at least think you have, and walk right into the path of those monsters he lured, or the people he hired to intimidate you. Of course, it's only natural that he shows up at the last possible second, right on time to save you. You should expect that, after all, it's his responsibility to protect you, of course fate works out perfectly like this. See, he was right, it's so dangerous, and without him you'd be dead. Hopefully you grasp that now.

What kind of rules do they have? What kind of punishment would they use?

His is mostly related to vigilance. Where are you? Who have you been talking to? Who was that person you were talking with just now? What did they say? He's not nosy. He just cares about you. It’s in the job description. You ought to understand just how much certain bad people would love to find you and hurt you. That's why he has to know.

This isn't our modern world, so there's no phones or tracking devices to speak of, just himself, which, well, might as well be a tracking device since he never seems to have difficulty finding you. Sometimes you're not sure how he does it.

He tells you that you don't have to be with him 24/7, but you will be, even if you don't realize it. He's aware enough to know that you'll feel suffocated and get mad if you're aware of his presence all the time, so he gives you your "alone" time, aka, the "follow her quietly from a 20+ foot distance" time. It all feels the same to you. Well, sometimes you feel eyes on you, but you shake the feeling off as paranoia.

So it's not so much that he sets rules and reacts when they're broken, but rather, he works his way around anything you might do so well that he doesn't need you to follow his rules, or really, you take them more as suggestions. But honestly, that's kind of worse. It's enough to drive a darling to the brink of a mental breakdown very quickly. With Link you will inevitably become paranoid, nervous, you feel like you're going insane because he manages to pop up everywhere, he always knows what you did when you did it and you have no idea how it is even conceivably possible for him to know some of the things that he knows. He confronts you very plainly and quietly, often sweetly, asking why you did this or that or telling you it's ok, you don't have to hide anything, surely there’s a good reason, and if not, he forgives you anyway. In a way, it's worse than an angry confrontation. You begin to feel like he's omnipresent, like he can read your mind, and it truly takes a mental toll and affect you worse than any normal yandere's concept of punishment.

This ultimately works out well in his favor. The more you just do what he wants, the less it feels like a violation or intrusion that he knows these things, since he was there with you, it makes sense, and you continuously get bent to his will.

How do they deal with rivals, or perceived rivals? Will they get rid of them? Will they kill them themselves, or find another way?

Ah, and thus we get to that brutality rating.

It would be unthinkable to think that any sort of scum would even dare. Even he isn't worthy of being with you, and someone else thinks they could be? So, he more or less views "rivals" as an offense. When they're threats, well, he's allowed to deal with them. When they're not, well... he has a wonderful reputation. If he says he overheard that person planning usurpation or assassination, that they realized he was listening in and wildly attacked him, everyone will believe him. Even if the death seems a little... non-immediate. And uh... frankly... overkill. How exactly... did those limbs get perfectly severed during equally armed combat? And was it... really necessary... to kinda spill entrails all over like that? He'll apologize, of course, he was just so outraged by the thought of someone hurting you or your family, you know? You notice his eye twitches a bit as he says it.

He has a lot of... bottled up frustrations, which we'll touch on in the nsfw section as well, but it tends to manifest in those two ways: sex and violence. Rather than exerting stress and anger and frustration as it comes, he lets it fester. He tries to maintain being the noble, humble, self-sacrificing person he feels he should be. That is... difficult to do for a long time. People expect a lot from him, even in timelines where he's not necessarily realized as the hero quite yet, he usually has a lot of responsibilities. But then you tack on the whole hero thing? The weight of the world is sometimes, quite literally, on his shoulders. Do you have any idea the kind of stress that comes with that knowledge? It's not pleasant. And it quickly bottles up, a very very fragile bottle set to eventually shatter in a matter of time.

On a longer sort of quest, he just kinda... leaves a trail of destruction in his wake. Enemies don't actually just poof out of existence the way they do on-screen, you know. Anyone coming across an area he's just been through is met with literal piles upon piles of corpses, sometimes monsters, but sometimes people. He takes a very scorched earth sort of policy when it comes to dealing with things.

He's able to easily get close to people, with that sweet face and puppy eyes and lithe body, people don't really feel on guard around him nor intimidated. That makes it significantly easier to infiltrate enemy hideouts, earn favors, and work his way in to be able to commit mass murder more easily. Granted, no one thinks too much of it because they *are* truly enemies, after all, they *did* need to be taken out and well, if the rulers can choose to either send a group of ten soldiers or just one guy and get the job done equally well either way, they'll go with the latter option. No one thinks anything of it, except the occasional person who laughs and says something to the effect of remind me to never get on your bad side, haha! He gives that sheepish, sweet little smile, and jokingly tells them that yeah, better not.

How easy is it to make them mad? What does their anger look like?

For you, nearly impossible. For others, at a hair trigger.

For the most part, he conceals anger well until, as aforementioned, it bottles up and bursts. The truth is he gets irritated virtually all the time by other people. People who talk to you. Look at you. Smile at you. He’s actually rather easily annoyed even when you’re not involved, but again, he’s good at hiding it until it builds.

His rage has a commonality with his calm -- it's quiet. At least, at first. When it's directed at others, his eyes narrow. It's the telltale sign that someone has ignited his rage. It burns on the inside, it starts off as a spark that builds and builds and grows larger and larger until it's a blazing fire that consumes everything in his path. It's a loss of composure, a rare moment of complete loss of self-control. From his own perspective, it feels like he's not in control of his own body, it's all a blur happening in front of him and when it's over he's looking down at his own hands, unable to process his own actions, sometimes unable to remember them.

But it's violent, merciless, unforgiving. It does not yield to begging, it does not leave anything alive unless forced to. You remember the first time you realized how unnatural it was, how shocked you were at how he did something that certainly went against the code he was sworn to follow, the very first time you felt truly afraid of Link. It was a walk in town -- someone called out to you, spitting obscenities about you and your family, your lineage, threw something at you -- he caught it in his hand and crushed it, and quickly, without a word, advanced on the offender. And, to make a long story short, you had to prevent him from beating a man to death in public in broad daylight. He was forgiven by his superiors, but even they seemed shocked. You had to pull him off, and when he jerked his head around to look at whatever was stopping him -- before his face softened as he recognized your own face -- the split second you saw the burn of hatred and fury in eyes that were normally so soft and loving, was nothing short of unsettling, you still recall the chill that ran down your spine.

And honestly? It's terrifying. And the first time, it's shocking. Sure, you knew he could fight. You've seen him fight off monsters, bokoblins and lizalfos and the like. But something is different about seeing the blood of a human being run down his sword, dripping onto the ground, to see the bodies and the blank, numb gaze on his features he always has after it's over. The absolute lack of hesitancy he has to run human enemies through before they even have a chance to explain themselves, how unbothered he seems by the carnage left in his wake. The way he turns back to you, drenched in red and smiles, tells you it's ok, you're safe now. There's no need to look so scared.

And it changes how you view him, in the long run. Less of a guardian angel, more of a guardian dog, one that defends your name when you never asked him to. Pleads to tell him not to fall on deaf ears -- you just don't understand why it has to be this way, he says, you can't comprehend the threat they posed. From the sweet boy that leaves you flowers and repairs and instead leaves a wave of destruction in his path you would not have thought possible.

Directed towards you, though, it's entirely different. He tries his best to have patience with you, no matter what. He smiles, he tries to make excuses as to why you'd say this or do that, why you'd feel a certain way, and he's rather good at deluding himself to give you the benefit of the doubt.

But when it reaches an end, when he can no longer lie to himself, when you push it to a point that you truly make him mad, it's more of a snap. The times he'll lay hands on you in a truly violent way are rare, and as aforementioned, very brief. It's usually not so much of actually a blow, so much as a grab. He just can't get what he's trying to tell you through your thick head, so he stresses it, trying to make you understand as he grabs you by the upper arms, shaking you with each word, and he only stops when he sees the pain and fear in your eyes, drawing his hands back at lightning speed. He saves you from some danger very narrowly, one of the few times he lost track of you for a moment and had to frantically search before coming across you being attacked. What would I have done if something happened to you? Don't you understand that? He's so lost in the relief it takes him a moment to feel you beating on his arms in the embrace, choking and wheezing that you can't breathe, that his grip is so tight it feels like he'll snap you in half. He draws back again, and he apologizes, but it will certainly happen more than once.

So they see you as above them, beneath them, or equal to them?

Above. Like, so, so, so far above. He feels like he doesn't even deserve to look at you. Of course, neither does anyone else, so he's just, you know, stepping up to bear the burden of wrongdoing to keep people even worse than him away from you.

So it's less that you're just above him so much as you're above everyone. He's actually, perhaps surprisingly, a little bit of a pessimist about the world. The world is full of so many terrible people and so many horrible things happen that he's borne witness to. It's a "world cold and hard, (y/n) soft and warm" sort of thing. You're the one good thing, the thing that makes him happy, the ultimate source of comfort he has, and he has to prevent you from being defiled by the evil of the world, keep you innocent and sweet (even if he's just deluding himself to think you are those things in the first place).

This ties into, again, how he interprets every action you take as good and benevolent -- he has the "you can do no wrong" mentality. Even very blatantly malicious things, he'll interpret in a way that makes you somehow still come out a perfect, innocent angel. If you do harm to others, well, they simply deserved it. You did something technically wrong, but you knew no better, or you were desperate. You can't be held responsible for any of it. And if you're mean to him, well, he probably did something to make you upset.

How determined are they for you to love them? How hard will they try to make it happen? Or are they content just having you?

Sort of a duality. Yes, he's very persistent. He thinks about it all the time. Every time you yell and try to run and hurl nasty insults at him, it hurts far more than you realize. He doesn't let it show on his face or in his voice, but it really does, and it gets to him sometimes. He's hyper observant of every little thing you do, your body language, your tone, the way you look at him, and the slightest of differences can change his mood internally, although it tends to look the same outwardly.

He makes little mental notes of it -- today she didn't flinch when I touched her shoulder. Today she didn't frown when she saw me coming. Little things like that will make his entire day. Likewise, the inverse kills him inside. He aims to make every day one of the former days, where the littlest signs of acceptance or even kindness and affection give him a sort of high that makes him feel like he's floating.

He tries his best to do things that he thinks will, well, earn love. Every opportunity to do something for you, he takes it. Everything he sees he'd think you'd like, he buys (or steals, or... loots from a dead body) for you. On and on that idea goes. And although he doesn't say too much, when he does speak to you, he usually has something nice to say. He views it in a formulaic way -- ironically, think about it like those collectibles in overworlds. You get enough of this or that thing, and once you have enough, you can go talk to this or that person and donate them all and get a reward, right? He's accustomed to viewing things that way. Love should be the same way. If he just completes enough tasks and gathers enough items, eventually he'll unlock your love.

That being said, even if it doesn't happen, much to your despair, he just... doesn't. Give. Up. He doesn't quit. No matter how many times you tell him, it doesn't make a difference. You can tell him you'll never love him, and it's like it goes in one ear and out the other. He keeps trying. And he never, ever, ever stops trying. What did you expect? The boy's been fighting the same enemy over and over across lifetimes, needless to say his spirit has build up some persistence.

Bonus: Is there anything that makes them unique, in comparison to other yanderes?

Bonus: Zelda/Triforce of Wisdom Darling

And don't worry. If it all goes wrong, when he fails, those divergences in time where the hero is vanquished and evil wins out -- it's not the end. Somehow, that's the feeling he gets, holding your little lifeless body up, running hands across your cold skin. Somehow, he feels oddly calm. Like it hurts, but it's ok. Like he'll see you again. Maybe not soon, but one day. This time didn't work out. But the next one will.

And that's the feeling you'll always have. Every time you meet him and you feel like you've met before, the lingering memories when you wake from your dreams -- flying through skies and sailing on oceans, a child, an adult, a boy you've never met, or one you've known all your life, but it's always the same face, the same voice, the one right beside you in the waking world. You sometimes wonder if he has the same feelings, the same dreams, the same sense of something greater than yourselves at work, the sense of being just smaller pieces in a much bigger picture.

The sense of permanency, that each other is all there will ever be -- regardless of how it makes you feel, regardless of how that scares you, sometimes you feel like you can never be free. Sometimes, when you think of running away, those dark moments when you think of even escaping from life itself, it feels futile. It's as if you know it would never hold him away forever. As if death is insignificant. Perhaps in this lifetime, you'll become aware of why that is, or perhaps not.

With other obsessive lovers, just the idea of til death do us part is a terrifying thought. But, for Link, not even death can keep him away from you. Your suffering is already determined by the will of higher power, for the sake of a greater good.

In truth, it’s the goddesses who made him this way intentionally -- it’s designed to ensure your safety, even at the cost of your suffering. Again, for a greater good. Sure, you may live one lifetime to the next desperately locked in the same cycle in which your freedom and will is stripped from you, but in the end, it serves a purpose.

Nor will he change -- perhaps this one this time is a bit more spirited, more calm, more pessimistic, more optimistic... but in the end, at their core, they're the same soul, with the same will deep, deep down. The same drive to find you and protect you. The same love for you, an all-consuming love that destroys everything in its path to you and leaves ruin in its wake.

And if fate should one day keep you apart, should things change, for whatever reason, it’s unable to change him. There's another force even more powerful than fate determined to keep you together. The only thing more unavoidable, inevitable, and unescapable than fate, is Link himself.

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

General perverseness: how sexual of a person are they? What’s their drive like? How touchy do they get? Do they have any reservations about sexuality?

In moments of passion, he changes a bit, unlike other more submissive yans who stay consistent in their reverence and desire to please.

You see, after a while, being as lenient and tolerant and flexible and completely devoted as he is... constantly self-sacrificing in so many ways, to you, to Hyrule, to the world... some frustrations build up. It's a big, big bottle of emotion, all tucked away and festering, getting greater and greater and eventually it has to explode somehow.

His reservations and inhibitions fall away. Perhaps a darker, more selfish side comes out. Perhaps that's why he's so rough. He knows he'll regret it later, the bruises from how hard he grips, the marks from the bites, but the hormones and the heat takes over. He'll feel bad for defiling you. He'll apologize. And he'll do it again. And again. And again.

But once the resolve crumbles, it topples. That is, he can't partially maintain it -- if it's partially gone, it falls apart completely. He lets go, so to speak. And when he lets go, you find that underneath that carefully constructed resolve and willpower that holds him back, he can be a very, very rough and possessive lover. In his normal state, he wouldn't dare think of you as a possession, or as something he's even worthy of. He would like so, so much to think that, to feel like he's allowed to -- but he doesn't. He chastises himself for even having such a desire. But in those moments, when his resolve is gone and his brain isn't thinking quite too clearly, he might even have to audacity to say "mine." Even if it's not true, not now, maybe it will be. He would like that so much. His and his alone.

And in a moment of clarity, he might even throw away the inhibition on purpose. The more selfish side, the same Link that drags you away from your destiny -- he's already forsaken his responsibilities, hasn't he? Why care anymore about the structures that no longer exist, your status and his, if there's no kingdom left? He likes that it happened, even. This way, this time, you can throw off those titles, those roles. Without your status, your title, there's nothing stopping him from making you his. And you will be his, and nothing more. It's all you need to be. So he doesn't have to care anymore about any of that, he doesn't have to stop himself from going wild. Biting into every little spare patch of skin, covering your body with marks that make him feel comforted to see.

As far as drive it's a bit of a two-sided duality. Outwardly he's not a very sexual person at all, blushes and stutters and averts his gaze at the slightest mention of suggestive topics, tries his best to be Respectful(tm) by always looking away when you're in a compromising position, or your skirt flies up, etc etc. Given how constant his vigilance is, he has a tendency to accidentally walk in on your changing or bathing, except unlike with many yanderes, it's genuinely an accident. Not that the image doesn't stick in his mind, nor does he wish he hadn't gotten to see, but he does feel guilty, and it was genuinely unintentional. He kinda freezes up, so it takes a moment for him to actually snap out of it and run out.

That being said, he quickly develops something of a masturbation addiction when he's younger, it starts as more of a stress reliever than anything, He's so sweet and always feels bad about talking about his problems and feelings, so that and, well, violence are the only ways he can get it out. Thus he learns to channel stress and nerves into sexuality, and once he has a real living body and not just his hand, that dependency on cumming to relieve it doesn't change.

How forceful are they? Do they care about your willingness?

Particularly so, yes, cares quite a bit. And it takes a while for him to feel comfortable. Even consensually, the first few times he touches you for several months, he's got trembling hands and stays quieter than ever, constantly freezes up every time you move or make a noise because he thinks he's done something wrong. He has to be coaxed into feeling more comfortable before he gets used to it, but he will build confidence over time.

As addressed before, though, if he's pushed and pushed and pushed long enough, you can get a darker side to come out. This is most likely something that would only occur post-kidnapping in a distant time, once he's far away from any possibility of consequence and destruction has set in to the world around you. He starts to get a little bitter, if you've been mean to him. It all builds up. Don't you get that he's literally saved your life? That he devoted every waking second to you? Isn't he kinda entitled to some thanks? The cycle of time never rewards him. Even the figures he helps over time rarely give him more than a verbal praise and thanks, maybe an item here or there, and then disappear. His role feels thankless. He starts to feel like he deserves something, something tangible, in return.

Surprisingly, though, he actually does not take the route of guilt-tripping or emotional manipulation or gaslighting his way into it like a lot of the sweeter yanderes when he does have that snap. His snaps/breakdowns are rather extreme in terms of how much of a polar opposite they are to his normal state, rather than just a slight bend of his normal personality. Rather than taking the route of most yanderes like himself, he just gets directly physically forceful. Still somewhat sweet, though, reminds you he loves you, he'd die for you, you're his entire world. You'd argue that doesn't really change the actions, but considering how frightening he is in that state, you're not dumb enough to vocalize that.

The guilt consumes him alive afterwards. Like, immediately afterwards. He's still panting and twitching and buried inside when it sets in. That being said, he doesn't get to stuttering and profusely apologizing, like he does over smaller offenses. It's all done and he can't take it back, so he just kinda collapses and says nothing. He's not the best with words, you know. It's an odd mixture of guilt and, honestly, a bit of satisfaction and relief. It feels like letting go of some self-imposed burden, that feeling of finally surrendering to some deep want, even if it comes with a lot of remorse, the relief of finally letting go does have a good feeling as well... and because of that, it’s another one of those barriers that, once broken, can’t be built up again.

What sort of kinks or fetishes do they have, or would they fill?

In all honesty the boy is, for the most part, a fairly gentle and vanilla lover. He doesn't really need anything special to get off -- he's easily excited and cums very very easily too. Just the prospect of getting to stick his dick in you in any capacity is enough to make him nearly burst at the thought honestly.

In general, as aforementioned, he's very very cautious and gentle to a point, but has a tendency to get actually kinda rough once he gets into it. The thing is, the roughness aspect is actually unintentional. He's one of those boys that is a little bit unaware of his own strength, doesn't process exactly how hard and fast he's going. He just gets lost in the feeling, kinda enters a dazed lusty haze where he's less aware of his actions. Doesn't realize he's literally got an iron grip pressing your head down on his dick or into the bed until you start flailing your hands because you can't breathe. Doesn't realize how hard he was gripping until he sees the bruises on your arms and hips later. That sort of deal -- poor thing is just unaware and doesn't have enough blood in his brain to think straight.

Biting

Surprisingly a really big one for him. (Remnants of a past life cycle with some lupine experiences perhaps?) In all seriousness, he could not explain exactly why if asked, it's one of those "I just like it" sort of things. It feels like yet another way to conjoin the two bodies, pulls you close. The marking aspect is also nice. Granted, he feels guilty afterwards, tries to help it heal. He has that same duality where moments ago he was this intimidating beast of a human being, rough and growly and jerking you like you were weightless, and now he's back to this bright eyed softie stuttering while he apologizes.

The guilt is mixed with a bit of enjoyment, though. It's constantly conflicting -- sure, part of him understands it's embarrassing and will help you cover up, but part of him doesn't want to, he wants people to see. Part of him looks at the marks and tells himself internally to never do that again, and part of him sees them and just wants to give you even more. It's a constant internal conflict, poor thing.

As far as a place, he likes the neck and shoulders best, simply because it's the most visible and it's the most passionate ones to create, when your bodies are tightly locked together. That being said, though, he also has a thing for biting at the insides of your thighs. It's another one of those I just like it sort of things.

Sometimes, when you're asleep, or pretending to be, you can feel him trace the bite marks with his fingers, softly running them over the circular pattern, just enough to barely ghost over your flesh.

Somnophilia

It puts him at ease. This one is particularly prevalent towards the beginning of your relationship, before you really know... how he is. He has this image of you as so pure and he couldn't bear the thought of defiling you with his horrible horrible thoughts. The guilt eats away at him for a while, but eventually he just can't hold back, but how could he ever do anything to you and risk consequence? So... the solution he comes up with is waiting until you sleep.

He tests the waters to see how heavy of a sleeper you are. Calls your name at increasing volume, lightly runs his fingers over your hair, pokes your face, whispers in your ear, runs his hands over your arms. Just to see what makes you rustle, if anything, so he knows the limits. If it turns out you're an incredibly light sleeper, well, unfortunately that means he's limited to just jerking off to your sleeping form, but that's ok. Just seeing your soft face and the cute way you breathe, the slightest way your lips open, that's enough for him.

If it turns out you're a heavier sleeper though, well, he tries to fight the temptation, but ends up going further. Slowly climbs onto your bed, careful to make the weight shift as gently as possible. Slowly pulls the covers back. Runs his hands up and down. It's a lot better when he can actually see your body as he jerks off, honestly. If he's feeling particularly risky, he might press your thighs together, feel how soft your skin is to his cock, how nice the squeezing pressure between them is.

He gets easily lost in a haze, though, so he inevitably ends up accidentally cumming on you and has to frantically find a way to lightly dab it up without waking you. He panics quite a bit, but that doesn't stop him from doing it again the very next night.

Overstimulation/Forced Orgasm

It just means he's doing a good job, really. Sure, you squeal and kick your feet back and forth and tug at his hair, but that's just because it feels good. Orgasms equate to love and feel good, right? Sure there's a little bit of pain when you go overboard, but then it just leads to feeling even better, right?

It's kind of an irrational compulsion rather than a logical goal, though. He just has an impulsive need to feel you quiver and spasm and clench, it basically gives him a chemical high hit and a wave of reassurance, makes him feel good in both the physical sense and the emotional sense. The first one sends him into this compulsive need to feel it over and over and over again, as many times as he can. It's another one of his internal conflict things -- sure, he knows it's hurting, but he just has to get one more. Just one more. But of course, every time turns into "just one more" when he's been saying that for half an hour now.

And, to be honest, it kind of gives him a pride boost to think he can make you cum against your will. How many people struggle to achieve that even when both parties are trying? It makes him feel good in an adequacy sort of way, he feels needed.

Size Kink/Distension

You know, there's a well-known thing among the male-lovers in this world when it comes to size. It's never the arrogant, loud guys, it's never the social butterflies, it's never the tall guys, it's never the beefy muscly guys. No, they're not the ones that end up somehow bestowed with absolute monster cocks. It's always the soft, lean boys who don't talk much. And they're always painfully unaware of it, too.

He's no exception. Not to the size or the complete lack of awareness. He hasn't spent a lot of time around guys his age too much, he's always been the one sent for some special task and ends up out in the wilderness by himself on journeys, or, in some lifetimes, accompanying you most of the time. He doesn't know what the average dick looks like, so he has no idea he's far above average.

This might sound like a plus, and of course in some ways it is, but also he doesn't think about the fact that the average body isn't properly equipped to handle it. You're supposed to just kinda put it in, that's how the sex works, right? Poor thing, especially if it's entirely consensual sex, he's just kinda ???? because why are you in pain? What is he doing wrong? You have to eventually explain it's literally just his body, not something he's doing.

That being said, naturally, he's a humble person, but hearing you say that does kinda... make him feel good inside. A little bit proud. He's not a person who takes a lot of pride in many things, so he likes having this one thing, and quickly notices you can visibly see it through the bulge it makes in your stomach. Especially if it's in a position where your back is pressed to his front, every little movement creates the bulge, so expect to get a lot of that.

He doesn't really bring it up much or talk about it when he's actually fucking you, it's more like, as with many things, something he's quietly aware of and silently enjoys a lot internally, even if it's not voiced.

How do they feel about pregnancy or babies? Do they want them?

Yes and no. It has to do with his overactive protection instinct. What if something happened or went wrong? He couldn't take that. He couldn't lose you.

At the same time, he likes kids, and he's very good with them, very patient. And over time, realizes that a kid would be the perfect tool of manipulation, and besides that, isn't it a beautiful thing, an ultimate manifestation of love?

So how to work around that... Ultimately, what he decides to do is have a kid... Just not by blood. There are plenty of orphans in Hyrule, wandering the streets and the wilderness, picking one up is easy. ...You wouldn't leave this poor child to suffer out there, to fend for themselves, would you? Nor would you leave him to take care of it by himself... Right?

What kind of (nsfw) punishments would they use?

Oh, it's not like he thinks of it that way. He would call it... a reminder. You put yourself in danger again? You tried to go back again? You were gone and for ten whole minutes he didn't know where you were? What could the solution to this issue be? The only thing his brain can really come up with is making sure you need him. Making sure you're content and satisfied here with him so you don't go running off.

Thus we return to the forced orgasm thing -- see, you do need him. It feels good, right? You say it hurts, and maybe it does a little, but ultimately you wouldn't be cumming if it wasn't good. No one else can ever do that. No one else knows you like this. No one else was made for you like this. You can't replace him. You need him. And he can keep going as many times as it takes until you see that, too. Even if he gets milked dry, he has a mouth and hands for a reason.

And by "until you see that," I mean until you say it. In his more... emotionally intense moments, he gets a bit insistent. He needs to hear you say it. Admit it to yourself. And to him. That you need him, that you depend on him, that you'll never leave again. And don't think your patience and tolerance can stand a chance of outlasting his -- it will keep going until you say it.

What body parts of their darling do they like the most?

He's one of those wholesome type of boys who goes with something sweet. He says maybe your hair, your face, your skin, your eyes. It's all so comforting. So familiar. Of course, not to say that he doesn't like your less wholesome mentionable parts, but he wants to be chivalric about such a question, and feels answering that way would be too disrespectful.

In his unspoken thoughts, though, he likes the hips. It's a part of you he can grab onto and hold you close with. He puts his hands there a lot and holds tight, like he feels like at any moment you could slip out of his grasp. And, I mean, it's nice to look at, can't forget that.

#atml #scheduled post #yandere x reader #yandere legend of zelda #yandere link

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snackhobi · 3 years

Text

a human touch, part I

Part [1] / 1.5 / 2

(masterlist here)

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

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

then he turns up at your door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No human could ever look this good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“After you, please,” he says.

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

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

“Not as pretty as you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's just depressing, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Purple.”

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

You think it suits him better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ahh, Saturdays. You love the weekend.

“Good morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure,” you mumble. “I think—woah!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why can’t I just wear your clothes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Of course, you never do.)

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

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

“All done?”

“I think so.”

“Nice.” You feel content.

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

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

You promptly roll off the sofa.

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

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

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

Ah.

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

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

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

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

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

V looks utterly enraptured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go for it,” you say.

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

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

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

Just for an instant.

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

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

But then V laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” V says, and you blink.

“For what?”

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

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

He chooses dinner, never leaving your side.

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

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

So here he is.

(And here you are.)

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

“Morning,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t be long,” you promise.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you want to see the clothes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Thank God.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have to go to work tomorrow.”

V tilts his head down to look at you.

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

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

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

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

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

So you do.)

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

“Morning.”

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

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

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

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

It’s… nice.

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

taglist: @beyoncesdragon

#btswritingcafe #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #taehyung x reader #bts #taehyung x you #taehyung au #bts au #taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung scenario #taehyung imagine #android taehyung #robot taehyung #look you know the drill by now: I don't know how to tag effectively #taehyung fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #dbh is so good guys. I love connor. like. an alarming amount.

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radiosandrecordings · 3 years

Note

5, jmart? :)

Y’know I really appreciate that TMA never has an ‘explaining to you that these characters are mlm’ scene but also. That does have implications and if they never had a convo off tape where they each learned the other was a Dude Liker, then I am kind of struck with the comedy of “Oh thank god they both were, they just kinda launched into the whole being in love thing without checking huh”

5) Things you didn’t say at all

“What’s up, mmh? You’re staring into space again.”

Jon looked up from his position on the bed, lying pressed up against Martin’s side, book lying open and discarded on what was probably his hip, under several layers of blanket.

“What? Oh, nothing really.”

“‘Nothing really’ always means something. I don’t want to push, if you don’t want to share, but you seem to have something on your mind.”

Jon spent a few seconds chewing his lip, before craning his neck up to meet Martin’s gaze. “It’s just... It’s so stupid, in the small scale of things? Laughably, almost, I mean there’s so many more big, important, world ending things I’ve spent the last three years trying to figure out and...” Martin gave him a nod to continue, “I just realised I’m not sure you ever actually told me that you like men?”

“... Well I do. Clearly.”

There were several seconds of silence proceeding that statement, culminating in an abrupt break into laughter from the pair. Jon’s face was flushed slightly, ducking his head in embarrassment, but managing to laugh along with Martin’s uproar.

“Seriously? Seriously? I don’t even know where to start with that. I mean, A) Yeah I mean I suppose it wasn’t really a priority to discuss who we thought was hot during our day jobs at the Eldritch Office, but like... B) I am honestly a little offended you couldn’t just tell, I mean, do you know how insulting it is that someone might look at me and go ‘Hmm, that’s a straight man right there’.”

Jon made noises of protest, none of which ever managed to resolve themselves into words. “It... I never thought about it, really! I knew Tim was bi, but I’m not sure he even knew I was...? It didn’t really come up. And secondly... Well, Georgie used to tell me that I had an abysmal... I believe the term she used was ‘gaydar’?”

“That’s the one!”

“Right. Well, apparently I’m just a bit shit on picking up on other queer people? I didn’t realise she was bi as well until she mentioned her ex-girlfriend several months into our dating. Apparently she had thought I’d known from her commenting on actresses in movies or the like, but I just... Never really connected the dots. She had just assumed that I was as well, apparently I just radiated the ‘energy’ in some way I’m still unaware of, so I never really formally had to have a coming out talk to her.”

“Huh, I don’t.. I don’t think I ever officially knew you did, either? But, I mean, I do have to agree with Georgie here. Even when you were all stuffy academic boss man, queer vibes. I wouldn’t have given you a second look if you didn’t, not going down that road.”

“That’s... Good to know, I think?” Jon smiled, before it morphed into a small sigh. “...I don’t think I’ve ever had to ‘come out’ to anyone at all, actually? I rather feel like I missed something.”

“Oh, well that’s... Hm.”

“That’s ‘Hm?’”

“Oh shut up... It’s just that... Well it’s not always a fun time, having to come out, so you’ve kind of saved yourself in that regard, and of course there’s the whole thing of how we have to come out while straight people just get assumed, but... I mean, better late than never?”

“I mean, I’d rather think you’d have figured out I’m also rather keen on men as well by now.”

Martin groaned. “Great, my boyfriend is hilarious.” There was an undeniable smile playing at his lips, though, despite the faux-annoyance. Both of them were still acclimating to the term and it resulted in large amounts of grinning and, on occasion, giggling, at each utterance. “I just meant like... If you wanted to. Just to, I don’t know, fulfil the imagined queer quota?”

Jon blinked, somewhat taken aback by the soft sincerity of Martin’s voice. “That... That might be nice, actually. Uhm. God, how does one even do it.”

“Different for everyone, I suppose. I can go first though, if you want?”

Jon nodded.

“Right. Well, I’m Martin Blackwood, and I’m very trans and very gay, and I’m very much in love with my boyfriend.” As he said the last part he reached forward, fingers coming together to hold Jon’s chin and tilt it up, before pressing a gentle kiss to his brow.

Jon, somewhat flushed, stammered through his words at first, trying to get his bearings. “I... God this is... I’m Jon, and I am, in the loosest definition of the word, a man and I.. Am biromantic asexual and, what a coincidence, am very much in love with my boyfriend as well.” Here he took Martin’s hand from where it rested atop the duvet and laced their fingers together, pressing a kiss to the back of Martin’s knuckles.

“Right, well that’s that. One thing off the bucket list.. Christ it’s nearly twelve, we should probably be up by now, right?”

Jon made a grumble of protest, followed immediately by an attempt to burrow further under the blankets and into Martin’s side. “Five more minutes and then we’ll make breakfast?”

“...Deal.”

#My Post #My Writing #Me writing anything: I will pepper in little a trans martin. for ben.#also I have only ever seen one other fic have Jon use the term biromantic to describe himself and dammit I'll grow that list myself #Asks #Jonmartin #The Magnus Archives #Martin Blackwood #Jonathan Sims #ghostbustermelanieking #Q Word

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anika-ann · 3 years

Text

In the Strangest Place (We Just Might Find Love) - Pt.1

Type: two-shot, pretty much canon

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 3700

Summary: You’re hiding from your boss in a supply closet, minding your own business, when a stranger joins you unexpectedly.

This is not a beginning of a steamy story; given the reason you’re hanging out in the dark, even a make-out session is honestly the last thing you want to fantasize about right now.

But that doesn’t mean that the nice stranger cannot make your day much better.

Warnings: mention of sexual harassment, a bit of angst, attempt at humour, language

You were on the verge of screaming – or crying, you honestly weren't sure anymore. But you knew you were done. You had worked your fingers to a bone just to get here; to become a little bee in the most famous hive in Manhattan. Stark Industries. The Stark/Avengers Tower. The beacon of the New York skyline. The dream coming true.

Yeah, not so much.

You hadn't expected super-important assignments – after all, you were just an assistant to the head of one of too many departments – but God, you had not expected to be handling coffee so often. To be running ridiculous errands. Your degree from MIT should actually mean something here! If nothing else than that you were not just some pretty face and that you fucking didn’t deserve the treatment you were receiving.

And that was the root of trouble, really. You could handle making your way up, it would be tiring but not surprising, it was pretty much what you had assigned for.

But you had not assigned for the sexist comments, disgusting innuendo and for the grabby hands of your sleazy boss. Thomas Gregory was a fucking nightmare of a man and you swore that you were quitting if he called you a ‘Dollface’ or slapped your ass one more time.

And that was how you had got here, into this very moment; hiding in a dark supply closet like a creep with two cups of overpriced coffee in a cup holder and a piece of organic carob-nut muffin.

You weren't about to come out any time soon, because you simply knew your boss still would be a pig and give you yet another reason to hand in your notice and you had fucking wanted this job for so long, worked for it so hard and sacrificed too much that you just couldn't make yourself to quit no matter how much your skin cringed and your stomach rolled over every time Thomas Gregory touched you. It was so frustrating you wanted to scream.

Or cry, you still couldn't solve the dilemma. Maybe both.

You barely registered the hurried footsteps – and then the door was yanked open, you glimpsed a tall blond male figure and suddenly there was dark again. Except there was one more body in the very limited room of the closet, making you press your back onto the shelf.

Something rattled with your movement and the newcomer hissed a barely audible ‘Be quiet’ as two columns of muscles that were probably his arms framed your head leaning onto the very same shelf, so you could both fit in here.

The little order leaving his lips broke the last seal inside you. You were tired, frustrated and were receiving enough humiliation as it was, you did not need some random guy invading your hideout, barking orders.

“Look, mister, if you have any problem with me trying to make a little space for you in this tiny-ass closet, I recommend you to-”

“Shh!” he hushed you and you thought you had never heard someone whisper so urgently; at least it sounded less bossy than before. It did not mollify you though, because this guy actually had enough impudence to-

“Don't you dare to shush me-!”

A hand went to cover your mouth and you let out an exasperated mumble of curses, while his voice continued.

“Please, just— I'm sorry, please, don't make a sound, my friend is trying to set me up and-”

Your eyes went wide and he suddenly fell silent. Before you could question his methods of shutting you up, his exclaim or the pause, and ask him to be so kind to find another closet, another male voice sounded somewhere behind the door.

“Come on, Steeeve. Man, don't be such a prude. Lillian is a great chic, okay?”

The man – the friend, you assumed – seemed annoyed and you couldn't believe that Steve had not been kidding you. He was actually hiding for the very reason he had offered you. You nodded as you heard the stranger behind the door move and the hand covering your mouth hesitantly disappeared.

“It's just a lip piercing, don't be such a tight-ass. It can actually be quite fun, you wouldn't believe what a girl can do with such thing…”

“Gross,” you commented soundlessly and you could feel your companion’s eyes burning a hole into your head in silent agreement.

“Goddammit, Steve!”

The voice and the footsteps slowly disappeared in the distance and you… you were face to face with a stranger named Steve in a limited space of a dark supply closet, his breath tickling your scalp, his cologne very much assaulting your nose; at least it was a pleasant assault.

“I'm sorry for being so rude. And thank you,” his voice caressed your hairline gently and hearing his suddenly polite tone and evaluating this whole situation, you could barely hold back a giggle all of sudden.

“You're welcome, Steve. How long has this been going on?”

“Two days-” That didn't sound too bad, he could probably take a lot more- “-at this level. With Lillian. It was Emily before that and Angelina before that. In smaller scale, it's been happening for about four months,” he recited dutifully as if he was reporting a status to his boss and this time you couldn’t help it – you giggled.

When you could feel the wounded gaze he gave you, you obediently made a sympathetic noise.

“Aww, poor you, your friend supplying you with no doubt great relationship material…”

“That’s what he said! But I don't want a relationship material. I don't want any material, not even his… one-night stand material. What does that mean anyway? These are women he's talking about, not a material-”

You let out a tiny pleased sound at his exasperation, which shut him up. You wondered if it was your turn to speak – it was hard to tell, supply-closet conversations weren't exactly your area of expertise.

“Kudos for that thinking,” you noted after short silence and the darker shadow of his figure tilted his head. “Did you try to tell him that you weren't interested…? Of course you did, why am I asking, that was a stupid question…”

“It's okay. I'm sorry, I got a little… carried away. It just… it's like talking to a brick wall.”

You hummed in sympathy again and the room fell into silence once more.

It was ridiculous how much your mind started working over hundred percent, trying to come up with something appropriate to say. The best you could do was:

“Hey, you want a cup of overpriced organic coffee? I happen to have two.”

The needy noise that let his lips was downright pornographic. Or maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, the strange environment finally getting to you.

“I knew I smelled coffee here! I thought I went completely insane.”

You couldn't help but smile at that. Yeah, you knew the feeling all too well.

“Nope, your senses were not playing tricks on you. Help yourself. It should be around your left hand.” A rustling of a paper bag. “Oh. That's a carob-nut muffin – with carob instead of cocoa. You can have that too, I won't need that.”

“Alright, I gotta ask. Why are you hiding in a supply closet, with a muffin and two cups of expensive coffee nonetheless? And may I hand you one?”

“Such a gentleman. Thanks,” you murmured and accepted the cup. You weren't lying about not needing it – you wouldn't. Because you were about to quit; it was inevitable.

You sipped the warm liquid, its taste as bitter as the reason behind your actions.

“So?”

“I'm hiding from my boss.”

Your voice must have sounded terrible, because his own softened at the confession.

“And why is that?”

“Because if I bring him his coffee and muffin, he'll probably call me his good girl and— and slap my butt and-”

“I beg your pardon?” he growled, like honest to God growled, the strange sound warming your scalp.

And it was the righteous outrage in the sound he let out, the reaction that you needed, someone agreeing with you – a stranger, who wouldn’t feel obliged to do so just it was a duty of being a good friend to you – that made the levee break. Suddenly tears were streaming down your face, anger and humiliation, and your breath was hitching in embarrassing hiccups and the dark space felt so anonymous and safe at the same time that you didn't even care anymore.

“And if he does that I’ll have to– to quit, because I-I'm so fucking fed up with his dis-disgusting hands and si-sickening voice voicing his lizard thoughts a-and I ca-can't quit goddammit, I worked so fucking hard to-to get a job h-here and-”

You didn't realise your hands started trembling until the cup disappeared from them, placed back on the shelf, and a pair of much bigger and warmer hands gently enveloped yours, his body shifting just a little closer as he lost the support that had been keeping some distance between you.

“Hey, hey, shh, it's gonna be okay…” his voice washed over you soothingly, sounding almost at your ear.

Still, there was space between your bodies, a respectable distance – as respectable as possible in the limited space. It was as if he acknowledged it could make you uncomfortable – which probably wasn't exactly hard to figure out, given what you just told him.

“I'm sorry,” you sobbed and cleared your throat afterwards in attempt to compose yourself. “I didn't mean to load that on you, my problems are none of your concern-”

“Like hell they aren't. Sexual harassment on a workplace is everyone's concern, or it should be,” he grunted. His hands tightened their grip, not uncomfortably – reassuring. “This okay?”

You smiled through your tears. This Steve guy was really sweet to you. You almost forgot what it was like to be treated with respect.

“Y-yeah. Thank you for-- for asking. That was really nice.”

He huffed. “It should be a normal human decency. And I did grab you before that, sorry.”

“Something tells me you would let go if I said no more vehemently.”

“Of course I would.”

You gave him a watery smile he couldn't see and tried to calm your breathing completely. His thumb caressing your wrist helped. You wondered which department he was from; if his skills in comforting came with a job description or if he was a natural.

“Have you… have you tried to fill in a report?” he asked hesitantly, making your heart stop.

Oh yeah, you had. It had ended up in a shredder machine, because Thomas had spotted it. He had made you do it yourself, standing over you and watching, claiming the complaint had been baseless and it would pointless to hand it anyway, because he would explain the HR how it truly was. That you had made a move and he, the good father and husband he had been, politely turned you down, which turned you vengeful.

You whispered the story to Steve, your voice trembling, more tears escaping and you could immediately tell he believed you – because his grip grew steely strong, his teeth grinding.

“This is wrong. You should have never been forced to work for a man like him– objectifying you, touching you, threatening you, that's just--- you should talk to Tony,” he blurted out in the end and you frowned.

“Who's Tony?”

You had checked the whole HR department via their website when doing your research. You couldn't recall any Tony.

There was a short pause, broken by Steve's confused voice. “Stark.”

You blinked, wondering if Steve was joking. He didn't sound like he was joking, which was strange, because so far, he had seemed to be a smart and reasonable man.

“There's no way I'm scoring a meeting with Mr. Stark. And it's not like he’s dealing with things like that.”

“...Talk to Pepper then. I doubt she has bigger than zero tolerance for harassment,” he exclaimed confidently as if talking to Pepper Potts (this time you assumed whom he was talking about – did he call all of the big bosses their first name…?) was an option for a regular human being like you. Realizing that all over again though, that was tough.

“While I believe that’s her policy, it's not like I can just walk into her office.”

Steve seemed to consider that, while his thumb was still drawing patterns on your skin, almost subconsciously.

“I think you could. But if you're worried it might take a while and you’re scared to go back to your office now, let me walk you. I can explain him that every employee deserves to be treated with respect,” he offered finally, deadly serious, yet still sounding kind.

Your heart swelled. A guy you just met (in a supply closet, a good story to be narrated at parties, you supposed), suggested to help you out, no hesitation. God, wasn't he just too pure for this world?

“I… thank you, Steve. But… while you do have an impressive frame, I think it would only get worse. I think I'll just enjoy this extremely hipster coffee, which I'll later have to pay for no doubt and… and go face my boss to hand him my resignation. There are plenty jobs, right? I can as well serve coffee in a café,” you said with a sad smile, letting your hands slip from his comfortable hold.

“That's not right. Especially if you worked hard to– not to mention it's a matter of principle. You run away once and… running is a very hard habit to break,” he whispered, as if a secret, trying to reason with you.

You bit your lip when the truth of his words washed over you, along with the way he spoke; with such a strong believe in principles that should stand a standard. It… he made you forgot your own trouble for a second as you let yourself get lost in him. In the way he treated you, the protector's persona, yet not forced. He had suggested you to ‘let him come with you’, not even a note of command in his approach. This was not a man seeing an opportunity to be a hero when spotting the damsel in distress; this was a man who believed in what was right and wanted to fix things that were apparently broken. You wished there were more men like him, selfishly wanting one of them to be your boss.

“And men like these – they need to be put in line,” he added darkly, snapping you from your daydreaming of a better world. “Let me come with you. I'll—I’ll help you fill in the forms, walk you to HR. You don't have to deal with this alone.”

For all the comfort the dark had offered you so far, you wished for a little bit more light now, enough to see his face, his eyes. You knew they would be burning with honesty, you were sure of it, maybe a little rage aimed at a man who dared to treat another human being the way he did.

The offer was so tempting. But just imagining the security escorting Steve from the building for wanting to help you was enough to put out the fiery need to accept. It was ridiculous to care so much about his well-being after what could be minutes of knowing him, but no one could call you out on it. And if they did, you could always play it cool with ‘matter of principles’; good people only deserved good things.

You carefully reached out, hoping to find his hand again. Your heart skipped a beat when you brushed his thigh instead, but at least his hand was right next to it. He released a surprised breath when you took it into yours, way smaller one. You bit your lip when leaning in a little, blindly trying to meet his gaze.

“You’re a good man, Steve. I’m sorry your friend is giving you a hard time, you don't deserve that – even though I'm sure he means well. If you ever want to get him off your back...” you wavered at the ridiculous idea, but hey, why the hell not, he had offered to help you out first, “you can say you're seeing someone. Give him my card. I'll confirm we're together – he seems like a kind of a guy who would check.”

Shocked breathless laugh erupted from his chest and you assumed you hit the nail on the head. You fished out one of your business cards, handing it to him and releasing his hand then.

It was time to leave and face your fate, but Steve didn't make any attempt at moving out of the closet.

In fact, he seemed to examine the card for a while and then he quietly read out your name. You gasped in surprise. How the hell could he see anything? You could barely make out his silhouette!

“How-”

“I'm used to working in dark spaces,” he muttered absently. “Would you really do that?”

Slightly taken aback he was considering your offer, you nodded, only to realize he couldn't see it--- actually, he probably could.

“I would. Hell, I think I could handle one uncomfortable dinner with your friend vetting me,” you added, slightly amused at the idea. When you could hear his shocked exhale and wanted to take it back. “I didn't mean to-”

“Let me come with you to your office,” he repeated like a broken record and you frowned at the sudden change of topic.

“What-”

“It could throw your boss off your back for long enough for you to deal with the complaint. If you would be comfortable enough to play my girlfriend for a dinner time, why not now?”

Your eyes went wide and you almost choked on air.

“I-what? I told you it would probably only make it worse-”

“It will work.”

“How can you be so-”

The door yanked open and your eyes were hit by an unpleasantly sharp light, making you squint.

“Holy-” a ridiculously familiar voice you couldn’t place breathed out. “Wilson! I found him! You’ve gotta see this!”

You wanted to see the owner of the voice, but your view was completely blocked by the broad chest of your companion.

So you at least raised your head to meet Steve face to face so to speak. You couldn’t see much, your eyes still adjusting; with the light shining from behind him, playing a mysterious game with his blond locks, framing his impressive figure, he looked like a freaking angel, beautiful and righteous, bringing justice, yet wrapped in an aura of peace and serenity. You barely kept your jaw from falling on the floor.

You kept staring, focusing on his face, and slowly started realizing that his features too, were familiar. Mortification was creeping up your back as the puzzle pieces started falling into place, creating a horrifying picture, making you wish for the Earth to swallow you.

The voice from behind Steve’s back resolved the last doubts you had about your temporary mysterious roommate.

“Wouldn’t peg you as a get-freaky-in-a-closet kind of guy, Capsicle.”

You wanted to immediately protest that you had definitely not been getting freaky in the closet, but your brain was still frozen because of the big revelation – that you had just been comforted, hell, that you had just offered to be a fake date to Captain America.

You simply stared at him, unbeing able to hold your jaw from falling anymore. Because– because-- oh god.

Now it made perfect sense that he thought Thomas Gregory would be intimidated… by the idea of harassing Captain America’s girlfriend. You couldn’t really blame Steve for being sure it would work. Also, it kinda explained why he called Mr. Stark or Ms. Potts their first names – they were on the first name basis.

Which really was the least relevant thing right now.

A bashful smile appeared on Steve’s lips, a little guilty perhaps, and you just… giggled at the absurdity. You couldn’t help it. You had just spent minutes in a supply closet with Steve Rogers without having a single clue about it and while you didn’t do anything heated as someone would assume, it was one of the most amazing minutes of your life.

You must have looked like an idiot or something, because he chuckled too, completely ignoring another male voice growing in volume as the newcomer approached.

“Holy hell, man! I can’t believe what I’m seeing!”

At those words, Steve tentatively took your hand with an encouraging smile and led you out to the hall. You were met with two pairs of curious eyes examining you from head to toe. You lowered your gaze, now fully aware of the fact they belonged to Tony Stark – the Iron Man – and Samuel Wilson – the Falcon.

Well. Now the ‘party story’ finally got the right juice.

“Then don’t, Sam, because it’s not what it looks like,” Steve replied to his match-maker friend and took a deep breath, squeezing your hand tighter. “Tony, this woman would like to report harassment on her workplace.”

Your head snapped to Steve’s face with panicked gaze. What the hell was he doing?!

Tony Stark made a noise of disapproval.

“Couldn’t you try harder so she wouldn’t complain about you?”

“Tony,” Steve addressed him, his voice solemn just like his expression, which clearly surprised the billionaire. “I’m serious. It’s not about me. Her boss is the reason why she was hiding here.”

Without commenting any further, Steve handed him your business card and Mr. Stark hummed. You weren’t brave enough to look up. Was he going to wave it off? Was he going to fire you?

He said your name, making you gulp in fright. You had to look up now and you really didn’t wanna, too afraid of what you’d see. You were shocked to meet with a searching gaze, but not a mean one.

“It is true? Is your boss giving you trouble? Making sexist comments? Worse?”

You felt tears in your eyes, utterly taken aback by his sensitive tone, the inviting light in his eyes. It was too much to bear and you wanted to escape the kind gaze; and he wouldn’t let you. You only managed to nod when you felt Steve’s thumb caressing the back of your hand.

Mr. Stark sighed, adding a dark ‘goddammit’, and returned Steve the business card.

“Alright, kids. Let’s have a trip.”

And you just stared.

…what?

Part 2

I know, I know, Steve is a little bit of Knight-In-Shining-Armour here, but it made sense to me O:-)

Happy weekend!

Thank you for reading!

#fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america imagine #steve rogers #captain america #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america fanfic #captain america fanfiction #civilian reader #in the strangest place we just might find love #anika ann

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corysmiles · 3 years

Note

Could you believe I actually am back with some Runnaway Experiment WRITING??? :D

This takes place very early on in the story, and gives some more insight into Tommy's life before they escaped (in the comics). Enjoy :D

-------

The experiment was growing years after years, to everyone’s delight. It seemed the first laboratorial human had a decent enough lifespan so that it could be studied in the long run. And so, 14 years, it has been since T0M saw the light of day, and it acted in a similar fashion a 14 year old human would. .

Of course, the many researchers failed to take in consideration an alteration of the most cumbersome. T0M looked human, could understand the english language, followed orders and didn’t complain, asked some questions but the specimen…. was big.

Too big to fit in a human bed.

Too big to fit comfortably in a room.

It went in spurts, which was terrifying the first time. It kept on growing and growing, as scientists hoped it wouldn't take long for it to stop, otherwise, it might lead to a lot of problems. But for the past 2 years, no noticeable change really occurred, which was a relief when the thing was already 25 ft tall. It never seemed to be challenging personality wise, which was a relief, but they still needed to keep him in line.

Hopefully, the Doctor Soot, as well as Doctor Puff took part in daily check ups and made sure he didn’t rebel.

So, every 2 day, they took turns to visit T0M in the room accustomed to its needs.

And both’s reports were excellent! T0M learned more while being as obedient and compliant as ever. Phil couldn’t be more happy with those results.

However, as time went on…. Wilbur failed to mention another kind of teaching he had going on with the subject for the past months.

“And this is called ‘Sadness’.” He held an A3 size paper with a moody smiley drawn on it, the word being written below. “It’s that feeling when our sessions are over and I have to go and you say ‘oh noooo’ in that voice.”

T0M was sitting on his knees in front of him, paying the utmost attention to what Wilbur was showing and saying.

“I hate that one.” He pouted.

“I know,” Wilbur chuckled. “No one likes to feel sad. But it’s a part of life.”

A single hum. Wilbur’s smile turned more sympathetic.

“Do you remember the other ones?” He stood up from his place and put the sheet in one of the dark grey metallic drawers.

T0M nodded, excitedly. He took his hand and poked his fingers as he counted. “ there’s “Happiness”, it’s the good one. And “Disgust”, it’s when I have to eat the weird green stuff.”

“Brocoli”

“That. And then there’s excitement, it’s when I smile real big because you come early.”

Wilbur clapped “Wonderful!” T0M’s eyes were shining stars at every approval from Doctor Soot. Even though T0M’s enjoyment was very appreciated and contagious, but it could be a bit… much, to handle at times.

“Since you understand the basics, I think it’s time for us to start a whole new lesson.” He clapped.

T0M gasped and cheered from the top of his lungs “YEAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!”, throwing his arms in the air and effectively making the room shake from the sheer volume of his voice. When he looked back at the scientist, his eyebrows were pinched and the brunette was covering his ears and curled up, almost in pain.

“...Doctor?” He brought his head close to the man who, after making eye contact, scrambled back until he hit the same drawer he put the papers in earlier. T0M looked at him confused, face still too big in Wilbur’s peripheral.

“I… Tom, I appreciate your enthusiasm when we do our lessons, but if you could prevent yourself from screaming, it would be nice.” He tried in the most gentle voice he could muster without it shaking.

“What’s screaming?” T0M asked, crouched so his face was almost on the ground at eye level with him. He brought a hand closer to the doctor who was still breathing heavily. When his head shot to look at the hand, his body on alert, he froze before saying.

“... Is it a moment when I can’t touch you?”

Wilbur’s eyes were locked on the now frozen hand for a good second before returning to T0M, nodding. “Uh, yeah.”

“... Okay.”

The hand retracted in the following seconds, and soon, he was back in his initial position.

The doctor thanked before regaining his composure. He looked back at T0M, and his expression held remorse. A guilt twisted Wilbur's guts at the view. Thing is, as T0M grew up, people quickly realised he was the equivalent of clingy. He would constantly grab people into hugs and had a hard time keeping his voice down which resulted in a large noise blocker investment. And so they had a rule. T0M couldn’t make any sort of physical contact with anyone without being given explicit permission first. Obviously, most workers considered T0M as a test subject and therefore, wouldn’t give him that pleasure.

Wilbur, though, was not in the same vein. Once he realised how empathic and emotional and human T0M was, he started teaching him things a human teen should need, and started giving him a sort of affection a human teen should have. Which included some sort of physical affection.

When T0M was sad, he would sit next to him or pat his back. It quickly evolved as Wilbur accepted being held by the boy and brought to eye level as long as he was careful when doing so, and ever later, they would hug and wilbur would try to brush his hair at times.

Still, that didn’t make him immune to any of T0M’s carelessness which’s consequences were amplified ten fold due to his scale.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked pitifully.

“I- no, it’s not your fault. It can just be a bit overwhelming is all.” Wilbur explained.

“... what does that mean?”

“It means… when something is ‘too much’. Like when you want to bring Techno very close, but he keeps reminding you about the rule.”

“Oh.” T0M let his head fall. “... I don’t like that.” Wilbur scratched his head. “I want to be so close and show that I’m very happy and it’s all inside and I can’t let it out.”

“Well, here, it’s a bit more of the opposite. When outside, there is a lot and you’re incapable of letting it in.”

“... I’m sorry Wilbur” he mumbled.

“It’s okay, I’m not angry.” reassured the brunette. “I just have sensitive ears.”

“...Everyone has sensitive ears.”

“Well, when you’re a small guy like me, you’re sensitive on pretty much all fronts.”

“... It’s not fair.”

“What’s that?” Wilbur perked.

“When I stop getting big and strong, I want to hug you with all of my will. Like you do with me. It feels nice. I want you to feel nice just like that. I want you to be overwhelmed with happiness. I want to hug you so, so bad but I can't and it's shit. I don't want to be strong, I hurt you if I’m strong. I want to hug you."

Tommy vented, more to himself, and when he looked at Wilbur, his eyes shined, not with joy.

"Oh Tommy…."

It ached. It ached Wilbur to his core that something as simple as a hug was something he craved and still couldn't get. Because he knew. He knew all of the things T0M was missing out on. All the life he could have lived if he was granted freedom. How much he could live and appreciate. It kept him awake at night.

But he was here. Trapped. In a room barely tall enough to contain him, treated like a circus monster. And the worst thing was, T0M wasn't aware of it. Of all the life he wasn't living. How his life was no life and how he thinks this absence of everything is what life should be.

Plato would probably laugh in his grave.

"I promise you. One day, you will be able to do that. I promise you that I'll find a way for you to hug me just like you are a small man too. I promise you that I'll make you discover all of those joys of life, Tom. I Promise you. I will help you. And I'm sorry for not being able to provide it sooner. And I'll apologize for all the years it took for me to get it."

They stared at each other, and Tommy nodded, throat tight and eyes wet.

"And a promise makes sure that it's gonna happen." T0M croaked.

"Exactly, tom." Wilbur smiled. "You are going to live many more things."

The bell rang, and both faces fell a bit.

"I'll see you in 4 days, Tom. We're gonna have a little recap over the emotions you learned and then I'll teach you about relationships."

"Oohh, that sounds nice! What is it?"

As Wilbur packed his little bag, he looked at T0M and simply replied "it's all around you. But I'm not gonna spoil the next session. On that note, I wish you a nice week, Tom."

"Have a nice week, Wilbur! " T0M waved with a smile. "It's nice talking to you."

"It is my absolute pleasure, Tom."

And thus, they parted. As Wilbur walked down the immense corridor (just tall enough Tom could run through them.) He wore a satisfied smile. His small steps resonated, the only sound in the room, yet peaceful enough for his ears to listen to them as carefully as silence. Halfway through, the sound was doubled.

"Helloooo."

"Oh, hey techno! How are you?"

"Doing fine. You seem very happy."

"I am. I made some good progress with T-he subject. I feel like he's learning well. The next tests should have fabulous results."

"Ahh, wonderful. Let's make sure it doesn't learn too much though." He joked.

And at that, Wilbur chuckled, his hand on the man's shoulder. "Oh don't you worry about that, my friend. I can assure you that'll never happen"

"Amazing" techno replied, deadpan. Both nodded their conversation away and walked the rest of their ways.

As he got further away, the doctor's smile turned to an amused grin. His steps resonated, so much smaller than what could be, in a corridor in which the boy just next door should walk through.

"Don't you worry about a single thing."

MEL YES I ADORE THIS AU SO MUCH ITS SO GOOD!!!!!!!!

Poor Tommy but at least Wilbur is helping him :”]

#runaway experiment au #melissas writing #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #g!tommy #t!wilbur #YES YES TES #XJWJXJWNNX #SCREAMS AND YELLS AND CRIES #BUT IN A GOOD WAY #:D #I LOVEBTHSI AU

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teawaffles · 3 years

Text

Louis and the Aquaria: Chapter 5 / End

Now, we return to the scene at the beginning of the story.

A little regretfully, Fred left for his work as the “Crime Consultant’s” point of contact, and Louis was alone in the hall once again.

However, the situation was completely different from before. He was no longer watching helplessly as the fish grew weaker — instead, he’d found a ray of hope for its recovery.

Standing before the aquarium, Louis was now gambling on both the medicine’s efficacy and the fish’s own willpower.

“Please, help him……”

Fervently, he prayed for the angelfish’s recovery.

And as the so-called king of the aquarium swam about its tank, the image of his brother surfaced in his mind.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

Five days after that, the time had finally come for the tropical fish to be transported to Stapleton’s residence.

It was early in the morning, and the sky was perfectly clear. Several horse-drawn carts lay parked on the street outside their mansion. For ease of transport, the fish had been transferred to suitably-sized bottles; and as the members of the Moriarty household carried the bottles, tanks and other aquarium equipment onto the carts, Louis stood at the mansion entrance, quietly watching over the scene.

Although he’d nearly collapsed after those consecutive days of exertion, by the time the fish were set to be moved out, Louis had been able to recover his full strength. That haggard complexion of his was now restored to its healthy glow, and behind those spectacle lenses, his eyes shone with the sparkle of success.

At first, Louis had wanted to move the items onto the carts all by himself, saying that the entire enterprise down to the fishes’ transport was his responsibility. However, knowing he had contributed the most this time around, the rest of the Moriarty household insisted that he not work any longer. As a result, though dissatisfied, Louis had hence been relegated to a spectating role.

Occasionally, as they moved past him while carrying the fish in their bottles, the glint in Louis’s eyes would tremble ever so slightly. And when that happened, he would pretend to adjust his spectacles in order to hide the tremors in his heart.

“Feeling emotional, Louis?”

Seeing his younger brother readjust his perfectly-positioned spectacles for the fifth time, William walked up beside him.

Embarrassed, Louis gave a small cough, then straightened his back.

“I would never——”

He stopped. Then, looking at the carts, his voice grew soft.

“No, you’re right. I didn’t want to acknowledge it — but for once, I’m feeling rather sentimental.”

Hearing Louis reveal his true feelings, William gave him a fond look.

Before the two men, the bottles containing the pufferfish and guppies were being loaded onto the carts. Ever since the tiny fish had been given names, Louis’s tropical fish-keeping endeavour had taken a strange turn.

Recalling the reason that a spanner had been thrown in the works of this enterprise, Louis turned solemn, and dipped his head.

“Nii-san. I am truly sorry for what happened before. I went overboard, and ended up causing everyone unnecessary worry. I was immature, and I shall reflect gravely on that.”

Not only did he grow fanatical over the angelfish named after his brother, he even made the aquarium layout needlessly extravagant, and recreated a South American habitat through and through. To top it off, in caring for the sick fish, he had nearly destroyed his own health. Looking back on it all with a cool eye, he had really been quite reckless.

As Louis reflected on his actions in earnest, right then, Moran and Fred walked past bearing pots of tropical plants: the by-products of his over-enthusiasm. They would now become a surprise gift for Stapleton.

Without taking his gaze off the trees, Louis burned those symbols of his inadequacy firmly into his eyes.

Watching his brother ruminate on the subject so gravely, after a beat of silence, William spoke.

“You may be right. If the situation had persisted, and you’d collapsed, the care of the other fish may’ve been impacted. Although you took care not to let that happen, I do wish you had taken the worst-case scenario into account and talked with me more.”

“…………”

Louis knew that. But still, to have his faults pointed out by someone he respected — those words had pierced through his chest.

Naturally, the sense of achievement that’d grown within Louis now began to wilt; though his face once bore a proud expression, he now favoured looking down instead.

“But you know, that’s just one part of the story.”

“Eh?”

Out of the blue, William had added that in a gentle voice, and Louis was startled.

He couldn’t decipher the meaning behind that remark. Then, William narrated his own thoughts.

“Louis, you went overboard for a single fish, so much so you neglected your own body — I don’t think you should’ve done that, since there were in fact two other angelfish which could act as substitutes. But in a way, to go so far in order to ensure that not even a single life is wasted: that could be seen as an expression of your sincerity.”

Sincerity.

Louis knew he’d been driven by an impulse akin to selfishness. But strangely, he did not resist as that word seeped into his heart.

“Certainly, I had said that it’s possible to replace the fish if they die. But I think it’s wrong to take that at face value, and put one’s faith in how there’ll be replacements, or second chances.”

William moved on to talk about the attitude Louis had taken towards his work.

“Such naive thinking can undermine one’s focus on the task at hand. For example, if you were to think ‘There’s two more of them, anyway’, and approach the enterprise with that optimistic mindset, it wouldn’t be a surprise if all the fish ended up dying right away. In other words, Louis: from that point of view, I would say your earnestness towards that one fish was exceptionally appropriate.”

“……Nii-san.”

William’s tone had contained no more emotion than what his words conveyed, and in no way had he defended Louis’s actions. He was simply assessing them from an objective standpoint.

And that, was precisely why Louis was glad.

He’d thought his actions were nothing more than a mistake born from his own foolishness. But William had shown him that they could in fact be seen as the complete opposite. Taken another way, his persistence towards that one fish was proof of his ardour for his work — that, was what his older brother was telling him.

For now, William fell silent. And right then, the two brothers caught sight of Moran carrying an aquarium tank toward the carts. He hadn’t faltered at all since the start: with his physical strength, it seemed no load was too heavy for him to bear.

It looked like there were only a few things left to move; Fred, who’d also been hard at work loading the items, now put in a last burst of energy. Incidentally, Albert had already moved his share of the items onto the carts earlier, and left for his work at the universal trading company.

Taking his gaze off Moran, Louis now stared at the empty tanks lined up on the carts.

Then, the sight of the three angelfish swimming in close formation sprang to mind.

“…………”

In truth, before their departure from the mansion, he had wanted to return ‘William’ to the tank with the other two angelfish. He’d thought it would be nice to see them swimming harmoniously together once more.

But that wish had not been fulfilled. For Louis, who was in charge of this endeavour, it was truly a pity.

Then, following behind Moran, Fred stepped out the doorway of the mansion. In his arms was a bottle that held a certain fish.

Louis stood before the entrance. Fred studied his expression, and asked him a question.

“This’s the last one…… Is it really alright to load it up?”

“……Yes, please do.”

His reply bore a faint sense of loneliness. Hearing that, Fred nodded solemnly, and proceeded towards the carts.

For one last time, Louis looked at the bottle Fred was holding.

Swimming within it, was the angelfish that’d been ill up to a few days ago.

Earlier, as Fred spoke to him, Louis had noticed it swimming languidly yet powerfully through the water. The rays of the morning sun, just risen, gleamed off its silver scales — their lustre was simply beautiful.

In other words—— the angelfish had thoroughly regained its former elegance.

The day after he used the treatment William provided, the fish had gradually recovered, and fully regained its strength just the day before. However, as Louis was hesitant to stop the treatment immediately after it had recuperated, he had no choice but to abandon the thought of letting it rejoin its former tank mates. Instead, it spent its remaining days in the mansion confined to the small aquarium.

At the very least, he’d wanted to see the “three brothers” together once more.

However, as Fred loaded the bottle onto the cart, Louis quietly closed his eyes, and put that thought away.

——They are but three fish; they’re not the same as us, by any means.

That cold line was directed at himself.

After caring for them so wholeheartedly, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t grown fond of them in the slightest.

Moreover, if he had asked his brother seriously, it might have been possible to leave just the three angelfish behind in the mansion. In any case, there were many other varieties of tropical fish: they didn’t necessarily have to part with those three.

However, Louis did not do that.

As Fred had brought up, the one who’d asserted that the fish were nothing more than tools — was none other than himself.

He had no intention of retracting his words now. Furthermore, he was afraid that when the next mission came around, he might just let his emotions get the better of him, and end up causing irreversible damage.

When all was said and done, those stunning tropical fish were simply tools — a means to an end.

There were some things that could only be obtained by pushing aside sentimentality, disciplining oneself, and devoting one’s heart to their work, just as he had done.

And he was sure that his brother understood those feelings of his.

Even as he felt a pang of regret, Louis banished those thoughts, and met his brother’s gaze beside him.

William smiled back. “Well then, we’ve had a rather long chat, if I do say so myself,” he said. “But all that was just waffle. There’s only one thing I want to tell you, Louis.”

He knew what Louis truly wanted to hear right now. Then, he spoke in a warm and gentle voice — not as the leader of a criminal organisation that lurked in the darkness, but as an older brother.

“You didn’t let a single life go to waste: you did a great job, Louis.”

“……Yes!”

Louis replied with vigour. Then, dropping his guard, he nearly broke into a grin — and tried to suppress it in a panic. But he barely managed to stop himself from cracking a smile; emotion welled up from the depths of his heart, and his eyes misted over: it seemed that such sentiment could not be suppressed, even by a cool-headed man like himself. Through a mist of tears, he could vaguely make out the figure of his brother standing before him.

To become his brother’s strength. To fulfil his brother’s wishes. And, if possible, even if it was only for a little bit: to receive his brother’s praise.

Right after receiving that task from William, he had inadvertently obtained what he’d desired — and Louis was trembling with emotion.

William adjusted his tie. “Well then, it seems everything has been loaded up,” he murmured. “I think it’s time for me to get ready to leave as well.”

Then, he softly placed a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder.

“Leave the rest to me, Louis. I’ll make sure your work wasn’t in vain.”

“I know, nii-san.”

Without a shadow of a doubt, Louis was certain of it. ——That his brother, would never let his own efforts go to waste.

Hearing that, William smiled; then, his expression immediately reverted to that of the “Crime Consultant”, and he went back into the mansion.

After seeing his brother off, Louis glanced at the carts full of glass tanks, and murmured to himself.

“……It’ll be time to make breakfast soon.”

Once he’d ascertained that the transport preparations were complete, the memories of his arduous days spent with the fish then morphed into a record of observations. In his mind, his thoughts switched back to their usual subjects: those of managing the mansion and their estate.

However, deep in his heart, that gorgeous silver light remained as an unfading memory.

Louis had taken on the challenge of maintaining aquaria, and completed his mission since. Surrounding him was a refined atmosphere, and the air of a man who’d finally brought an enterprise to fruition.

T/N: omg I have so many thoughts about this one — much longer than the usual one-liner at the end of each story — so they’re in a separate section below if you’re interested :3

Translator’s thoughts (haha)

Louis’s growth

I think this story in particular is the previously-untold link in Louis’s character development! As seen in the Baskervilles arc and the start of this story, Louis initially had this worldview that he needed to be a cold-blooded machine to fulfil William’s wishes. To him, everything else was unnecessary if they did not serve his brother’s goals.

But in the course of caring for the angelfish, Louis was forced to confront the fact that he was actually fond of the angelfish — even though this contradicted his existing worldview, since emotion is unnecessary in rearing mere tools. And upon reflecting on how he handled the whole debacle, he finally realised that although the way in which he acted on that affection was not entirely right — showering the fish with too much love, which might’ve led to its falling ill, and sacrificing his own health and potentially the entire endeavour to save just one fish — the very presence of that affection was not a bad thing; and as William affirmed, he should continue to value every single life.

So I think this was the turning point from which Louis started to let go of that obsession toward his brother, and act on his own emotions and wishes: what he thinks is right, as opposed to merely what William wants. And this culminated in him seeking Sherlock’s help to save his brother, even as William himself did not want to be saved.

So in short, I really think this story is a key point in Louis’s character development, connecting the Louis of the Baskervilles arc with the Louis we see in the Final Problem arc — a missing link in the narrative, if you will!

Some random thoughts:

I’d think that sometime after the events of this story, Louis would properly apologise to Fred over what happened in the Baskerville mission

William told Louis he was right to not let even a single life go to waste — I think those words would’ve echoed in Louis’s mind when he sought Sherlock’s help together with Fred

Parallels to the Final Problem arc

Furthermore, some aspects of this story do parallel what happened in the Final Problem arc:

‘William’ being the one to fall ill

Louis trying very hard to save him

Louis praying for someone to help his brother

Help coming from a friend, rather than Louis himself

‘William’ remaining separate from the other two angelfish for a time

I wonder if it’s intentional, in the same vein as that past illustration by Hikaru-sensei where William covered his left eye with a rose… It could be possible: this book was published alongside the Phantom arc (Volume 7), so it’s conceivable that the Final Problem arc had already been planned out by that point.

Wow this has been a long one — thank you for reading this far! And onward to the next story ヽ(*・ω・)ﾉ

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #english translation #a study in scarlet

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ayybtch · 3 years

Text

You’re Worth A Perjury Charge

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Part of A Mutual Weirdness

Summary: Bucky finds a kitten outside of your apartment and brings him inside. You make him be a responsible adult and take the cat to the vet to find out if it's microchipped, but Bucky is so head over heels for his newfound furbaby he’s willing to risk legal repercussions.

Word Count: 2,422

Warnings: None! Bucky being absolutely adorable with a cat

A/N: So I didn’t previously have a tag list for this series, but I started one for my Wanda fic and a couple people asked about it for this so I’m starting one! Let me know if you’d like a tag! Additionally, you don’t have to have read the part before this but it’s a little funnier if you have given that the script is flipped between them.

“Uh, Bucky, what the hell is that?” you ask, eyes wide at the wet ball of fur poking out of Bucky’s leather jacket.

Bucky looked down at the little white cat, smiling as it meowed softly. “I found this little guy by the trash cans downstairs. It was raining so I couldn’t just leave him there.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “If that’s where you found him, how do you know he isn’t one of my neighbors’ cats? I get wanting to get him out of the rain, but the heart eyes you’re giving him makes me think you want to keep him.”

Bucky frowned at you, “Of course I’m keeping him. Look at him, he’s soaking wet and looks half starved! Clearly, he’s not being taken care of if he does belong to someone, so really I’m just doing everyone here a favor by taking him in.” He glared at you as you started to laugh.

“Oh, I can just see the headline now: ‘Former Winter Soldier Locked in Cat Custody Battle’. Some little old lady who just adopted this cat - ” you laughed too hard to speak for a moment, “- is going to go berserk and sue you for everything you’re worth just because you like her cat.”

Bucky huffed and opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the cat meowing. The smile on his face as he stared down at the little bundle of fur made you melt, though you did your best to hide that fact from Bucky.

Bucky nodded along attentively as the kitten continued to meow. “I know, she’s being so inconsiderate of your well-being, isn’t she? She’s worried about some little old lady suing me over you. Well, guess what? She can sue me all she wants, I’m not letting you go. Even if I have to lie to a judge and say ‘I plead not guilty in case of the missing cat. Please ignore the gentle meows coming from inside my jacket - ” He paused again as the cat continued to meow. “Mhm, you are absolutely right. You’re worth a perjury charge.”

What on Earth was happening here? You are the animal crazy one, not Bucky. Yet here you are, being the reasonable and responsible adult in a situation involving an animal. The irony of the situation hit you and you couldn't help but chuckle.

Your laughter eventually died as you noticed the heart eye expression on Bucky’s face. He was already completely enamored with the kitten. Sighing, you knew you needed to find a middle ground and fast.

“Bucky, baby, would you at least be willing to take him to go see a vet? We owe it to whoever might own the cat to see if there’s a microchip. If there’s not one, we can get a check up on the little guy while we’re there and make sure he’s good to go.”

Bucky stared at you suspiciously for a moment before responding. “What do you mean ‘good to go’? You don’t mean to get rid of him, do you?”

You shook your head. “No baby, I just want to make sure he’s okay so you have a happy, healthy kitty in your life.” You almost didn’t get your sentence out before he was squishing you into a hug. A small gasp escaped his lips and he pulled away abruptly.

“I could’ve squished the baby! Are you okay?” Bucky pulled out the cat and examined him anxiously. A small squeak left the cat, confirming he was okay.

While he agreed that a vet visit was in order, the new challenge was figuring out when to take the cat. Bucky refused to take him back into the rain, claiming it was going to make him sick. You conceded and agreed to let the kitten stay until the weather broke. That was all Bucky needed to start trying his hardest to convince you that he should keep the cat regardless of what the vet said. Every time the cat did anything cute, Bucky was gasping and pointing out how cute he was. He almost started crying when the cat pounced on a random sock laying next to the coffee table, swearing up and down he had never seen a more precious sight in his life.

The number of pictures Bucky was taking of the kitten as he explored the apartment was hysterical. Any time he took an exceptionally cute picture, he immediately sent it to you. You currently had 18 unopened messages from Bucky, each one a different picture of the cat. You finally had to put an end to it once the kitten curled up on a pillow in the living room, settling down for a nap.

You tugged on Bucky’s hand and led him over to a barstool and gestured for him to sit. You made two sandwiches, handing one to him once it was done. The two of you ate in silence. It wasn’t until you were almost done eating that you spoke.

“You know, it’s kind of refreshing having you be the one that’s animal crazy for a change.”

Bucky smiled at you sheepishly. “What can I say, you’ve rubbed off on me.” His voice was teasing as he spoke, but the slight blush on his face suggested this was all just as unexpected to him as it was to you. A second silence fell over you, but this time he was the one who broke it.

“So what should we name him?” he asked, pulling out his phone and scrolling through the new pictures on his camera roll.

You sighed and put your head in your hands. “Baby, I know you’re excited but remember what we talked about. We don’t know if he belongs to anyone yet. Let’s not go getting ahead of ourselves.”

Bucky sighed and nodded slightly.

Four days later, the two of you walked into the vet’s office hand in hand. It was the earliest appointment you were able to make without it being an emergency and you were worried that the extra few days did nothing but increase Bucky’s attachment. The kitten was adorable, you couldn’t deny it. There were times you thought about how nice it would be to finally have a little furry companion but you refused to keep an animal that could belong to someone else.

Once the three of you arrived, you were checked in promptly by the receptionist and were led into the exam room by an overly peppy vet-tech a few minutes later. Once inside, she gently grabbed him out of Bucky’s arms and made kissy noises at him as she began her portion of the exam.

Watching the kitten refuse to hold still during the weighing process was amusing to say the least. He kept moving around and trying to jump off the scale. It took several attempts, but she was finally able to record his weight. She fared a little better while taking his temperature given she was holding him, but the kitten still wiggled trying to escape her hold.

“I wonder why he’s being such a spaz right now. He had no issues with me holding him yesterday. At least, none that I noticed.” Bucky paused and turned to face you, confusion written on his face, “Did he give you a hard time when you held him?”

The vet-tech chimed in before you had the chance to respond, “He’s probably just decided you’re his person. Cats are a lot like people in that they pick their person and trust them to do things they don’t trust anyone else with. He doesn’t know me, so it makes sense he’s being a little fussy.” She set the kitten back on the exam table and he jumped into Bucky’s lap.

Bucky stared down at the little bundle of fur that was now purring as he rubbed his face against Bucky’s stomach. His expression was a mixture of shock, joy, and love.

For the first time since Bucky had walked in with the cat, you truly contemplated helping Bucky keeping him even if he was microchipped. He was going to be crushed if this cat belonged to someone else. Your stomach twisted at the thought. If we can’t take him home, we’re immediately going to the animal shelter and Bucky can pick out as many cats as he likes, you thought.

A knock at the door pulled your thoughts back to the room. A new woman in a white lab coat walked in with a smile on her face. “Good morning everyone, I’m Dr. Brown. I hear you guys were lucky enough to find a cat, is that right?”

Bucky nodded and looked down again at the cat with a smile, “Yes ma’am. I found him in the alley next to our apartment.” He carefully picked up the kitten still laying on his lap and handed him out to her.

Dr. Brown smiled again as she reached out to grab him. “Why hello there handsome, how are you doing today? I’m gonna check to see if you’ve got a microchip which won’t be too bad, but I may have to give you a couple of shots -” her sentence was cut off by loud meowing from the kitten, almost as if he understood what she was saying.

She chuckled before continuing, “I know, I know. Shots aren’t fun for anyone. But let’s find out about your microchip and finish the rest of the exam and see if they’re needed before we start complaining too much.”

Bucky reached out and gripped your hand tightly as she set him down on top of the exam table. She held a small rectangular device just above his shoulder blades for a few moments before setting it down and continuing with the exam. She spent the entire time talking to the cat as she went about the exam. She checked both of his ears and his mouth before moving on to checking on the various limbs in his body. Once the exam was complete, she turned to face the two of you.

“Well, good news on all accounts. Mister Man here is a perfectly healthy kitten. He looks to be about 16 weeks and is in great shape all things considered. He does not have a microchip though, so that leaves us with some options moving forward.”

You let out a sigh of relief you didn’t know you were holding in. Bucky remained silent, though his grip on your hand grew slightly tighter. Dr. Brown didn’t wait for a response before continuing.

“If you want to keep him, we’ll microchip him and start giving him his first round of shots today since we don’t know if he’s had any so far. We’ll also send you home with a little goodie bag with some treats, a small toy, and a packet with some basic information about caring for a new pet. If you don’t want to keep him, you guys are free to go and we can take him to a shelter from here. Fostering is another option if you’re not interested in keeping him but also don’t want him to go to a shelter.”

Bucky, who almost seemed to be in a daze after hearing there was no microchip, was suddenly brought back to life. “We’re keeping him,” he said firmly. The smile on his face was contagious and soon everyone in the room was smiling just as wide.

“Very well then, let me go get what I need so we can finish up here. I’ll be right back,” she said. You waited for her to leave the room before turning to face Bucky.

“Well, since he’s officially yours now, I think it’s finally time for you to start thinking of names.”

Bucky chuckled, “Yeah, about that... I kind of already named him. I decided on a name after you went to bed the first night he was in the apartment with us.”

You faltered for a moment, unable to hide your shock. “O-okay. What are we calling him?”

“Alpine. It seems like a good name for a cat.”

Twenty minutes later, you and Bucky were walking out of the vet's office feeling lighter than you did when you first walked in. Bucky was beaming as he looked down at Alpine, who was now officially his according to the paperwork stuffed inside his jacket. His joy was contagious and you were starting to feel the same sort of excitement Bucky had been feeling ever since he came across the poor thing in the alley.

“So what do we do now?” you asked, moving closer to Bucky. He wrapped his free arm around your waist and thought for a moment.

“Well, now that there are no foreseeable perjury charges over a cat in my future, I think it’s probably time to focus on my newfound fatherhood.”

You groaned as he spoke, “Does this mean I’m going to have to put up with Dad jokes from now on?”

The shit-eating grin on Bucky’s face answered for him.

The walk back to the apartment was quick. The two of you spoke occasionally, but mostly enjoyed the quiet comfort of just being close to the other. Once you arrived at your apartment building, the doorman greeted you. You were ready to wave and keep walking, but Bucky held you back.

“Hey man, could you get a picture of the three of us? We just adopted this little guy and I’d like a picture to commemorate it,” Bucky asked, letting go of you to pull out his phone. The doorman nodded and took the phone.

Once he was done, Bucky thanked him and the three of you finally made your way back to the apartment. As soon as he was inside, Alpine jumped out of Bucky’s arm and made his way to the couch. He curled up in what was now officially his spot, making your heart swell. You turned to see if Bucky noticed, but he was too focused on his phone.

“Already sending pictures of Alpine to Steve and Sam to brag about your newfound fatherhood?” you teased, arms wrapping around his middle as you spoke. He shook his head no and remained focused on the phone. Just as you were about to ask what he was doing instead, Bucky turned his phone around so you could see his screen.

You were stunned, completely unsure of how to respond to what you were seeing. Slowly, you opened your mouth and tried to find the words, “Bucky, please explain to me how our cat already has a verified Instagram account?”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #a mutual weirdness masterlist

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sohotthateveryonedied · 3 years

Text

Gender? In THIS Economy?

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

Duke is questioning stuff and goes to Tim for advice. (feat. trans!Tim and nonbinary!Duke)

“Here you go. One Batburger with extra pickles, extra onions, and extra extra mayonnaise.” Duke drops the paper takeout bag unceremoniously into Tim’s lap. “Your taste buds need a tune-up, bro.”

Tim unwraps his burger and takes a bite. Batburger may be questionable when it comes to copyright laws, but damn if they don’t pile on the condiments better than any fast food restaurant in Gotham. “Sounds to me like you simply haven’t reached the sky-scraping level of enlightenment that I have, grasshopper.”

“Enlightenment would have been going to Red Robin and using your uniform to get a discount,” Duke says. He sits beside Tim on the rooftop’s edge, their legs dangling side by side a hundred feet above Gotham’s plunging gray streets. He digs into his own burger and makes a face. “Enlightenment would also be getting the Robin Nuggets next time. This tastes like dried leather.”

“I like it,” Tim says with a shrug. “It has personality.”

“So does raw sewage, but you don’t see me eating that.”

Tim concedes the point. His communicator buzzes in his belt. He checks the screen and discovers an alert from Cass composed entirely of clown emojis and red harlequin diamonds.

Duke notices. “Should we get that?”

Tim pockets the communicator. “Nah, Spoiler’s got it. We have time to relax.” And he’s not about to pass up quality time with the one little brother who doesn’t hate him. It’s hard enough as it is for Tim and Duke to find the time, what with them being on opposite sleeping schedules and work snatching their attention away with grabby, toddler-sized hands.

“Don’t get a lot of that during the day shift,” Duke says. “Every time an alarm goes off, it’s my business.”

Tim knocks him in the side with his elbow. “That’s what you get for turning to the light side instead of kicking it in the shadows with us. More employees to go around.” He sips his soda for a moment. “Why did you come out tonight, anyway? I thought you stayed in on weeknights.”

“Right. I actually wanted to talk to you about something.” Duke says it carefully, like he’s testing the waters. “I need advice.”

Tim has to admit that his chest puffs out a little at that. It’s not often people come to him for advice when Dick and Barbara are right there, all full of adult wisdom that Tim is too pitifully shrimpy to possess. “What’s up?”

“It’s kind of...personal.”

“Yes, Bruce does have special powder for suit-chafing. It’s in the cabinet under the first-aid supplies.”

“It’s not that,” Duke says, though he snorts in half-hearted laughter. He looks down at his hands like he’s dreading the words lodged in his throat. “What was it like, realizing you were a dude?”

One of Tim’s eyebrows shoots up. “Oh.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It’s an invasive question.”

“No, no, it’s fine. You just caught me off guard, is all.” It’s not like this is the first time someone has asked. Tim used to be uncomfortable talking about it, but he’s grown up since then. Talking about his trans journey is as normal as talking about what he did yesterday. He eats a fry. “What do you want to know?”

Duke searches Tim’s face for a sign that he’s lying, that he should back off. When he doesn’t find one, he asks, “How old were you when you figured it out?”

Tim thinks back. “Nine, I think? But even before that, it’s not like I ever really felt like a girl. I knew there was something wrong, but I didn’t know what. When I first heard about what being transgender meant, everything I’d been feeling until then clicked into place.”

“What was it like?” Duke asks, “growing up the way you did? Presenting as a girl when you knew you weren’t?”

Tim shrugs. “I don’t know. It was life at the time. I dealt with it.”

“Was it hard? Pretending to be something you weren’t?”

Tim doesn’t know what answer Duke is looking for, or why he’s so interested, but he won’t ask. “My parents always had this idea of me being the perfect daughter, all obedient and graceful and crap. I’m pretty sure their hope was to eventually marry me off to the highest bidder so they could reap the business benefits.”

“That sounds awful.”

Tim shrugs again. “I didn’t start feeling any different than I should have until around six or seven. I was always a tomboy. I liked doing boy stuff and playing sports, but my parents thought it was a phase I would grow out of. They’d make me wear dresses and go to fancy parties with them, all the while I just wanted to claw my skin off and go home.”

He remembers the nights he would lie awake in bed, imagining what it must be like to have been born someone else. Anyone else. To grow up as a little boy who was allowed to run around, to get dirty, to be himself instead of following some arbitrary guidelines someone else drew up the day he was born. He imagined what it would feel like to answer to a different name than the one he’d been given, which grated on his ears the longer time went on, like an itchy sweater he couldn’t shed. It was hell.

He gives Duke a sly grin. “But the upside of having absent parents is that there aren’t as many people watching you. No one cared if I went to school in the boy’s uniform instead of the girl’s. No one was there to stop me from cutting my hair short the way I wanted it.”

Duke's eyes widen. “You cut your own hair?”

“It went exactly the way you’re thinking. I had to go to the barber the next day and have them fix it because it was so uneven. But by the end of the day, it was the way I always imagined it. I was finally starting to look like the person I wanted to be.”

Duke stares intently at the remains of his burger as if the universe’s answers to an unspoken question were written in sesame seeds. “Did it get better after that? Did you feel...at peace?”

“‘Course not. The world wasn’t magically fixed just because I took a step in the right direction. My problems didn’t go away.” When he says that, Duke looks almost...disappointed? “But,” Tim adds, “it was better than it was before. I still had to act for my parents and the rest of the world, but I didn’t have to hide from myself anymore.”

“How did your parents react when they found out?”

Tim grimaces. “They...didn’t take it well.” He can still hear his father’s voice in his memories, bringing up therapy and camps and whatever places he could think of that would “fix” his little girl.

“But, after a while,” Tim continues, “it was clear that I wasn’t going to change my mind anytime soon. I guess they figured it would be easier to go along with it than fight me every step of the way. They still didn’t like it, but they tolerated it.”

Duke is quiet.

“Why do you ask?” Tim prods.

Duke’s expression doesn’t give anything away. It’s nights like this when Tim can see how perfectly Duke fits into this mental institution they call a family. For all that Duke thrives in the light, he keeps his cards just as close to his chest as the rest of them. He gives Tim a half-smile. “Just wondering.”

“Okay.”

They fall into weighted silence, the scales tipping on either side of their post, but never settling. Tim waits. He finishes his burger and busies himself with reorganizing the pouches in his belt, giving Duke the privacy to think.

“I don’t know,” Duke starts after several minutes, “if I’m a boy.” He looks at Tim. “I think I might be something else.”

“Okay,” Tim says calmly. “What do you feel like?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve always felt different, y’know? When I was a kid, it was because I was smarter than everyone in my class. And it was fine, because I knew what it was and how it worked and why it was a good thing, being the smart one. It made sense. Time went on, the other kids started catching up, but that mismatched feeling never went away. I never felt right in my skin.”

Duke’s face rises to the dark clouds, the Batsignal shining from the top of the police station like a holy beacon. “Then I met Batman. My powers started to come in and everything clicked into place, all at once. That was why I never felt like I fit in with everyone else, because I was different. I had powers. That must have been it.”

“But it wasn’t,” Tim guesses.

Duke shakes his head. “I thought it would be. I mean, what else could it have been, you know? It should have explained why I never felt at home in my identity. But time goes on, I learn how to use my powers, and it fixes some of it, but not everything. There’s still part of me that looks in the mirror and sees something off. Some detail out of place.”

“Do you feel like a girl?” Tim ventures to ask.

Duke folds over the corner of his straw wrapper again and again in tiny triangles. “Nah, I doubt it. I like some feminine things, but I don’t think I’m a girl. Or a guy. I think...I might be nonbinary?”

Tim does his best to channel Bruce’s “supportive dad” energy and smiles. “Okay. What pronouns do you want to use?”

“They/them, maybe? For a while?”

“Duly noted.” He puts a hand on Duke’s shoulder. “I really do appreciate you telling me.”

Duke rubs the back of their neck, their cheeks flushing. “It feels good to say out loud. Not just in my head.”

“Do you think you’re going to tell anyone else? You don’t have to if you’re not ready, but our whole family will support you.”

“Yeah.” Duke picks at their nails, nodding absently. “I know they will. I’m not worried about that.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

Duke takes a deep breath in, and Tim is reminded of a balloon close to bursting. “My parents aren’t dead. I’m going to get them back. And when I do...what are they going to think when they wake up after half a decade and find out that their son isn’t their son anymore? What if they don’t like the person they see?”

Tim can’t say that he hadn’t swum with the same thoughts years ago, back when the person who is Tim Drake was still on the drawing board. But there’s a difference between his situation and Duke’s. “Your parents love you, Duke. They’re not going to stop loving you just because you’ve grown up since they last saw you.”

“What if it’s too much? The superpowers and the crime-fighting and the new gender...it’s a lot to take in.”

“Well, sure,” Tim says. “It might take some time for them to get used to it, but this is who you are. They’re going to love it just as much as they love the rest of you.”

Duke smiles, and if their eyes are a little misty, Tim pretends not to notice.

“Besides,” he says. “If I were you, I’d just lead with the superpowers thing. Anything after that sounds perfectly acceptable.”

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zet-sway · 3 years

Text

Spiritual Shrios Summer - EMBRACE

This is a prompt fill for @rosenkow’s Spiritual Shrios Summer!

PROMPT WORD: EMBRACE - | - WORDS: ~6100

Rated: “E” for “Awkward but Spicy” [NSFT] AO3 Link: "Too Much and Not Enough” Pairing: Thane / FemShep Summary: Maybe it's the traces of venom in her system or maybe it's just him, but this man beneath her - this assassin, feared and infamous for the lives he's taken - swells her heart with trust. It's a new and curious thing, so different from the trust shared between brothers in arms. It's simple intimacy, and maybe… just maybe… something more.

A/N: This fic is a god damn hot mess, and yet I have literally *never* revised anything so heavily in my entire life. Was supposed to be part of a slow burn but I'm impatient. I literally can't tell if this fic is worth reading. You decide lol

Thank you @quietonewisp for your feedback on my first draft! It's unbelievable to be in the same fandom with such talented writers after all these years. Thank you also to everyone who shared encouraging words while I was pulling my hair out over this fic :) this is my first attempt at writing Shepard as a thought out character of my own creation. As a result it's pretty awkward.

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

"I don't know how you do this," Shepard grunts through clenched teeth.

Every third day is yoga. And today, she thought it would be a good idea to try a headstand.

Thane guides her feet into the air, resting her knees against her elbows. Her hands are planted on either side of her head, elbows bent at a right angle to form three points of support against the floor. Truthfully, he hadn't thought she would struggle so much with this pose, given her strength.

"Push with your hands. Distribute your weight."

Slowly, he releases her calves and repositions himself behind her as she pulls in a sharp inhale, holding her balance.

"You better not be staring at my ass, Krios."

He raises a brow ridge. It's hard not to stare at her ass, thrust in the air as it is.

"You forget that I have perfect recall," he says dismissively. "I can reflect on the image of your backside at any moment of my choosing."

"So you admit you've been looking?"

"Shepard," he admonishes, "Just because I've seen your ass does not mean I consciously seek to see it." It's a stone cold lie, but an easy one to sell, especially when she makes a point of training her glutes every day during their morning PT.

Slowly, she lifts her knees into the air, shaking with the effort to retain her balance. "I bet you're an ass man," she grits out, one leg finally pointed straight into the air.

Thane sets his hands on her calves to steady her as she wills through the pose.

"I'm unfamiliar with the term."

She huffs, swallowing down a breath before speaking. "A man who prefers ass over breasts."

Only humans would have a word for something like this, he thinks. "As you know, women of my species do not have breasts."

"Yup," she hisses, slowly and carefully straightening her other leg. "That's why you've gotta be-" another shaky breath, "-an ass man."

Well… she's not wrong.

In truth, he finds breasts no more desirable than any other mundane part of the human body. The appeal, he suspects, comes from actually touching them - something he hadn't considered at all until she'd launched herself at him in the airlock weeks ago. He's replayed the experience in his mind hundreds of times by now. The insistent press of her mouth on his, her smooth human hands clutching at his shoulders... and the soft crush of her body against him. He hadn't pulled away, but he hadn't kissed her back either. Right now, he wishes he had.

There's a curious connecting thread between his return to the Normandy and her sudden urgency to speak to him - frequently. Even more curious - neither one of them has broached the subject of her impulsive kiss before his procedure.

With a relieved sigh, Shepard finally manages to straighten both legs and complete the pose. Toes pointed toward the ceiling of the shuttle bay, she trembles. It's all he can do to not close his hands around her thighs to feel every rippling muscle under her skin.

"Excellent work," he says, voice perhaps lower than he intended.

"My head hurts."

Thane shakes his head. "You're not distributing your weight through your hands. Push down, and lower your knees slowly."

She makes a strained sound, tenses her legs, and the motion is just enough to pitch her center of gravity backwards.

He catches her, but not before the rounded curve of her ass is pressed with distracting persistence against his hips. If he could have blushed, he very well might have. Looking remarkably contorted beneath her splayed hands, she grins at him.

"How's your perfect recall going to handle this one?"

He should say something, but he doesn't. With steady arms, he lowers her to the mat and she flops against it, sighing heavily. There's a familiar quiet about her, something he's come to recognize as the silence before a storm.

"...can we talk about this?"

His deflection comes instinctively. "Your mastery of the headstand will take some practice, but-"

"No," she says firmly. "This." She waves a hand between both of them. "I kissed you goodbye and we're both acting like it never happened. It was inappropriate of me. Did I upset you?"

This time he needs a minute to think.

"Shepard, I… no, you did not upset me."

"But...?" She sits up, knees drawn in a loose spread against her chest, arms looped around them. The same focus he'd seen in her face on Tuchanka is there now. But this time her expression is uncharacteristically open, visibly hanging on his next words.

She's not even trying to hide that she wants him.

So why does he resist?

Ten years ago he swore he would never love another, and he meant it. The compulsion to remain ascetic is by now second nature in him. But although the years have not dulled the memory of his beloved Irikah, they have brought a new perspective: the fires of one love are not dulled simply because the fires of another are kindled.

"I've recalled that moment more times than I can count," he says, finally.

"So... does that mean you liked it?"

"I enjoyed your kiss enough to admit that should the opportunity arise... I may not let go."

She leans closer, fingers lacing together with visible anticipation. "And what if I didn't want you to let go?"

The look in her upturned face is what does him in. In a rare display of impulse, he drops to the mat and kisses her. And this time he intends to savor it.

Somehow, the same humility that drove him to his knees before Irikah now folds him again as he gazes into the unknown with Shepard. A purpose, a reason to fight. And now perhaps... a reason to love. He's not sure if he would call it love just yet, but kissing her awakens his body like hot tea on a bitter cold morning. She draws him between her knees, lips parting eagerly beneath his seeking tongue. She tastes like coffee with an undertone of alien unfamiliarity, and his pulse quickens. He's already eager for more.

Shepard mumbles something against his mouth and he pulls away.

"You taste tingly. That's normal right?"

He smiles gently back at her. "Normal for humans, as I understand."

They lean together for another kiss before she releases him. "We still haven't done cardio."

He slips his arms around her waist and tugs her tighter against him, using his strength to pull her up with him as he stands.

"A quick jog around the hold, then?"

"...or," she says coyly, all suggestive eyes with a cautious smirk blooming across her face. "A quick jog upstairs?"

He shouldn't. At least - old habits tell him he shouldn't. But his heart says it doesn't much matter.

"Promise me one thing," he says with caution, taking her hands in his. This is not how he’d imagined his morning. After all the time they’ve spent seeking each other’s company, he hadn’t dared to think...

Shepard tips her head, listening, fingertips idly exploring the subtle texture of his scales. His throat feels dry and the words are stampeding through his mind so fast he can barely catch them.

"Embrace her memory as I have. Smile upon her with favor." The memories mingle together, threatening to overwhelm him. Shepard has already given him so much, and he still asks more of her.

"Your wife?" She leans into his neck, kissing his shoulder softly.

"Yes." He squeezes his eyes shut. His breath threatens to choke him. "I cannot and will not stop loving her. She is with me always."

Shepard smiles at him, as though he's asked the easiest thing in the world. Her next words are an intimate whisper against his lips.

"What kind of Commander would I be if I told you to stop loving your wife?"

Her breath fills his chest with warmth and wanting. Cupping her face in his hands, he kisses her glistening lips as though they were crafted specifically for him. They inhale each other, her tongue sliding against his as he breathes in her kiss. The word murmurs through his mouth and mind as a soft wind sighing through trees and grasses. "Siha."

This could be his second chance. An opportunity to fight side by side with a warrior angel, as he should have done years ago. Irikah was not a trained soldier, but she damn well could have been. She would have given everything to defend the innocent, and by all accounts, she had. Their son, alive because of her and her alone. He can taste her in the kiss, a familiar and soothing encouragement that makes his heart soar. Perhaps if he survives the mission, he will have learned something of her bravery.

There's a gentle tug on his shirt. Shepard leads him toward the elevator.

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

When they stumble into her cabin, her eyes are already bleary with his venom. Thane presses her into the bed, one hand cradling her neck while the other winds into her hair. His lips are slow but strong, kissing her like he knows nothing else. She's never felt so wanted before.

"How far do you want to take this?" she gasps when he trails her mouth down her jaw.

"This was your idea," his mouth is scorching on the column of her neck. She leans back to give him better access. "How far do you want to take this?"

Her insides are on fire at the feel of his mouth alone, and logic says she's crazy to jump into bed with another fucking species so suddenly. But she doesn't care - she's spent enough sleepless nights imagining this very moment. She wants his hands on her bare skin, she wants the forbidden unknowns of his alien body. With every fiber of her being, she wants. But it's easier to think about it than to say it.

"More," she says finally - breathlessly. Words are fleeting. Her hands fist the edges of his shirt and he obliges, pulling away so she can lift it off before she begins pulling off her own.

And then he surprises her by playfully rolling her on to her belly, kissing the back of her neck, her spine, palms trailing an electric line down her sides.

"I confess," he murmurs between kisses, "You were right to accuse me of being, as you say, an 'ass man.'" She moans as those strong hands settle on her backside, fingers kneading her flesh with delicious strength. Good god.

Words are difficult, but she manages. "Don't get any ideas, I'm not letting you fuck my ass."

"It wasn't my intention. Is that something humans do?"

Shepard snorts. "Don't act like you didn't know that."

He laughs like she's never heard before, a rich and jubilant peal in that dark voice she's come to savor. She can nearly feel the soft vibrations of that laugh through his hands as he presses his fingertips between her legs. “I’d rather know where you burn hottest,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice as he strokes her just hard enough to make his intentions understood.

"Oh fuck yes."

His palms return to her backside, sliding up to hook his fingers into her waistband. "May I?"

She nods furiously, her own hands closing over his to push her clothes off.

When she's firmly on her back again he drags down the zipper on the front of her bra. It's flung on the floor with the rest of her things and then she's bare before him, biting her lip under the heat of his hungry gaze. She wonders if he can see her body vibrating in anticipation.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, settling his knees between her thighs. He crawls up to kiss her. "For weeks, I've thought about touching you."

She hums as he strokes the rounded edges of her breasts.

"Your body is so wonderfully soft, will you tell me if there's something you don't like?"

"Yeah," is all she can manage before his mouth returns to her neck, his hands wandering like a dying man searching for water. She's certain to have hickeys by the time they're done.

Curious, she brings a hand up to stroke the delicate flesh of his throat. His answering groan confirms her suspicions, and suddenly his questing hands are not so chaste, closing with suffocating warmth around her breasts.

Shepard bites her lip. "Please don't tell me you think breasts are gross."

He shakes his head. "I'll admit I find it strange that human breasts are erogenous, given their purpose. But they aren’t ‘gross,’ as you say. Just... new." She pushes her chest into his palms and that gets a rise out of him - a lovely trembling purr in his throat. "And so soft, Siha."

"Feels good," she murmurs. With parted lips, she breathes her pleasure as he kneads her breasts in slow, sensuous circles, dipping his head to kiss along her sternum and at the tender underside of her flesh.

"I think I might like them,” he says, lips twinged upwards.

Her need flares with that simple statement and she pulls in a breath, straining against him.

"I hadn't imagined how... tempting they could be. Soft curves... ripe like fruit at peak season." A strained moan falls from her mouth when he punctuates his statement with a more appreciative squeeze and draws a thumb over one sensitive peak, his mouth close enough to make her whimper in frustration.

“You’re teasing me.”

"I’m exploring you, Siha. There’s so much to learn." He circles his fingertips around her nipples and they tighten in response. The visual alone has her reeling, electric sparks of need slipping down her spine and straight into her core. "Your body shows me what it wants," he murmurs. "My mouth begs to taste you."

He flicks his tongue out, sampling her in light, infuriating strokes, teasing until she's keening beneath his hands, eyes shut tight and panting over clenched teeth. It's hard to think about anything at all except his hands and lips and that rumbling voice shimmering across her sensitized skin.

She strangles out a moan when his lips close around her nipple and he hollows his cheeks, drawing it into his mouth before releasing it with a soft, wet pop. Her arms clamp reflexively around his neck in an unspoken order to keep still.

"Do that again," she gasps.

He complies without question, textured fingers on one breast and wet tongue on the other, toying with her. Her back arches, hands holding herself like an offering to his mouth, every touch like a phantom crack of lust between her legs. There's a low rumble in his throat, he's practically purring into her skin and she can feel it, thighs clenching together in desperation.

She whines when he finally pulls away.

"I'll be back for those," he promises. "I hadn't expected such enthusiasm."

Fingertips brush her inner thigh and she leans into the touch, wanting more - for fuck's sakes - more - gasping out a shuddering breath she didn't even know she was holding when he flattens his fused fingers into her seam. Face buried in her neck doing god knows what with his lips and tongue, he's exploring her by touch alone. Each press of his hand is excruciatingly gentle, pushing slowly into her slick channel, gliding upwards to her clit. She's so sensitive that she flinches when he brushes over it, clutching at his shoulders.

"Too much?" He asks.

She hadn't even realized her eyes were closed. Her throat is dry, but she rasps, "Not enough."

His full lips curve into a smile before he strokes her again and this time she moans, pushing back on his hand as much as she can manage. Her mind is chanting "please, please," but she won't beg. Not yet, at least.

His voice rouses her from her desperate thoughts.

”Your species makes great effort to avoid using definitive terms for this part of your body."

"Do we?” She asks, willing her thoughts to clear enough for her to speak. “I mean, there's pussy, snatch... cunt, if you're feeling profane."

His voice drops a register lower, and he leans close enough for her to feel his hot breath when he speaks. "Shepard, I believe the technical term is vulva."

She groans. Loudly. "Fuck off."

He huffs out a stiff laugh. "Perhaps you'd prefer something new. Ara'te. Chalice of Arashu."

She tries - and fails - to hide her impatience. "Really?"

"Do you find it repulsive?"

"No, I just... mixing religion and sex is kind of..." She fumbles with her answer, not wanting to offend, but the words are gone from her when he leans in and draws the flat of his tongue in a wide sweep between her legs. "-Jesus, Thane."

His voice is thick with amusement. "How interesting that you invoke the name of a god you don't believe in, if I touch you just so."

Shepard's mouth snaps shut and she looks pointedly away from him with a huff.

"But I digress," he says, fingers rippling along her seam. Scaled hands smooth over her slickness, spreading her with gentle consideration. His mouth is dangerously close, gaze fixed on her with eyes like gleaming onyx. Something in the way his voice drops sets her heart racing.

“You feel like the softest silk,” he whispers, each word rolling off his tongue in a veil of hot breath that cools over the heat of her wet center. Her eyes flutter closed as he presses his exploration, teasing her entrance with his joined fingers.

"Your body is a wellspring," he murmurs, slowly penetrating her with his hand. "Drenched with arousal… begging me into your depths."

She gasps when he takes the opportunity to flick at her with his tongue. Hips grind against his hand, desperately seeking more.

"What the fuck," she moans. "Don't stop."

He withdraws only to enter her again, this time sheathing an extra finger in her heat. Those fingers crook inside her and she damn near twitches off the bed, drawing a sound from him somewhere between amusement and arousal.

"So sensitive, Siha."

It feels like she's melting under the intensity of his touch, a thumb moving in teasing circles around her clit. She hisses, thighs clenching.

"Holy shit just touch me."

"Like this?" he asks in a tone that's infuriatingly playful, barely skimming his tongue across her clit.

"God damn it, Thane, you know what I want-"

He interrupts her, his voice suddenly more serious.

"Show me."

There's silence, and then Shepard blinks at him. "What?"

"Show me how you like to be touched."

"You want to watch me?" her mouth goes dry and her answering tone is more accusatory than she intends. "Because you're a freak, or because you don't know how to touch a woman?"

"Yes." He says simply, dodging both of her questions with irritating smugness.

Her knees twitch inward, uncertain, and with a deep inhale, he withdraws.

"Siha," he murmurs apologetically, taking her hand. "You've left all your confidence on the battlefield.”

The words slip straight through the cracks in her armor. It's painful, but he's right. Cerberus didn't bring her back because they wanted her, they brought back Commander Shepard. The woman she used to be is an afterthought. There's only the mission. The Hero of the Citadel. The Commander.

But here they are, Thane's enormous black eyes boring holes into her defenses in a silent plea for… something. His hand finds hers and their fingers intertwine, resting together on her hip. His expression is more unguarded than she's ever seen, eyes asking a silent question: Do you trust me? Do you want me?

"All my victories have been on the battlefield," she says, looking away.

His thumb soothes back and forth over her hand.

"Intimacy is not a war. What do you hope to triumph over?"

Still unwilling to meet his eyes, her face twists with discomfort.

"I haven't had a lot of partners. I'm laying here naked and you're playing games. I can't tell if you're just teasing or looking for an excuse to drive me off."

His expression softens. "Our differences are not merely physical, then."

She isn’t certain what he means, but Thane shifts to lay next to her, kissing her temple. His fingers tighten around hers in a gentle grip that doesn't let up, finally summoning her eyes back to his.

"On my heart, Siha, there is no place I would rather be than right here with you." There's a genuine apology in his tone, prying her heart open one painstaking centimeter at a time. "Do you want this?"

Her voice is small, but she doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Show me what you like," Thane's lips brush against her ear. "Remember that I won't forget." The way his voice rumbles makes her shiver.

He takes her hand and presses a kiss into her palm before setting it atop her thigh. It’s a relaxing gesture, indirect enough that he's not backing down while also letting her choose the next move. His lips are unhurried, traveling up her neck, against her ear, along her hairline.

Years of lackluster partners have tempered her expectations - she’s never shared herself with anyone as intense as Thane; and although she'd never admit it, his sexual confidence is damn near intimidating. But his hot breath against her ear and his endless, patient kisses are an irresistible pull of wanting.

This man is far from bored, she realizes. He's only awaiting her permission to give her something she's never experienced.

Her chest rises and falls in deep, shaky breaths. "No games," she whispers.

"No games," he agrees.

Biting her lip, she guides his hand back to the apex of her thighs. He offers no resistance, humming his approval when she slicks his fingertips through her heat and sets them carefully against her clit.

They move together then, her hand on his, teasing herself while he kisses her neck and shoulder, slowly making his way across her chest. How long has it been since she found release beneath the hands of another? The quiet intimacy of their joined hands, the subtle texture of his scales leaves her breathless, delirious with pleasure, his fingertips sliding effortlessly against her slick center. His mouth wanders over her skin, her breasts, every touch so electric she’s almost not ready for how fast her release sneaks up on her.

"I'm close," she whimpers with eyes squeezed shut, "Oh fuck, Thane, I'm so close."

"Yes, Siha,” he whispers. “Come for me."

She breaks. Every cell in her body clenches in a singularity of pressure before she's launched out in a million pieces, shimmering in the dim light. For once, it doesn't feel cold in her cabin. Waves of heat ripple under her skin, pulsing with every second she spends teasing the tail end of her climax.

She doesn't realize she has a death grip on his hand until she's gone completely still. If it hurts him, he says nothing, only wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her close. When she looks back at him, he's watching her with a knowing, lustful smile. She reaches for him, stroking his delicate neck and earning an appreciative hum that makes her heart beat just a little faster.

"Not that I didn't like you before, but..." she brushes her fingertips along his jaw, tilting his head toward her, "God damn."

Maybe human biology actually is as interesting as he proclaims, if one good orgasm can flood her with this much oxytocin. Like crossing a proverbial threshold, she feels her confidence returning, if only just to tell him we are definitely doing this again. As soon as possible.

"The privilege is mine." His voice is flecked with desire, words she believes so wholeheartedly she can almost see them in the air.

"How are you still wearing pants?"

He growls approvingly as she climbs over him and her fingertips slip beneath his waistband.

"Let's see what I'm about to get myself into," she says with a sly upturn of her lips.

"Or, if you wish - what you're about to get into yourself, " he retorts with no small amount of innuendo.

Immediately she wishes they'd done this sooner. He's... gorgeous. It isn't so much that she thought he wouldn't be, but his anatomy is every bit as colorful as the rest of him and that is a surprise. His length blooms from its internal sheath, a strong and gently ridged gradient of red and purple, nearly glowing in contrast against his green scales.

"Nice," she breathes, reaching for him. "Sorry if I don't have any pretty words to explain how much I want to put this beautiful thing in my mouth." Then she has a thought. "Do you have any fancy words for 'dick?'"

He puffs out an amused laugh and cracks a smile. "I seem to recall you saying something about religion and sex..."

"Humor me," she says, leaning in close enough to make his breath catch from the proximity of her mouth alone.

"Amo'ti," he says. "In your language-"

"Spear of Amonkira?"

He raises a brow ridge at her. "I'm impressed."

She gives his length an appreciative squeeze, testing the give of his ridges, humming at the surprising velvet texture of his skin.

"Maybe," she says slowly, matching the intensity of his gaze, "You can tell me how impressed you are after this." And without any further pretense, she engulfs him with her mouth.

In an instant, his head tips back, and she feels a familiar confidence returning. Men, she thinks, are hopelessly predictable in their pursuit of a hot mouth to fuck. And exactly as expected, Thane's hips are rolling gently forward. She slips her tongue around his length, watching the dancing iridescent scales along the shifting planes of his thighs and stomach.

In the back of her mind, she wonders if drell even do this as much as humans do. But it doesn't seem to matter when he sets his jaw in rapt concentration, visibly struggling to keep his eyes open and fixed on her. She doubles down, flattening her tongue against the underside of his shaft and hollowing her cheeks on the upstroke. His hands thread into her hair, sweeping it from where it falls in front of her eyes and gathering it around his fingers.

Tempted to tease him, she pulls back until the very tip of his length rests against her lips and sweeps her tongue across the head with a seductive smile. Their eyes lock and the sound he makes causes her core to fucking throb with wanting. One hand working him with each teasing swipe of her tongue, she slips lower, plants her lips on the base of his shaft to kiss him with an open mouth. He's shaking now, he's got to be close-

With a strangled gasp, his hips twitch away from her and she stills herself.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No," is his breathless response. "Quite the opposite. Come here."

She climbs astride him, pressing the length of their bodies together as his arms enfold her. "That good?"

"Join with me, Siha," he murmurs, his voice low and laced with need. "Find your release in mine."

An unexpected chill slips through her, tingling every nerve with an onset of understanding. She can hear it in the undertones of his voice: I want you. This was never a game. We will be whole, together.

He rocks against her just enough to grab her attention. The brush of his length between her legs is electrifying - his eyes searching, his body asking.

"I'm… uh…" Shepard bites her lip, processing the words slowly. "I haven't been with anyone since I... came back."

His fingers intertwine with hers for the umpteenth time that morning. It's a gesture she's rapidly coming to adore for all its patience and admiration. He kisses the back of her hand, voice low and steady. "You're in control, Commander."

There's something in his well-placed acknowledgement of her authority that placates her. Maybe it's the traces of venom in her system or maybe it's just him, but this man beneath her - this assassin, feared and infamous for the lives he's taken - swells her heart with trust. It's a new and curious thing, so different from the trust shared between brothers in arms. It's simple intimacy, and maybe… just maybe… something more.

Eyes never leaving his, she steadies herself and sinks down on him.

They join together with delicious slowness, his hips willfully unmoving beneath her as she takes him in. The pressure is exquisite, edging somewhere between too much and not enough, each ridge of his florid length finding its place within the scorching depths of her body. She's nearly sweating as their hips go flush, eyes tipping closed with the sweet pulse of their joining.

One painstaking second at a time, she adjusts. It doesn't hurt, but she's afraid it damn well might if she starts riding him like her lust-fueled mind is screaming to. She stifles her own desire, wills her body for control as she twists and flexes herself to banish the lingering anxiety about her reconstruction. It might even be embarrassing - wriggling against him like a damn virgin - but there's no judgement in his eyes. If anything, he's holding back his own pleasure, unmoving while he waits for her. Hands braced against his shoulders, she pushes up, finally bottoming out with a low, wanting moan. His length lodges against her deepest reaches. It feels fucking perfect.

"Fuck," she breathes with a cursory flick of her hips. "Holy shit, Thane."

Features painted with pleasured focus, he's stone still beneath her, hands patiently cradling her waist. Thane, her unlikely but disciplined lover, waiting for her next order.

Her voice is a whisper against his lips.

"Let's fucking do this."

And with that, he begins to move with her.

The groan in his throat vibrates through her entire body as she begins to ride him. Her fingers clasp around his shoulders, afraid to put too much pressure on his transplant scars. He grasps her hands in his own, holding her firm and letting her weight fall against him, hips rolling with her as she finds her rhythm.

His voice is a breathy sound somewhere beneath her. "Siha… don't hold back."

She gasps when the next thrust hits home.

"Shut up," she huffs, slanting her lips over his.

Despite their hours spent together on the battlefield, his strength is shocking. It's near impossible to tell who's riding who, his hands firmly on her hips, his body moving beneath her like the rolling ocean, all muscle and sinuous control. Either sex is way better than she remembers, or he's just that good. He ripples in and out of her depths, each of his gentle ridges strumming her like a harp, sweat rolling down the back of her neck.

His venom is already refreshing its hold on her mind when she breaks their kiss for breath. There's a kind of weightlessness to the high - she floats up, baring herself to his wandering hands. They slide against the plane of her stomach, cupping her breasts, plucking teasingly at her nipples. It's enough to make her cry out, heedless to the rest of the world, grinding on him for all she's worth. She feels the hot coil of release building within her, sensations concentrated in every point of contact. The texture of his scales against her inner thighs, his teasing fingertips on her breasts… his burning length buried within her, filling her to completion like no other.

In the throes of his venom, her cabin disintegrates, and there beneath an endless veil of stars, they are one - chasing release in the arms of the other. Words can't describe this perfect headspace. Later, all she'll be able to say is how he feels so good, wishing she could borrow his eidetic memory if only for these few perfect, fleeting moments, to revisit at her behest.

She slips one hand down to massage her clit and pitches her head back in a gasp, walls clenching involuntarily around his length, drawing a low rasp of pleasure from his beautiful, perfect mouth. Their voices are a litany of breathless sounds, a chorus of shared ecstasy - the desperate succession of skin meeting scales, the trilling of his ruby throat and the expletives that fall from her parted lips. She's close - unbelievably close - and damn near unwilling to finish if it means this moment will end, a rare second climax bearing down on her as she folds against him. Even with her hand trapped between their bodies, the sweet pebbled friction of his scales threatens to push her over the edge whether she's ready or not.

She releases with a scream, his name barely intelligible in a strangled half-sobbed cry of bliss that can't be silenced even as she buries her face in his shoulder. Thane's strong arms wind around her waist, holding her as he drives into the silken, pulsing clench of her heat with abandon. The sound of him illuminates the darkness behind her closed eyes as he spends himself within her and she can feel it - a glittering tingle of sensation radiating between her legs, up her spine and blooming into a full scale high.

And then she sags against his chest, heaving breaths in tandem with him, unable to give two tenths of a shit about her hand going numb between them.

"Thane..." She whispers. "Thane, holy shit."

"Are you hurt?"

"...No. I feel... tingly. It's good. It's so… just, good. Holy shit." Her head lolls against his shoulder. She won't open her eyes - not yet. Whatever's going on out there beyond his embrace - for once, it's not her problem. She feels over-relaxed, tinged with unreality. Like a dream. When had she gotten so damn high? If they'd barely -

...Oh, she realizes.

Drell toxin. Inside her.

Thane hums in contentment, his familiar alien hands soothing through her hair. She wonders if he feels just as sated as she does.

"Tell me it was good for you too," she whispers softly against his aural ridge.

"Siha," his voice is quiet, as if murmuring a secret, "It feels unfair to tell you how many times I will revisit this memory."

"I'll allow it, if you tell me we can do this again."

"As if you even need to ask," he chuckles breathlessly. "Yes, I’d like that."

"I don't think I've ever been fucked like that. I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk straight.”

“Not the word I would use, but I’m glad to hear I’ve pleased you.”

She feels his mouth move in a smile and takes a strong inward breath, raising her head to look at him. She can see her own silhouette in his fathomless dark eyes.

"Say it," she demands.

His brows - those gorgeous, expressive, glittering emerald brows - raise in curiosity. It must be the venom making him so vibrant.

"Pardon?"

Shepard extends one finger to gently prod his chest. "Say 'fuck.'"

He laughs beneath her and it feels like her whole body is bouncing, joining him in his mirth.

That laughter reaches his eyes and his expression softens. "I think perhaps we've overindulged. I didn't expect you'd be so heavily affected."

Her eyes widen in mock incredulity. "Overindulged? Don't you dare tell me that was too much for you."

A viridian palm settles against her cheek, his lips curled in a soft smile so rare it seems like a gift. "What I mean to say is it may have been too much for you, Siha."

She pauses, pushes herself up on shaky arms and sits back on his thighs. He's softening within her, and the retreat of him leaves a trail inside her that feels... not exactly, but... Sort of like someone stuck a breath mint where it doesn't belong. Shepard smiles inwardly. It feels kind of great.

"I'm Commander Shepard," she intones, setting her hands on her hips in a dramatic display of confidence. "I can handle getting dicked down by the most deadly lizard in the galaxy."

Thane is damn near grinning now. “My apologies, Commander. I will think twice before underestimating your abilities in the future.”

"I'm not moving until I hear you say 'fuck.'" She retorts, arms crossed.

"You're wrong, if you assume I want you anywhere but right here."

He reaches for her arms, trailing down her to her wrists to clasp her hands. Above him, she watches as though entranced, the dim light of her cabin blurring the edges of her vision and bringing the slow intertwining of their fingers into crisp focus. For all their differences, they fit together so beautifully. Her heart feels full.

"Thane..."

Their eyes meet as he kisses her fingertips.

"Fuck you, Siha."

#zet writes things #thane krios #shrios #spiritual shrios summer #fshrios #o boy please dont judge me too hard cause ive never worked on a fic so hard in my life and i have no idea what i'm doing

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heliads · 3 years

Text

A Ruse By Any Other Name

Pietro Maximoff has just discovered the occupant of the HYDRA cell next to his- another Sokovian survivor of the experiments. Y/N L/N can tell any lie, convince someone to do anything she wishes. All Pietro can think about, however, is the life they could have together.

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There is no way out of this cell. Pietro knows this, but it doesn’t stop him from trying. He’s been given this accursed gift, he should at least be able to do something to leave. He slams against the walls with enough of an impact to shake the ceiling; nothing happens. He’s tried this enough times for bruises to cover him like freckles, but even those disappear faster than they should. No matter what he tries, the walls remain.

It feels unfair, somehow, like if he’s been giving this raging pulse and this overwhelming need to run he should have a place to do it. You gave this to me, he wants to shout, now take it back or at least make it feel like I don’t want to tear myself apart. Pietro knows that if he says anything like this they’ll drag him back to the labs and it’ll be even worse than before. So he keeps his mouth shut, and lets his frequent attempts to escape do the talking for him.

There’s a resulting thump on the other side of the wall, and he falls quiet for a second. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that he isn’t alone. All Pietro knows is the rough mess of a schedule that has become his life as a test subject of HYDRA- some days in the labs, most of the time spent in this cell unless he’s deemed useful enough to be allowed out into the field. Even then, on those scarce days of reprieve, they’re careful to keep him out of sight so the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. won’t pick up on his presence and try to stop him. Otherwise, they’ll send over a team to kill everyone in the vicinity and call it justice.

No, Pietro isn’t alone. On one side of his cell is another containment block, one that holds his twin sister Wanda. She doesn’t share his same speed, his same need to move and move until his feet are raw and bleeding. He’s seen the way she can manipulate the objects around her, twisting minds like they’re toys in a display. It should scare him, he supposes, yet he just feels numb about it. She is Wanda, she would never hurt him. Not unless they made her, and no one has ever been able to make Wanda do something she doesn’t want to do. Not now.

He’s making it sound like they didn’t want this, like they weren’t volunteers. Pietro and Wanda were the ones to show up at HYDRA’s door, asking for a chance to turn their ghosts into weapons and their dirty palms into those of saints. People have failed them over and over again, it felt like time to tip the scales back the other way. HYDRA hadn’t said a word, just welcomed them in and locked the door behind them. Sometimes, Pietro wonders if he would have changed his mind had he known the full extent of what they’d undergo. Would they stay away? Or would they have come anyway, knowing there was nothing left for them but broken houses and the bodies of their parents right next to that bomb?

Pietro and Wanda aren’t the only HYDRA volunteers to survive, however. There is one more: a girl, one about their age. Pietro has never seen her in person, only heard the rumors in pieces and snatches from security guards whose usually stoic silence is broken by nervous chatter. Her name is Y/N L/N, although the guards all call her the Ruse. She has powers not unlike Wanda, in that she can manipulate people’s minds, but the similarities end there. Y/N’s powers have an entirely different edge, something that can convince the toughest of guards that they have something to fear.

The Ruse got her name because of her powers. She can convince you of anything, get you to believe any lie no matter how false. They say she whispers things into your head, can make you believe that your family is out to kill you and that your lover has poisoned your mind. With just a second’s concentration, she can rewrite your entire head and convince you to do anything she wants. That could involve giving her information, selling out an organization, killing a thousand people before you knew it. Pietro sometimes wonders if her victims know what’s going on while she’s controlling them, if they’re silently screaming even as their trigger finger tightens. Then a shiver runs over him, and he forces himself to stop thinking about it at all.

HYDRA allows the Ruse into the field more often than Pietro or Wanda, using her as a spy and a mercenary and whatever else they can think of. She has considerably more freedom, if you could call it that, because HYDRA’s taken another precaution with her. They’ve experimented with the old Winter Soldier programs, placing basic mind control over her. HYDRA can make sure she only tells the lies they want to spread, and that she has no way to control any of them. And so it is that the spider is caught by the web, that the one with the power to spin any lie is trapped by one greater than herself.

There’s a loud sound in the hallways, pairs of boots thudding down the hall. Through the barred window on the cell door, Pietro can see them dragging someone through the corridor. A guard steps forward to unlock Y/N’s cell, then they throw her unceremoniously through the door. The lock shuts with a click, and all guards leave the block, presumably to check with an official to make sure she hasn’t caught them within any lies.

There’s quiet for a long time, and then Pietro hears something else. It’s barely there at all, and he wouldn’t have noticed it were it not for the inhuman abilities given to him by HYDRA. To be honest, it almost sounds like somebody is crying. Pietro slows down for once in his life, crossing the cell hesitantly until he stands before the wall neighbouring Y/N’s cell.

Over the past few hours, Pietro has found a hole in the wall, a chink in the cinderblock and concrete where you can see through to the other side. It’s about the size of his fist, disguised by a low-hanging scrap of material. Pietro pushes it aside, allowing him to see Y/N for the first time. When his eyes first fall on her, he draws in a breath sharply.

She’s beautiful. Pietro doesn’t know what he had thought she would look like- cruel, maybe calculating, a glint in her eye that never seemed to fade? How do you portray the Ruse? But the girl slumped against the cell wall before him doesn’t seem like a villain, somebody who scares everyone in HYDRA’s payroll. No, she just looks afraid.

She must have heard him, because her head falls away from her hands and she looks up at him. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, cracked from the tears. “Are you Pietro?” Pietro nods. “Sorry to spy on you. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” Pietro isn’t sure what he was expecting she’d say, but he doesn’t anticipate what she does next. She laughs bitterly, leaning her head back against the wall.

“I’m not. Not at all.” She lets her gaze drift from the ceiling back to him. “I don’t know what’s real. I don’t know anything at all. I’ve told so many lies and had so many more pumped into my head that I don’t know what way is up. Nothing makes sense, because everything I can remember contradicts itself. I don’t even know who I am. I’m the Ruse, I guess, but I don’t even know what that means.”

Pietro listens to her, feeling his spirits sink in sympathy. “You’re Y/N L/N. You’re a spy, and you’ll be able to work through this because you’ve been working through this for as long as you’ve been here.” Y/N sighs. “I’ve been breaking apart as long as I’ve been here, and I don’t think I can figure things out again. There are so many stories in my head, Pietro, and I don’t think any of them are true. If I say something and I believe it, is it true or am I using my powers? Nothing makes sense.”

It’s hard to look at this utterly broken girl in front of him and think that this is the all-powerful Ruse that has the directors of HYDRA quaking in their polished boots. Pietro doesn’t know what to say, and he tells her as much. Y/N chuckles. “Well, I don’t think anyone could know. I can get in your head, but you can’t get in mine.” She squints at him now. “Why did you check on me in the first place? Aren’t you scared that I’m going to control your mind like everyone else?”

Pietro shrugs. “I don’t know what you could do to me that hasn’t already happened. I can’t leave the base, I already have powers, there’s nobody I could hurt except myself and I heal pretty quickly. It’s kind of my thing.” Y/N smiles at that, a genuine smile. Pietro doesn’t think he’s seen it all day, and he wishes he could tell another joke so he could see it again. Y/N might not know what’s true and what’s not, but Pietro knows that she’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen when she smiles at him like that.

Y/N clears her throat. “Tell you what, Pietro, if we ever get out of here I’ll think about what you said. Figure things out and whatnot. Keep moving forward.” Pietro smiles ruefully. “That sounds pretty good. I might even walk instead of run.” Y/N snorts. “That’s a little extreme, Maximoff. Don’t go making promises you can’t keep.” The sound of approaching guards makes Pietro hurriedly duck back into his cell, but he still thinks to himself that he’d give up all of his powers and then some if it means that he could have a future with Y/N away from HYDRA. They may have just met, but it feels like he could spend a lifetime with her.

When Pietro and Wanda meet Ultron, the first thing he thinks is that it’s a way out. If they go with him, they can escape HYDRA, turn their backs on the labs and the tests and the sinking knowledge that by signing up they may have made the worst mistake of their lives. His second thought is that when he and Wanda don’t return, he’s damning Y/N to stay at that facility until the end of her days. It cuts at him like a knife, a guilt that he can’t quite shake.

Ultron promises many things. Power, legacy, a chance to rebuild. All of it calls to Pietro in the same way that HYDRA’s programs called to him all that time ago. He’s terrified of making another mistake, and finds him wishing that he could turn to Y/N and ask her what she thought. Y/N has seen a thousand decisions being made, and had a hand in most of them. She tends to have some pretty good advice on what to do, and Pietro could use her voice right now.

In the end, he makes the choice himself. They decide to throw their lot in with Ultron, turning their backs on HYDRA and opening a door to the future ahead. When this doesn’t work out, they switch to the Avengers like handing off a baton. There’s a fight coming, a fight that Pietro knows has a pretty good chance of turning south. If he dies, there’s something he wants to do first.

When he tells Wanda his plan, she thinks it’s a terrible idea. “You want to go back to the HYDRA facilities? If they caught us, they would kill us.” Pietro shrugs. “That’s why we won’t get caught.” Wanda had rolled her eyes, telling him that she would haunt him forever if his stupid idea got them killed, but in the end she had agreed to go along with it. That’s how Pietro and Wanda ended up breaking into the HYDRA base, or specifically the cell block along the southern perimeter.

The bonus of having lived there is that Pietro knows which guards have the keys and which don’t, when to time a break-in so that the guards are still on rotation and won’t find them, and the exact cell where Y/N is locked away. When he opens the door, she stares at him for a second, then runs over and flings her arms around him. “I thought you were gone for good.” Then she steps back, doubt creeping over her. “Is it really you, or is this just something they’ve made up to mess with me?”

It hurts Pietro to think that HYDRA would use him against her, so he gestures towards his head. “Check and find out. I promise, it’s me. I’m getting you out of here.” She grins at him, a wild grin full of hope and excitement that she’ll finally have the life they both dreamed of on the nights they couldn’t sleep for the nightmares. Pietro picks her up in his arms, running as fast as he can to pass by the guards before they can even draw another breath.

They come to a stop outside the facility, Wanda joining them shortly thereafter. Y/N flashes her a smile. “Thanks for the rescue.” Wanda waves the gratitude away. “Don’t thank me, it was all Pietro’s idea. He practically begged me to come help you out.” Pietro’s about to chide Wanda for saying this, but when Y/N turns to him with a beaming look he feels like he could break into a hundred more HYDRA facilities just to prove it to her that he could.

They both end up joining the Avengers for the fight. Y/N refuses to leave if they need to defend the city against Ultron, especially if Pietro will be there. “You just saved me from HYDRA. I can’t leave you here to fight alone.” Pietro shrugged, saying that as long as she remained safe he would be alright with it, but secretly he couldn’t be happier that she was staying. They’re out now, out for good. He doesn’t want to leave her side for a second.

The fight against Ultron is difficult to say the least. Ultron summons up hundreds of drones out of nowhere, which swarm the streets like insects. Pietro, Y/N, and the rest of the Avengers take them down as soon as they appear, but it feels like they’re fighting on borrowed time. How long until there are too many, and a wave of metal robots chokes out the sky from above him?

At last, the fight looks like it will be over. They’ve managed to get the last of the refugees onto the ships, and Y/N is seconds away from boarding one herself. Pietro’s about to join her, and then he looks over his shoulder and sees them. Clint, who’d made sure Pietro could join the Avengers in the first place, and the child he’s carrying to safety. Pietro also sees the ship swooping over them, the bullets about to hit them.

Time seems to slow down. Pietro knows what he has to do to save them, the only choice he has. It’s the only way to pay Clint back for saving him, for saving Wanda. They’ll be able to make it after this. He has time to wish that Y/N will forgive him for this, and then he’s gone, twisting through the street just in time to block the bullets. Clint’s head is ducked as he prepares for the metal to tear through his flesh, but he looks up with a startled look as no impact occurs. Pietro manages a cocky grin. “Didn’t see that coming?”

Then the pain hits, and he collapses to the ground. There are too many bullets for him to heal, too many to save him. Pietro can hear a scream, and he realizes it’s Y/N. He wants to tell her that he’s sorry, but he can’t find the words. She’s kneeling next to him now, and he can see the tears glistening in her eyes. Even like this, pain lacing her every feature, she’s still just as beautiful as the first time he’d seen her.

Pietro can feel his heart rate slowing, stopping. Y/N gets this look in her eyes of panic, of fear. She cradles his head in her hands, forcing him to look at her. When she speaks, her voice seems charged with some kind of power. It’s unlike anything he’s ever heard before. “You are going to be alright. Your wounds are going to heal, and you are going to survive.” Her gaze is captivating, impossible to ignore. For some reason, Pietro listens, and for some reason, his wounds start to close up.

He can feel the flesh reknitting, but it makes no sense. He died, or he should have. Why is he healing now, why is he standing up and taking in another lungful of air? He goes to take a step, then stumbles. Y/N catches him, and he draws her close. He can feel her sobbing in his arms, but they’re aren’t sobs of sorry anymore- they’re of relief. Pietro forces himself to speak. “How did you do that? I thought I was dead.”

Y/N speaks through her tears. “You were dead. I just needed you to stay alive, so I used my powers, I guess.” She looks up at him, and Pietro realizes that she’s nervous, as if afraid that he’ll be disgusted by this display of powers and move away from her. Instead, he draws her closer. “You’re amazing, Y/N. Honestly. You saved my life.” She lets out something between a laugh and a sob. “Just don’t ask me to do it again.”

Pietro grins, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t worry about that. I don’t intend on dying anytime soon. We have a future to plan, remember?” Y/N smiles up at him. “How could I forget?”

marvel taglist: @mycosmicparadise

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wizkiddx · 3 years

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i saw that you at least used to write for harry could u do another? like maybe im just a basic bitch but 'only one bed' trope or sm

Summary: honestly just me shitty attempt at the only one bed thing ahah with Harry Holland x reader

no warnings I don’t think apart from my ramabling :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

God you were groggy. It had been a long 16 hour flight and you were well and truly completely over this day. Once you’d had some proper sleep, no doubt you will be beyond excited to explore the forest and beaches of this remote island in Indonesia. You were certain it was beautiful, even if you’d arrived in the dead of night so you couldn’t see any of the majesty yet. It was one of the joys of being Tom’s makeup artist - travelling the world and being paid for it? A literal dream.

Except maybe the previous 24 hours. The Holland name carried a lot of weight in the world, but not enough to control typhoons across the tropics - there were some limitations to his power. And yes first class lounges were nice but none had beds to crash on during the 6 hour weather delay. The four of you (Tom, Harry, Andrew and yourself) ended up camping out in a out-the-way corner. Tom got the long sofa; Andrew in one of those weird egg line chairs; you and Harry splayed on the floor. Why you’d had to get up at 4 am to catch a flight that was now not departing till 12 hours later actually hurt to think about - especially because you’d all gone out for a meal the night before that had inevitable went a lot later than planned.

Two connecting flights with a very angry baby later, the four of you were checking in to the only hotel on the island - which was now almost exclusively filled with the production team for Tom’s newest movie. It wasn’t especially big-budget with massive million pound overheads, instead a smaller scale indie film (that you privately thought might earn Tom a number of accolades). But yeh, shooting on an island that received almost no tourism meant everything was different to the usual. None more so than for Tom and his team (including you) who he normally would look after very well, with the nicest hotel rooms or rental homes.

The hotel was basic, you’d known that before you arrived but seeing is believing is it not? Most entertaining though, was seeing Tom’s face. Andrew was a well travelled older guy, he had stayed in some shitholes in his life. Equally you and Harry had both travelled when you were younger (you through inter railing and him in australia), so had stayed in hostels before. But for Hollywood star Tom Holland? The way he tilted his head to the side as if to say ‘really this place?’ did lift your spirits momentarily.

Andrew had got his key first, bidding you all good night with a grunt, then Tom - who still seemed confused as to the whole arrangements. It left you and Harry at the small dingy reception, the warm glow of an old lantern-esque light fixing illuminating the place. The guy behind the desk was a smiley local and greeted you warmly, if incorrectly.

“Ah and finally the couple I see!” He spoke with a thick accent but still very clear English which had you questioning if this was just a translational error. Harry looked at you instantly, his eyes wide which made you scoff - him joining in, shaking his unruly curly mop emphatically.

“No no we um… we aren’t together.” All the while Harry pointed between the two of you, communicating through actions rather than just the language, given that you were both the very typical Brits abroad who hadn’t learnt the language of the place they were visiting.

“Still under Holland name?” The guy asked in a perplexed manner, flicking through a book filled with cursive scribbles and scanning to see if he’d made a mistake. He checked one, then looked up nervously before checking the same page once again- you saw where this was going. ”We, we only have couples room down for you though? 3 double rooms is the booking for Holland.”

It was late, you both stunk of a combination of plane and BO, you both just wanted your individual and respective beds.

“Well can we get another room then?” Harry didn’t quite snap but there was still an impatientcy to his voice, which came out whenever he was a little agitated. Seeing the slightly worried look the mans eyes, you leaned onto the desk with a genuine smile.

“Sorry we know its last minute and its not your fault, we’ve just had a really long flight.”

“I am terribly sorry miss but we are only small hotel and Hollywood has filled us up. I have no other rooms. I am truly sorry sir, ma’am.” The guy went from looking worried to terrified as Harrys jaw tensed up, you naturally squeezed his arm to try and ground him, instantly deciding that you’d just work it out.

“No no it’s not your fault, don’t worry we’ll figure it out. Can I just get the key?”

Harry stepped back and let youtakeover proceedings, signing all the insurance documents etc and asking the man about the breakfast arrangements and such, though you saw him furiously typing on his phone and by the buzzing in your pocket- presumed he was messaging the group of you Tom, Andrew and himself.

Once finished the guy pointed you on your way, up two flights of stairs and down a hall. The whole time Harry was muttering about how useless the other two were for not replying and also for making the wrong booking in the first place. If only you hadn’t been the last two to checkin, then it would’ve been someone else’s problem.

He felt especially guilty just because you were the only girl- he didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, hence why he was trying to locate his brother so they could share tonight till they got it figured out. The tension, combined with sleep deprivation, was palpable as you both walked in silence toward the room - Harry was trying to formulate a plan in his head as they did so. And honestly? You just couldn’t be bothered to deal with it. So, once you reached the door 57 holding the physical key (old school, rather than a key card) you just decided to address it.

“Will you chill please?”

“Well if my idiot broth-“

“Oh leave him be for god sake. If you’re okay with it I really don’t mind sharing with you tonight?” Not bothering to laugh at his slightly shocked expression with mouth hanging a little open, you fiddled with the key until the lock clicked open. From the entrance you had a pretty clear view of the whole room and… well, lets just say dated would be a fair expression - when compared to what you were used to? The floor was tiled and the bed was a small double, with some funky and slightly washed out prints of blue and red on the cover. The pillows looked a little limp, more like glorified pieces of cardboard than anything fluffy and comfortable. The walls were that yellowy magnolia shade that everyone in the UK had gone insane for in the 80s and there was an old school wooden wardrobe in the corner.

Home for 5 weeks.

With a shrug of your shoulders you entered, dumping your personal and work suitcases by the far wall carelessly - the higher priority action being to collapse on the bed. Doing so with an overdramatic huff, you let your eyes close but payed special attention to the delayed footsteps of Harry as he entered, then the slight creaking noise as he perched on the other side of the bed - no doubt looking at you, at least slightly fearfully.

The relationship between you and Harry was complex to say the least. Well no… it should be, not on the face of it. You had met through work and made friends. And you wished it was that simple but alas, nothing ever really is. When you’d first worked with Tom you were in the tail end of a relationship you had long since forgotten about - literally meaningless, not worth the time and effort you’d put into it. From the start you’d had a feeling Harry was more interested in you than the average co-worker (even if your job and therefore co-workers were anything but normal and average) but you were in a relationship so nothing ever came.

Then almost as if synchronised, just as you got out your relationship, Harry threw himself in the deep end with a girl he’d met through his family friends. Then the roles were somewhat reversed, you now spent a good chunk of your day just entertaining yourself with thoughts of the curly headed, slightly awkward, very-passionate-about-tea-making Holland. The cliche is so real - your always want what you cannot have.

However, a couple months ago his relationship had fizzled and faded away leaving both of you in a sort of no mans land. The sort of not wanting to ruin the friendship situation. The subject was never broached by either you - except you assumed he was being tormented in a similar way to how you were by his big brother and Andrew. Never publicly, yet whenever you found yourself alone in a room with one of them (being Tom’s makeup artist that happened often enough) there would always be a sly dig. The chemistry was so ‘obvious even a blind man could see it’. Somehow though, weeks of this and your were still stuck. Stuck in the middle.

“You sure you’re alright with this?” His voice was gruffer and hoarser from the long journey but you could hear the self-consciousness and naivety in his tone, without having to peel your eyes open and look at his face.

“I know your not a murder and plus, we shared the airport floor this morning… this is pretty much the same.” He hummed in acknowledgement so you carried on “and plus your pint sized.” That earned you a playful shove in the side as you sniggered, before pulling yourself up so you we now sitting next to him, legs hanging off the edge of the bed. His brown eyes searched deeply into yours, as if physically checking for any hint of regret or hesitation. “Don’t even dare offering to go on the floor.”

“Okay okay okay!” Holding his hands up in surrender, you both laughed, breaking the peace of the late night of the remote Indonesian island. Once an impressive yawn interrupted you though, Harry proclaimed it was time for bed and shooed you into the bathroom to get changed and sorted.

Honestly you were too tired and lazy to dig out your cleanser and skin stuff, instead opting to just splash a bit of water on your face before swapping into your pj shorts and an old tattered oversized tee. Once done you and Harry swapped, him coming out a couple minutes later in basketball shorts and a black loose fitting tee.

It wasn’t awkward so to speak, more a sort of excited-tense atmosphere, which there was no doubt Harry was mainly responsible. The boy was jittery and on edge, which to put simply, you didn’t have the energy to reciprocate.

With a quiet wish of goodnight to each other, Harry flicked off the bedside lamp and you both rolled to your respective edges of the bed, a large space of no mans land between you. In the middle. You know the first time you share a room with someone and you overthink everything? When you don’t want to move about or fidget too much in case it disturbs the other? When your listening intently to their breathing, in the hope it’ll even out and only then will you feel able to fall asleep yourself?

Well it doesn’t work when both of you are doing it. When both of you are professional over thinkers.

God knows how long it took till you gave up, favouring sleep over your worries and concerns. So you flipped over, no doubt rocking the whole bed, turning to face his back that was still huddled almost teetering off the edge of the bed. The only light within the whole room was that coming under the actually scarily large gap between the floor and the door to the hallway. It was just enough to see the back of Harry’s curls and you must’ve fallen asleep trying to trace all the torturous and windy routes of the strands.

///////////

In the morning the process of waking up didn’t come easy to you as normal for many reasons; the long day prior; the jet lag; the weird surroundings. So you stayed in this sort of blissful haze for probably longer than you should. Half aware but not really; half asleep but not quite. In the middle of sleep and alertness. Therefore it took you longer than it should have to notice the extra weight on the dip of your waist. Not anything alarming, just a presence you were absolutely not used to. It was only when you shifted a bit to lie further on your back, that enough of a stimulus from the added pressure made you actually open your eyes blearily. And sure enough, a limp hand looked to have casually and unconsciously been thrown over your side.

As if in slow motion, you traced the arm backwards - first with your eyes, but then having to twist your neck too. Only then could you fully see the browny ginger haired boy who was lowkey spooning you? It was certainly a way to fully wake you up, breath halted to a stand still in your lungs, in fear of disturbing him and having to confront what would almost certainly be an awkward situation.

There was still a safe hands width distance between the two of you except for the rogue arm. Harry’s head was placed to the edge of his pillow, mouth slightly parted as his breathing slightly tickled the wispy hairs on the back of your neck. He looked so peaceful and calm - a difference to the normal Harry who, even on a good day, took great pleasure in meticulously picking things apart and being a bit cynical. It was part of his ‘charm’; but seeing him like this was a type of vulnerability he rarely chose to show.

To be fair he was asleep, he dint realise he was exposing himself in this way.

Finding yourself a little transfixed (a bit creepy but hey) on the natural curves and definition of his face, you ever so carefully rolled over in the bed to face him. It stopped you from craning your neck and gave the sleepy boy a slight nudge, making him tense his arm a little more tightly round you.

He settled quickly though, giving you ample opportunity to just observe what was going on . Both right in front of you… and what the hell was going on in your head. Because to be honest it was an overwhelming amount of emotion thoughts for the early morning.

Somehow you must’ve eventually drifted off once again because the next thing you were aware of was a shuffling from immediately next to you. This time though, you were instantly aware of exactly the situation you found yourself in and chose to keep up the pretence of sleep - a little interested in how Harry would play it.

You heard a small gasp, having to suppress a chuckle at what you imagined Harry’s sleepy and panicked face looked like. That lasted a couple of moments, before you felt him painstakingly slowly peel his hand from your waist and if you were being 100% honest… you heart sort of sank.

What you had been expecting?- you don’t know and really there was really no reason to be disappointed. Yet, you still felt this deflated and disappointed feeling, hit your chest especially hard. Perhaps it was because of your focus on that emptyness that you forgot you were supposed to be pretending to be asleep./.

Because when he had delicately brushed the side of your face to tuck a rogue bit of hair behind your ear - your eyes flickered open. Like a rabbit caught in headlights, Harry froze, his hand still hovering over your jaw. Equally, you didn’t know what to do. Because really… do friends tuck hair behind the others ears? And do friends look at each other with this matched expression of confusion and fear?

It took a painfully long time (though in reality was probably only a matter of seconds) before the boy retracted his hand, suddenly sitting up from his reclined position down at you. Mirroring his actions, you both ended up sitting, facing the opposite wall, bodies closer than they needed to be in the double bed. Both still very much in the middle.

“I er-“

“-No no don’t… was nice of you” He had been about to apologise which you didn’t want to hear. You didn’t want to hear ‘ I didn’t mean it’ - you wanted him to mean it. In response Harry nodded jerkily, and from your peripheries, noticed he was searching your face for any sign of emotion.

“Still can’t believe this all happened… I-I didn’t disturb you too much did I?” He sounded really nervous. You were never like this with each other. So static and forced.

“No no… I slept really good actually.” Your register was quieter, waiting till you’d finished speaking before looking over at him with a self conscious smile.

“Ah I’m glad… I um-I did too.” The silence returned and the atmosphere just felt sharp. It felt like you were quite literally walking either side of a knife edge. It made you chew on your bottom lip, playing with the slightly frayed edges of the vintage quilt.

“Y/n- I look…” He’d bolted upright and voice was more raised than normal for the morning. “This is gonna sound so fucking weird, especially cos we’re literally in the same bed but... but I was thinking we could maybe go on a hike or something together?” What he seemed to be suggesting didn’t match the level of panic that was conveyed in his body language which confused you. And what the bed had to do with it… was yet to make sense in your head.

“I think Andrew said we’re getting some tour of island this afternoon so-“

“ I kinda meant just you and me.”

The penny dropped and it had you focusing all energy on processing what was happening - understandably causing Harry to only worry more with the lack of response. “I’m sorry if I’ve ruined ever-“

“No I-I….I’d really like that too.”

“Oh er… well… really?” The sheer shock made you giggle, feeling the two of you sliding back into the normal dynamic.

“Normally a boy has to buy me a drink before he gets in my bed but….” A mischevious smirk that spread across your lips gave Harry the final confirmation that just maybe you were interested too, making him scoff and quietly chuckle.

It was odd; mainly because this was the two of you being incredibly vulnerable and honest with each other - something that you hadn’t allowed yourself to be for fear of messing things up. And then one lazy morning, both with morning breath and slightly puffy eyes, it changed. For the first time when you looked at him, he really saw - and vice versa. You were still in the middle of something, yet it was completely different.

This time you were in the middle together figuratively as well as literally. In the middle of the bed, closer than you needed to be, but not wanting to retreat - while you both just looked shyly and bashfully at each… Eventually you lips hesitantly met in the middle.

#Harry Holland #Harry Holland fluff #Harry holland x y/n #harry holland x reader #tom holland

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