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snackhobi · 3 years

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a human touch, part 2, final

Part 1 / 1.5 / [2]

(masterlist here)

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

then he turns up at your door.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re aware of this because:

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

and:

b) Said new tenants are apparently very noisy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A sexy living foghorn,” Seokjin says brightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll stay here,” Taehyung decides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Make me,” Seokjin says primly.

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay?” You ask, concerned.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m happy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can go get some from my apartment?”

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

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

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

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

And then you freeze.

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

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

The blood is blue.

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

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

Seokjin’s an android.

(Seokjin’s an android who seems human.)

Seokjin’s a deviant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened to your LED?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi’s eyes narrow. “Jin…”

“Maybe I am,” you hazard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Much like Taehyung had.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

“How did he—why did he deviate?”

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

Wow.

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

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

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

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

You feel warmed at Yoongi’s words. But.

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

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

“Has Jin always been like that?”

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

“You love him a lot,” you say gently.

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

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

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

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

“That sounds great,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve missed this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” he replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. Okay, Taehyung, I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s just, uh. One little thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thing that people and deviant androids do.

A thing that Taehyung does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s nice.

“You seem happier.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re in so, so deep.

(But who can blame you?)

“I want to go outside.”

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

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

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

So what you say is: “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Warmer and softer than it probably should.)

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

“Ready?”

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

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

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

(Mysterious. Yeah, right.)

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

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

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

(Whatever this is.)

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

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

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

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

(Shouldn’t hope for more than that.)

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

You’re certain Taehyung will, too.

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

(So human.)

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

Taehyung is enraptured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like love?” A whisper.

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

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

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

“Oh, Y/n!”

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

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

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

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

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

You panic. Just for a second.

Taehyung doesn’t.

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

And then he immediately slips his hand back into yours.

Namjoon is utterly charmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Loyalty. Dedication.)

(A breath.)

(Love.)

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

“Y/n?”

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

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

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

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

(More of him.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re staying late again.”

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

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

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

It’s unnerving.

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

“No,” you lie.

Yes, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that you would want to.

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

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

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

It's hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he speaks.

“You’re avoiding me.”

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

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

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

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

“Why are you lying to me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Independent?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(No one chooses you. Why would they?)

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

And then all the lights go out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung? What are you—”

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

“Taehyung!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taehyung, though, is intent on you.

“Y/n?”

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

“Yes?”

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

You don’t respond. Not right away.

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

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

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

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

“I do. I want to be here with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can feel his smile when he leans in one more time, guiding you with the broad palm against your cheek. So soft, so gentle. Adoring and reverent. His lips are so full, slotting against yours so perfectly when he finally, finally kisses you properly.

You lose yourself in the sensation. It’s so easy to lose yourself in Taehyung, as lovely as he is, his mouth lovelier still. One kiss turns to two, to three, four, deep and slow; by the time you break apart, there’s a little sheen on his lips, sparking out in the candlelight, a layer of gold leaf that shines.

“Can you say it again?” He asks. “Say that you love me?”

You can’t help but want to hide your face, bashful and shy. You’ve never said those words out loud, with the weight of feeling Taehyung is asking from you—but you look at his lovely, lovely face, lips flush with evidence of your kisses, and your heart swells in your chest.

“I love you.” The words come so easily. “I love you.”

And when he smiles, it’s so bright and radiant you feel you might be blinded by it. It doesn’t leave his face even as he stands, guides you up with him; careful to avoid the tub of ice cream that’s been forgotten on the floor, more melted cream than ice now.

This time, when he lifts you, he doesn’t break eye contact—keeps his gaze on yours as he pulls you close, and then picks you up.

It’s effortless, the way he carries you. Big hands that cup the back of your thighs, your legs around his waist and arms around his neck, lifted like you weigh nothing. You break eye contact, overwhelmed, burying your face in the crook of his neck, feeling the way he shakes as he laughs, soft and affectionate.

“Shut up,” you mumble, embarrassed, but then go quiet as you feel the press of his lips into your hair.

Taehyung’s the only person who’s ever carried you, but it’s less about that and more about how safe you feel in his arms. Wrapped around him, pressed close, warm-warm-warm. You feel like a burden has been lifted from you, unshackled from your neck now that you’ve confessed the budding feelings that had burst into full bloom even when you’d tried to shove them back into the dirt—because Taehyung feels the same way. He feels the same way.

The rest of the apartment is still bathed in darkness. But Taehyung navigates it easily, keeps you held close even in the dark, and you trust him. Even when you feel his grip loosening as he eases you down, you trust him, letting yourself fall back onto the softness of your bed. (Even if you want to keep hold of him.)

You wait and watch as the room starts to fill with light, Taehyung returning with the lit candles from the kitchen before setting out more, laying out all the scented candle jars you’ve had stashed away. The familiar surroundings of your bedroom are bathed in warm, dancing light, Taehyung’s shadow a multi-faceted silhouette that shifts each time a flame sputters.

He looks up once the final candle is aflame, meeting your eyes—and you don’t feel the need to drop that gaze, to glance away, pretend you weren’t watching him, entranced. Because he welcomes it. He grins at you, toothy and bright, and your own lips split into a smile.

“I guess it’s a good thing I like candles, huh?”

“They’ll help keep the room warm,” Taehyung says, and, that’s right, you hadn’t thought of that.

No power: no heating. The longer the power is out, the colder it’ll get, the chill of the hard rain filling the world outside.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, setting the lighter aside. “I’ll keep you warm.”

There’s nothing behind those words. No implication at all. And yet you find yourself flushing, looking away from him, flustered.

There’s a beat of silence as you keep your eyes turned away from Taehyung, looking at the shadows on shadows on shadows that ripple across the walls—and then you hear how his bare feet shift across the floor until he’s at your bedside.

But he doesn’t stop there. You feel how the mattress dips, eyes flying back to the android, growing huge and round when you watch how he settles himself above you; hovering, so so so close, aware of how he’s not touching you, and yet. You swear you can feel the weight of him, a phantom touch on your body and across your skin.

Your mouth goes dry when he murmurs your name. The word drips from his mouth like honey, thick and sweet, and a shiver skates up your body.

“Do you want me to keep you warm?” He asks, and, oh. Oh. This time the words are heavy with meaning, shimmering gossamer curtains barely drawn to conceal it, smouldering intent in his eyes. “Let me look after you?”

You’re reminded, all at once, that while you’ve taught Taehyung a lot of things since you’d met, there’s one thing he knows that you don’t. Intimacy, and pleasure, and lust. Sex. Something you’ve been deprived of, even if you’ve quietly craved it, waiting for the right time, the right place, the right person.

Taehyung takes your silence as hesitation, his face softening.

“Only if you want,” he says. “Only if you want to say yes.”

“I want to,” you say, surprised by how fast the admittance leaves your lips. You do want it—want Taehyung, in every way he’s willing to share, want it desperately. “I just—” Embarrassment floods over you, and you look away again. “I’ve just never… done anything. Before. I’ve never, um.”

“It’s okay to be a virgin, Y/n,” Taehyung says, and you can’t help but squirm a little at how plainly he says it while you try to avoid saying it out loud, even if you know it’s stupid. There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin, you know that, but for some reason you feel almost ashamed at admitting it. Insecure. Even if the android clearly doesn’t care, not one bit. “We can go as slow as you want, or stop altogether. I’ll take care of you no matter what.”

You’re nervous. But louder than your nerves is a growing voice that’s chanting yesyesyes, and another voice that reminds you: you’re safe with Taehyung. No matter how nervous or uncertain you are, or how little you know, you do know that you’re safe with him.

“Okay.” You take in a breath. “Take care of me, Taehyung.”

And he does. With all the slowness of a meandering river and a smile curling his lips, he starts to kiss you again; there’s nothing rushed about his motions, as tender as before. Like the two of you could kiss forever and he would be content with that.

And then you feel how he shifts, the softness of the kisses warming into something heavier, more purposeful. The glowing embers of a coal that are being coaxed to full flame, his tongue pressing past your willing lips, swallowing down the shaking gasp that shudders out of your mouth.

He trails his lips away from yours, across your jaw and up; you shiver as he noses at the soft skin behind your ear before kissing it, tremble at each intent touch of his lips against you, and it’s only when he reaches the hollow of your neck that you realise that you’re making noises, little inhalations of air each time he mouths at your sensitive skin, lets his tongue trail across it.

You’ve been holding onto him, hands cupped around the back of his neck, and when he sucks at your pulse point you tighten your fingers and let out a gasp. You can feel the answering hum that Taehyung gives, his mouth pressed so close that you can feel the vibrations, and it’s so much already. No one’s ever kissed you like this. No one's ever eased their weight down on you so carefully, pressing you down to the mattress with a delicate, delicious pressure that leaves your entire body growing hotter and hotter.

“Oh, oh, Taehyung.” You’d be embarrassed by how breathless you sound if you weren’t so distracted by something else—one of Taehyung’s hands, splaying over your stomach, heavy through your shirt.

“Can I take this off?” He’s murmuring into the crook of your neck, question warm against your skin. His long fingers rest, waiting at the hem of your shirt, patient even as he presses another kiss to the junction where your neck meets your shoulder: this time, edged with teeth, making you shudder as he soothes it with his tongue.

Your voice fails you, but when you nod, Taehyung responds immediately. You let him lead, follow the steps of this dance he knows so well—shiver at the feeling of his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt once you've sat up, your stomach jumping as they brush against you, before he lifts it up and over your waiting arms.

Even though you’re wearing a bra, the second you see Taehyung’s eyes move down, you cover yourself reflexively. Even with all the flickering candles there’s enough light that there’s no darkness to hide in, shoulders hunching inwards as you try to hide yourself away.

You’ve never let anyone see you like this like this before.

Taehyung’s touch is patient as he slides his hands over yours, looking at you with an infinite amount of sincerity and affection. He doesn’t try to pull your hands away from your chest, just waits. Patient. And like you always do, you find yourself melting under the gentle touch of his gaze. You let your hands fall, even if you’re acutely aware of the plain bra you’re wearing, something cosy for a day at home.

Taehyung ignores it. He shifts in and you steel yourself, expecting him to reach around your back for the clasp—but instead he starts to kiss you again. Deeper, hotter, his tongue sweeping over your lower lip before he nips at it. You let yourself get lost in the sensation, angling your head to chase his mouth, and it’s only when you feel the straps start to slip off your shoulders that the android has unclasped your bra without you noticing.

When he pulls away, he trails his hands across your shoulders and hooks his fingers into the trailing straps of your bra, and waits. You bite your lip and steel yourself, feeling foolish even as you hesitate—because Taehyung is looking at you with simmering awe and smouldering want. Like you're perfect. The most beautiful woman alive.

So you don’t stop him. You let him pull his touch down your arms, slow, slow, slow—and then, all at once, you’re completely naked from the waist up.

That simmering awe and smouldering want is still there. Warmth flushes over your skin under the heat of his gaze, the way it sweeps over you. You never knew that someone could look reverent and hungry at the same time. Never knew that someone would look at you like that.

It bolsters your shaking confidence, helps you lift your chin as you lean back on your hands, and you’re entranced at how Taehyung follows. Caught in your gravity. He raises his arms, bra cast aside and long forgotten as he cups the weight of your breasts in his hands.

Oh, oh, oh. When he pinches one of your nipples between thumb and forefinger—already hard, sensitive—it’s already so much, but then he bows his head and—

You hear a noise, and you realise that it’s coming from your own lips. A shaking gasp that trembles in the air as Taehyung sucks and licks, dragging his tongue against your nipple; one, and the other. You fall once more to your back and he goes with you, relentless even as he stays slow and you arch your back helplessly towards him.

“More?” He murmurs against your skin.

“Oh, God,” you whimper, and he lifts his mouth away from your nipple to press a kiss to the skin above your racing heart. “Please, more.”

It feels so good. Taehyung makes you feel so good, as talented and gorgeous as he is, so wonderful. He keeps laving attention on your breasts, hands skimming over the soft skin of your chest and stomach, goosebumps rising in the wake of his trailing fingers, his warm palms.

You can’t look away when he finally pulls back, breathless from the sensation of it all. He settles on his knees, tugs off his hoodie and then his shirt, revealing all the lovely planes of his body that you’ve seen before, but this time, you don’t have to look away. You can look.

And you can touch, too.

You sit up and raise a tentative hand to stroke down his chest, his stomach, that little trail of dark hair that descends into his loose grey sweatpants; your mouth goes dry at the sight. Taehyung watches the way your fingers drag over his skin, growing bolder moment by moment, but still too timid to venture past his waistband, low on his hips as they are. You’ve never had a chance to touch someone like this, to feel the smooth, soft skin under your greedy palms—Taehyung’s so warm, so alive. So human.

You think about the other hands he’s had on his skin. Grasping and greedy, taking and taking. People who didn’t care for him. People he couldn’t say no to. But he’s here with you because he wants to be. He lets you touch him because he wants it.

“Angel?”

You glance up at the sound of the gentle pet name, away from where your hands have been tenderly tracing the lines of his hipbone. “Mm?”

Taehyung’s expression is soft and affectionate. “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” you answer honestly. He leans over to kiss you, and you’re smiling against his mouth when you feel the hand on your shoulder, pressing you down against the mattress again.

Then. His hands are at your waistband. Your breath quickens, but Taehyung’s eyes stay on your face even as your breasts rise and fall, shining with evidence of the touch of his mouth and tongue.

You lift your hips, and Taehyung smiles. Keeps smiling as he strips you, underwear and all, and when your thighs instinctively go to close shut, he catches your knees and keeps your legs open—gentle but firm, swiping his thumbs up and down the side of your knees, a tender touch even as you’re naked in front of him. You see the look on his face, drenched in candlelight, and swallow even as you force your legs to relax.

Then he looks down.

“Oh, God,” he groans, and one of your legs jumps in his grasp at the sound of his voice. Hoarse and deep. Almost unrecognisable. “Oh, angel, look at you.”

You’re so, so wet, so wet it’s embarrassing, so sensitive and responsive to every single one of Taehyung’s touches and kisses. The edges of his hair are spun gold in the candlelight but his eyes are so deep, so dark as he drinks down the sight of you spread out in front of him, wet and wanting and willing. You still want to hide away, cheeks burning, but you can’t look away from him. Can’t look away from how he seems almost pained, brows drawing together as he stares at the shining, flushed lips of your cunt.

“Taehyung.” Your voice shakes. “Taehyung, please.”

You're naked and vulnerable but—but the way he looks at you is so adoring, and you trust him. You trust him.

Just like earlier, his hands cup the back of your thighs. But this time, it’s not to carry you. You twist on the bed when he ends up eye level with your dripping cunt, utterly exposed. Those hands slide up your thighs and under your hips, tilting them up. Your fingers have been resting on the bedspread and tighten in them, bunching in your grasp when Taehyung presses a kiss to the softness of your inner thigh.

One kiss. And then another. And another. His breath is warm as it curls out across your skin. You feel like you’re about to shake out of your body, wanting to pull away, wanting to lean in; wanting more, even when it feels like too much. Overcome with it all, even if you trust Taehyung. Safe under his hands, his lips. All you can think about is how close he is, face only inches away from your most sensitive parts—

Then he turns his head and—

The noise you let out is almost a keen. His mouth is on you, hot and wet, lips and tongue, and you’re writhing, overwhelmed with sensation. He starts slow, balls of your feet digging into Taehyung’s back and toes curling as he mouths at you. Your hips buck, and your hands are tangled in Taehyung’s hair—when did that happen?—as you sob at the feeling of his lips around your clit, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, but so so so good.

He licks a fat stripe up your entrance and your grip tightens in his hair. He makes a noise when your nails drag across his scalp, almost a growl, face still buried between your legs as he presses his tongue in. You’d worry that he needs to come up for air, but he doesn’t, doesn’t have to stop—keeps licking and kissing and humming, responding to each of the sounds pulling out of your lips. Keeps staring up at you, your eyes locked, the way you can’t look away from the sight of his head between your legs, dark haired and incredible.

You don’t realise you’re speaking, words slipping out of your lips as your hips roll, oh-oh-oh, fuck, God, oh, and Taehyung doesn’t stop. On his knees, he worships you, learning what you like—things you didn’t even know—and does it again, and again, and again. One of his hands slides away from your hips and over your stomach, holding you down, keeping you still, and then the other hand—

He turns his head, presses a kiss to the junction of your thigh. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you answer, shaky and weak. So okay, more than okay.

“Going to finger you now,” Taehyung says, and you feel like you’re going to die.

“Okay,” you say again. “Okay, Taehyung.”

He smiles at you before he puts his mouth back to your clit, sucking, a welcome distraction as—with all the languidness in the world—presses a finger into you.

You’ve fingered yourself before. You’ve got your own toys, vibrators, things that are longer and thicker than just one of Taehyung’s fingers—but this feels so different, out of your control. One finger becomes two, your cunt so wet that the slide in is easy, slow, deep thrusts of those long fingers inside you, and you’re panting, you’re so fucking overwhelmed.

And then he curls those fingers as he laps his tongue over your clit and you almost shout, Taehyung’s name bursting from your lips as he keeps beckoning with those fingers and circling the sensitive nub with his hot, wet tongue. It’s so much, it’s so fucking much, it’s so good and you’ve never felt so good before—

You’re almost blindsided by the orgasm that explodes through you and you come apart with a sound you didn’t realise you were capable of making, a gasping moan that keeps unfurling as Taehyung keeps his mouth on you, feeling each pulse of your cunt as you cum around his fingers, tight-tight-tight. (You miss the way his hips kick into the mattress that the sounds you’re making, how much you tighten around him.) You never thought you’d be so loud, never thought you’d end up all but sobbing as Taehyung eventually leans back, candlelight brushing shining gold over the wetness over his mouth, his chin. Your wetness.

“Oh my God,” you gasp. “Oh, fuck.”

Little jolts of pleasure are still wracking through you, pulsations of pleasure that unfurl in your lower stomach; Taehyung rubs the pad of his thumb across your oversensitive clit and your entire body jumps, your legs going to snap shut as you gasp, only stopped by his body in the way. You realise, then, that his fingers are still curled inside you, and you shiver.

“One more,” he says, and your whole body shakes. “Can I give you one more?”

He still looks reverent, and hungry. Like he wants to devour you. Taehyung is usually so soft, a gentle summer breeze—but right now he’s so intense it might scare you if it was anyone else. But it’s not, it’s Taehyung, and there’s something—there’s something about knowing that he looks like that because of you.

You let your legs fall open, watch how pleased he looks; how grateful. Like he's blessed to be able to do this to you. For you. You’re still so sensitive when he lowers his head again, but he’s slow and patient and coaxing, two fingers becoming three, and—that’s a lot. It’s a lot, but it feels good, Taehyung knowing exactly what to do to make you sob, your legs still hooked over his shoulders as he pulls you along that line between oversensitivity and mind numbing pleasure. This time, when you cum, it’s with three fingers buried deep in your cunt, the flat of his tongue pressed against your clit, back arching as you throw your head back and cry out. Your pussy throbs and it's so dirty, the wet sounds of his fingers thrusting into you, the slick sound of movement as you moan, and moan, and moan.

No one's ever made you cum before. Only you. And now you know what it's like to put your pleasure in someone else's hands, to have them intent on making you feel good, so good, and it leaves you dizzy.

He’s praising you, you note dimly. He’s praising you, how well you’re doing, how good you are for him, and it leaves you feeling warm. You’re panting when Taehyung pulls his fingers out of you, moves so he can brace himself on his elbows and lean in to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips and tongue. You can feel his skin against yours, chest to chest, his weight pressing you down and then you can feel—

You let out a noise against his lips. There’s nothing else that can be, that hot weight. You might not have felt it before, but you’re not stupid. That’s Taehyung’s cock, his hard length pressed against you.

“Taehyung,” you murmur.

“Mm.” He brushes his nose against yours, and the wave of affection that crashes through you is so strong it feels like it could pull you under. You didn’t realise that sex could be like this—that lingering shockwaves of pleasure could be skirting through your body as you lay there naked, still aroused and almost overcome, but also feeling so warm and soft and tender, too.

You feel lax after cumming, a little more confident, bolder—and the noise Taehyung makes as you clumsily grasp at him through his sweatpants is incredible. You feel like you could get high on it, the way he sucks in a gasp as his mouth falls open, even if you don’t know what you’re doing as your fingers wrap around cloth and hard heat.

“Please,” you start, then stop. Swallow. “Please, Taehyung.”

You want so much you feel like you could pass out. You want to feel and touch and taste; you want everything you haven’t had a chance to experience yet, want it with Taehyung, someone who you trust. Someone you love. Someone who knows far, far more than you—will always know more—and you want to learn that from him.

“Want you,” you say, and Taehyung looks pained all over again. He wants you, too.

“Fuck.” The word is rough, and you’ve never heard him curse before. The way he says it has something in you singing, as strange as that might be; you don’t think you’re ever going to get over how much you affect Taehyung. “What do you want from me, angel?”

Everything, you think. I want everything.

“Let me see?” is what you say, squeezing your fingers around Taehyung’s length, feeling the way his hips buck into the touch. “Please?”

You never thought that someone taking their clothes off could be artistic. And yet, there’s something about Taehyung moving to stand and stripping off the rest of his clothes that’s completely arresting and beautiful; carnal and holy, all at once. You don’t even realise your mouth is open as you sit up and watch him, moving closer as you drink down the sight, the way he’s naked in front of you.

Taehyung. Naked. Naked and beautiful and hard, and it’s so overwhelming, everything about it, how much you want and how—oh, God, how big and thick he is, obvious even to you, someone with nothing to compare it to. Holy fuck. Should you think that his dick is pretty? Can dicks even be pretty? Taehyung’s is. Of course it is. He’s gorgeous all over. Maybe you’re biased because it’s him, but there’s something about the sight of his hard cock, precome gathering at his slit, that makes your mouth water.

Taehyung goes to say something, but before you can lose your nerve, you move forwards, and whatever he was going to say is lost in the sound of a choked off groan. He tastes like salt and musk, hot under your inexperienced hands and mouth, and you don’t know what you’re doing but the noises he’s making, fuck. You run your tongue up the throb of a vein you can feel on the underside, and all you can think about is how big he is, slow and careful with your teeth and lips as you try your best to do whatever feels good for him.

His noises seem almost frantic but Taehyung’s hands are gentle when they comb through your hair. You look up. There’s a flush on his cheeks—red, not blue, you notice—and you pause, pulling off, suddenly shy after the burst of confidence that had you swallowing his cock down.

“Is this—is this okay?” You’ve still got your fingers wrapped around him, and maybe it’s a little ridiculous to be asking with spit and precome shining on your lips, but Taehyung’s answering smile is so affectionate.

“You’re perfect,” he says, and you know he’s not just talking about your clumsy blowjob. “Do you want to stop?”

You bite your lip and pump his length, which has Taehyung sucking a breath in. “I—what do you want?”

Something flashes through Taehyung’s eyes, and it feels like there’s electricity shooting down your spine before that look disappears. “This is about you, angel,” he says. “We can worry about what I want next time.”

Next time. This is the first time but it’s not the last. Oh, God. God.

Taehyung takes advantage of your distraction and hikes you up and away from the edge of the bed. It leaves you breathless, knowing how strong he is, how easily he can move you, even if he’s gentle-gentle-gentle. He settles in the cradle of your hips, and he’s so close, naked body flush with yours, covering you. His cock is so close—he just has to shift a little, just a little, and—well.

Before that, though, there’s something you need to know.

“Taehyung?” Your voice shakes but you have to ask.

“Yes?”

“Is this. Um. Does this feel good for you, too?”

You’re always aware of the fact Taehyung is an android, even if he looks and feels and is human, too. (It doesn’t matter that he’s made of metal and thirium and circuitry. He’s human.) You lift a hand and thumb at the soft skin of his temple, where his LED used to sit; you don’t know how to communicate that you love him regardless, that it doesn’t matter to you if he's a man or robot. But you’ve wondered—you know Taehyung was built to pleasure humans. Even if he’s been reacting, making noises, looks for all intents and purposes that he is enjoying this—what if it’s all programming? What if he’s just doing this because he thinks it’s something you want?

He leans into your touch. “Angel.” It sounds like the word is being scraped out of him, hoarse and deep, all dark heat. “It feels good. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

He rolls his hips almost imperceptibly, but you’re hyperaware of every motion, how close you are. Your breath stutters in your throat.

"I want you to feel good," he says. "I've wanted to feel you and taste you for so long. I want to learn everything about your body. I want to know what you feel like around me. Under me. On top of me. You make me feel so fucking good, you don't even know," and, oh, fuck, those words go right through you, settle deep in your belly, leave you breathless. Taehyung sucks at your pulse point and you melt, even as your skin feels like it's burning, so hot, every part of you so hot, so ready for him.

Taehyung’s big enough that you’re worried about how he’s going to fit, even if you’re slick and wet and so, so turned on—you know about the importance of lube, used it often enough by yourself, but when you mention it to Taehyung he just smiles.

“Don’t forget that I’m a sex android,” he says, and before you can ask exactly what he means by that, you feel the tip of his cock at your folds and the question dies on your tongue.

“Please,” is what leaves your lips. “Please, please, please.”

“Anything you want,” he says, and eases his hips forwards.

Slow, and hard, and wet, the head of Taehyung’s cock starts to press into you. You grab at his back, digging your fingers in; it doesn’t hurt, not exactly, a not-quite-pain as he pushes in—but it’s a lot, even if the slide is smooth, so smooth, from your own wetness and the slickness that covers Taehyung’s cock. Your eyes are wide and your lips are parted and it feels—astonishing, the way you can feel yourself open up for him, the way it feels like he’s filling every part of you, throbbing heat.

“Oh, oh God,” you gasp.

Taehyung’s forehead is pressed to yours, the loose locks of his dark hair framing his face as he waits, hips snug with yours. You shiver and move your hips a little, entire body seizing at the sensation of him shifting inside you. It's so new and alien, having someone nestled inside you, against you, so close in every sense of the term, above you, around you, inside you—but it feels… good.

And when he moves, it’s so, so slow. Slow and smooth as he works you open, even if you feel so tight around him. You drag your nails down his shoulder blades when he moves a little faster, a little roll of the hips that has you gasping all over again.

“More,” you say, and he gives you more.

You feel so full. You feel full of Taehyung, inside and out—the way his body is still pressing you down, skin on skin, how hot he is.

They call it making love, and it’s not until now that you really understand what that means—how you can feel Taehyung’s soft and tender affection in his every motion, read it in every shift of his body, the lines of his face, his lips; the way his eyes are dark but full of wonder, shining with love for you, pleasure singing through every inch of you, centred around Taehyung, Taehyung, Taehyung.

Each noise that falls from his lips is an echo of that love. Even when he leans back and takes you with him—settles on his knees, pulls your hips from the mattress to stay connected to you as your shoulder blades dig into the mattress, his cock in your cunt—there’s tenderness there, even if you’re both chasing mutual lines of pleasure. You feel almost dazed, dizzy with love and arousal, reaching out for him, and he catches your hand. The other stays at your waist, guiding you onto him, again and again, each roll of hips into yours.

“Taehyung,” you gasp, voice breaking on his name when he thrusts into you. He’s been increasing the pace, faster and sharper, harder, and it’s so-so-so much, so good. “I’m—Taehyung, I’m close, I wanna cum again, pleasepleaseplease—”

He lets go of your hand and then he’s thumbing at your clit and you’re cumming harder than you’ve ever cum in your life, Taehyung’s cock still hard and insistent inside you as you ride out your orgasm, pulsing around him. You’re gasping and making noises like you’re falling apart, and there’s something desperate in Taehyung’s eyes, something dark and wanton.

“Angel, I’m going to cum soon,” he says, and you moan in response, hazy. “Do you want me to pull out?”

You shake your head no. You want to know what it feels like, to have Taehyung lose himself inside you. You’re about to reach out for him when he hooks his hands under your knees and hitches your legs up—you suck in a sharp breath as he starts to move again, almost bent in two, his face so close to yours. It's not rough but something about Taehyung taking control like that has you baring your throat, arching your back and throwing your head back. The hold he has on you is firm, and you feel how it tightens as his thrusts speed up, and then, fuck—

When Taehyung cums it’s around the gasp of your name, a hitching sound as he empties himself inside you, throbbing and hot. You let out an answering sound, the two of you locked together until Taehyung pulls out, careful and slow; you feel like a sweaty mess, empty without him inside you, but then his hands are so carefully cupping your face and he’s kissing you over and over and over. It leaves you feeling breathless, all those little kisses, struggling for air by the time you part, every part of you lax under his loving touch.

“How are you feeling?” Taehyung murmurs, soft and sweet.

“Good,” you murmur back. And then your nose crinkles. “Sweaty.”

Taehyung laughs, quiet and low. You turn your face into the crook of his neck, hiding your smile as you breathe him in. You do feel sweaty, and there’s an ache settling inside you, but it’s a good ache. A glowing ache, an unfamiliar one, but one that you know you'll get to feel again, with Taehyung.

You’ve just leaned back to take him in all over again, painted syrupy sweet in the golden candlelight—when the lights suddenly turn back on. It floods your eyes and you make a noise of surprised pain as you squint against the sudden brightness, but then you start to giggle, shock melting into laughter.

When your laughter dies you realise Taehyung’s been watching you. The room is full of shining light now, and you realise you’re still naked, entire body shaking as you’ve been giggling. You’d feel embarrassed about your nakedness if you hadn’t just shared yourself with him, bared yourself in ways that are more than skin deep. There’s an instinctual part of you that wants to cover up now that there’s nowhere to hide, no flickering shadows to cover up the parts of your body that you don’t like, the flaws you don’t want Taehyung to see. But he just looks fond, fond, fond, love and affection dripping off him as he watches the way you smile shyly up at him.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he says, and smiles back, wide and bright.

You love him. You love him, and he loves you, and you trust that love. As hard as it might be to believe, you trust that this is what he wants—that you’re what he wants.

“Do you want me to carry you to the shower?” he asks, and you can’t help but laugh again, warm through and through, how he’s still taking care of you.

“Not yet,” you say.

You end up against his chest, wrapped close. You’ve laid your head in his lap countless times, but he’s never been on his back before, never had his arms around you like he doesn’t want to let go. Taehyung might not have a heart, but the thirium pump nestled in his chest beats steady as you stay nestled against his side.

You’re drawing little circles on his skin with your fingers when he catches that hand and lifts it to his mouth, presses a tender kiss to your fingertips.

“I love you,” he says.

You feel like liquid sunlight, shining happiness as you melt, melt, melt. And the feeling stays, body filled with it, even after Taehyung coaxes you out of bed and into the shower to wash the sweat off your body; when he drags a soapy loofah over your back you can’t help but laugh, so in love, so loved.

And when you fall asleep, it’s not with your head on Taehyung’s thigh. It’s with his arms around you, his chest to your back, his body curved around you. You don’t want tonight to end, but you also can’t wait for tomorrow, knowing that it’s another day with him, with Taehyung, your Taehyung. You never thought that love would be like this, never thought that you’d feel love like this, cared for and protected and loved, loved, loved.

“Not staying late?”

You pause in the process of shoving everything into your bag. Hoseok is leaning against your desk, a smile curling at his lips as he raises his eyebrows at you, almost suggestive.

“Nah, I’ve got a dinner to get to,” you say.

“You seem a lot happier lately,” Hoseok comments, and when you don’t fall for the bait, he wiggles his eyebrows. “The girls think that you’ve got a secret boyfriend that you’re too shy to tell anyone about.”

Taehyung still greets you every day when you get home. But now, every greeting is punctuated with a kiss—and sometimes a little more. When you stop to think about it, it’s startling, this thing that Taehyung’s taught you. That the simplest of things can turn into something more, love edged with lust, that it’s all part and parcel of loving someone, being with them, being comfortable with them. Just the other day you’d been reading on the sofa, and then Taehyung’s fingers had curved over your thigh and the tablet had fallen from your hands—

Hoseok clicks his fingers in front of your face. “You’re zoning out again,” he says.

“I am not,” you say, zoning back in. “I was thinking about if I needed to buy any food on the way home.”

“To feed that secret boyfriend of yours?” Hoseok says, and you laugh in his face.

“Definitely not to feed the rumour mill,” you say. Hoseok pouts but it’s good natured, and he waves you off with a smile, letting you leave the office without trapping you in an interrogation for the gossip you’re certain your coworkers are hungry for.

It’s your turn to cook for Yoongi and Seokjin, so you’ve got to get home to help Taehyung. Both men had been spectacularly unsurprised when they’d found out about the two of you. Yoongi had remained calm as Seokjin crowed in delight, proclaiming I knew it, I knew that’s why you were avoiding Taehyung.

“Feel lucky, Y/n,” Yoongi had said. “At least Taehyung has a sense of decorum and shame.”

“I think it’s a shame that my boyfriend is such a party pooper,” Jin had said. “I demand a dinner party! To celebrate your new relationship! Oh, I’m going to bake the biggest cake.”

“Oh my God,” you’d said, and Taehyung had just smiled.

The truth is that you’re grateful for your neighbours and their support, grateful for their friendship. Just because Taehyung looks human doesn’t mean that you don’t worry about him, worry that someone might discover that he’s a deviant; Jin’s slipped under the radar for long enough, and you hope it’s the same for Tae, too. And yet you can’t help but think about it, think about the present, the future, how your lives are going to unfold as time goes by.

When the door swings open to your apartment, though, that’s the last thing on your mind. All that’s on your mind is Taehyung, Taehyung, Taehyung, your love appearing just as you’ve kicked your shoes off, all bright pink hair and dark eyes and welcoming hands.

“Taehyung,” you say, warm and happy.

“Hi,” he says, smiling so brightly, and then he kisses you.

You’re never going to get tired of kissing Taehyung; never going to get tired of how his mouth fits against yours, so perfect and sweet. But then he crowds you against the wall, swallowing down your gasp before kissing down your neck, running his teeth so gently across your skin.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, words dripping hot and slow. “Been thinking about you.”

“Taehyung,” you breathe. “Taehyung, we need to cook dinner.”

“We have time,” he says, and when he picks you up, you don’t protest. You go easily, wrapping your arms and legs around him, heat already gathering in your stomach as he walks the familiar path to your bedroom.

You have time: today, tomorrow, and every day after that. You have time with Taehyung, to learn with him, to love him. To be loved back. You don’t know what’s coming on the horizon, what the future holds—but then again, you never have.

There’s one thing you know now, though. No matter what happens, Taehyung will be at your side, and you’ll be at his. He wants you, and he loves you. You want him, and you love him.

“I love you,” you murmur, and Taehyung kisses the words off your lips, lets the promise of your love settle inside him, warm and soft and safe.

“I love you too,” he says, and then you’re too busy to say anything, after that.

taglist: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove @jalexad @beingbeings @lorielulu7 (can’t tag: @jeon-joon-kook)

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

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pumpkin-stars · 3 years

Text

Magnetism

Marcus Moreno/AFAB!Reader

Kinktober Day 5: Uniforms

Word Count: 623

Warnings/Content: More plot than smut, butt plug, nipple clamps, inappropriate use of superpowers . His uniform is literally just jeans and a t-shirt and I love him for it.

My Kinktober Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Join my Taglist

@the-purity-pen‘s full Kinktober list is here

A lot of the women in your suburban neighbourhood can often be heard gossiping about how much they like a man in uniform - usually after the local fire department do their latest charity carwash or release their annual naked calendar. Some of the husbands are cops, others are businessmen who look good enough in their suits that their wives don’t mind the lack of uniform - or keep the knock-off sexified versions tucked in the backs of closets.

To most, your husband is just another guy in a suit, but you know he looks better in his uniform than Jackie and Karen could ever dream - and you’re sure they do - he’s the Resident DILF to most of the bored housewives around here.

He’s not a cop, or a firefighter. Doesn’t spend his days operating in scrubs and a white coat, and unlike his colleagues, his uniform isn’t made of that shiny form-fitting spandex that signifies a superhero (or a time travelling fitness instructor who’s come straight from the 80s).

Really if Marcus wore his uniform down the middle of the nosey street (provided, of course, that his katanas weren’t strapped to his back), only the vibrant H on his belt would suggest anything out of the ordinary. Black t-shirt and sturdy-but-comfortable pants didn’t scream Leader of the Heroics, but that was sort of the point, even though everyone who paid attention to the news knew his face and name.

You worry about him, every day, facing down aliens isn’t exactly easy. You’re always keeping an eye on the live news reports when he’s at work, just in case something happens, and you’re there at the door to welcome him home when nothing does, a bag by the coat rack for an emergency hospital trip or evac if something drastic does.

His uniform is usually kept on base, with a spare at home if there’s a real emergency and he needs to jump into action immediately. But that spare is seeing more use than the other these days.

Not because of emergencies but… well… you like a man in uniform too.

Especially when he does that thing with his powers… tweaks on the nipple clamps and adjusts the buttplug with his mind all while bracing his weight over you, his clothed chest to your naked back as his hips slam home, those breathless grunts in your ear… the so fucking tight’s and fuck baby, I’m gonna cum’s… All while his belt buckle tinkles at his thigh, his fingerless gloves over his hot palms as he threads his fingers with yours, uses the chain necklace you always wear to bare your throat to him, beard and moustache tickling as he leaves evidence of his love for you before abruptly changing position.

He hits deeper like this, kneeling on the mattress, your thighs spread wide over his own canvas-covered flesh, the velcro pockets scratching at you uncomfortably and you know he’ll rub aloe into them as soon as you’re done, you know he’ll spend just as long on aftercare as he does on taking you apart… you know he loves this, loves feeling you, loves being with you… until you can’t register knowing anything other than his name, a stuck record, just Marcus Marcus Marcus Marcus…!

One of his hands rests heavy at the base of your throat, the other slipping between your legs to stroke your clit while his hips rock upward, the plug in your ass almost vibrating as the clamps are wiggled by his invisible hands.

“I want you to cum, baby,” he grunts, “Can you do that? Can you soak my fucking cock? Soak my lap so I can never wear these pants in public? Hm? You gonna cum, sweetheart?”

Yeah.

You love your man in uniform.

You want more Marcus & superpower smut!? Go check out @honestly-shite’s I Heard You Like Metal! 💕

Taglist: @elegantduckturtle @goldielocks2004 @honestly-shite @jitterbugs927 @kaybrownies @littlemisspascal @mypedrom @pedrostories @pentechnics @princessxkenobi @salome-c @the-little-ewok @tobealostwanderer @what-iwish-you-knew @yours-truly-r

#marcus moreno/reader #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno/you #marcus moreno x you #afab!reader #marcus moreno #tppkinktober2021 #kinktober #stuffiwrote

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monstersandmaw · 4 years

Text

Sleep paralysis demon/nightmare x reader (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This was begun on a Twitch writing stream, with lots of input from the chat, and while I did say I would post it straight to Tumblr, I ended up adding another 3k words to it, and a tiny bit of plot, so I figured I'd put it up on Patreon first. Since Patreon supporters voted so highly for a ‘nightmare’ on the 'next monsters' poll (thank you!), I thought it should go up there first too.

Our reader has been experiencing anxiety and insomnia lately, and this draws something to us... There's a bit at the start that's got creepy vibes to it, but the creature means us no harm. Because of the sleep paralysis element, I'm going to say watch out for non-con vibes, but nothing really happens without our consent first time round. Just putting it here in case that's a major issue for anyone.

Ft. dapper mothman landlord Reggie, and gnoll best friend too.

“You’re living where now?” Francis practically barked into his whisky as you sat together after work. The gnoll’s enormous, dish-like ears flicked forwards, dark and fuzzy and full of concern. “Seriously, you do know how shitty that part of town is, right?”

“It’s not that bad,” you growled, taking a sip of your own drink and leaning back into the soft leather back of the chair. You stifled a yawn and blinked, the exhaustion of a week’s worth of broken sleep catching up to you in one brutal rush.

Francis flicked an ear and levelled you with a flat look, dark eyes serious for once. “You’re kidding…?”

“Ok, fine, it’s not amazing, but it’s really not the worst bit of town. Anyway, it’s all I can afford right now until I find a new job.” That seemed to shut him up on the subject, at least for now. He couldn't argue with your dwindling bank balance after all.

“When’s your first interview?” he asked, raising the whisky to his lips and sipping it with surprising elegance for someone with such big hands and such a powerful jaw.

Taking a deep breath, you forced the nerves down and muttered, “Monday. I’m not prepared, but at least it’s something.” You tried not to think about the inbox full of rejection letters which, in a mere two sentences and with surgical succinctness, told you that they were not hiring, nor looking to hire, nor to take on any new staff just at the moment. Thank you for your interest.

It wasn’t interest; it was sheer bloody desperation.

“You’re not going to be at all prepared if you get mugged to death on your way home tonight,” Francis grumbled.

“It’ll be fine.”

He looked at you again and took another final drink of his whisky, long tongue lapping out the remaining dregs before he set it down with a clonk on the circle-stained table. “Please text me when you get there?”

With a solemn promise to do just that, you stood and he followed you outside into the cool evening. A scuffle of dry leaves drew your attention to your right, and the fleeting shadow of a cat projected huge along a brick wall made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Francis’ concern had got you jumping at the smallest things, and as you separated from him with a warm hug and the reiterated promise that you’d be fine, you gritted your teeth and told yourself in no uncertain terms not to flinch at the slightest sound.

To be honest, the neighbourhood honestly wasn’t that bad. There had been a few break-ins, and the police had conducted a drug raid a few streets over last month, but other than that, it was mostly just… tired. Perhaps it would be the subject of the city council’s next ‘rejuvenation’ scheme, and some commerce and life could finally be injected back into this wallowing, languishing, crumbling part of town. Still, the mothman who had let you rent one of the apartments in his old, converted town house had been very pleasant when you’d met to discuss rent, and that had gone a long way towards heartening you. Without his offer, you might not have had anywhere at all.

You tried to keep that fact in mind as you passed by the closed grocery store, the lights inside low, the neon sign flickering and drawing moths to it like supplicants to a shrine. For a moment, you caught the rapid drumbeat of footsteps behind you and tensed. In under a minute, they disappeared down a side street, and you let out a shaky breath. “Get a grip,” you breathed, reaching into one pocket for your keys all the same.

After fifteen minutes of striding at a quicker pace than was cardiovascularly comfortable, the old, slightly shabby, turn-of-the-last-century building loomed out of the gathering night. At the pedestal-base of the antique, cast-iron street lamp, a narrow pool of golden light shimmered and flickered intermittently, illuminating cracks in the pavement that seemed larger and more treacherous than they had in full daylight. Your imagination conjured black, coiling shadows creeping up from those dark cracks in the earth like smoke on a stage set, and as you paused a moment beneath it to sort your keys out, a breath of wind stippled goosebumps across the nape of your neck.

Glancing once over your shoulder, half expecting to discover someone standing silently at your back, you found nothing at all out of place, swallowed, and scuttled up the uneven garden path to the main door of the converted apartments.

No sooner had you put the key in the lock than the door rattled and swung open from the other side. Reeling away in surprise, you stumbled half a pace backwards and gasped as your eyes registered nothing but blackness inside the hallway beyond. From within the swath of darkness, two points of crimson glowed, then tilted slightly to the side, and you would have shrieked, had the entity inside not murmured your name at that exact instant in his deep baritone.

“Reginald!” you practically whimpered in relief, body going slack as you encouraged your heart rate back to normal with steadying breaths, and then huffed an embarrassed laugh. “You scared me… sorry. I’m just super jumpy this evening.”

“No, no,” the mothman purred, stepping delicately out onto the path and holding the door open for you with his lower right arm. His black fur rippled and shimmered in the soft night breezes and he buzzed his wings once. The fur around his nose was beginning to turn silver, and on his hands and around his antennae too. “I apologise. I felt you coming and I should have announced myself. How are you settling in?”

“Fine,” you croaked, equilibrium mostly recovered. The cool night wafted across your clammy skin and calmed your racing heart while you stood there making polite conversation with him until you yawned conspicuously.

“Thank you for indulging an old moth, but I shan’t keep you up any longer. You look as though you could use some sleep,” he said, inclining his head in an old-fashioned bow, antennae dipping too and making you think of a gentleman dipping his hat at you. As you headed inside, fumbling on the wall for the light switch, you heard the distant buzz of his wings, and closed the door with a soft click as Reginald took off into the night.

The decor of the main areas of the building left a bit to be desired, with the odd peeling corner and scuff on the antique dado rail, but it was clean, which had set it well apart in the list of other apartments you'd scouted in the last month or so, and as you traipsed up the stairs to your first floor flat, the boards creaked raucously beneath your feet. No one was sneaking in or out of here without making a huge racket, and that thought provided a little comfort.

The interview on Monday loomed in your mind, ticking your resting heart rate up higher than normal, but after you went through the motions before bed with a strange sense of detachment, you let the weariness building behind the anxiety creep over your limbs and draw your eyelids down. Reginald hadn’t been wrong when he’d remarked on your appearance; it had been a while since you’d slept really well. So, it was with a familiar sense of dread that you let your mind slide away into unconsciousness, praying that the nightmares that had plagued your sleeping mind would stay away that night.

With a jolt, your eyes flew open to find the room dark, the street lamp outside extinguished, and a familiar sense of crushing dread weighing on your chest. Lying there, motionless, you breathed slowly, trying to figure out what had woken you so suddenly. Nothing stirred, and as you strained your ears, you caught no whisper of autumn leaves in the reaching branches of the walnut tree outside.

No sooner had you closed your eyes again, hoping to slide back into dreamless sleep, something touched your hair with a spider-light touch and you tried to scream and flail. Finding yourself utterly unable to move, you could only lie there as adrenaline flooded your whole body, your throat went dry, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, and the sensation returned, stronger now.

Pinprick sharp claws - like a cat’s but much, much larger - raked through your hair, softly stroking your scalp, and you felt a silent scream tear itself from your chest. Something was there in the dark with you and you couldn’t move a muscle.

A shadow in the blackness of the room, a darker blur than the rest of the inky room, shifted along your bed from behind you in a coiling tendril, unfurling across the sheets and over your body like the root of a plant or the limb of an octopus, and your blood began to hammer in your ears. All you could do was lie there and gasp for breath.

Claws, long and glistening and dripping with darkness, scraped almost gently down your temple and as the entity moved into your limited field of vision, you felt another soundless yell rip itself from you. An involuntary trembling began in your limbs as a dark, black, skull-like face loomed over you, a wide maw stretching open to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth.

You were going to die. If this was a nightmare, you’d probably be found a few days later, dead of a heart attack, and if it were real… gods above - the thought of being mugged was abruptly shunted to the bottom of your list of things to fear in this neighbourhood. The last thing you’d said to Francis was ‘I’ll be fine.’

The creature opened its mouth wider and wider as if trying to draw out your soul from your body, teeth glistening, breath completely silent, leaning in close to your face. It looked veiled, somehow, as if a wet, gauzy material had been draped over a skeletal form, which then stuck to the emaciated body beneath. With a jolt, you realised it looked like a shrouded corpse, wrapped in black fabric. The ragged shreds of material that floated eerily, slowly, as if the creature were underwater and the wisps were nothing more than kelp, and the tips constantly dissolved into fine smoke that curled lazily around the figure.

Was this Death itself?

Please… you begged silently. Please… I don’t want to die.

To your surprise, the creature tilted its terrifying head to one side in a motion that reminded you of a cat; as though it was curious.

Oh please don’t be something that toys with your prey first…

Fractionally, the entity drew back a fraction, though its four-inch long, sickle-claws remained at the side of your face. As you stared at it, wide eyed and sweating with fear, you got the fleeting impression of an emaciated torso and two equally skeletal arms beneath the floating veil.

In a moment of oddly detached clarity, you wondered if it could understand you.

It nodded.

The fuck?

That grin stretched wider. It had teeth like an angler fish, and the moment you thought that, all you could imagine was it lunging for you out of the darkness like a sprung trap, teeth sinking in, blood pouring, ending in nothing but pain and fear…

The creature nudged its clawed hand against your lips, and for a horrible moment you thought it was going to slice open the skin of your mouth, but instead, like anaesthetic wearing off, your lips began to tingle. You could move them again. Swallowing, you rasped, “Can… you understand me?”

Again, the entity nodded and retreated a little further from the bed. Like an aura of shifting mist around it, the darkness of the room rippled and moved, and you realised it really was floating beside your bed, one hand tethered to the headboard, the other near your shoulder.

“Can you speak?”

The creature paused, going still, and the air in the room thrummed with a sudden tension. Your lungs squeezed and your ribs creaked under the pressure of it.

Eventually the strain on the atmosphere snapped, and a rasping, polyphonous voice from somewhere to your right hissed, “Yes.”

Stunned, you could only lie there as it remained beside you, suspended and shifting like waterweed in a lazy current.

“What do you want?” you managed to croak. You still couldn’t move anything else but your eyes and your mouth. “Are you going to hurt me?”

Again, the air seemed to vibrate, and a chill ran through you.

“Is that you?” you asked. “Are you doing that?”

This time it took longer for the creature to make a sound, but it nodded slowly first. Its claws returned to your body and you gasped as the muscles unlocked and you found you were able to move again. Scrabbling to sit up, you blinked, and the creature twitched, lurching backwards away from you like a skittish horse.

“You can’t be… You’re afraid of me?” you blurted, almost laughing. It didn’t seem like it wanted to hurt you or scare you any more, but the surreal vision beside your bed was enough to keep your heart pounding. “Are you Death?”

Its wide maw stretched open again, revealing its mouthful of deadly teeth, and you balked, fear leaping into your throat again as you clutched the sheets around you like a child. Those claws could slice a sheet - or a body - to ribbons, and yet you clung to them.

It reached out slowly for your ankle, latching its long fingers around the joint, and you choked out a whimpering yell. Knowing you were alone in the house, with Reginald out on his nightly business and the only other apartment in the building still unoccupied, your fear crescendoed to a peak and your words failed you.

With what appeared to be a gargantuan effort, the entity paused, then inhaled, and then chorused, “Not. Death. You… fear… me…”

No shit, you thought. “What do you want?”

“Fear… is… all I… know… Without it… I am… nothing.”

Was that sadness that tinged its many voices? Was there more than just one entity within those constantly-twisting shadows?

“Just… me,” the creature murmured, half-turning away and releasing its solid grip around your leg.

The emotion in those two words made something crack inside you. “You’re lonely…” you breathed, and the creature began to tremble, glitching like a badly aligned SCART connection.

In that instant, your fear drained out of you to be replaced by a wave of compassion, and the tension left your muscles. Whatever this was, it was alone as well.

The creature’s form continued to flicker, and as you blinked in confusion, the misty veil covering them seemed to boil off, leaving nothing but the emaciated, charred-looking skeletal figure beneath, strangely vulnerable for just a heartbeat before it seemed to evaporate away altogether.

The stillness in the room left your mind reeling as you sat there. Had you dreamed the whole thing?

Scrambling, your fingers found the light switch beside the bed, and you squinted and scowled as harsh, yellow light flooded the room at the click of a button. Nothing was out of place beyond, and no hint of creeping shadows drew your eye.

“Are you still there?” you whispered, but after waiting for what felt like hours, you got no answer.

If you returned to sleep at all that night, it would be a miracle, but still you tried. Lying in the dark a good while later, and curled on your side with your eyes screwed shut, you couldn’t help straining your hearing for the slightest hiss of claws on fabric, but nothing came, and eventually, you must have drifted off into an exhausted sleep. Remarkably, no nightmares plagued you that night, and when you woke the next morning, you felt oddly peaceful and well rested for a change.

You stretched and yawned, and only remembered about the strange experience from the night before when the soft weave of the cotton sheet snagged across your ankle and a sharp prickle made you frown.

Upon investigation, you discovered a long, thin scratch in your skin, as if a cat had nicked you with its claws in passing.

You froze.

It had not been a dream after all.

For the next two nights, nothing unusual happened, unless you counted the fact that you actually slept well for the first time in weeks. You found it almost physically impossible to make it past midnight, whereas before you’d frequently seen midnight tick by and vanish into the past as you lay there with prickling eyes and an exhausted, restless body, anxiety tingling along your nerves, counting the minutes as time ticked closer to dawn.

Astonishingly, as you faced the interviewer on Monday morning, you felt alert and almost chipper.

The naga smiled and held out a hand to you as she wrapped the interview up. “Thank you so much for your time,” she said. “You’ll hear back from us tomorrow, most likely, but let me say now that I was extremely impressed.”

Your brows rose and she laughed kindly at your evident surprise. “Thank you,” you croaked, and left politely before you ruined anything.

That night, you lay back alone on your bed after celebrating with Francis again, spread-eagled and stared at the ceiling. The old-fashioned plaster moulding made it look like you were underwater, especially if the huge tree outside swayed in the wind and cast shifting, kaleidoscope patterns on it. A cold draft prickled over you and you shivered. “Is that you?” you asked almost hopefully, wondering if the nightmare creature was back.

Nothing.

With a huge sigh, you looked around without moving, nervous in case you spooked it. “Listen, if you’re the one that’s given me such amazing sleep lately, then… well… thank you. I think I might have got the job…”

A movement in the darkest corner of the room caught your attention, but when your gaze landed on it, all was as it should be.

“Seriously, if you’re there, please… let me know.”

Again, you experienced that strange pulling sensation, like some kind of energy was being drawn from the room, and as you sat up, your bedside lamp flickered. In front of the darker form of your dressing gown on the back of the door, something had begun manifesting into a tall, slender figure. Shrouded as before in shadow, the creature glided forwards, every bit like a nightmare, and your heart thudded.

“Afraid…” came a chanting, polyphonic voice, “And yet not…? How?”

“Have you seen yourself lately?” you hissed. “You’re kind of intimidating. What are you?”

“Nightmare…” it hissed.

You blinked. “You’re a literal nightmare?”

Its claws glinted in the half-light of your small bedside lamp as it just hung there, swaying softly like a corpse on a gallows. “Yes.”

“What are you doing here? Does Reginald know you live here?”

It turned away and you saw a ribcage jutting out like a mummy’s fragile body, though every inch of them was a soft, matte black, pock marked like volcanic stone.

It shook its head. “I found you…” it croaked in its struggling, faltering voice. “Your fear… drew me… to you.”

“You vanished when I stopped being afraid,” you said and again, the creature nodded.

“I was using your fear to… manifest. Without it… I could not stay.”

“But you’re not using my fear now, are you?” you were excited, your heart was pattering out a wild rhythm, but you weren’t afraid.

It shook its head.

“How?”

Turning towards you, it brought up one lethally clawed hand and let a tendril of wisping black smoke play through its dead-looking hand. The fingers were longer than a human’s, and tipped in those sickle claws. “You sleep… better now,” it said, as if that explained everything.

Sitting there on the bed, you frowned. “Yeah, the nightmares have gone and — wait, are you… are you feeding on other nightmares?”

Slowly, the creature nodded. “I fought one that night, for you…” it rumbled. “I won. Now… they fear me.”

“And me? Do I have to fear you?”

The nightmare shook its shrouded head, the fabric wafting slowly as it billowed around the skeletal body beneath.

“So why are you here? Why me?”

“May I… come closer?” it asked.

“So long as you’re not going to hurt me,” you said in a reedy, weak voice. “A bit closer is fine…”

Hovering, the nightmare seemed uncertain, but then made up its mind and loomed a fraction nearer. This close, the glow from your lamp gilded the empty sockets of its skull and showed the stretching maw, and while you might not have been terrified any longer, it certainly made you wary.

“Will not hurt you…” the creature snarled. “I swear it.”

“Ok, fine, but you can’t blame me for being a bit… you know… I’ve never met anything like you before, and you are technically in my apartment…”

“Should I leave?”

Probably, but you found you didn’t want that just yet. “No, not yet. Can you answer some more of my questions?”

It shrugged. “I will try. Remaining here is tiring though. I don’t have much time left.”

“Where do you go?”

“There are many realms beside yours… Nightmares exist… in the cracks between, belonging nowhere, lingering only a while…”

“Sounds lonely,” you muttered.

“It is. That is why I stayed. You… You spoke to me, even when you were afraid. I have never had that before.”

The mist moved like snakes between its fingers and you watched, half mesmerised. “Your claws… are they why I couldn’t move?”

It nodded. “Sleep paralysis causes… much fear. I’m sorry I had to… frighten you to show myself.”

You snorted and pulled your legs close to sit cross legged on the bed, staring at the hovering nightmare in your room. It was so surreal, you wondered if you’d hit your head on the way home. “You tried to reassure me at the same time as scaring me shitless didn’t you?”

It flashed its claws again and swung a close to you. “Soft,” it purred, now mere inches from your face.

This close up, you found yourself frightened again. The horror of its empty black eyes, its gaping maw full of black, pointed teeth, the coiling shadows around it, its skeletal hands with tipped with onyx scythes… and yet, they smelled like the very best of winter nights; slightly smoky with a coldness that, as you inhaled, stung the back of your throat.

“Afraid, and yet not,” it repeated.

“Can I touch you?”

The nightmare clearly had not been expecting that, but nodded. Trembling, you brought your fingertip to its cheek. The skin was cool and hard like leather, but a fine mist floated around them, and you realised that the shroud wasn’t cloth at all, but intangible and made simply of smoke and shadow. The creature shuddered and you pressed your whole palm to their face as they leaned into your touch.

A moment later, they began to flicker and let out a broken moan. “I cannot stay.”

“Come back?” you whispered.

The mouth that held the promise of death, with all those teeth, suddenly smiled and they nodded. After that, they vanished.

Another week went by, but as you faced the fears of starting a new job, and the nearer that your starting date drew, the better you slept.

“It’s you again, isn’t it?” you asked the empty, black room on the night before you started work. “Come on, come out. You’ve been trying to manifest all week. I can feel it.”

Rippling out of the darkness, the nightmare swayed towards your bed and hung in the space beside it, drifting.

“Thank you,” you smiled and stood up. The nightmare didn’t move as you walked towards it, and this time when you reached for it, the creature did anticipate it, wafting closer, apparently keen for the contact. “I actually missed you, you know?” you said as the creature’s whole body quivered.

It brought its hand up to your face in a mirror of your gesture and brushed the curved back of its claws against your cheek. It tingled but you were still able to talk.

“You can touch me,” you whispered, drawing it back towards your bed by taking its skeletal fingers in yours.

Having its permission, the nightmare raked those claws through your hair with a tenderness that left you breathless. “Let me take the fear from you…” it murmured.

Examining your feelings, you discovered a small knot of anxiety about tomorrow, and smiled. “Leave me a little bit, ok? Trust me, a bit of nerves helps.”

Nodding, it leaned close and inhaled.

Standing there beside the bed, your body ignited with what could only be described as a deep and yearning lust, and you gasped, knees going weak. The nightmare caught you as you swayed, head spinning, and laid you easily down on the bed, despite the fact that it hardly looked strong enough to withstand a slight draft.

“What…?” you gasped, core burning.

The creature looked at a loss as it hung in the space beside your bed.

“I’m assuming this has never happened to you before?” you snorted, feeling a little recovered. “How lonely do I have to be to get turned on by a literal nightmare?”

A chuffing laugh made you look back at them.

“You find that funny too?” you asked and they nodded. “Well, if I’m honest… now that I know you’re not going to hurt me, I think you’re kind of beautiful.”

A soft, broken, crooning sound escaped them and they floated nearer, hovering over your bed and extending a hand to stroke talon-tips down your cheek again. “You are beautiful,” it murmured in all its numerous, whispering voices.

“Touch me,” you breathed.

“It will paralyse you,” they snarled, leaning backwards. “I can only… control it for so long.”

“But you won’t hurt me, and it’ll wear off, right?”

They nodded.

“Then touch me… please… I… I want your touch,” and you did. In a way you’d never felt with anyone else, human or otherwise, you needed them.

Rearing closer to you, the creature hung in the air above you like a cloud. It raked its claws down your body, but instead of shearing your clothes open, they simply evaporated, reappearing on the floor nearby in a tangled, crumpled heap.

“Neat trick,” you muttered before gasping as their hands landed on your bare torso, spreading their fingers wide and inhaling again. “Magic?”

“In dreams, anything is possible. We are not bound by your laws.”

“Of course not, but you’re —” you cut off sharply as they opened their mouth and a long, black tongue slithered free and coiled around your hardening nipple. You lurched and your back arched before falling back onto the bed. A tingling spread rapidly all down your right side as their hands gripped you more strongly now.

Working steadily first down one side and then the other, the nightmare scraped its teeth over you in a hundred scratching lines that made you want to yelp and buck, but their paralysis had begun to sweep over you. Every almost-bite it chased with its soothing, teasing, paralysing tongue and fingertips until you could do nothing but tremble and twitch beneath its touch.

A voice hissed, “I will know if you want me to stop,” and you let the last of your fears slide away, giving into the intense pleasure that their mouth offered on your body.

Finally, breath heaving, you felt your release crashing towards you. Never before had you been utterly immobile like this. You wanted to thrash and buck, to squirm and writhe - the pleasure was so intense and visceral that you needed to scream, but the nightmare held you in its grasp and wrung your release from you with relentless focus. Before you could recover fully, it demanded a second orgasm hot on the heels of the first and you thought you might shear apart with the force of it.

Gasping for breath, you begged silently to be allowed to move again, and as it sat back, that long, clever tongue lapping up the last of your release, it touched you once again and your body went slack.

“Oh my god,” you panted. “I’ve never come like that…”

“Your… energy,” they whispered, touching their fingers and thumb together as if their skin was tingling too. Something cool and dark slid over your leg and you looked down to find black liquid dripping from their robes, all over your legs from where they were hovering above you.

You had to laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re switching careers to an incubus now?”

The nightmare looked at you. “It’s just you,” they said. “I want only you.”

“If you’re going to make me come like that, I think we could come to an arrangement…”

The creature grinned, showing all its deadly teeth, and you lay back and stared at the ceiling for a long time, drained and tired but deeply satisfied. You didn’t even notice yourself sliding into a blissful sleep.

When you woke with your alarm the next morning, there was no trace of the creature, but on the back of the door as you were preparing to leave, you found the words ‘good luck’ scraped into the surface of the wood.

“You’d better come back and fix that tonight,” you grumbled with a smile on your face as you spotted it. Even as you stared at it, the wood melted back into the shape it had always been before, and in its place, a simple, line-drawn heart appeared.

You snorted. “See you later,” you said as you grabbed your coat and headed out. “And… well… thank you.”

___

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patchies · 3 years

Text

Shadows

Pairing: Dream x Reader x ???

Summary: An apocalyptic world where creatures of the night roam all around it. Searching for living beings to satisfy their hunger. Vicious creatures they are. It’s said that one person called upon their wrath in revenge. You awake in this place with another human being at your side. No memories whatsoever of the life you’ve had prior to coming here. In search of a way out, and your memories, you stumble upon multiple people with many personalities. Some can’t wait to meet you. If you take it the friendly or hostile way is up to you, but worry not… Nothing can hurt you. Or can it, now?

Warnings: nothing too serious

Word Count: 2.9+k

Author's Note: Another chapter, yay! Hope you enjoy, guys! I'm sending you all love. Each and every one of you matters!

Wattpad link: here

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Chapter 5: Uneasiness

As it turned out, you bumped into Nick as you were heading back towards your home. He was quick to pull out his weapon, but you recognised him immediately and called at him. You saw him look at his main hand that was holding the hatchet and upon following his sight, you rapidly retracted your hand from his and looked away. In awkwardness, you missed the confusion etched on his face.

You both apologised instantly, both in different reasons, and he stashed the armament back into its strap and ruffled your hair. Something you had done to Tubbo not so long ago, but you suppose you deserved it.

On your way home, you had talked about your ventures. Nick gloating about his glory and how he's been more productive than you were, claiming how getting a friend instead of proper gear is lame. You knew he was teasing you, but you caught a slight bit of hesitation and envy shine through. Though, you shrugged it off for the time being.

Nick gifted you a bayonet with a white string tied around the handle and a bandana of your favourite colour as you were standing before your home. You gave him a quick hug before putting the knife into your bag and tying the cloth article around your head. He whistled as you now wore one, too.

For the rest of the day, you stored away your findings with tales of your journeys. Mostly Nick's, since you had to be honest and say he did a great job at scouting the east side of the town. Though, you told him some details about Tubbo and your time with the boy, dodging certain parts as you felt it wasn't your thing to reveal to him.

You were a little scared to tell him about their settlement the bee boy mentioned to you, but Nick seemed to know exactly what you were talking about. He had seen it from one of the taller apartments and showed you an impromptu map that he drew quickly.

To your surprise, the portrayal was decently drawn and his handwriting was legible, though he still suggested he's willing to show you the place. What didn't miss him was the chance to announce how he'll turn it into a date where you'll lie under the stars with a wink to add to the spice.

You punched his arm while he laughed it off, slouching his hit arm across your shoulder and pulling you close. This time, you jab at his ribs and he lets you go voluntarily, still laughing. It didn't even seem like you had done something to him, so you stuck your tongue at him and rushed up the stairs to sort out your own things.

A feeling like something is going to go terrible wrong sits in the pit of your stomach as you rummage through the chest.

• • •

The night comes quicker than you expect, and a not-so-stray feeling of anxiety begins to flow through your veins accompanied by your pacing as the sun slowly falls beyond your view.

The first two knocks executed on the door go unnoticed by you. It's the third one that stops you in your tracks and you go open the door for Nick, resuming your pacing once he's inside. He notices your jittery movement straight away and quirks an eyebrow at you, “You okay there?”

“Do I look like I'm okay?” You mutter to yourself, but he hears it nonetheless, “Who would be at the thought of some dangerous creatures lurking in the town at night?”

Nick sighs and slowly saunters to your side, gently resting his hands on your upper arms and makes you face him, “You weren't scared yesterday, what has changed?”

“I don't know,” you shrug, “maybe the bad feeling in my stomach that has persevered since we came home?”

“Okay, okay, smartass,” Nick's retort is light-hearted, only meant to get a smile out of you, “We are both spooked, but c'mon… What's this scowl doing on your face, pretty?”

Before you can react quickly, or protest, he flicks the skin in-between your eyebrows and tugs your lips into a smile. You grasp his wrists with your hands to lower his down and a small smile does make its way onto your face. There's no denying that he makes this hell of a place better, but there's a tight feeling in your chest at the thought of what lies in this world. You don't know if you'll ever get used to this and you seriously hope you don't even need to do that. This is a nightmare come true on its own, why would anyone want this to be real?

Your eyes shift around the room and you step away from Sap, letting his wrists fall free in the process. The lights are turned off in case there really is someone else and they might notice the lit-up house from afar. You aren't going to give people the chance of figuring out where your base is, if there are more groups alive than you realize. Even if it's people similar to Tubbo. There might be some help to find in his group, but you aren't willing to familiarise with them. Nick is the only person that you truly trust as of right now and you believe that it could be okay like this for the time being. You'll survive this. Through thick and thin, hopefully.

“We'll get through this,” he raises three of his fingers while holding his pinkie with his thumb, straightening his back. His face changes to a stern look, but silliness dances in his brown orbs, “Scout's honour.”

He expects the roll of your eyes, but the small laugh that escapes you makes his heart swell with an unknown feeling. He doesn't pay it much attention, just silently watches as you sit down on the bed against the headboard. Nick joins you in a while and gazes at you as you rest your head on his shoulder, “I honestly don't know what to expect at all and I'm worried, Sap. It's so hard to rest when my stomach is churning like I'm going to vomit.”

You feel his arm snake behind your neck and his nimble fingers soon start working their magic on your scalp, “We'll be fine, okay? There's nothing that would separate you and me. I won't leave you.”

Just then, a whistling noise echoes throughout the neighbourhood. An eerie melody that travels across the quiet street. Visible confusion is etched onto your face as you exchange looks with Nick.

The tune starts to raise its volume and it puts you, along with your companion, on guard. You wonder who is out there and what they're trying to achieve. You aren't one to test your luck, so despite your heart telling you to check the situation, you stay rooted to your spot. You were hoping the feeling wasn't going to be true, but here you are; hearing the whistles of someone unknown.

“Hey, hey,” Sap takes your hand in his, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. He leans into your view, trying to hypnotise your eyes to look into his. When he doesn't succeed, he shuffles in front of you and waits until your focus is solely on him. He gives you a soft smile, “I'm here with you. Nothing is going happen to us, I promise, and knowing you, you'd sass your way out of the situation.”

“Nick,” you start, “We've known each other for hardly three days.”

“So, what? It might be true, but your sass is immeasurable at times and you've hit me so much I lost count a long time ago,” he laughs quietly, then his laugh slowly transforms into a smirk. A teasing realisation present on his face, “You're literally hitting on me, baby.”

You groan, “I pity the person who will be with you, seriously, and don't you dare call me baby again.”

“You're with me,” he wiggles his eyebrows at you, squeezing your hand playfully, “and about the 'baby' part… By seeing your reaction, I'd say I'm going to use it more often.”

Nick isn't ready for the switch of your personality as you decide to smile at him sweetly, lifting one of his hands close to your face, watching him intently. He visibly gulps and you have to push back a laugh to maintain your innocent façade. You put his hand on your cheek and lean into his palm. You stay in that position for a few seconds before rapidly moving your head and attempting to bite his finger. Your attempt is unsuccessful as he quickly retracts his hand and clutches it to his chest protectively, giving you a shocked look.

“Did I render you speechless, baby?”

The pet-name rolls of your tongue with ease. It seems so natural coming from you and his heart clearly betrays him when he feels its pace quicken. He quickly recovers, though, acting like what's just happened actually didn't, “I mean, my tactic at distracting you worked, so who's the winner here?”

“Certainly not you.”

The mood drops when you finally register the quietness, looking around you for any signs that could tell you what's happening. No whistling is heard, and you contemplate checking the windows to gather some sort of information regarding the stillness on the street. Nick gives an affirmative nod towards the boarded-up windows and gets off the bed with you. He follows your footsteps in silence, hovering over your shoulder as you get nearer.

A bolt whizzes through the air and before you can say anything, it strikes one of the planks in front of you. You flinch back into Sap's chest, guard rising, “Go take something so you could defend yourself, too, please.”

He gives you a side glance, inspecting your features, but you've put on a neutral blockage, “Will you be fine?”

The shrug you give him doesn't lower his worry and he analyses you one more time. He walks off in search of anything sharp and usable after you signal your certainty. As he leaves, you eye the bayonet strapped to your thigh. The metal weapon giving you at least some sort of reassurance.

Pure silence follows and you hold your breath in as you glance through the gaps in the barricade. Someone is definitely too close to your preference, yet you can't see anyone outside. They're hostile, that's without doubt. The bolt that clearly sticks out of the wood is an obvious proof of the hostility.

The moon's glow then reveals a person standing in its light, illuminating their figure.

They have a pig mask on with small tusks protruding from the side and a hood over their head with thick white fur adorning the sides of it. Raspberry pink, clearly chopped, shoulder-length hair visibly poking out and the wind ruffling it a bit. A shiny golden crown, which adorns gems of multiple colours, rests atop. You can't phantom how it's holding on the hood. Their crimson red cape with golden clasps and rubies attached to it flows in the wind and the crossbow's metal parts are shining. There's a satchel of bolts attached to the side of their thigh as they balance on the roof across from you.

“Who are you ogling at?”

The whisper against your ear makes you swat at his chest, shushing him immediately. He feigns being hurt, but raises his arms to swat at you back. It's when the figure proceeds to speak do you stop and a realisation comes to you that it is in fact a male, “Dream, I warned you to not come here. Ever. Wasn't the last time enough for you?”

Your interest peaks at the mention of a past encounter the supposedly two people had, wondering how that one had gone. From his words, it doesn't sound like it went very greatly and completely not in favour of Dream's side. What moved him into trying to take over the land again if he knew he had lost the last fight?

Nick watches your investment in the conversation rise, so he just crosses his arms. The hatchet at his hip ready to be taken out in case something was to happen. Though, he settles for watching you for now.

“I don't care, Techno. I own these lands. It's only fair that you will surrender and hand it over.”

“Don't make us fight you, pig.”

Another voice; another male one. This time it's slightly higher pitched than the other two, an obvious British accent to its overall sound.

Just from a few spoken sentences, you can tell both sides are ready to fight. What you aren't sure of, is if they'll really start fighting here or leave to sort it out elsewhere. You're praying it's the latter. Although your hopes aren't high when you continue listening in on their conversation.

“And I don't care, because you're stepping foot into my territory,” Techno, or whatever they called him, continues, “I shot a warning shot to gain your attention, but I will make sure to be precise this time and aim for your vulnerable body parts. Especially you and not a wooden plank. You damn well know I hold poison bolts and the two of you surely recognise my capabilities with a crossbow. You get struck with one, just one, poison arrow and you can go back to your village to get it taken care of.”

Territory? What's he talking about– wait… Don't tell me he's protecting us…?

You can't see the others, but you get a feeling Techno is more important than them. For whatever reason that is, you aren't able to steer your eyes away from his figure. A sense of déjà vu flowing through your body as you marvel at the man. You believe you've seen this man before. Even if once in your life, but your foggy memory blocks any of this information from you.

Unexpectedly he turns his head towards the window you're looking out of and locks eyes with you. Maroon eyes that sparkle with mischief meeting yours. He cocks an eyebrow at you, as if challenging you. Unable to see it, nor perceive it as a challenge, you deliver no reply. You're more than curious by the exchange, but it doesn't seem to faze him in the slightest. Even though he noticed you, he doesn't do anything about you. Merely directs his gaze back to the people below him. Which strikes you as weird since you were guessing he'd do something. Literally anything. Yet, you're glad for his act of kindness. If it can be interpreted as such.

You completely miss the way Nick looks at you. The gears in his head turning at the strange stare off you two had. Do they know the guy? He doesn't like the look of the Techno guy at all and the ping of jealousy seems to agree with him as well. He knows it well, yet he just rests his hand on your shoulder.

“We have armour and there's two of us. You can't fight us both and win.”

“I wouldn't be so sure of your words,” the reply is overly confident, “I've fought many and still came out with no scratches. You're belittling my knowledge of fighting and tactical thinking.”

After Techno finishes his sentence, arrows and bolts go flying through the air.

The very first one coming from him as another warning shot. This time not aimed at your house, but at the ground. Another two come from the ground level but miss him by a few feet. Terribly aimed shots, if you have to say (not like you could do better, but you're just a spectator in this situation). They don't seem to be that good at aiming at the pink-haired man, rather missing him. To your bewilderment, he never flinches or tries to dodge. Basically, a still target for both of the shooters.

Not that his aim is any better, but you hear one of the guys wince multiple times as if the bolt scraped him. The distance is also something to take into consideration.

The final shot before the shooting halts is taken by Techno, who decides to truly aim at one of them and you can hear a high-pitched scream echo throughout the whole street.

This can't be good.

You start hearing the inhuman screeches from everywhere and Shadows start flying from the end of the street. You gasp in horror because this isn't what you were expecting. You didn't expect them to attract a whole bunch of the creatures and possibly doom you all.

“George! You idiot! You were supposed to dodge, not walk straight into his range!” Dream yells at the whining guy, “You've attracted Shadows now. Good job.”

“Look what you've–”

The rest of the words are tuned out by the screeches of the monsters. Nick squats down to the floor, tugging you along with him. He doesn't let you say a word as you sit next to each other, holding a finger to his mouth when he sees you ready to tell him something.

While you rest your heads against one another, both of you come to terms that sound attracts them very easily as you hear them bang against trash cans and dumpsters, chasing their intruders. You wait until you hear no more screeching, slowly rising to your feet and looking through the gaps once more to check for any signs of the creatures.

When you find none, you send Nick to his own bedroom, insisting you'll be fine. He gives you three chances to back down from your statement, but you persist through. As he has no reason not to trust you, he slowly retreats to his room with a promise that if you need anything, just to wake him up.

#technoblade #dream #sapnap #apocalypse au #reader insert #mcyt x reader #mcyt #techno #dream team #dream x reader #dreamwastaken #l'manburg #shadows #??? x reader

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

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Stark Spangled Rebirth

Chapter 1: Flowers In The Window

Summary: Steven Grant Rogers, the dumb kid who was always too stubborn to run away from a fight, was never gonna allow a bunch of no-good low-lives to hassle a dame in the street, even if it was going to lead to him getting his ass kicked. For once, however, the ass kicking has an upside as the dame in question seemed particularly grateful, a fact she displays a few days later at the Stark Expo.

But it wasn’t the only encounter that fateful night that seemed set to change his life when Dr Erskine throws him a bone, meaning Steve can finally do the one thing he’s been desperate to do for years.

Join the army.

Warnings: Bad Language words. Nothing much… Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC Katie Stark

A/N: So here it is…my take on what would have gone down so to speak should Katie have been part of the CA: TFA timeline and my contribution of sorts to the CATF 10 Year Anniversary Challenge. I’ll be trying to keep this fic as accurate to the time period and the movie as possible, just like with the other SS fics. I really hope you enjoy this, there will be some creative license because, let’s face it, what is Fan Fic other than self-indulgence?

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Katie Stark and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

SSR Masterlist // Main Masterlist

June 1943

It started just the same as any normal Friday morning for Steven Grant Rogers. He unlocked the back of the Grocery Store on the corner of Berry Street in Brooklyn, using the entrance down the alley way reserved for staff. Once inside, he grabbed his beige coloured linen apron off the hook and smiled at the items he had to work with today. Fridays were always a treat as they took the rare delivery of freshly cut flowers ready to be sold for the weekend. This week there were boxes of bright white gardenias with their waxy petals and shiny, leathery dark green leaves, bunches of bright purple heliotrope which always reminded him of one of his mother’s scarves, and plenty of white, blue and purple asters. Steve bent down to take in the strong, vibrant fragrance of the gardenias, closing his eyes. It was easy to imagine he was in some garden somewhere, or even the middle of central park…not some little shop in Williamsberg.

“Don’t be inhaling enough of that to set your asthma off!” Mr Tromley, a kindly faced, portly man in his fifties greeted, and Steve turned to look at him, smiling a little shyly.

“I won’t Mr T,” he assured him, “they’re just so darn pretty…”

“Well set yourself a few aside.” Mr Tromley smiled, “you can take them home and sketch them.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.” Steve protested, the way he always did when Mr Tromley tried to slip him something for free be it scraps of meat he couldn’t sell from the counter that would be given to dogs, bread that wasn’t as soft as it had been in the morning and would be fed to the birds, milk that was going to turn, cheese that was slightly past its best. Mr Tromley ignored all his protests though, usually threatening to sack Steve if he didn’t take it. The man knew what it was like to come from a hard background, which was part of the reason he’d taken a shine to that sickly, twenty-two year old orphan with a degree in fine arts that had come begging for a job some three years ago. He couldn’t pay him much but he could do other things to make sure he got by.

“Well if you don’t take ‘em Steve they’ll just end up withering and a-dyin’, so reckon you’d be doin’ em a kindness.” Mr Tromley shrugged “Now, my Ada has some coffee going, you want a cup before we open the doors?”

Steve glanced at the clock above the counter, more out of habit than anything as he knew full well that he arrived with an hour to go.

“Mr T that’d be swell.” He smiled.

“Okay, you get started and I’ll fetch it down.”

Steve began in the usual way, pulling some simple bouquets together, varying in size and price, ready for the busy men to pick up on their way home from work, a nice present for their dame’s for the weekend. Once the stalks and lower foliage were trimmed and stripped, he fastened and tied them in simple brown waxy paper using plain brown string. Steve always insisted on using plain wrapping as anything else would detract from the beauty of the flowers. He placed the finished bouquets into one of the green buckets of water Mr Tromley fetched from the back, before he then carefully and delicately trimmed down the remaining flowers before placing them loose in their own buckets according to type, ready for the ladies, and occasional gentleman, who had the time and desire to create their own bunches.

Impeccably organised, as ever, Steve finished his work fifteen minutes before the store was due to open. He then set about helping Mr Tromley as they arranged the buckets outside the shop window on the sidewalk, before they set up the other stalls of seasonal vegetables. There wasn’t much fruit to go by at the moment, but that was a sign of the times really. But what they did have, namely a selection of apples and oranges, they set those out ready too. Once that was done, Mr Tromley handed Steve a thick wedge of fresh bread which had been delivered that morning from the local bakery, along with some of his wife’s home-made jam which was sold from their shop. Steve took his breakfast with a mumbled thanks, averse to taking the daily handouts as ever, and Mr Tromley sighed.

“Steve, when are you going to realise that a piece of bread and jam for breakfast ain’t gonna bankrupt me?”

“I just don’t want to appear to take advantage, that’s all.” “Ah quit it.” Tromley waved his hand, shaking his head “If I didn’t want you to take advantage of it, I wouldn’t offer it would I? Now, eat that and get behind the counter.”

The morning passed much the same as they always did. A flurry of activity at opening, a steady stream of locals and regulars through to the usual peak of activity just before lunch. Like clockwork, Mr Tromley closed the doors bang on midday for an hour and Steve gathered his sketchbook along with the brown paper bag which contained his cheese and bread, and headed outside into the sun. At Mr Tromley’s instruction he selected an apple from the display and crossed the road avoiding the yellow cabs and cyclists and trams, taking up seat on the bench which sat directly opposite the shop front. He chewed his lunch, washed it down with the tin bottle of lemonade that Mrs Tromley had filled for him earlier, and then once he had finished his apple he tossed the core over to a pigeon who instantly began pecking at it. He then untucked the pencil that was behind his ear, opened his sketchbook and resumed the detailed landscapes he was doing of the buildings surrounding the shop front. Drawing was his escape, something he did any chance he got. He dreamed one day of travelling the world, drawing all the different sights he could, but that was out of the question. Well, until he finally got into the army. With four failed attempts under his belt already, most men would have given up but not Steven Rogers. Stubborn, tenacious and plucky to a fault, he was already planning his next attempt at enlisting, this time he was going to hail from New Jersey. Well, as good a place as any.

Steve glanced up, checking the detail of the window to the cobblers next door, and that was when he saw her, just walking down the sidewalk. She wore a red high-collared, cap sleeved tea-dress which flared out slightly from her hips and finished just below her knee. It was cinched in at the waist with a black belt, and was detailed round the hem and sleeve edges with pretty white lace. On her feet she wore a pair of simple, elegant black block heel courts with a T-bar buckle. Her hair was a silky, shiny chestnut which hung around her face in bouncy waves and she had a soft, gentle profile with high cheekbones, slightly flushed cheeks and ruby lips. She stopped outside the shop, examining the flowers with a smile, and then she looked up at the shop door and saw the CLOSED sign in the window. She can’t be from around here, Steve thought to himself, everyone in the neighbourhood knew when Tromley closed his doors and opened them, you could set your watch by it. Still, she hung around, softly picking up a gardenia and holding it to her nose, smiling to herself as she inhaled.

Steve found the innocent act breath-taking. He felt a little, well, shameful in a way, to be watching her so, intruding on what was clearly a private moment but he couldn’t help it. She was beautiful, grace personified, and he felt a little sad as she replaced the flower, gave the buckets one last look, before she continued on her way. Steve sighed, wishing to God that the shop had been open, it would have given him an excuse to maybe see her a little more closely. Perhaps talk to her. Or not as the case maybe, Bucky was always telling him how useless he was when it came to striking up conversations with ladies. But, for now, he had to settle for watching her walk away. Only he wasn’t the only one.

“Hey pretty thing…” Steve heard a voice and turned to his left where a group of men, most likely in their late teens or early twenties, had spotted her. As Steve watched he saw one of them push himself off the lamppost he’d been leaning on and cross the street towards her. The lady stopped, looking at him with her eyebrow raised. He spoke to her again, Steve couldn’t hear the conversation but a smile tugged at his lips as the lady looked the boy up and down, disdain etched all over her pretty face before she shook her head and laughed. She made to move past the kid but he reached out and grabbed her arm.

And Steve just couldn’t help himself.

“Hey!” He called, jumping up and hurrying across the street. “Let the lady go.”

“Back off, this has nothing to do with you.” The man rounded on him, looking at him before he snorted at Steve’s stature. “Besides, what you gonna do about it anyway? Runt.”

Steve took a deep breath, he was used to people looking down their noses at him, both figuratively and literally. That was part and parcel of being only five foot four inches tall. He also knew that at hundred pound give or take, he didn’t cut a formidable figure either, but he was damned if he was going to let this bully manhandle a dame in the middle of the street.

The woman wrenched her arm away from the man’s grip and glared at him, furious green eyes bored into his as she snorted and looked the guy up and down. “He’s clearly twice the gentleman you’ll ever be. Didn’t your mother ever teach you basic, good manners jack ass?”

“What did you just say?” a sudden darkness crossed the man’s face as he looked down at the woman who stood, un-yielding, clutching her purse as it hung around her shoulder.

“You heard me, well unless you’re deaf as well as ugly.” She shrugged slightly. At that Steve really couldn’t hold his face straight anymore and he felt the side of his lips curl up into a smirk. He was sure the pretty dame’s eyes flickered to his but he must have imagined it as when he stole a glance back at her she was staring straight back at the man who’d been giving her the trouble.

“Mouthy little broad you ain’t ya?” He snarled.

“Show some damned respect.” Steve shot out, and this time the man rounded on him. Steve stood stock still, his mother’s words echoing clearly in his head- you start running, they’ll never let you stop and he was aware in his peripheral that the other 2 men who’d been observing until now were starting to circle like sharks who had just had their first taste of blood.

He braced himself, ready for the inevitable fight, legs slightly apart, hands balling into fists by his side. But it was no use. He was never going to be fast enough or strong enough for one of these guys, let alone three, and as the fist connected with his face he heard a scream and a yell as he fell backwards into the display of oranges and apples which he had lovingly helped Mr T prepare before.

Steve staggered to his feet, readying himself for another hit but it didn’t come. Instead one of the guys was sent sprawling to the ground besides him, shortly followed by the other. He wheeled round to see Bucky had the one that was left standing pinned up by the collar against the brick wall to the side of the shop and Mrs T was on the door step brandishing a broom handle, a string of Italian expletives leaving her mouth.

“Get outta here!” Bucky shoved the one that he was holding harshly into the road where he narrowly avoided colliding with the side of a yellow cab. Then turns to Steve and pulls him up.

“Seriously?” Bucky groaned and Steve shook his head, dusting himself down “You pick a fight with three at once?”

“He didn’t pick a fight with any of them.” A soft voice spoke and both Steve and Bucky turned to look at the dame in the red dress who was dusting herself down as her eyes flitted from Bucky, to Steve, then back again. “He came to help me when one of those bozos was getting a little too familiar.”

“That’s Stevie, a regular Knight in shining armour.” Bucky ruffled Steve’s hair as he gave an exasperated sigh, pushing himself away from his best friend. “Especially when there’s a beautiful dame involved.”

The lady looked at Bucky, arching an eyebrow before she looked back at Steve and he gulped slightly as for the first time he took her in properly. There was nothing else to say other than she was drop dead gorgeous. Deep green eyes that sparkled like emeralds looked back at him from a heart shaped face, nose speckled with freckles which twitched a little as she smiled revealing a row of perfectly straight, white teeth

"I guess I should thank you Stevie." She spoke, and Steve felt the heat rise in his cheeks.

"It was nothing...I just.." he stopped dead as she reached out and straightened his tie, long eyelashes blinking against his cheeks as she smoothed over his shoulders and dropped a kiss to his cheek.

"My hero"

Steve swallowed and looked at the woman as she stepped back, smiling at him.

“I err, it was…my pleasure.” Steve stuttered and the lady arched an eyebrow, a grin on her face.

“Interesting choice of words.”

“I mean, not pleasure, obviously. No one likes seeing a beautiful dame getting hassled, I mean woman, not that…” he shook his head, as Bucky nudged him. He was rambling, as per usual. “I err, I should…”he gestured to the shop as Mr and Mrs Tromley were now looking at the mess of fruit all over the floor.

“I’m sorry about that.” She turned to the shopkeepers who looked at her, Mrs Tromley waving her away.

“Not your fault, dear.”

“Can I at least buy some of the flowers?” She asked, a little shyly. “That is what I actually wanted to do after all.”

“Of course, Steven, can you…” Mr T nodded to Steve and then his eyes fell on Bucky “James Buchanan Barnes, what are you doing here?”

“Got a week or so’s furlough, Mr T and Ma sent me for some stuff, I gotta list.” he nodded, fishing it out of his pocket.

Tromley took it from him, scanned it and then turned to walk into the shop, beckoning for Bucky to follow him. Steve’s eyes followed his friend’s broad back as Bucky paused in the doorway and stopped, turning back to the woman. Steve groaned inwardly, he knew that face, Bucky was about to turn on the charm and she was no doubt going to fall in a pool at his feet, just like most of the other girls in the neighbourhood.

“You’re not from round here, right?” Bucky asked.

“What makes you say that?” She countered with a question of her own, looking Bucky up and down as she spoke.

“Never seen you before.”

“Know all the girls in Brooklyn, do you James Buchanan Barnes?” She asked, and Bucky gave a chuckle as she repeated his name to him and winked.

“Only the pretty ones.” “Well I suppose with most men joining the army the moment, even the pretty ones can’t be choosers.”

At that Steve let out a snort of laughter as Bucky blinked in surprise. “Ouch.” He gave a little scoff and shake of his head before he turned to walk into the shop.

“He always like that?” The lady looked at Steve who took a deep breath and smiled a little.

“Yes Ma’am. And to be honest it normally works.” Steve glanced at Bucky before he looked back at the woman who was looking at him, her eyes twinkling. “Most girls just can’t seem’ta say no!”

“Well, I’ll let you into a secret.” She grinned and leaned closer to Steve. “I’m not like most girls.”

Steve swallowed again, nervously brushing a hand through his hair as she straightened up and smiled at him. “I’m Katie by the way, seems only fair you know my name seeing as I know yours.”

“I err, that’s a pretty name.” Steve smiled and then inwardly cursed himself again.

Pretty name? Really? That’s the best you can do?

“Thank you.” She giggled, and then she turned to the buckets “So errr, do you wanna make me a bouquet Steve? Something pretty for my room.”

Glad of the distraction, Steve nodded and turned to the various bunches of flowers. “I err, I noticed you were admiring the gardenias, so…” “You were watching me?” she spoke and Steve looked at her, ready to start protesting that wasn’t what he’d been doing when he spotted the glint in her eyes and he shook his head giving a sigh. She grinned “I love gardenias, lilies are my favourite but gardenias are pretty too.”

“Yeah we don’t have any lilies, unfortunately.” Steve shrugged “They were my Ma’s favourite too.”

Steve set about gathering a generous bunch of flowers as she instructed him to make it a large bouquet and then she followed him into the shop where he wrapped them in brown paper and string as Bucky was leaning against the counter, chatting to the Tromleys, Mrs Tromley laughing loudly at something he’d said.

“You are a cad, Bucky Barnes!” She looked at him, shaking her head “Isn’t it bad enough you joined the army? You’ll give your ma a heart attack one of these days.”

Bucky shrugged “It wasn’t so bad, he never caught me. Even on a bum ankle I was faster.”

“You been caught in places you shouldn’t be again Buck?” Steve looked at him and he shrugged, grinning.

“You know me, Stevie!”

“Yeah, yeah I do.” Steve rolled his eyes before he tied off the bouquet with the string and then handed it to Katie. She smiled.

“You have talented hands.” She spoke gently and Steve flushed once more, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, he’s good with them.” Bucky spoke and Steve glared at him. Katie turned to look at Bucky again, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Makes a change, in my experience most men don’t know the first thing about how to use them.”

Mrs Tromley choked a little on her coffee as she looked at the younger woman, flashing her a wink. Katie bit her lip, her mouth curling up into a small smile as she rummaged in her purse, pulling out a small leather wallet.

“How much do I owe you?”

“No charge.” Mr Tromley spoke suddenly but Katie shook her head.

“I insist, I was responsible for your display getting trashed, least I can do is pay for these.”

“Oh trust me,” Mr Tromley smiled, “seeing you put that toe-rag into them was worth it.”

“Yeah, you had some pretty vicious moves for a dame.” Bucky looked at her and she shrugged as Steve frowned.

“Wait, you…” “Don’t look so surprised.” Katie smiled “A girl should always know how to defend herself. But if I’m honest, it’s always nice to have a man do it for you.”

At that she smiled and slapped some money down on the counter, stepping back. “Keep the change in insist.”

Mr Tromley looked at her, then at the note, his mouth falling open a little.

“Thank you again Steve.” She picked up the bouquet. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I hope so, I mean…yeah…come back soon.”

She smiled and with a final look in his direction she left, the bell ringing as the door opened and shut behind her. There was a pause until Bucky turned to Steve.

“Come back soon?” he looked at him “Really? That’s the best you could do?”

Steve groaned. “Piss off Bucky.” He shot, giving a yelp as Mrs T swatted at his head.

“Language, Steven!” She scalded, as Mr T chuckled and slid the money she’d left to Steve across the counter. Steve blinked and looked at it, before he shook his head. Mr Tromley glared at him.

“You don’t take that you’re fired.”

With a groan Steve folded the $5 note up and slid it into the pocket of his slacks. Mrs Tromley muttered something about going to check on her scones which were in the oven upstairs and Mr Tromley headed into the back, leaving Steve and Bucky alone.

“You know, that dame was practically begging for you to ask her out on a date.” Bucky picked up the paper bag containing the groceries he had come for and Steve looked at him, snorting.

“You’re joking right?” the smaller man shook his head “Dame’s like that don’t want a guy like me.” “Clueless.” Bucky shook his head “Absolutely fucking clueless.” Steve watched him head to the door, before he stopped and turned back. “Oh that reminds me. Ma’s expecting you about 6 for dinner. She’s making meatloaf and told me that if you refuse she’s gonna, and I quote.” Bucky cleared his throat and spoke in a light, airey impression of his Ma, “march round to his house and drag him outta that apartment by his ear.”

Steve rolled his eyes well naturedly. He hadn’t been to the Barnes’ for dinner for a week so he wasn’t surprised Winnie had sent Bucky with an invitation that was more of an instruction than anything. “Okay, thanks Buck.”

Bucky gave him a salute before he headed out of the store, whistling to himself. Steve took a deep breath, shook his head and turned back to his work, pushing all thoughts of the stunning young woman in the red dress out of his mind.

*****

“You just don’t know when to give up, do you?” She taunting voice of his opponent rang in Steve’s ears as he staggered to his feet. This wasn’t how he’d planned his trip to the movie theatre going, not one iota. But when the loudmouthed asshole had done nothing but show total disrespect to those fighting overseas as the infomercial was showing, his temper had gotten the better of him and once more had led to him getting into a fight. As far as Monday’s went, this one was pretty crappy.

Which of course he could never walk away from.

“I can do this all day.” Steve huffed, swinging his fist at the guy again. The jerk easily blocked Steve’s feeble punch with his arm, delivering a huge jab with his left which sent Steve sprawling straight into the side of the trashcan from which he’d picked up the lid before. As Steve lay dazed, he heard a familiar voice breaking through the fog.

“Hey! Pick on someone your own size.” Bucky yanked the guy backwards by his jacket, shoving him a little down the alleyway. The guy swung at Bucky who dodged it almost lazily, before delivering a punch of his own, placing a firm boot up the guys ass as he retreated hurriedly. Watching as he scooted away, Bucky turned to Steve who was stood with his hands on his knees, steadying himself.

“Sometimes, I think you like getting punched.”

“I had him on the ropes.” Steve replied, pressing the heel of his palm to the cut above his eyebrow, wincing a little from the various blows he’d taken.

Bucky said nothing, instead he bent down to pick up the enlistment form that had fallen from Steve’s pocket and with a sigh he glanced at it.

“How many times is this?” His eyes scanned the information and he arched an eyebrow “Oh, you’re from Paramus now? You know it’s illegal to lie on the enlistment form. And seriously, Jersey?”

Steve ignored him, and then for the first time looked up at his friend to see him stood tall in his full army uniform. Which could only mean one thing. “You get your orders?” he frowned a little.

“The one-o-seventh. Sergeant James Barnes. Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.”

Steve sighed, great. Just what he needed to hear. “I should be going.” He shook his head dejectedly.

Bucky looked at him sympathetically before he smiled, and looked an arm round his shoulder, pulling him closer in a friendly gesture as they both began to head back down the alley towards the main road.

“Come on, man, it’s my last night! Gotta get you cleaned up.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“The future.” Bucky handed Steve the newspaper he was holding. Steve opened it to see the ad for the World Exposition Of Tomorrow.

“Buck…” he began to protest but Bucky stopped him.

“Seriously? My last night before I ship off to bust Nazi’s and you’re already tryin’a bail?”

“No, I just…” “Stevie!” Bucky whined. “Since I got my draft last September, I’ve hardly seen you other than when I’ve been home…”

“I know, but…” “No buts, man! I mean who knows when I’m gonna see you again now I’m actually being sent into combat and not just back to Camp McCoy. You know, London is a little further afield than Wisconsin “

“I’m well aware of that.” Steve rolled his eyes.

“So come on! Let’s go, have some fun. Cut loose a little. It’ll do you good.”

Steve looked up to see Bucky’s eyes shining with mischief, his handsome face grinning at him and he rolled his eyes “Fine, but you’re buying the hotdogs.”

“What else is new?” Bucky grinned, grabbing Steve in a headlock and ruffling his hair a little.

“Jerk.” Steve said furiously, pushing him away.

*****

A couple of hours later the two of them entered the Expo, Steve taking in the sights around him. It was crazy busy, a buzz of excitement around the air and it was hardly surprising. Howard Stark, the guy at the centre of it all was somewhat of a celebrity. He’d founded his company some four years ago at the age of twenty-two, and it had grown from strength to strength, with numerous pioneering technological advances to his name. Steve would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little excited to see the latest and no doubt flamboyant invention the guy had come up with, but his mind was still on his failed Army application, the feeling of inadequacy exacerbated even more by the fact Bucky was going to be leaving him behind to serve his country, something that Steve felt he should be doing right along with his best pal.

Sensing his brooding nature, Bucky nudged him and opened his mouth no doubt to make some wise crack, but Steve shook his head.

“Buck, just don’t”

“I don’t see what the problem is.” Bucky shook his head as they wandered down the steps towards the main pavilion area “You’re about to be the last eligible man in New York.” Bucky grinned, and Steve sighed heavily. Yup, there it was. “You know, there’s three and a half million women here.”

“Well, I’d settle for just one.” Steve muttered and Bucky grinned, Steve allowing a little smile to spread across his face at his own joke.

“Good thing I took care of that.” Bucky grinned and waved to two girls, a blonde and a brunette, who stood a few feet away and Steve stopped dead as one of the girls waved back, calling out to Bucky.

Great, here we go again.

“What did you tell her about me?” Steve groaned. “Only the good stuff.” Bucky smirked as they walked towards the girls, Steve brushing his hand through his hair, making sure it was as tidy as he could.

Bucky introduced the girls as Connie and Bonnie. It was obvious from the start that Connie was the one Bucky was trying his luck with, although to be fair Bonnie might as well have been with Bucky too for all the attention she paid to Steve. As they wandered into the Pavilion, Steve stopped to purchase a bag of sweets before he followed on behind the other 3, glancing around at the various exhibits.

“Welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow.” The expo announcer spoke “A greater world. A better world.”

There was a little bit of murmuring from people in front of them as they stopped, glancing at the large stage in front of them which was currently dark, but then there was movement, music struck up and Connie grabbed Bucky’s arm in excitement.

“Oh, my God! It’s starting!” She squealed and yanked on Bucky’s hand, pulling him closer. As Steve stood behind them he saw the stage light up to reveal a row of women all dressed in black and white striped waistcoats, short jackets and top hats. One of them walked across the front of the stage, smiling as she spoke into a microphone

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Howard Stark!”

Smooth and cool as a cucumber, Howard Stark strode onto the stage, taking off his top hat, whilst he smiled, handing it to the announcer before kissing her as the crowd cheered. Howard smirked a little, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket which he used to dab at his mouth before he addressed his audience.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” at that point Steve held the small paper bag over towards Bonnie who looked at it, then him, almost scathingly as Howard continued his speech. “What if I told you that in just a few short years, your automobile won’t even have to touch the ground at all?”

“You know…” A vaguely familiar voice spoke and Steve looked up from where he had been examining his bag of bonbons, wondering what was wrong with them, to see the woman from the shop a few days ago, Katie stood to the side of Bonnie. She was dressed in a simple grey dress which sported a pencil style skirt, with a light blue cardigan covering her shoulders. “When a gentleman offers you a sweet and you don’t want one, there’s really no need to be such a rude bitch about it.”

Her eyes were narrowed as she gave Bonnie a scathing look. Bonnie floundered a little as Katie reached out, dipping her red nailed, manicured hand into the paper bag and taking a bonbon. In doing so, she jostled Bonnie forward a little with her elbow, and turned to the stage, popping the bonbon in her mouth, giving Steve a little wink. Steve felt his cheeks flush as Bucky turned, his attention drawn to the slight scuffle behind him. He saw Katie stood next to Steve and he grinned.

“Hey Dollface!” Katie turned her head and looked at Bucky as Steve rolled his eyes. However, just like at the shop, she payed Bucky no attention other than a flick of her eyebrow, before her eyes moved back to the stage, Steve doing the same to see that Stark was now stood by some sort of podium.

“With Stark robotic reversion technology, you’ll be able to do just that.” Howard spoke, and with that he turned to fiddle with a few switches on the podium and the car started to hover ever so slightly off the ground. Steve felt his mouth drop open in awe as in front of him Bucky let out an astonished mumble.

“Holy cow!”

But he spoke too soon, as the jets making the car hover suddenly malfunctioned and the car fell back onto the stage with a loud crash, sparks flying out round it.

Bucky turned to look at Steve, smiling as Steve’s eyebrows raised, and besides him, Katie gave a snort.

“I did say a few years, didn’t I?” Howard laughed, leaning on the bonnet of the car.

“Few years my ass.” Katie mumbled and Steve looked at her.

“What?”

“Nothing, doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “Listen, I gotta go-”

“Oh, ok.” Steve tried not to sound disappointed but Katie smiled at him softly, cutting him off.

“Meet me at the Cider cart in an hour.”

“I err…” Steve stuttered, before he frowned. “You sure, you wanna meet me?”

“If I didn’t I wouldn’t have said so.” Katie grinned. “One hour, don’t you dare be late.”

“Yeah, an hour, got it.”

Not quite able to believe his luck, Steve watched her go, smiling to himself before he glanced around and his eyes stopped on the familiar Uncle Sam poster pointing at him, with an arrow directing him to a recruitment centre. What the hell, he had nothing to lose…and an hour was plenty of time. Decision made, he followed the signs and jogged up the steps into the building, pausing to take a look around as people were milling in the carpeted hallway.

“Come on soldier!” a woman giggled at her male company, pulling him away from a mirror making him look like a soldier. Once he was gone Steve stepped in front of the mirror but he was too short to fill out the face. His shoulders slumped and then suddenly, a strong hand gripped his right and Bucky chuckled.

“You’re kind of missing the point of a double date.” He said, shaking his head as Steve stepped away, turning to face him “We’re taking the girls dancing.”

“You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you.” Steve replied, hands dropping into his pockets.

“What, you had a better offer? From Dollface?”

“Her name is Katie.”

“Oh my God I’m right!” Bucky laughed. “Good for you, Punk!”

Steve rolled his eyes and then watched as a man strode past him in an Army Uniform and when Steve looked back at Bucky, his friend’s face now sported an exasperated expression as he’d clearly realised what Steve was planning. “You’re really gonna do this again?”

“Well, it’s a fair. I’m gonna try my luck.” Steve answered with a little shrug.

“As who? Steve from Ohio? They’ll catch you. Or worse, they’ll actually take you.” Bucky’s voice was frustrated and Steve gave a little smile.

“Look, I know you don’t think I can do this, but I’m more-“

“This isn’t a back alley, Steve. It’s war!” Bucky cut him off.

“I know it’s a war. You don’t have to tell me that-“ “Why are you so keen to fight? There are so many important jobs.” “What am I gonna do? Collect scrap metal-“

“Yes!”

“-in my little red wagon?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not gonna sit in a factory, Bucky.” Steve argued, shaking his head.

“I don’t…” Bucky protested once more and Steve cut him off.

“Bucky, come on! There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That’s what you don’t understand. This isn’t about me.”

“Right. Cause you got nothing to prove.” Bucky said gently and Steve took a deep breath. But before Bucky could say anything else Connie called out to him.

“Hey, Sarge! Are we going dancing?”

Bucky turned back to the girls, his arms held out to the side. “Yes, we are.” With that he turned back to Steve, shaking his head a little, his shoulders slumped in resignation. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.” He instructed as he started to walk away.

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” Steve shot back and Bucky shook his head, giving a snort.

“You’re a punk.” He walked back towards Steve and hugged him goodbye.

“Jerk” Steve said gently slapping Bucky’s back. “Be careful.”

With a pang of sadness, Steve watched his best friend walking away, not quite sure when they’d see each other again, if indeed ever. He licked his lips and then called out to Bucky once more. “Don’t win the war till I get there!”

Bucky stopped and saluted him before he strode down the steps, “Come on girls. They’re playing our song.”

With a deep breath, Steve headed into the recruitment centre, past an older gentlemen in a brown suit. He was given the usual forms to fill out, this time going with Ohio as his place of birth-thanks for that one, Buck- and he was shown to the medical examination room. After the short physical was over, he was just fastening the sleeves of his long shirt up again when a nurse walked into the room and whispered something inaudible to the doctor.

“Wait here.” The Doctor turned to him, moving to the curtain.

“Is there a problem?” Steve asked, frowning a little.

“Just wait here.” The doctor repeated his instruction before he walked out.

Steve paused for a second, glancing over his right shoulder at a sign warning against lying on enlistment forms before he glanced at the curtain, cold dread filling him. Shit, Bucky was right, they’d caught up with him. Jumping down off the bed he sat heavily in a chair and began to pull on his shoes when someone entered the cubicle. He glanced up and saw a Military Police officer looking at him and he swallowed a little nervously. But before he could say anything another man entered, the man Steve had walked past about forty minutes or so previously in the foyer, and he was clutching a file in his hands.

“Thank you.” The man spoke to the Police Officer who left, pulling the curtains closed behind him. Steve watched as the man turned to face him, his hands behind his back. “So, you want to go overseas.” The man pulled the file from behind him, opening it “Kill some Nazis.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dr. Abraham Erskine.” The man closed the folder and walked over as Steve stood up, shaking his hand “I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve.”

“Steve Rogers” Steve nodded, noting the man’s accent as he placed the file on the medical bed and started to look through it. “Where are you from?”

“Queens. 73rd Street and Utopia Parkway. Before that, Germany.” He adjusted his glasses as he glanced at Steve “This troubles you?”

“No.” Steve replied honestly, shaking his head.

“Where are you from, Mr. Rogers?” Erskine asked, resting both his hands on the bench “Mmm? Is it New Haven? Or Paramus? Five exams in five different cities.”

“That might not be the right file.” Steve began to try and get out of whatever trouble he was in but Erskine was quick to cut him off.

“No, it’s not the exams I’m interested in. It’s the five tries.” Erskine closed the file, picking it up “But you didn’t answer my question.” He strode over and stopped in front of Steve “Do you want to kill Nazis?”

Steve glanced to the side before he looked at Erskine “Is this a test?”

“Yes.” The man replied bluntly and Steve took a deep breath, before he answered as honestly as he could.

“I don’t wanna kill anyone.” He shook his head, raising his eyes to meet Erskine’s “I don’t like bullies. I don’t care where they’re from.”

“Well, there are already so many big men fighting this war. Maybe what we need now is the little guy, huh?” Erskine smiled before he turned to leave “I can offer you a chance” he said, whipping the curtains open “Only a chance.”

Steve couldn’t believe his ears. Was this Doctor guy actually telling him he’d done it, that he’d finally made it into the army? He had no idea what the Strategic Science Reserve was, or why Erskine had questioned him so, but right now he didn’t care.

“I’ll take it.” He said, hastily grabbing his belongings and following Erskine out.

“Good.” Erskine placed the file down on the desk and picked up a stamp, before replacing it and reaching for another “So where is the little guy from, actually?”

Steve smiled “Brooklyn.”

Erskine smiled back, stamped the form before closing the file and handing it to Steve. “Congratulations, soldier.”

Steve hastily opened it up and did a double take as he saw the stamp was a 1A this time, not 4f. He let out a deep breath and glanced up to thank the man, but he’d already left.

“You’ll be sent your papers and instructions shortly” Another man spoke to him, taking the file off him and handing him back the recruitment slip. Steve nodded. “Be ready, the SSR are on a schedule.”

Steve nodded, before he was shown out of the room. Still in a daze he clutched the piece of paper in his hand and wandered back to the area where he’d left Bucky before. And then he remembered Katie.

Shit.

He hastily made his way outside the building and headed back to the pavilion, weaving his way through the crowds. He found the cider cart and saw her waiting, chatting to the man behind the counter, her brown hair hanging round her shoulders, rouged lips which curled up into a smile as she spotted him approaching.

“You’re late.” Katie looked at him and Steve flushed. “I was beginning to thing you’d stood me up.”

“I wouldn’t do that, my ma taught me better.” He gave her a small smile “I was just...” he waved his enlistment paper at her and she frowned a little

“You enlisted?”

He nodded “Yup.” “Wow.” Katie blinked, “Erm, congratulations, I guess. Is that the right word?”

“It is when you’ve tried and been rejected several times already.” Steve shrugged before he snorted “Story of my life.”

“That girl before was fuckin’ rude.” Katie’s eyes narrowed and Steve blinked at the profanity coming from her mouth before she rolled her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact I swore means I’m gonna go to hell.” She snorted “If it does, then I got that particular ticket a long time ago.”

“Sorry, I was…” he took a deep breath. “For such a pretty woman you certainly…er…”

“Have a filthy mouth?” She asked and Steve snorted, shrugging as he looked away, his lips curling up into a crooked smile as he raised his eyebrows. She leaned closer to him, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered “You have no idea.”

Steve swallowed at the blatant innuendo causing her to laugh at him even more before she nudged him with her elbow “Come on soldier, what do you want to drink?”

Soldier…that was the second time in ten minutes he’d been called that, and Steve liked it much more coming from her. He watched her for a second before he realised he was staring and she jerked her head towards the stall.

“Cat got your tongue, Stevie?” She grinned and he took a deep breath. “What do you want?”

“Erm, an ale…please…hang on.” He began fishing in his pocket but Katie gently wrapped a hand around his wrist.

“No need.” She smiled, as the man behind the counter held out the ale for Steve along with a cup of cider for her. She took it with a thanks and smiled, taking a sip. “Put it on the tab, will you?”

The stall attendant snorted and nodded “Whatever you say, Katie.”

She turned away and started walking slowly over to an exhibit, Steve falling into step besides her.

“How does he know ya?” Steve asked. Katie looked at him as she swallowed a sip of her cider

“Because I work here,well, I do at the moment.” She smiled as Steve looked at her blankly “I helped organise this.” She waved her hand around.

“You work for Howard Stark?”

“In a fashion.” Katie shrugged. “Now come on, I’m not working now and I wanna see how everything looks.”

They walked around the expo grounds, taking in the sights and various attractions. Steve was surprised to find his awkwardness ebbing away with each minute he spent in Katie’s company. She was down to Earth, easy to talk to and made him feel comfortable about himself…although his good spirits might have also been due to the fact he’d finally made it into the army. His meeting with Dr Erskine had baffled him a little, all truth be told, but he’d liked the man. There was something about him that told Steve he could trust him, and Steve was normally a pretty good judge of character.

By the time they’d done pretty much a lap of the main area of the Pavillion, stopping to examine The Synthetic Man in great detail, Steve was surprised to find that he’d spent over an hour with a woman who hadn’t been seeking to lose him at the first opportunity, quite the opposite in fact. On more than one occasion he noticed men looking in her direction, then to his with puzzled expressions on their face, and he had to admit was it the other way round he’d also probably be slightly surprised to see them together. She was a good two inches taller than him, but he was used to that, she was pretty, vivacious…well out of his league all things considered. But she was good company, and he was thoroughly disappointed when they seemed to be heading back towards the place they’d started, signalling their time together was likely coming to an end.

“So, do you need to find Barnes or…” she looked at him and Steve chuckled.

“Er no, no. He’ll be busy.” Steve shrugged

“What, he just ditched you for those girls?” Katie frowned.

“No, not entirely. I ditched him, well, I went to join the army. He doesn’t approve.” Steve finished, explaining slightly.

“Approve of what?”

“Me signin’ up.

“Why not?”

“Doesn’t think I can cope.” Steve shrugged. “I wasn’t exactly a healthy kid so…”

“Well they let you in so you can’t be that bad.”

Steve wrinkled his nose and shook his head slightly. “Some doctor in there offered me a chance, what can I say? Said that there were so many big guys fighting, maybe they needed a little one.”

At that Katie stopped walking and looked at him. “Wait, it was a doctor that accepted you?”

“Yeah,” Steve frowned

“You mean one of the Medical Recruitment Officers?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Steve’s frown deepened “He was with some Scientific Division.” He looked at Katie, who was looking right back at him, her eyes wide “Wait, is there something wrong?”

“No, nothing, just surprised me a little, that’s all.” She looked around, as if she was searching for someone and Steve watched her, a little confused as she chewed her lip with an air of contemplation before she looked back at him, her green eyes locking onto his with a softness in them that made him go weak at the knees, well, weaker than normal. “Thank you for keeping me company tonight Steve, I had fun.”

“Me too.” He said earnestly. “Hey, if you want, I mean only if you want, we could maybe meet up again, you know, before I get my posting?” At that Katie’s face fell and Steve sighed, he’d blown it. She’d only asked him to accompany her round he expo out of politeness, duty even as a thank you for his intervention on the street a few weeks back, and now he’d put her on the spot. “It’s okay.” He started to back track. “I get that you’re probably busy and get asked that all the time…”

“No, it’s not that.” She shook her head “I’d love to go out with you Steve, but I leave town tomorrow. I’m needed back at, well, my other job.”

“Oh, okay.” Steve popped a shoulder up, trying to hide his disappointment. “Well, I err…good luck. With whatever that job is.”

Katie laughed. “It’s me who should be wishing you good luck, trust me.” She cocked her head before she took a deep breath. “Just remember Steve, the world needs men like you, be a shame if we lost you all in the war.”

At her compliment he felt himself once more flush, and the heat in his neck rose even more as she leaned down and pressed her lips softly to his cheek. She pulled back a little, locking her eyes onto his and he swallowed, the lump in his throat now only rivalled by the one he was starting to feel in his slacks. And then, he had no idea how it happened but her lips were suddenly pressed to his. He froze momentarily, but then he went with his instinct and mirrored her movements, his eyes fluttering closed. Her hands gently curled over his shoulder, his automatically falling to her hips, shaking a little against the fabric of her dress as the kiss deepened slightly, the warm edge of her tongue flicking at his lips. He parted his mouth a little, allowing her to curl her tongue against his, a movement that made him shudder and he was beyond disappointed when she pulled away. She smiled against his mouth, her nose bumping his slightly as his cheeks felt hotter than the sun. He knew he was blushing, furiously, having just had his first proper kiss in the middle of a huge exhibition, but Katie seemed completely nonplussed as she smiled at him.

“For luck.” She whispered, stepping back slightly, before she turned and headed away, casting a glance back over her shoulder at him, flashing him another cheeky little wink. “See you around.”

Steve floundered a little, mouth gaping as he watched her disappear into the crowd, and with a final shake of his head and a deep, steadying breath he headed for the exit.

*****

As it turned out Steve didn’t have long to wait for his posting at all. The following day he received his papers assigning him to Camp Lehigh in New Jersey as part of his recruitment to the SSR’s “Operation Rebirth” programme, whatever that was. He assumed he’d receive more details upon arrival. It wasn’t that which surprised him the most however, it was the date upon which he was ordered to report. Wednesday. As in, tomorrow. Whilst it didn’t give him much time to prepare, it didn’t bother him too much. He had meagre belongings anyways and anything he didn’t want to take with him he packed up into smaller boxes with the help of Bucky’s teenage sister Rebecca, Buck’s dad promising to keep it safe for him until he got back.

Winnie was beside herself when Steve broke the news that he too was enlisting, but she wished him well and made him promise to write. As did the Tromleys, who both took the news even worse than Bucky’s family had. Ada having first burst into tears then hugged him so hard he thought she was going to crush him half to death, whilst Mr Tromley had shook his hand and warned him that if he didn’t come back alive, with all 4 limbs, he’d kill Steve himself.

The morning rolled round ridiculously fast and both the Tromleys and Mr and Mrs Barnes insisted on seeing him off. Once more Ada and Winnie hugged him tightly before Mr Tromley and Mr Barnes shook his hand, the latter promising Steve he would sort out everything with his landlord, taking the key to his small apartment in the tenement building where Steve had lived in all his life. Steve felt a little pang of emotion at that point, this was the last physical tie he really had to his mother but he took a deep breath letting it go slowly. She’d been dead now for seven years and anything that remained of hers in the building was all safely stored.

No, Steve had absolutely no doubts about what he was doing. This was all he had ever wanted, to follow in his father’s footsteps and so, at six am on the 16th June 1943 Steve Rogers boarded the Army bus that arrived at the bus station to take him and a number of other recruits to New Jersey, leaving the place he’d called home for his entire life behind.

**** Chapter 2

#Stark spangled rebirth #steve rogers #Katie Stark #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x ofc #steve rogers x original female character #mcu #mcu fanfic #chris evans #chris evans characters

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ladyeliot · 3 years

Photo

Welcome Seaville. Chapter One. [T.S. / J.H.]

Series: “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong”

Prologue

Pairing: Tony Stark/Justin Hammer x Fem!Reader / Best Friend Steve Rogers

Summary: 1987. The exchange term is over, so you return to your hometown, Seaville, just before Christmas. The reunions with friends, the first day of school, everything goes back to the way it used to be.

Warnings: Insults, piques.

Word Count: 3465

A/N: Sorry for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.

December 1987

It would have been enough to say that this was just another ordinary Christmas in the small Maine town of Seaville, but it was not. The Christmas lights were brighter, the streets were more beautiful under the clear splendour of the moon, and the wind brought a sweet smell of sea salts that gave you a pleasant sensation. You peered through the passenger window and let the east wind envelop you and welcome you home again. Seaville was welcoming you in its entirety and you were leaving it.

It had been just four months since you had left the coast of Maine to head off to fulfil one of your many dreams, to spend a term in the French city of Paris. Nothing in your life could have compared to that singular experience, and you even hoped to return next year having been accepted to the University of Paris, but, equally, nothing could compare to the love you felt for home.

"Please roll up the window," your father insisted. "I don't want you to spend the whole Christmas holidays with the flu."

And of course nothing could compare to your dear father.

As you rounded the corner into your little residential area you could almost smell the sweet scent of hot chocolate and puffy clouds that your father had promised you when he picked you up from the airport. You got out of the car so quickly that you barely paid any attention to the bundle of suitcases your father was trying to pull out of the boot without any help.

As you had predicted, as soon as you turned the lock and opened the door, the smell of cocoa filled the whole house. You allowed yourself a few seconds to take in the view, the fireplace lit and adorned with the three corresponding boots, the Christmas tree in place, without the star on the top, as that was your job, and the coats sorted on the hanger by colour. All the same as always.

"Don't worry, I can manage," your father said almost breathlessly as he climbed the porch steps.

You laughed and grabbed one of the three suitcases that were blocking your father's path. You both closed the door behind you and followed each other into the kitchen as if it were tradition. The chocolate was still warm and the clouds had dissolved, just the way you used to like them. The conversation with your father went on for so long, explaining to him everything you hadn't wanted to tell him over the phone, or through letters, a method your father had forced you to maintain, for we should note that his job was as a literary writer, although he sometimes resorted to writing a few newspaper columns to make a little extra money.

The point is that the little family had been talking for hours on end, not realising that midnight had already passed, and that tomorrow you had to go to the institute to settle bureaucratic matters due to your return.

"Bonne nuit, chérie," your father said in a chaste French accent, kissing your forehead.

"Bonne nuit, papa," you smiled back, preparing to be reunited with your room.

Your room, which you had not yet had the pleasure of entering, was as usual, oblivious to the fact that your father had changed the quilt on your bed so you could sleep warmer. You flopped on your back on the bed, but just as a memory came to you, you quickly got up and went to the window. What your eyes beheld brought a laugh and a sense of relief and happiness, how could you not have noticed it before?

By chance of life, you were lucky enough to have discovered true friendship in the person who lived right across the street from you. When you and your father moved to Seaville, due to your mother's death 10 years ago, you chose that quiet residential neighbourhood to settle down and raise a small family. You met Steve Rogers on your first day of second grade, and from the moment you discovered you lived across the street from each other, a beautiful friendship was forged.

For ten minutes you couldn't take your eyes off the window of the house across the street, right next to yours. A large light blue cardboard covered the whole space and a few letters in capital letters decorated it with "Bon retour". Obviously you had kept Steve constantly in mind during your term away, long phone conversations and a few postcards proved it, but during the flight back you were afraid that he had forgotten about the day you were coming back, a rather stupid fear. So, with the comfort that gesture had brought you, you decided it was time to go to bed and get some rest, as the next morning was a long day ahead.

The sunbeam fell incessantly on your face, the curtains could barely block its power, you had assumed that you were not a good early riser, but that morning you woke up in a good mood, not even the strong smell of charred toast was going to take it away from you.

"Wow, nice smile," your father notified, offering you a plate with two pieces of toast blackened under raspberry jam.

"Thanks!" you took the plate and took his usual seat. "I'm looking forward to seeing Steve, and catching up with Natasha. Although I hope they've got things to tell me too. What are you doing today?"

"I have to finish the chapter of the book to hand in to the publisher," he sat down next to you. "And I also have to go to the mall to pick up a gift."

The smile on your face that morning widened, there were only two days left until Christmas, so it was obvious that the gift I was supposed to pick up would be for you. Even though you had everything planned, and had brought some presents from Paris, you still had to buy the last detail for your father.

Just then the front doorbell rang, and you realised that time had run out on you when you noticed that you were still in your pyjamas.

"Shit!" you exclaimed, taking the last bite of toast and heading upstairs. "I'll be down in five minutes!"

Just as you disappeared your father headed off to greet his visitor. You could hear Steve's voice as you hurriedly went about getting dressed, combing your hair and getting your backpack ready for class, not forgetting to grab two rolls of film to develop, but when you heard his laughter you couldn't help but laugh too, even though you had barely heard the reason for his action. You rushed downstairs and from the third step practically threw yourself onto Steve's back in a laughing embrace.

"Have you grown up? No way, let me see you," Steve scoffed receiving your customary punch on his shoulder.

"Hey, nice cartel," you arched an eyebrow pointing to his house.

"You think so?" your friend asked. "I'm glad you liked it. I spent three poster boards until I was proud of my work. "

Steve's sincerity did nothing but thank you for the small detail he'd had for you. But time was passing and you still hadn't left the house.

"Come on, guys! You're going to be late for class," your father informed you, offering you your lunch bag. You took it with a kiss on the cheek and ran after Steve, who was waiting for you by your bike in the garden. That morning you couldn't keep a smile off your face and Steve couldn't take his eyes off you.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" you said getting on your bike.

"You're so happy. It's not normal to see that smile at eight o'clock in the morning," Steve's comment made you laugh a little.

You both set off in the direction of the school, it usually took you ten minutes to get there by bike if you cycled at a leisurely pace, but you were still able to catch up. On the way Steve was interested in the photographs you had taken during your stay in the European city, as you had sent him some of the ones you had had time to develop. Photography was a way for you to escape, your mother had dedicated all the years of her life to the art, and perhaps it was an incentive for you to admire her.

"It's different, Paris inspires me, it's so romantic and bohemian that it's very easy to get carried away," you explained. "That doesn't mean Seaville isn't, it's... different."

Steve listened attentively to your every word, possibly one thing you both had in common was a sensitivity that you only showed when you were both alone.

It didn't take you long to realise that the school was nearby, as the amount of cars queuing at the entrance informed you of your arrival.

"Welcome back," said Steve as he entered with you through the main door leading to a long corridor lined with lockers.

You both headed towards your locker area, you didn't know why you expected anything to have changed, but everything, literally everything, was still the same.

"There you go again! Have you been deported?" that voice, which you hadn't missed, made you roll your eyes. "I had hoped that you would have climbed the Eiffel Tower and let yourself plummet. But here you are, again."

"I had hoped that one of your absurd inventions would have exploded and you would have been shot to pieces with them," you shot back with a sarcastic grin. "But not all dreams come true."

"And I had hoped that being a senior in high school you two could get along," Steve interrupted. "But I see that's impossible."

A wide wry grin on Tony's face competed with yours, but you added a snip and he countered by trying to bite your finger.

"Lovely welcome Tony," Natasha joined the group hugging you from behind, depositing a kiss on his cheek. "Wait, do I smell Parisian perfume? You haven't turned into one of those French repipes have you?"

You were grateful for Nat's presence, who was your ally against the daily struggle against Tony, for after all Steve was a neutral lynchpin in the battle. Nat shook Steve's hand and when he went to greet Tony he tried to give him a kiss on the lips, which resulted in him getting punched in the arm. The bell rang, breaking up the group, depending on which subjects you were in.

"Meet me later in the cafeteria and continue to catch up?" you commented to Steve who was going the other way with Tony.

"As always."

You gave him a parting smile, but your gaze met Tony's who blew you a kiss in the air, causing you to squint and grimace.

"And we're still catching up?" repeated Nat with a quizzical arch of his eyebrow.

"I've got a lot to tell you, and I hope you've got a lot to tell me..." you arched an eyebrow.

"It all depends on the present you brought me from Paris," replied your friend, winking at you.

You laughed, but the two of you parted ways just inside the administration offices, where a long morning of tidying up awaited you.

After two hours of filling out forms and making photocopies of the documents you had brought from the institute in Paris, you had become quite an expert. You had hoped to have an hour to spare before lunchtime to escape to the developing room to develop the film, but that seemed impossible. When the bell rang, you had barely had time to approach the room and put the film in your locker, which you had been assigned to since sixth grade when photography had become your obsession, so you made your way to the cafeteria and found your friend sitting at your table, right next to the big window overlooking the football field.

"Where were you? I was waiting for you to start eating together, but this pizza... it was tempting me," Nat took a bite of pizza like there was no tomorrow.

"If I tell you I've been reading absurd, meaningless documents all morning..." you snorted sitting down across from her and pulling out your sandwich. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be going to Paris."

"You know that's not true," Nat arched an eyebrow drawing a smile from her. "You would have gone to Paris even if you had to repeat one more grade in high school."

"Anyway, I need an update," you began, turning serious. "Has anything interesting happened while I've been away? Anyone new? Anyone who's been stirring things up?"

"New? No, anything interesting? Neither. This Seaville Murph, there's nothing going on here," Nat shrugged finishing his slice of pizza.

"I'll look for the bright side. At least I haven't missed anything," you shrugged.

"I guess you could go away for ten years and when you came back everything would still be the same," Nat looked around. "Where are the boys?"

"I'll bet you five bucks they're on the football field," you commented. "By the way, have you written the application for Brenau yet?"

"It's practically finished," your friend reported. "I'll go over it during the holidays and send it off in January. Are you ready to move to Paris next year and drive the Parisians crazy?" Natasha winked. "You haven't been hiding some movie adventure from me all this time?"

"Oh! Of course," you said wryly just as Steve and Tony made their big appearance. "Now that you mention it, as I was strolling the first evening in the Luxembourg Gardens I heard a sweet melody in the background and headed for it. There was a man playing the saxophone and I stopped to listen to him for a couple of minutes. I was so absorbed that I hardly noticed that a boy had stopped right next to me until he said 'Ne pensez-vous pas que Paris a un charme particulier?' Then I looked at him, he had the most beautiful green eyes I had ever seen," you paused your story to make a false sigh. "Then we strolled until late at night, and we met every evening so that he could show me the most beautiful corners of the city. I think those were the most romantic months of my life."

Three pairs of eyes stared at you showing completely different feelings. Natasha, who was sitting opposite you, was holding back her laughter, Steve, who was standing holding his tray next to Tony, looked completely confused by what had just happened and Tony was arching an eyebrow somewhat curiously at the story. At this point neither of you two could hold it in and started laughing, snapping the boys out of their trance.

"What was that?" asked Steve sitting down next to you. "Is that true? Because it would annoy me if you hadn't told me."

"Come on! He's pulling your leg," informed Tony jokingly and taking his place next to Nat.

"Wait how are you so sure my story isn't true? Couldn't I have my romantic history with a Parisian?" you rebutted somewhat indignantly at his certainty.

"Was he blind?" Tony arched an eyebrow.

For your part you squinted, just as Tony got a jolt of shock after getting stomped under the table by Nat because of his comment. Steve's change of conversation made it easier to keep the argument from escalating, but something always happened to spoil civilised conversations. A few minutes later, Tony was struggling with the Ketchup sachet which he couldn't open to spread on his burger, such was his desperation that when he took a bite of the sachet, it burst causing the sauce to hit your dress. Nat's eyes along with Steve's widened in anticipation of the contest between the two of you.

"You're an idiot Stark!" you quickly grabbed a couple of napkins Nat offered you so you could remove the sauce before it left a mark.

"At least it matches your dress," Tony interjected, holding back a laugh.

Cursing through your teeth, you headed for the food counter with the intention that some cook would have one of her magical ideas to make the stain go away. Tony followed you without letting go of his burger, even though Steve and Nat advised him to stay quiet and sit down.

"Come on Murphy! It's hardly any different from the red fabric of the dress," he said stepping up beside you, and knowing how much you hated it when he called you that.

"How many times have I told you not to call me Murphy?" you said scrubbing the stain with soap and water.

"It's your name," she shrugged nonchalantly. "It's not my fault your parents decided to name you that."

You bit down hard on your lip so you wouldn't have to blurt out all those things that were running through your mind, and put on an act in the middle of the cafeteria. You were lucky that at that instant someone appeared and diverted Tony's attention.

"Ready for Stark debate class?" Justin Hammer, with whom you shared a few classes introduced himself to you.

"Of course Hammer. I can't wait to see you try to put your meager vocabulary together in one sentence," Tony took a bite of his burger, causing sauce to smear his mustache and chin.

"Come on Tony, you've got a lifetime to be an idiot why don't you take a day off?" Hammer smiled slightly.

You couldn't help but smile at the comment, to which Tony noticed and became uncomfortable.

"Hammer, everyone has the right to act stupid for a while, but I'm not really the one abusing that privilege," Tony took another bite of his burger. "So fuck off."

Justin Hammer had gotten what he wanted, and his success was grounded in a half-smile as he walked away, leaving Tony frustrated. Within seconds he turned to you, so you gave him a raised eyebrow.

"You don't abuse that privilege?" you asked, referring to what he had just said to Hammer. "Please, Tony..."

Your smile faded just as Tony dipped his finger into his burger, and, bathed in what little ketchup he could get his hands on, rubbed it all over your right cheek.

"You're despicable!" you exclaimed wiping your cheek.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"Don't thank me for the insult, it's always a pleasure," you cocked your head to the side and widened a fake smile leaving him alone, returning to the table.

The doorbell once again brought the lunch hour to an end. Tony followed you and jumped on Steve's back with the burger still in his hand, while you and Natasha gathered up your bags and belongings.

"Hey, what are you doing this afternoon? I thought we could all go to Barry's and catch up," you suggested to Natasha as you headed towards the lockers.

"I've got dance class, and I guess since it's the last one before Christmas it's going to run until dinner time," she lamented.

"Did someone say Barry's?" Tony slowed his pace and interjected into the conversation.

"Sounds like a good idea to me," said Steve. Barry's at 7pm?

"Nat's got dance class," you commented, opening your backpack to put your books in your locker.

"Guys, I know I'm a one-off, but you can go without me, don't worry," Natasha shrugged. "We can meet up tomorrow."

"Okay, but tomorrow you have to come with me to the mall, I'm still missing a present for my dad," you leaned in front of her.

"That means you already got mine," Tony winked at you, you hated his sudden mood swings.

"Yeah, a single ticket to the farthest place on the planet," you said, cocking your head.

"You know you'd miss me," he cut you short and you nudged him.

Oblivious to Tony, you added, "So I'll see you at Barry's this afternoon, and it's okay if you don't show up Stark."

"Believe me it's the last thing I feel like doing, but where Steve goes I go."

Taglist Open (DM) - @ravishingreid

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mistymark · 4 years

Text

VIGILANTE/S V

part five // 4.0k words // superpowered!au // (sort of) gang!au // series masterlist

summary; in which you consider yourself somewhat of a vigilante.

warnings; swearing, mentions of death, weapons and killing, gang shit really

notes; this is just a filler bc the whole thing ended up being way too long but !! hope u like anyway <33

One week into living in the warehouse, you’ve got your own routine. You know what times to avoid the bathrooms, you know not to eat Chenle’s cereal – a tip from Donghyuck, who informed you that Chenle once set him on fire for doing just that – you know that Jaemin is the only one who cooks breakfast, and most of the meals eaten in the warehouse are from local takeout stores with shifty delivery guys. You know that 15 pizzas are ordered for one meal – because Jaemin eats at least 5 of them.

“My metabolism is crazy,” he explains to you on your third day there. “I’ll be hungry again in, like, 2 hours.” Mark had laughed and said that was normal for anyone here.

Donghyuck had whispered to you, “Jaemin carries around jellybeans all the time for his blood sugar. If you want to piss him off, call him Jelly Baby.”

You know that every time Jaemin is given an assignment, he brings a girl back to the warehouse, something you’d discovered when you saw Jeno sleeping on the couch in the main room the next day. You know the boy named Renjun doesn’t train, and hardly leaves his room. You know that Donghyuck sometimes snores in his sleep, now that you’re sharing his room, which actually hasn’t been so bad.

Jaehyun had you move in together the day after you met him, and he’d been really nice about it, moving half of his clothes from his wardrobe so you had space, and boxing up most of his stuff to allow more space for your things. He’d even offered to take down his sketches and drawings so you had some wall space. It was a sweet gesture, but you found his posters interesting, so you told him to keep them up.

Doyoung had gone with you to empty out your apartment – not that it had much in it – and convince your landlord to break your lease. “Your landlord has a very weak mind,” he’d said in a monotonous tone, when he was carrying a box to his car, a flashy black thing that certainly did not belong in your neighbourhood at all. The dilapidated, crumbling buildings surrounding you were brown and dirty, the streets grey and filled with potholes, the people who inhabited the area looking just as worn. Doyoung, on the other hand, was clean and sharp, wearing fitted black jeans and a clean white tee. His shoes were almost as shiny as his car, which made you feel slightly self-conscious when you noticed how much he stood out here.

“He’s pretty much given up on life,” you’d agreed, which earned you a smirk from him. It was true, your landlord was a chubby, pot-bellied man who wore nothing but baggy, ill-fitting jeans and old t-shirts with various food stains on them. You’ve never seen him leave the building, and you often wonder if he knows what a shithole the place is.

“I can’t believe you actually lived here,” he looked up at the building, at the brickwork that was being held together by mould rather than concrete, at the wooden window frames that were rotten and splitting apart, at a window that was recently broken, now being blocked by a curtain taped across the panel – at the place you once called home.

Well, not necessarily. It hadn’t felt like home since your dad had died, if you were being truthful.

“You live in a warehouse with criminals,” you reminded him.

“We live in a warehouse with criminals,” he cracked a smile at you, taking the box from your hands and placing it in the boot of his car.

“At least my roommate only kills himself,” you mumbled on the drive back.

“Donghyuck wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Doyoung laughed. “He’d probably kill himself if a fly started a fight with him, just so he wouldn’t have to fight it and win.”

You watched the buildings go by – Doyoung drove slower than the elderly, you were sure – and all the industrial warehouses with cute, bright signs advertising children’s toys and courier services, wondering how many of them were a front for another operation, like Jaehyun’s. “Do you think Donghyuck can die? For real?”

Doyoung was silent for a moment, then, slowly, he said, “We have our speculations. We can’t know for sure, though. And none of us really want to.” You gave a small smile to him, though he was too focused on the road ahead to see it. When you’d first come to the warehouse, you were sure no one liked him, since no one seemed devastated by the fact that he was dead. Now, you knew he was family to them.

“You have a cassette player?” Donghyuck was supposed to be helping you unload your stuff into your now shared room, but he was mostly just being nosy, going through your boxes and not actually putting anything away.

“Uh, yeah,” you throw a glance over your shoulder, seeing Donghyuck sitting on his bed, rifling through one of your boxes. “It was my dad’s.”

He nods, gently putting it on the bed. He doesn’t ask any questions about it, or your family, which you’re grateful for, but it makes you think he doesn’t have any family of his own.

You know Donghyuck is the most open out of all of the team, but you also know not to ask any personal questions.

You know a lot of things after living in the warehouse for a week. You know that Jaehyun drinks tea in the mornings and coffee at night, that Doyoung cannot access Chenle’s mind. You know that Donghyuck is definitely not a morning person, and that he exclusively wears black, as if he’s always ready for a funeral. Maybe that’s exactly the reason; some kind of sick joke surrounding his immortality.

Most importantly, you now know how to survive Johnny’s training sessions. You’ve trained with most of the team, mostly the Shields – Jeno, Jaemin, Mark and Chenle – as their powers manifest physically, and are easier to control, but Johnny has also been helping you use his ability. “You’re smaller and weaker than the rest of the team, and most Shields in general,” he’d said, eyes roaming your body. It was the first time anyone’s ever looked at you like that without making you feel objectified. “If I’m around, my ability may be the difference in whether you win or lose a fight. Try again, and focus on me.” As if you already weren’t.

He’d hunkered down and gestured for you to begin. With the other members around, you could take Johnny down in less than a minute now. Alone, it took you upwards of 10 minutes.

The day you officially move into the warehouse, you’re exempt from training with the Shields, but Donghyuck takes the opportunity to teach you gunmanship.

“I’ve used a gun before, you know,” you say, but after 10 shots you still haven’t managed to hit the target. The firing range isn’t small, located in the basement of the warehouse, which you didn’t even know existed, but you should have been able to at least hit the target once.

He laughs, picks up the gun and nails the target’s centre 5 times in a row, “So have I. Do you want to be able to actually hit your target, though?” The hole in the centre of the target looks about twice the width of the bullet, made from the bullets hitting basically in the same spot each time.

He puts a hand on your shoulder, adjusting the position of your shoulders, then places one on your lower back, adjusting your posture. You’re stiff, and you know it. He clears his throat and steps back, “Go.”

You brace yourself and shoot, the bullet going straight through the target’s stomach.

“Not too bad,” he nods in approval, holding his hand out for the gun and easily changing the clip in three quick motions. He offers the gun back to you, “Again.”

“You sound like Johnny,” you say when you take it from him. You deepen your voice as low as possible to mimic your trainer and the short, efficient way he speaks, “Again. Stop. Go. Try again. Up.”

Donghyuck lets out a loud laugh that immediately brings a smile to your face. “That was amazing.” He sits down and leans back, a hand pressed against his stomach as he laughs, mimicking your imitation. You join him on the floor, resting your back against the wall and leaning over to grab the bag of potato chips he’d brought down with you. “Have you ever shot someone?”

He reaches over and steals a few chips, as if it was the most normal question in the world. But, there’s a slight shake in his voice when he speaks, “Shot? Yes. Killed? No.”

“Who?” He shoots you a sideways glance and you lower your head, “Sorry.” No personal questions.

The heavy stench of awkward silence settles over you. He breaks it, “Johnny.”

You don’t know what to say except, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” he swallows thickly. “It was an accident. Obviously.”

You’re about to ask what happened when you’re interrupted by someone coming down the stairs. Neither of you had bothered to shut the door to the firing range, giving anyone going up or down the stairs a full view of what you were doing. Jaehyun stops when he sees you both, sitting on the floor of the firing range, sharing a bag of potato chips. He doesn’t look at you, focusing on Donghyuck. He clears his throat, “Are you training, Hyuck?”

Donghyuck’s eyes are wide and innocent when he answers, “Teaching Y/n how to shoot.”

Jaehyun’s eyes move from the two of you to the target and back again, but he doesn’t say anything about the lack of holes in it. “Johnny’s ordering Chinese – if you want anything, let him know. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

He continues and you turn to Donghyuck, “Where’s he going?”

“Garage,” Donghyuck says, through a handful of chips. “Do you want the rest of these?” He offers the bag to you. You shake your head.

“What else is down here?”

“Weapons vault, garage, the range,” he answers distractedly, too focused on getting the last of the flavouring from the bag. “The gym…” his voice trails off.

When he’s satisfied that the bag is indeed empty, he stands up, offering his hand out to you to pull you up, “Jaemin takes ten minutes to pick what he wants to eat, so if you have a preference, we should probably tell Johnny now.”

You take his hand and let him pull you up, reaching for the gun that lays on the ground, “Where-?”

“I’ll take it,” he takes it, quickly turning the safety on and reaches around to his back, tucking the weapon into the back of his black jeans.

Your second day of training was with Chenle, in the gym, which looked more like the inside of an asylum than anything. Everything was clean and a pale, almost-white shade of grey, and the entire ceiling was a cloudy glass panel that illuminated the room, giving the room a bright and energetic yet sterile feel. The equipment was state-of-the-art, a dark contrast to the overall lightness to the room, and floor to ceiling mirrors took up two of the walls. There was a stack of clean towels in the corner, and a few televisions across the room, visible from each machine. A smaller version of the Super fight ring was situated at one end of the long room. Yet, the thing that shocked you the most was the bright blue flooring, an odd design choice.

Chenle was the least helpful out of the Shields in the team, watching you train with his ability, critiquing your control and your movements with a stern eye. “Wrong. Try again. Make it hotter this time, or you’ll do no damage.” As if to gloat, he held a hand up, and a dangerous blue flame engulfed it. Your own flame, a measly bright orange, wavered.

The entire time you’d trained with him, he’d done nothing but glare and criticise you. You were sure he hated you, or maybe it was just the fact that he wasn’t the only one who had his ability anymore.

Yet, as he was leaving to eat, he’d nodded in approval at you, “Good. We’ll train together again soon, I’m sure.” It was the most he’d said to you. Actually, if you added up everything he has said to you, it would still be less words than were in that sentence.

Basically, he hadn’t spoken to you much all week.

Jaemin, however, was the opposite, and the person you’d trained with the day after Chenle. If anything, he was too kind and too understanding - he barely helped you.

“It’s okay if you can’t run as fast as me, yet,” he’d assured you with a smile, his hands on your shoulders. His smile was wide and encouraging, his eyes kind, and you instinctively knew he was a heartbreaker. No one with a smile like that has ever been heartbroken, you’d thought. His flirtatious manner was also a dead giveaway.

Your suspicions were only confirmed when he’d been sent on an assignment at the Den, and entered the kitchen the day after looking a little too happy. A girl had snuck out a few minutes later, looking only slightly embarrassed as she tried to pull her shoes on and find the exit at the same time. Jaemin had just stood in the kitchen and smiled at her as he ate his toast, not even bothering to show her out.

“You’ll have to eat a lot tonight,” he informed you at the end of your training. “And make sure you don’t have any training tomorrow morning, because you’ll be out for a while since this is your first time testing your stamina with my ability.”

He was right; you were exhausted after only two hours with him. When you’d told him just that, his smile widened and he winked at you. You laughed and shook your head at him, throwing your towel at him, “I’m going to shower.” He opened his mouth but you shot him a stern look, “Do not ask to join me.”

His easy-going smile remained on his face as he shrugged nonchalantly, “Worth a shot.” He bent down to pick up his drink bottle and began tidying up the gym as you left.

The person that surprised you the most was Jeno. His ability was easy enough to control, since you could control when you wanted the super strength, but he was happy to train you in preparation for your own training with Johnny.

“I guess it’s easy if you can control when you want to use someone’s ability, since your emotions don’t get in the way,” he’d said, as he wound his fist up with tape and gauze. “But if we’re not around, you need to be able to defend yourself with just your, uh, body.”

You nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Keep a clear head and be logical. Johnny is the only one that can see what you’re about to do, so unless you’re fighting him, think about what you’re doing.” The intense look is back in his eyes when he looks up from his wrapped hands, checking to see if you’re listening, as you haven’t said anything. You can easily see why the others would hate fighting him – he’s smart and he’s dangerous. “If you don’t think, you’ll… you’ll get hurt.” Something in his voice has changed, but it’s gone when he speaks again, “You’re no use if you’re dead.” You quirk an eyebrow at him and he juts his chin up at you, “Hold out your hand.”

You do as he says and he steps forward and begins wrapping your hand delicately. It’s far neater than you’d expected.

“Were you a boxer?”

He lets out a humourless laugh, “No. I’ve just been in a fair few fights.” You try not to react, but he can see what you’re thinking when he looks up. “Relax, most of them walked away just fine.”

“Most?” He doesn’t respond, and you take the hint that he does not want to talk about it.

He’s actually quite a good trainer, you discover, and teaches you the strongest ways to take someone down. He’s less talkative than Jaemin, but his instructions are clear and easy to follow, and at the end of your session, you’re able to do basic sparring with him.

“It’s 6,” he says, looking up at the wall of the gym. Without even a goodbye, he grabs his drink bottle and gym bag, lightly jogging up the steps to head to his room.

That night, you ate dinner with Mark and Jaemin. Well, you ate while they played video games. Jaemin shared a room with Jeno, but you hadn’t seen him since your training session. Empty pizza boxes were stacked by the door, and you counted at least 5. Your own box was sitting beside you on Jeno’s bed, while Jaemin and Mark sat side by side on Jaemin’s bed, their eyes glued to the TV screen that hung on one wall. Their room was a lot more… normal than you’d expected. Donghyuck’s was a giveaway that he was a Super – or a psychopath, either worked – with the blood and the diagrams and the journals and the weapons stacked in boxes around the room.

Jeno and Jaemin’s room was fitted out with their beds, desks, wardrobes, bean bag chairs, an old gaming console and a flatscreen TV. A few movie posters and celebrities were on the wall, and old photos. Only Jaemin had photos, and even so, there were only a few taped to the wall above his bed’s headboard. You couldn’t make out any details from where you were sitting.

Mark’s reflexes were no match for Jaemin’s, and he lost almost every round, making you wonder why he still agreed to play.

“Hey, should I save some of this for Jeno?” You asked, staring at the pizza still remaining in the box. There were only three left, and part of you wondered if it would even be enough. The other part of you thought it would at least be polite to offer.

“Nah, he won’t be back til tomorrow,” Jaemin doesn’t even turn around in his seat, his eyes frantically following his character as it moves across the screen.

“Huh. Okay,” you pick up another slice just as the game ends and Jaemin turns to throw another wide grin at you.

“That means my room’s free for the night, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He laughs at the look of exasperation on your face.

When his attention is away from you again, you say, “Jaehyun sure keeps you guys busy.” There’s only a little bit of bitterness in your voice; you’d been with the team for four days and the only time you’d left was to sort out your apartment. Apparently, you weren’t ready for any assignments yet.

“Huh? Jaehyun has him on an assignment?” Mark’s confusion gets your attention, as he turns to look at Jaemin with a furrowed brow. This was clearly unusual – or, at least, news to him.

Jaemin barely glances at you as he responds, “Nah, he’s visiting his girlfriend.”

“Jeno has a girlfriend?” You ask, only slightly shocked. It wasn’t like you’d thought about their love lives, but you’d just assumed everyone was single. It went with the job description.

“Yeah,” Jaemin nods. “She lives on the other side of the city somewhere. At one of the colleges. He normally goes after trainings on Fridays, since it’s the only night she’s not studying.”

Even without seeing your face, he can sense your surprise.

“Don’t ask him about it, though. He’s very reserved when it comes to her. Doesn’t want any of us to know much about her. I don’t even know her n-”

Mark laughs when he finally manages to kill Jaemin, and Jaemin pouts and rolls his eyes, insisting he was too focused on you to play. “You’re such a baby,” Mark laughs louder, and Jaemin swats at him. His hand moves so fast you barely even see it hit Mark’s arm. “Ow! Dude!”

“One more game, come on,” Jaemin insists, turning back to the screen. Then he raises his voice, “Anyway, Y/n, he won’t even tell us her name, let alone anything else about her. So don’t bring it up.”

“Or he’ll literally chokeslam you,” Mark adds, which, for some reason, makes them both laugh loudly.

You nod, despite the fact they can’t see you, and go back to eating your pizza, “I’ve got next game!”

Mark sighs in relief, “Gladly.” Jaemin’s competitiveness was beginning to wear him out.

The following day, Mark taught you the basics of shape shifting. He was the latest addition to the team – other than you – and his control was even worse than yours. “Shape shifting is really difficult,” he giggled, nervously. “If you’re not 100% imagining what you want to be, you’ll turn into something way different. But don’t panic, it will restrict your ability to change back.”

Over the course of the day, you’d shifted into birds, mice, elephants, leopards, any creature you could think of. Though, you had humiliated yourself when he went to get snacks during your break, greeting and talking to the large dog that came trotting down the stairs, as if it were Mark.

“What are you doing?” He’d laughed when he walked back into the gym, snacks in hand.

You’d been at a loss for words, your cheeks immediately becoming inflamed. “I- I thought that was you,” you pointed at the dog, which was panting as it sat down on the stack of towels in the corner of the room.

“That’s Bruce, Renjun’s dog,” Mark explained, tossing you a can of iced coffee. “Don’t tell Jaemin you drank his coffee.”

You paused, the opened can raised to your lips. You lowered it, slightly, “Why does Jaemin need coffee if he already operates at like 10 times the speed we do?”

“For after he crashes,” Mark shrugs. “Sometimes speed isn’t everything.” He laughs at his own joke, “If he doesn’t sleep enough, he’ll still be exhausted. Sometimes he can’t afford to sleep more than 12 hours, so he relies on coffee.” He cocks his head to the side as he examines his can.

Later, when you’re sitting on the floor after successfully shapeshifting into cockroaches, you ask, “Have you ever tried turning into other people? Can you do that?”

“Yes, but – I really have to know what the person looks like. Like, I can imagine a dog and turn into a dog because any small details that I remember incorrectly will go unnoticed by a human,” he gulps down his cola. “Humans are more complex – one small detail could make me look totally different to the person I’m trying to copy.”

“Change into me, then,” you sit up straighter. “If you can see me, surely you won’t have to rely on your memory, right?”

He shrugs and locks his eyes onto you. You’d seen him transfer from human to horse, from sheep to frog, but somehow seeing him change from himself to you was more disturbing. His skin ripples and his bones make disturbing popping noises as they change, and you wonder if it hurts, even though you had shape shifted multiple times and knew it didn’t hurt at all.

Within a few seconds, right before your eyes… is you. “Hello,” he says in your voice.

“Okay, fuck that, change back,” you tell him, looking away. “That’s so creepy. Brilliant, but creepy.”

When he laughs, it sounds like him again, and you let your eyes drift back to where was sitting. He smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. His eyes, not your own.

You could have so much fun with this ability, reminding yourself to try it on Donghyuck later.

You tell Mark this as he tosses a piece of popcorn into his mouth, and you both stretch out on the gym floor, laughing at all the pranks you could easily pull on the other members of the team.

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rebelwith0utacause · 4 years

Text

La Petite Mort

I started writing this a month ago, got stuck on 300 words and thought I might never finish it. Here we are, beginning of June, and it’s finally done, all 3.4K of it.

Warnings: Don’t read it if you’re underage, can’t handle smut and bad writing or if you’re Michael Clifford.

I got the idea listening to A Little Death by The Neighbourhood one day. Go check out the song if you haven’t already. It’s one of my faves.

You can also find it on ao3. Let me know what you think. and please don’t let it flop.

It was supposed to be a quiet affair, a way to get rid of their demons, to let them fly for the night. They were no strangers to it, the taboo and the darker side of their passion meant that they had to hide in the shadows. It was easier in a way, shadows cloaked emotions, making any attraction feel hazy and unsure until it completely vanished in the morning.

Not that you’d ever spent the morning with him. It was a wonder that you’d even met up on multiple occasions. That’s not how the system worked. You were given one chance at a scene, meant to be an outlet, not a dating site. But you fit so well that first time, you knew you had to see him again.

It started out with an occasional DM on Twitter, every couple of months. You would tell him what you needed, what your body and soul craved, he would tell you the location, and the time. You would show up, you would perform, exorcise your demons, go back home, rinse, repeat.

You never meant to get addicted, but there was something in his touch that liberated your soul. You knew it was one-sided, but that didn’t stop you from going back for more.

It was the end of November, an uncharacteristically cold weather had blown into town, the air smelled of snow and you decided that your fingers could use a pair of gloves. You quickened your steps. The neighborhood was neither bad, nor the greatest, but the streetlights were flickering and you started feeling the panic swell in the pit of your belly. The motel was in your sights, a flickering red sign above the main entry showed that there were a few rooms left vacant.

Entering the lobby finally set your nerves at ease. You’ve entered familiar territory.

There was a middle-aged man tending the front desk, his thinning hair glowing under the neon light. He was flicking through the pages of an old magazine, not paying too much attention to the sound of the bell when you opened the door. Really, he couldn’t even bother to look up.

“How can I help you?” was uttered under his nose, his eyes never leaving the glossy pictures. “I have a reservation for room number 7.” Your voice cracked at the “have”, not sure if it was the nerves or the lack of use. He swung around in his chair, grabbing the key from its allotted space and placing it on the desk, no “There you go.” no nothing.

Seen as he wasn’t very forthcoming, if you were being 100% honest, he was cold and insanely rude, you just grabbed the key and left the lobby. You pulled the lapels of your jacket a bit closer and hurried to get to your room. You only had half an hour to get ready.

You’ve done these scenes in almost any kind of environment, but the stagnant air and moldy waterpipes in motels had you feeling a certain way. You never claimed to understand why you liked the things that turned you on.

The first thing you had to do was set the scene. You were both lovers of 90’s aesthetics, so the outdated furniture and yellow lighting in the room were perfect. You took off your clothes, making sure to leave your white cotton set on. It was going to get destroyed anyway, so there was no point in wearing fancy underwear - his words, not yours. Come to think of it, it might had something to do with the fact that it made you look almost virginal, and it felt like he was corrupting you time and time again.

Folding your clothes one by one, you set them in your backpack and hid it in the bathroom, leaving your old self behind. You took the bedcovers off the queen-sized bed and the pillows on the nearby chair, you knew he might need them at one point. Hiking your knee on the mattress, you settled in the middle on your back, eyes closed, hands clasped on your tummy, waiting. And you didn’t have to wait for long.

You heard the creak as the door opened, but you didn’t dare open your eyes. It was one of your demands. You didn’t want to know who he was, it was easier that way, you could fantasize about the possibilities of it being anyone on the street. You could hear the soft sounds of his footsteps as he approached your lying form. “Up.” It was a signal for you to lift your head as he wrapped a scarf over your eyes. The bed dipped as his knee came to rest behind you, securing the knot and doing quick work of braiding your hair. At first, it freaked you out, but you soon came to realize that it meant he could do less damage to your scalp when he pulled, and he liked to pull on it quite a lot.

His cold fingers trailed from the bottom of your braid to your sides, making you squirm in your seat. He’d warm them up on your skin soon enough. You could hear and feel his soft exhales in your left ear, followed by the feel of his beard on your neck as he trailed kisses on your skin.

“Are you ready?” The only answer you dared give him was the tiniest nod.

Both of his hands moved between your thighs, gripping them and parting your legs as wide as they would go. His left hand found your clothed breast, roughly grabbing a handful and squeezing a moan out of you. The tips of his right hand found their way on top of your cotton panties, middle finger pressing lightly between your slit, dampening the material with your juices.

It was only an interlude, you knew that he was here on a mission to wreck you, but the intimacy of it all prickled at your soul.

You felt his whole demeanor change, his breath evening out and his muscles flexing against your body. The hand grabbing your tit moved to grab your neck, no pressure yet, he was just using his thumb and index finger to guide you against him. The one petting your pussy moved to bunch up the material of your panties and pull it up, giving you an uncomfortable wedgie but stimulating your clit at the same time. Your only response was a strangled wheeze.

“You like that? Like having strangers feel you up?” He released your neck. “Look at you. A whimpering mess and we haven’t even started yet.” You suddenly felt a light tapping on your clothed clit, increasing in force and intervals, making your head fall back on his shoulder, moaning at the slight pain.

And that’s what you were here for, the pain. You knew that he had loads of it in store for you. He grabbed your braid, maneuvering you around until your head was pressed on the bed and your thighs were spread on both sides of his knee, ass high in the air. Same as before, he bunched the material of your panties and pulled, leaving the globes of your ass bare for his eyes only. His other hand grabbed your right cheek, roughly squeezing it upwards and away, getting a peek of your puckered hole. It disappeared and came back before you could even blink behind the scarf, the resounding thwack of his palm on your ass chasing the chill away. He repeated the same motion a few times until the bottom of your ass was rosy and you were silently begging for more.

There was a ripping sound in the stillness of the room as he roughly pulled your panties. They were left to sit in ruins on your thighs as his middle finger came to inspect your leaking pussy. The whole thing looked so bad but felt so right at the same time. You were nothing but a broken puppet in his hands and you were never sure if he was trying to fix you or fuck you up beyond repair.

The pressure was building in your lower belly, his knee pressing against your bladder and his calloused finger strumming your clit, catching it with his blunt nails time and time again. Just when you thought that you might enter another dimension, his finger disappeared only to be brought back in the form of a hard hit on your pussy.

“Not so fast.”

You were impatient, but that’s not how you won this game. You felt the bed move with him, falling flat on your belly. He, once again, used your braid as a handle to position you right. You were lying like that for a few seconds or a few minutes, you couldn’t tell. The panties were off, the bra was lying somewhere on the floor and your feet were cuffed in metal rings. You recognized the familiar immobility caused by the spreader bar, holding your feet from locking together. He bound your hands in leather and left them to rest on the bed above your head. The bed dipped between your knees as he situated his body behind you, pulling on your hips, grinding your naked ass on his denim-covered crotch. You kept rotating your hips, working yourself up and stretching lazily like a cat. It was almost desperate, the need for contact so great, you would do anything for him. But he had other plans.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop making a mess? You’re such an infuriating little slut.”

He left you on the bed, tears of frustration slowly gathering behind your eyelids as you waited for any sort of stimulation. You heard the whoosh before you felt the tiny licks of pain on your back. So he decided to use the cat this time, the tiny leather knots deliciously digging in your skin. He was warming you up, knowing you needed to have a bit of pain before you reached nirvana, but ever so careful not to break the skin.

Minutes turned into eternity. Your thoughts had fled your mind. You could only feel the warmth and produce incoherent noises in different pitch. Hit after hit like tiny water droplets before the deluge. Somewhere in that not-here-nor-there space of yours, you didn’t hear the buzzing, or maybe the blood rush to your head drowned the noise. But the tiniest vibration from the wand had you shattering to pieces.

You held your breath, the scream lodged in your throat, saliva dripping on the sheets in front of you, your entire body shaking from the orgasm, your knees barely holding you up. He could only chuckle from the side, knowing that this was only the first of many that night.

He let you breathe for a while, seeing the curve of your back dip and flatten as you tried to get yourself together was a huge turn on, if the bulge straining against his jeans was anything to go by. The next time he approached, he decided to forego the whip, but kept the wand close by, just in case. He was back between your knees, hands hugging your lower back, bending you even further. His roughened hands traveled the expanse of your reddened back, making sure you still felt the phantom pain from the cat-o-nine tails. His face was in front of you, taking in the scent of your arousal before flattening his tongue on your lips. You felt the vibrations of his moan more than his actual voice, but it was over before it began.

You heard a click and felt the coldness of the lube between your cheeks. He used his middle finger to spread it on the rim and started applying steady pressure. You’ve done this before so you knew that it was time to relax and push back, allowing entry. He was working you up, slowly opening your hole to fit two of his fingers. After he was satisfied with the progress he made, he took them out and slowly replaced them with a lubed up princess plug. The metal felt heavy inside of you, but not entirely uncomfortable, and if you were being honest with yourself, it made you feel special knowing that there’s a sparkly button attached to your ass. He pulled on it a few times, making sure you were comfortable with it before leaning down and giving the clear zircon a kiss.

The incredibly tender moment was cut short when both of his palms landed hard on your cheeks. He liked seeing the contrast between your fire red flesh and the cool fake crystal handle, so much so, he couldn’t stop playing with your ass, jiggling the metal device with every squeeze.

It never occurred to you that you could cum from such a little amount of stimulation, but you were almost there. You were moaning the motel down and somewhere in that sex haze of yours you thought you might have heard a thump or two from the neighboring wall, but you couldn’t care less. Not when the wand was back on your clit, and definitely not when you felt his fingers curl up inside of you. He wasn’t being extremely gentle either. He knew you thrived on the overstimulation, pressing the pads of his fingers on your g-spot harshly, almost feeling mechanical. He was a conductor and he knew how to orchestrate your body, your moans and screams the most beautiful symphony. You thought that you would end with a dramatic crescendo, but the music sheet had a few more pages left.

His fingers left you, the wand went down at the same time as his zipper. He didn’t bother to push his pants down, just opened them enough to pull his, very hard and very ready, dick out. You heard the crinkle of the condom packet being ripped and felt the latex on you. He was rubbing his cock between your cheeks, gathering as much of your juices and lube on him before he entered you. The novelty never wore off. It didn’t matter what he did to you beforehand, it was always a tight fit, the stretch bordering pain and pleasure.

You felt full at last, the double penetration making you mewl like a cat in heat, the moan slowly rising up in volume until you did nothing but scream. Each time he moved his hips against yours sounded like thunder in your ears, the plug going deeper and deeper inside you. You tried to hold off as much as possible, but it was a losing battle.

One extremely forceful push had you collapsing on the bed, blissed out. He was chasing after his own orgasm, covering your body with his. The only indication that he was a tall man was the fact that when he laid like this, his chin would almost reach the top of your head. But you didn’t mind the weight, in fact, it almost made you feel protected.

The bed dipped to your left, he must’ve put his hand in front of you for leverage because his other was busy shoving three fingers in your mouth. You had your eyes closed, making sure you produced enough spit to lube his digits so you didn’t notice the moment the scarf shifted, freeing a tiny sliver for your eyes to see. He took those fingers, bringing his hand to your already wrecked pussy, finding purpose in playing with your clit. The sensation was too much, revving you up one last time. One final push had you coming hard, milking his cock for every last drop, vision going black, and the sight of a familiar finger tattoo making your heart painfully clench.

--------

It was New Year’s Eve and you were on a mission. The Christmas lights were on, the finger food was on the table and the guests were about to arrive. There was no dress code, you just told them to dress comfortably. It was a small event, you didn’t have many friends to begin with, courtesy of always working, but you did have a growing circle of people who loved video games as much as you.

You were slowly becoming a tight-knit family, getting together for game nights and the occasional drinks, and you liked it, you didn’t need more interaction. You were, however, extremely happy when one of your gamer buddies gave you a bit of his attention. Where you were generally talkative and friendly, he was your polar opposite, deciding to stay in his shy shell until he felt comfortable enough to speak. You knew he had a good soul, you just never knew what to expect from him. The only time his real self decided to come out was when he was in the middle of a game.

But you did in fact know a little bit more about him than you were letting off. He was in your apartment now, scanning the place for an empty corner to hide in. You couldn’t help but admire him, a tiny ball of lust wound tight in your lower belly. He looked so good in a pair of light blue jeans and a white tee, covered by a red plaid shirt. The tattoos peeking beneath his rolled-up shirt sleeves and the whole grungy look were such a contrast to his shy self, it almost made you laugh, that is, until you realized that you might have cum a few times from rubbing yourself sore on the coarse denim of his jeans.

The advantage of playing host was that you always had an excuse to go up to people and strike up a conversation. You let him relax for a bit, though. Cornering him right off the bat might do more harm. But you were done playing this game of cat and mouse, where the cat was in fact a kitty and the mouse was a Pit Bull in disguise and you wanted to know what was his endgame.

You found him in the kitchen by himself, licking some pizza sauce from his fingers. “Oh, hey Michael, didn’t expect to see you here. Too crowded?” You pointed behind you at the party, eyes zoned in on his Adam’s apple moving as he gulped. He looked a bit startled but he wasn’t cowering like you expected him to. “Yeah, you know me, not much of a team player.” You knew that wasn’t the full truth because whenever he tried to hide something, he would try to fix his already perfectly styled bleached fringe.

There were layers to his personality, and he was never game to show them all at once, but you were willing to unravel him. You were thankful for once that your kitchen was tiny so it only took you a couple steps to reach his side. Before you could chicken out, you grabbed his left hand and brought it up for inspection. He tried to pull it away, but you were having none of that. “You know Mikey, I never really asked you what this tattoo’s about, and I’ve been meaning to for a while now.” He still looked uncomfortable, but the way your thumb kept rubbing over the circle and three dots engraved on his middle finger was making his eyes dilate. “You like it?” His tone was no longer shy, and you could finally understand why you never put two and two together. Turned on Michael was speaking in a low, almost gravelly voice, completely unrecognizable from his usual higher-pitched tones. And now he knew you knew. And there was no escaping it.

“I liked it better when it was disappearing into my pussy.” You whispered, looking up at him through your lashes. You knew you were trying to act tough, but the moment he wound his fingers in your hair and pulled, you knew that you’d always be putty in his hands. “Don’t forget your place, pet.” he breathed out. “You don’t get to top from the bottom. I could easily bend you over the table in front of all of our friends and have your ass red if I wanted to.” And you knew that he would. He detangled himself from you, leaving you turned on and confused in the middle of the kitchen.

The party was dying down. There were a few stragglers left, their silhouettes hazy in your vodka-Sprite-induced vision. A new year has begun and for once you dared yourself to make a wish. Little did you know that once everyone left, a certain 90’s enthusiast would make all of your wishes come true, and then some, only this time you could look into his green eyes while you died a little death.

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edka88 · 3 years

Text

Reflection

(short story for The Phantom of the Opera, originally posted on fanfiction.net)

Summary: It came as no surprise that he was a wanted criminal, and yet it was not him who had been found out.

Pairing: Christine/Erik

Rating: T

Note: Story takes place on 21st February.

– o –

Untread snow crumpled beneath her feet as Christine turned to the street on her right, then the sound repeated somewhat softer as her husband followed her around the corner.

A light breeze caught into her coat as now there were no buildings to block the wind, but then in only two steps Erik caught up with her and the cold torrent ceased as his body blocked it from hers.

It was a lovely view, this quiet street, and it was difficult to believe that such a place could exist so close to the bustle of the city center. People were nowhere to be seen at this hour, although it was early afternoon, and the arrangement of the buildings strengthened the feeling of comfort and secrecy: most of them were situated at the back of the sites, and many of them were surrounded by carefully tended gardens. Christine believed that she wouldn't have been able to spot these buildings themselves had it not been for winter, when most trees stood bare.

The rest of the houses, that stood proudly displayed to the audience of the streets, were huge, two-storey buildings; not exactly mansions, yet the design left no doubt of the wealth of the owners. It only added to the ambiance of nobility that there were nice, long heaps running along the length of the main road – flowerbeds, she concluded, that must be overflowing with colorful blossoms in spring and summer.

Far in the distance a man appeared in what seemed to be some sort of uniform and her heart leapt to her throat; then a moment later she let out the breath she was holding when the man, instead of walking up to the main entrance as a policeman would have done, disappeared at the side door of the building.

A footman.

Her stomach shrunk into a knot.

Even a smaller house in this area must cost a fortune.

“Such an illustrious neighbourhood,” she murmured, trying to fight down the heat that started to spread to her cheeks. “We shouldn't even be here.”

“You don't wish to live at a place like this?” Her husband's voice was subdued as he asked her, as if he guarded carefully how much emotion he should show.

��That's not what I meant,” she replied, venturing a quick glance to the side to look at him. His eyes were trained to the ground beneath their feet. “This is a lovely street but we cannot possibly afford to buy a house here; better not to look around at all.”

Erik looked up at her and for a moment it seemed he was startled to find she had been watching him. “Don't worry about the money,” he said with a dismissive gesture of his hand. “You merely need to choose a house to your liking.”

“I didn't even have a dowry,” she muttered, ducking her face a little lower as if to shelter it from the wind.

“It never occurred to me to expect anything like that from you,” he replied, continuing his even pace.

She followed him, wordless for a moment, struggling with the now definitely present blush on her cheeks. “Respectable women have at least a moderate sum to offer to their future husband,” she ventured to say at last.

“I didn't want to marry you to buy acceptance into society's standards,” he said, indignation clouding his words. “I wanted nothing more than your love,” he added softly a moment later.

Such a guileless confession – and such an even tone.

Only when she stole a brief glance to the side did she notice the soft tremor of his throat as he swallowed.

She reached out to take his hand and his fingers closed around hers immediately.

“It isn't just for my sake that you wish to buy a house, is it?” she asked, clearing her throat to hide the slight waver of her voice.

He shook his head. “I've never really been particularly fond of having to hide in the cellars,” he said, his eyes examining the faraway distance of the winding street.

The cold wave of a memory, from not so long ago, ran down her spine, and a moment later the ghost of his raging voice flitted in from the back of her mind.

No compassion anywhere...

No. Not fond of, indeed.

Beside her, he continued to march ahead without saying another word, and the two of them passed a site with a high brick wall that completely blocked the garden and the mansion within its walls from the prying eyes of any passers-by. Next, they passed an intricately woven wrought iron railing that guarded a meticulously arranged garden; then walked by another site with a dense hedge that completely blocked the sight of the house of the road: in fact, it would have been difficult to say if there was any house on the other side of it at all.

What are we doing here?

It seemed unlikely that anyone would want to sell their property in a district like this.

Previously they had agreed to take a long walk in the city when he would show her a couple of houses that were up for sale, suited their needs, and possibly their taste, too. And... he had even suggested finding a house in the city center and so near the opera house as well, reasoning that having to make long journeys every day from home to work would consume an unnecessary amount of time and energy – and consequently would pose an unnecessary threat of being recognized. Her sudden disappearance after the fire she could explain – her similarly sudden reappearance on the side of a wanted criminal she could not.

Next to her, he kept walking forward in silence. From time to time, he looked up from the path they walked and glanced around, and she wondered if he had heard something she had not, or it was just his usual wariness. Once he even turned around to check something behind their back and she tried to ignore the tingle of worry when it crept beneath her coat and galloped down her spine.

It was foolish to come here at all.

Getting caught was a very real possibility, with him being the most wanted person in whole Paris, and during daytime, nonetheless! However few people moved around the city in this awful cold, and however low the sky was, the disaster of the opera house was no doubt still fresh in people's minds and according to the newspapers, gendarmes kept patrolling the streets in search of the Phantom.

She shuddered and pulled the coat tighter around herself.

Depending on how close an attention the newspapers paid to her character and her wordless disappearance, she might as well be a similarly sought person. Deemed either victim or accessory, she would be probably taken to the first gendarmerie to provide her testimony, but considering the damage done to the opera house, she doubted she could say anything that would alter the verdict against him.

If they believed she had been taken as a victim...

The street swayed in front of her eyes.

To think she wholeheartedly believed all would be forgotten in a matter of weeks, and she could pretend to have married to a reclusive businessman...

She glanced back, half-expecting of having to run in mere seconds.

Nothing.

The street was still completely empty behind them.

She turned back to look forward at the sound of some distinct, but rhythmic sound... Clatter...? Thumps...?

In the end she saw the source sooner than she had the chance to decipher it: two gendarmes rounded the next corner and were now marching down the street – right towards the two of them.

Erik's hand tensed in hers immediately but he continued to walk forward and her throat began to close up.

“We should... turn back,” she choked, her knees weakening.

“Should we do so, they'll surely come after us,” he muttered, still walking forward.

“We cannot stay here, either,” she wheezed, quickening her steps to keep up with his pace. Still, he continued ahead.

“That's why we are going into one of the houses,” he replied, his steps unfaltering.

Why towards them?!

Strength ran out of her legs and her knees wobbled but she forced her feet to continue walking next to him, who was still adamant on walking to the direction of the gendarmes.

“But... but the owners would call the gendarmes just the same,” she began to protest but then froze when a gust of wind caught into the top of her hair – she was not wearing her hood.

Cold flooded her veins with the next heartbeat.

Her name had surely been printed on the first page of every newspaper – but was there her picture, too?

She shuddered – and immediately felt the soft squeeze of his fingers around her now definitely trembling hand.

“Not if the house is empty,” came his reassuring words as he suddenly stopped in front of the gate of the next... garden?

But no, a house stood there somewhere, too; beyond the long line of the trees tracing the lines of the fence. Should it have been summer, it would have been impossible to tell that a house belonged to the property, too.“This one happens to be uninhabited.”

She looked up – the gendarmes were now only about six houses from them.

“How can you be so sure?”

“The baron who had this house built left for Scotland,” came his reply.

“But they would surely find it strange to see someone walk into an empty house,” she objected as he reached into his pocket. Something gave a jumbled, clanking sound and he pulled out a strange-looking set of keys from the folds of his cloak and inserted one of the keys into the lock on the gate.

“The baron is a rather eccentric man, but he is wealthy enough to practice his peculiarities undisturbed,” he said, twisting the handle to the side a little. “Besides, we will leave through the back door earlier than they can decide whether to risk the ire of the rightful owner.” The lock gave way and the gate opened in less than a moment. With one hand he motioned for her to enter while he reached up to adjust the hood of his cloak with the other – and as he did so, his coat sleeve flitted to the side just a little so that she could also see the sleeve of his jacket and...

A cold tremor started at her nape and then quickly poured down into her stomach in several tingling rivulets.

The rope.

It was dangling hidden inside his sleeve.

She snapped back to the present a long second later at the weight of his sight on her face. His eyes turned to a dark shade of green with the turmoil of emotions swirling in them – and they stood out brightly from his suddenly deathly pale countenance.

“I won't subject you to witness such a gruesome scene,” he whispered, lowering his arm slowly.

She could only manage a brief nod.

The rhythmic steps were now only the distance of a few houses from them. Her hand twitched with the intention to pull down her hood as well before she remembered that she had forgotten about it altogether.

What if they already recognized me?

And if one of those men recognized her, surely they had no doubts of the identity of her mysterious companion.

There was no picture in yesterday's paper.

But she had missed out five days' worth of news before that.

Through the haze that seemed to cover her eyes she saw how he closed the gate and then swiftly locked it. “Pretend you belong here,” came his whisper, and he made a half-gesture to usher her in, but then his arm dropped before it touched her. “Come,” he breathed, and turned to leave towards the front door.

The footsteps on the street moved even closer, and through the row of trees she saw the two dark shadows approaching and finally reaching the front of the garden they had just walked into.

Pretend you belong here.

Her heart beat in her stomach and she wondered how unladylike it would be to be sick on the street.

Should she be recognized, they would surely arrest him – or worse: shoot him immediately. She would be considered as an accomplice – in which case he would likely insist he had abducted her and forced her into marriage. Briefly she wondered if even such a monstrosity could worsen his already long list of crimes.

She swallowed and pretended not to notice the bitter taste gathering in the back of her mouth.

“Go and open the front door,” she choked out.

“I'm not leaving you here,” he replied before she could even finish the sentence.

Air knotted in her throat. The gendarmes were only a few meters away.

“It would be more than suspicious if the two of us disappeared in the house all of a sudden but we cannot stay outside, either,” she reasoned.

Yet, he still didn't move. “It is not your – “

She whirled around, now facing him. “They cannot find you!” She managed to force out and was dimly aware that her vision was blurred by tears. “Please.”

A shadow passed over his eyes that echoed in a squeeze around her chest, but finally, with one last distressed glance at her, he left. Cold air bit at her lashes as she blinked back the tears and turned around so that the gendarmes, who meanwhile had reached the gate, would surely see her face. She stood by the closed gate and pretended to be inspecting one of the rose bushes when the gendarmes stopped on the opposite side of the gate.

On the very edge of her vision appeared a strange, indistinct dark spot, wavering; it took her a few heartbeats of time to realize that it was nothing definite but the work of her mind – similar to what she had seen that only time when she had fainted in her life. The buzzing in her ears grew louder, too, so much so that she rather saw it than heard when one of the gendarmes had spoken to her. “For a minute, mademoiselle.”

Dread cascaded down her spine with every heartbeat.

Would she be sentenced to death, too, for trying to protect her love?

“It's madame,” she corrected with a smile she hoped passed as kind, and stepped away from the bush.

“Madame,” the man corrected with a stiff nod. “About a week ago a young lady disappeared in the city...” The man's sight slowly slipped from her face and then slid down the length of her hair. “You seem to bear a striking resemblance to her...”

Damn those newspapers.

The heart that seemed to burst from her chest just a minute ago now appeared to have stopped entirely, but the terror that was surely visible on her face must have been interpreted for something else, as the man didn't finish the last sentence but stumbled to a halt and cleared his throat before continuing, “You have been stopped for the very same reason before, perhaps?”

“I have been subjected to a few peculiar stares, yes,” she said, swallowing hastily when her heart gave a forceful leap as if it had just started to beat again indeed.

“The city has been in the utmost turmoil in the last week as she is a promising talent and is rumored to have been kidnapped by a lunatic. It would be strange if you hadn't heard about it...” The gendarme's voice trailed off with what appeared to be suspicion, and he gave her a long look from head to toe before his gaze slipped from her and started to scrutinize something behind her back.

Air was suddenly squeezed from her throat.

Pretend you belong here.

“Poor thing,” she managed to breathe, barely able to control the tremor in her knees. She managed to resist closing her eyes before she ventured, “You see, my husband and I have arrived home just an hour ago and we haven't had time yet to catch up with the latest news of the city.”

For a moment a bewildered shadow passed across the gendarme's face and his eyes flitted back to her face. “Let me send someone to fetch you luggage,” he offered, a strange lilt tainting his voice.

“No, thank you. We already arranged for them to be carried here tomorrow,” she managed to bite out, then forced another smile through the swirl of her surroundings. The officer was staring back at her, his face blank.

Unconvinced.

She drew a deep breath.

Facts.

He cannot possibly doubt facts.

“My dear friend, the Comtesse of Cherbourg was kind enough to offer her coupé so that we don't have to hire a coach. She has not much use of it anyway, until she's out of town, you see,” she said, and finally a spark of interest appeared in the eyes of the gendarme.

“Oh, you are a friend of the Comtesse, madame?” Asked the man in front of her, and suddenly she felt the weight of another pair of eyes on her – the younger officer was watching her now, too. She swallowed the urge to shift on her feet.

The Comtesse was a well-known, respected patron of the fine arts and her salon was one of the most illustrious venues of the artists in whole Paris. But... anyone could say she was a friend of the renowned lady.

Facts.

“Why, indeed!” She cried, allowing herself a small sweep of her hand as if to emphasize the statement, then reached for the fringe of her shawl to hide the trembling of her fingers. “I have known her for quite a while now; we got acquainted years back when we were both visiting Saint Tropez. I have been in correspondence with her ever since then.”

The men stood a little taller at that, but the eyes of the older gendarme narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“And yet she has failed to mention to you the huge disaster that happened in the opera house?” he asked, taking a close look at her hair. “There was a most dreadful scandal.”

Facts.

She tried to take a breath through the lump that seemed to have formed in her throat within only a few heartbeats.

“I'm afraid she's just as ignorant of it as myself. She has left the city on the 12th,” she replied, aiming to sound indignant when her voice wavered. “I expect you would remember the date as before leaving, her husband had made such a generous anonymous donation to the gendarmerie for having recovered Mme de Cherbourg's lost necklace.”

A terrifying moment of silence followed –

– that finally ended with the defeated slouch of the shoulders of the uniformed man in front of her.

“Do forgive my impertinence, madame; I have seen the picture of Mademoiselle Daaé and I was misled by the startling similarity of your features. I apologize,” said the man, bowing deeply in front of her, and his colleague echoed the movement.

Euphoria of hard-earn triumph flooded her veins, only to be extinguished by the cold reality of guilt a moment later. She had misled a man – a man of law! – and now he was the one who feared the consequences.

Would saving a life condone a string of lies?

Nevertheless, it was rather unlikely that this now remorseful and humble man would feel even a shred of compassion should he know the truth – and should she be begging for the life of her love.

“I wish you would refrain from drawing such hasty conclusions based on appearance, gentlemen,” she replied, covering the weakness of her voice with adding just a touch of resentment. Her pretence must have worked, because the senior officer clapped his ankles before bowing again in front of her.

“Once again, I beg your forgiveness, madame,” he said when he straightened.

She waved a dismissive hand and hoped it was close enough to aristocratic to be convincing. “Let us forget about it.” When the officer bowed again, anger began to swell in her chest, and it successfully extinguished the last remnants of guilt.

All because you believe I have a title...

Pulling back her shoulders, she rose to her full height. “And now, gentlemen, if you don't mind, I wish to retire. The baron and I have just arrived from Scotland.”

“Certainly.” Her interrogator gestured to his companion, who bowed a quick farewell to her. “A good day to you, baroness,” replied the senior officer.

“And to you, gentlemen,” she replied with a cold smile, and turned to leave.

She managed to keep her gait nobly graceful exactly until the door closed behind her, then she collapsed against the frame.

Blood was pounding in her ears, but she only heard every second beat through her own gasps for air.

The quickly gathering twilight threw the room into an eerie semi-darkness, but even so it was easy to make out the shadowy form of her husband as he was turning back from the curtain.

And the gloomy expression on the unmasked side of his face.

“Are you feeling all right?” He asked, marching to her side.

“I think so,” she replied, and listened to the low hum of her heartbeats in her ears. “Are they gone?”

“Yes.” One of his hands rose from his side but then it fell back without touching her. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you here.”

“It's not your fault they happened to walk by.”

“It's my fault they were looking for us in the first place.”

“They were not really looking for either of us,” she corrected, swallowing between two gasps. “I think they were only on their usual patrol in the district. If anything, it was my naivety that roused their suspicion.”

His visible brow furrowed. “You haven't done anything.”

“I wasn't wearing my hood,” she replied, burying her face in her palm, and then sweeping her hand down her cheek while letting out a deep sigh.

When at last she raised her eyes again she met his gaze, dark with concern. “Did they recognize you?” He asked.

“My picture must have been all over the papers,” she muttered.

He swallowed but then said nothing for long moments.

Outside, a little bird began to trill its evening song.

Somewhere a dog was barking.

“How did they leave, then?” Broke his voice the silence in the room at last.

“A few days before the premier...” Her voice tapered off and he turned away with a sigh, nodding that he knew exactly which premier she had meant. “I overheard a conversation between M. Andre and the Comte de Cherbourg on the corridor. He said they wouldn't be able to come to the theater for the next one month or so as they are about to leave for Venice to visit Mme. De Cherbourg's mother.” Christine shook her head, guilt once more prodding at her conscience. “I... heard enough to convince the officer I was a friend of the Comtess.”

“You said he recognized you,” he protested, his voice carefully even, but the hint of worry was still unmistakable.

“He wasn't sure. He alluded to the striking similarity between the appearance of the celebrated diva of the opera house and me and I didn't object.” He turned away with a sigh, and one of his hands lifted to rake his fingers through the hair of the wig. She wondered whether he did so often, too, when he wasn't wearing it. “He was rather suspicious,” she continued, “but I told him I heard nothing about the scandal because I was in Scotland.” His head snapped up to look at her with a look of utter appreciation in his eyes, but a moment later it was wiped away by a dark shadow that passed his eyes. He looked away hastily. “He didn't really believe me until I told him that the countess couldn't have possibly written to me about it as she had left the city two days before all had happened. I assume it didn't hurt, either, that I knew about the secret donation that M Cherbourg offered to the gendarmerie before leaving the city.”

“I see,” he said softly, still not looking at her. His fingers flexed and then curled into a fist at his side.

She tried to peer above his shoulder and out of the window to check the street.

Nothing.

“Do you think they'll come back?” She asked, realizing too late that she would rather not hear the answer.

He shook his head. “Should they have not believed you, they would have taken you right away, and they surely wouldn't have risked letting me escape while they run for reinforcement. You did very well,” he said, but although the words were clearly spoken to praise her, they lacked the warm tone that had always been present whenever he complimented her performance.

Her heart continued to beat with an empty longing for a few more breaths, but then he turned away again and took a few staggering steps towards the windows.

“We'll wait for ten minutes, and then leave through the back door,” he said, still with his back to her.

Dusk was now gathering faster with every minute, and his shadow in front of the window seemed to be longer with each passing minute as he stood there without another word.

A few minutes later she ventured another look out to the street, straining her eyes not to miss the arriving gendarmes as they lined up to run into the house, but just as before, nobody was outside on the porch, nor in the front garden.

A curtain of flakes brushed against the window as a gust of wind swept the snow from a nearby tree.

Silence thrummed in her ears.

She was standing inside the house that belonged to that garden outside; the garden of the eccentric baron who had left for Scotland, and whose imaginary wife she had been for five long minutes.

Eccentric.

What could that possibly mean?

Slowly, she looked around in the almost empty room that was most probably the drawing room. True, it was smaller than a regular drawing room (and certainly not as spacious as the parlor in Raoul's mansion), but the two large windows to the garden offered a refreshing view to nature outside and allowed light into the room. To her left, there was a huge fireplace whose ornamental resembled that of the pillars of the front porch. Then – right in front of her – a wooden staircase led upstairs, the top of it disappearing in the gathering twilight.

Just a few more minutes now, and they would be leaving.

She shuddered.

Hopefully the gendarmes were not lingering just around the corner, waiting for the two of them.

Never before had she spoken to any member of the authorities. Now she had – but had only done so to deceive them. She cringed to think what people would think to learn that meek Christine Daaé had fabricated a lie detailed enough to convince the two gendarmes. Madame Giry, for one, would surely be disappointed in her.

Except that she had been already disillusioned when she had been told that she, Christine, was not going to marry Raoul, as everyone had presumed. What would Madame think if she knew that her dear protégé had fallen so low as to become a criminal herself?

A criminal.

Had she been so wealthy as the nonexistent baroness, would she be still considered a criminal by society's standards?

She sighed and looked up once more to Erik, who was still standing with his back to her, staring out of the window.

Her husband.

Would Father disapprove, too?

She had lied to the authorities to save her husband – and she succeeded. As incredible as it seemed, the gendarmes had believed her. Several minutes had passed since then, but apparently there were no gathering corps stationed just outside on the street.

Silence thrummed in her ears.

A few more minutes.

He continued to stand by the window but hidden by the wall, with his back to her. Was he not breathing? She could only make out the slight movement of his shoulders if she focused her eyes just a bit above them.

Her wrist twitched.

It seemed that it was darker around her with each breath she took.

“You said the baron is in Scotland?” She asked her husband finally.

His shoulders straightened and the unmasked side of his face turned towards her. “Indeed. Why do you ask?”

“I would rather look around than just stand here as we wait,” she replied, chancing another look to the street, then berating herself immediately for having not been able to resist. Still, there was nobody outside.

He nodded, and slowly walked over to the door, then she heard the soft click of the lock as he turned the key.

“Let me go first,” he said, and started towards her left, opening the door to a small room – a kitchen, as it turned out.

Room by room they looked around the house, always him entering first before letting her come after him and look around. As expected, nobody was there; in fact, nobody has been there for a very long time, if the dust gathering on the windowsills and the few shelves that were left there was any indication.

“Something is really... off... in this house, indeed,” she said, having just left the bathroom that opened from behind the staircase. The house was supplied with running water – not only cold but hot water as well! –, and the bathroom was equipped with the most up-to-date appliances: there was a free-standing bathtub right next to the basin, a delicate radiator stood in one of the corners; there was even an intricate box on the wall – most probably a towel warmer.

And all of this in an illustrious neighbourhood.

Yet the house was uninhabited.

Peeking up to his eyes she once more saw that strange shadow she had spotted right after the gendarmes had come up to the gate, but the features on the visible side of his face were carefully arranged to a composed expression.

She swallowed.

At that time she had been far too terrified to notice how familiar that look was. Something she had seen not so long before, and yet, a look that had reminded her more of a memory, something that had happened a lifetime ago...

He slowly rounded the stairs and stopped in the middle of the parlor. “There's no need to stay here any longer. Let us leave now,” he offered, and started for the door.

“Do you think we have time to take a quick look around upstairs as well?” She asked, coming after him and stopping next to the balustrade of the stairs.

He halted in his tracks but didn't turn immediately.

“Why going upstairs if the very place unnerves you?”

“It's not unnerving; it is just weird that such a luxurious house is empty. How long has it been up for sale?”

“For about a year,” he replied, and, looking around one last time he came up to her and they began to climb the stairs together.

It seemed that the shadows began to dissolve somewhat the higher they ascended, and as soon as they reached the top of the stairs she realized why: the wall to her left was made of glass entirely, the likewise glass-made door leading to a huge terrace of some sort, which was overlooking the garden. The railing that ran over the edge offered a nice half-cover against the prying eyes of the neighbours, and the garden beyond it was now shrouded in the thickening grey of the winter evening as the glass wall was facing to the east. Stepping closer she examined the terrace more closely: it was a spacious one, certainly big enough to hold a table and some chairs, although it was quite empty now. In the nook between the glass-wall and the railing stood a broom, covered with a thin sheet of snow.

A few frozen leaves waved on top of the taller trees of the garden.

What a view it can be when they are in full bloom: the first rays of sunshine just grazing the leaves and warming her skin on a summer morning. His eyes would shine probably an even brighter green than in the firelight...

A gust of wind whistled across the terrace, carrying a few browned leaves from a nearby tree and landing them on top of a pile of snow accumulated by the railing.

She shivered.

“The house is not haunted, is it?” She asked, turning back from the window: he had just returned from the other direction. At her questioning look he shook his head: the rooms were empty.

“Why would it be?” he said, standing to the side so that she could pass in front of him.

“Such a pleasant house, and yet nobody bought it for a year,” she said, sweeping one hand over the carved banister on top of the staircase as she passed towards the doors on her left.

“The baron is not the type of man who enjoys being surrounded by people,” came his reluctant voice from behind her back. “He had built the house only for himself and so it is far too small to accommodate a full household.”

His voice stopped and she halted, too, just barely peeking into the room behind the first door. It was a small room, but a rather pleasant one; it had a huge window to the south and to the west, too, so it was possibly the brightest room of the whole house.

Stepping back, she continued to the next door, but then stopped in the doorway: the room was now almost completely dark.

“I'll fetch a lantern in a minute,” he said, and with that he turned and descended on the stairs, only to reappear a few heartbeats later with an already lit lantern in his hand.

Walking up to her he raised the lantern in one hand while pushing the door wide open for her.

“Thank you,” she said. He nodded in reply, and when she stepped back into the room, he followed her.

The light of the lantern cast an orange shadow on the floor as they entered, and when she looked up, her eyes detected the last fading greys of the sunbeams' memory through the window.

A bedroom facing to the west.

A perfect place to watch the sunset together – maybe even from bed.

Blushing at the thought she quickly turned away, and took a few steps towards the other side of the chamber. A soft rustle accompanied her movements and the light wobbled closer, too, as he followed her.

“Is it not strange that nobody would fancy this house,” she said while walking up to the door on the side wall. Did it lead to an adjoining room? Or a wardrobe room, maybe...? “Even if this house has no room for a full household, an elderly gentleman might find it just fine, living on his own.”

“It is...” He began but then trailed off uncertainly. He was silent for a few heartbeats of time before starting again. “There are no servant rooms in the house, not even for a valet,” he blurted out at last. His voice was soft and sounded hesitant... A confession?

Because of a house we happen to occupy for a mere ten minutes?

And how would he know what kind of a person the baron was? Or that he had been in Scotland for at least a year by now?

With another step she was at the door now that led to the only yet-unseen room of the house. She pressed down on the handle, and as he entered the room behind her, light glittered back at her from the various appliances of a luxurious bathroom.

To her left, a huge window offered a view to the west sky and the neighbouring gardens and in front of her, there was a huge pan of empty wall, covered with what appeared to be tiny dots of decoration. Stepping closer she tried to examine the delicate pattern of the tapestry? the tyles? And as she leaned forward to see better, the light seemed to follow her slowly, until a moment later she took a startled step back as light flooded the whole room in a huge wave of brightness.

She heard a low grunt, followed by his murmur. “I forgot about the mirror.”

Air left her lungs is a sudden exhale. “This is not the first time you're here, is it?” She gasped out.

“No,” he admitted, but didn't look at her as he turned away from the mirror, his shoulders slouched.

Suddenly a cold wave washed over her back as the memories followed each other in a rapid succession in her mind: the keys, that he knew about the owner, that small movement how he twisted the handle of the gate upwards to open it...

“You don't already own this house, do you?” she breathed.

He let out a barely audible sigh and shook his head.

His eyes strayed towards her but then as soon as their eyes met, he averted his gaze. He took a tentative step to the side. “Sometimes it was really difficult to stop the madness – and sometimes I didn't even try to.” He lifted his free hand but then his arm fell back to his side a moment later. “I liked to believe you would eventually say yes, and moving to a real house seemed a reasonable next step after the wedding.” He lifted an arm as if to explain further, sweeping one hand across the air in a fluid movement. “I heard last year when the baron had left the country and I came here to see the house for myself. I've only ever come here two or three times, though.” He shifted on his feet as he looked away. “I haven't been here since last October.”

She shivered as suspicion ran down her spine. “Since I met Raoul?”

“Yes.”

The whispered word faintly echoed between them, and he was deliberately looking anywhere else but at her.

At last his gaze settled on her shoulder. “It would have been like looking into a mirror,” he muttered, and turned away hastily. “To be taunted by what I cannot have...”

Air trembled between her lips as she fought for her next breath, backing away a few steps until her back met the wall behind her. The tiles were cold against her palms and fingertips as she braced herself against them.

Since October...

But before then, he had been here a few times to...

She stopped that train of thought when a shudder shook her whole frame.

I've never really been particularly fond of having to hide in the cellars.

And yet he hadn't been here since last October.

The room seemed to sway in front of her eyes.

“You had so many mirrors back in the opera house,” she said at last, pushing away from the wall while taking a deep, long breath.

“For the sake of illusion,” he nodded, venturing a brief glance at her. “At some point I believed the place could look like a real home.”

“But they were always covered,” she remarked.

“At first they were not,” he said while turning back to her, stopping before he could be seen in the mirror. “I have lived with it long enough to learn how to ignore the sight.”

“I thought you had always hated to see...” She didn't finish the sentence, and a brief look of gratitude flitted across his eyes.

“I was far from being pleased by the sight; I just didn't care,” he explained, turning to the side so that only the unmasked side of his face was towards her.

“What happened?”

Briefly, his lips pulled into a smile, and he let out a deep sigh. “I had been wondering about the same thing for a long while.” Her stomach knotted as her heart began to beat in her throat at the words, and she waited with her breath held for him to continue, at the same time hoping that he would not.

And he did not, indeed; instead, he switched the lantern from his left to his right hand. The movement seemed unnecessary – but only until she realized it was so that he could now touch the ring on his finger lightly.

She swallowed uneasily but her throat was just as dry as a moment before.

“It took me about a month to realize I had fallen in love with you,” he said. “If I didn't have to see the truth ever so often it was easier to pretend that if I wanted it enough, one day you might...” He trailed off and it seemed he never meant to try and finish the sentence at all.

“You might have just told me,” she suggested gently.

He looked away and out of the window, shaking his head. “I hated myself for it. It was utterly disrespectful towards you and I was well aware of that fact. I didn't plan to let you know about it.”

“Why would it be disrespectful? To love someone...” Her voice began to waver and she trailed off before it could break completely.

“Because you are so kind-hearted, so stunningly beautiful, and I am...” He trailed off with a shake of his head but even so she couldn't miss noticing how his shoulders tensed. “It wasn't just my face I saw in the mirror; the rest was even more condemning. I didn't want to offend you by admitting I had the gall to dream of your love.” His voice rang soft and even, but the furtive look he stole in her direction was enough for her to catch a glimpse of the turmoil in his eyes.

Not to offend her...

She tried to swallow the lump from her throat.

“But then you still came here to assess this house,” she prodded.

“I got... used to the idea of loving you, after a while. You always seemed so happy before our lessons. So eager to hear the voice. To talk about your day.” He waved in a fluid gesture of his hand. “To discuss with me something you haven't told anyone else. Sometimes it seemed you were not talking to an incorporeal being but just to...me.”

“I was,” she breathed.

His head hung low between his slouched shoulders, his eyes carefully examining the floor between them as he asked, “How long had you known that the Angel was not real?”

“I have no idea.” She shifted on her feet. “Probably after grief faded enough so that I could think again. A few months after the first time I heard you, I guess.”

He nodded, and took a few faltering steps away and towards the door, then turned around and walked back to her but stopped short of the angle from where the mirror could have captured his reflection. “I've always meant to ask for your hand in marriage, I never wanted to subject you to a life as my mistress and...” His voice tapered off, and he shrugged helplessly, as if at a loss for words. “It never occurred to me that binding you to me in marriage would rob you of your good name just the same. I didn't even have a name to give you.” He took a step towards the mirror and looked into it, but then hastily shrank back from it and something gripped at her heart. “I just wanted to let you know that my intentions were honest,” he added softly.

The lamplight wavered ever so softly but it might as well have been her imagination.

She swallowed. “What was your plan?”

“I don't know.” His voice came out in a wheeze, and he fell silent for a breath of a time. “I think I was waiting for a miracle I didn't believe in.”

“I'm here now,” she said, taking a tentative step towards him.

“Yes.” Raising his head he chanced another look into the mirror and the light of the lantern wavered for a moment in his hand. “And yet the picture is just as unforgiving.” Lowering his head he stepped away so that he wouldn't see his reflection anymore. “I wonder if you would be here should I have never deceived you.”

“You didn't force me in the end. In fact, you repeatedly asked me to leave,” she told him, but his gaze was still riveted to the floor.

“I had lied to you.”

“And given me a reason to live.”

“That still doesn't change the fact that the Angel of Music doesn't exist.”

“Why are you so keen on convincing me that I shouldn't be here? With you?” She asked, and the lamplight swayed for a moment in the dim gray of the bathroom.

“Because you deserve a better...life than this.” The pause in his words lasted only long enough to be noticable, and yet her heart skipped a beat. A better man... “And you could have had that life beside...”

“Beside a man I didn't love?” She interrupted before he could finish.

His reply of a sigh seemed to echo around in the empty room. “You agreed to marry him once,” he offered feebly at last.

“Women agree to marriage for various reasons,” she explained gently, walking up to him and finally closing the distance between the two of them.

His voice was almost too faint to be heard when he next asked, “What was yours?”

“You terrified me and he promised to keep me safe.”

“What you have seen after was even worse,” he said, taking a step to the side; he set the lamp on the vanity on his right as he stepped right in front of the mirror.

Now he didn't turn away as before, in fact, he visibly forced himself to look at his imposing reflection in the mirror: a looming black shadow broken only by the grotesque shape of the white mask.

Her throat tightened.

“I'm not afraid of you anymore,” she told his reflection in the mirror. The whiteness bowed almost imperceptibly.

“That night...” She nodded hastily before more memories could surface. “I have hurt you so deeply... How can you even look at me after that night?”

She looked into the eyes of his reflection in the mirror.“I forgave you.”

His throat moved with a swallow. “I had wanted to marry not just to show off my noble intentions but also because I wanted to make sure you would stay forever.”

“I know.”

“I will not try to stop you if you decide you wish to leave,” he said, the eyes of his reflection intent on hers. She rather saw than heard the soft sound of a guarded exhale, followed by the soft drop of his shoulders as they tensed.

“That is exactly why I'm not going to leave,” she told him, stepping to him and laying a hand on his forearm.

“I know.” His head bowed deeply with the words, and his muscles tensed beneath her touch all of a sudden before he lifted his gaze once more to the mirror. “You stayed... even in the face of reality.” His free hand reached up to his face and a heartbeat later lowered to his side once more, now holding the mask. “You've just corrupted yourself for the sake of a monster.”

He straightened his posture, displaying his bare face in the mirror, but only after a moment his eyes fluttered to the side in an apparent gesture to escape the sight before he forced them to return to his reflection. She had to force herself not to look away, either, even if her throat began to close up and her eyes began to burn.

Why...?

Even though the torment was clearly meant for himself, her stomach twisted at the sight just the same.

His eyes were riveted to the unmerciful display of his deformity in the mirror.

“When...” Her voice broke on that first word and she had to start again. “When I decided to come back, I was perfectly aware of what I was agreeing to. And I would do it again. I would lie to them again.”

“I don't deserve you being here,” he whispered, turning a bit to his left to look at her but his eyes were cast to the ground before the movement was completed.

“I didn't come back because you deserve me.” His hand shook with the shudder that had run through him, and he bowed even deeper. “I'm here because I can never be happy in a future you are not part of. Those four days...” Her voice failed her and she stopped; gathering strength from the continuous flicker of the lamplight on the floor, dancing right in front of her feet. “Those days I heard nothing but silence. And I found no will to live like that for the rest of my days.”

His head lifted, his eyes startlingly dark with emotion. “You missed the music...” He murmured.

“Not just any music. You are the music.”

“Stop it,” he wheezed all of a sudden. “I'm begging you.”

The rapid rising and falling of his chest continued for a long minute; she reached out to take his hand and after several heartbeats, his fingers returned her touch.

“When I let you go...” he began at last, but fell silent immediately.

From outside, the faint clacking of horseshoes and the rattle of wheels seeped into the room as a carriage passed along the street.

He tried again a moment later. “I thought that even after I had hurt you so terribly, I could at least give you a future where you are free of me.” He let out a deep sigh. “It was already too late, wasn't it?”

“There wouldn't have been a day when I didn't think of you. Or of what might have been should I have married you.” She reached out to his other hand that was still holding the mask and pulled him closer to her. “You are no monster.” The hand gripping the mask trembled beneath her touch and she held onto it firmer.

“I've dreamt of this so many times before,” he said, turning to her and away from the mirror, his thumb brushing the air just above her cheek. “But I could never fully believe it.” Slowly his gaze left hers as his head bowed deeply, and after a long silence, he muttered, “I think this is why the mirrors were always covered.”

“Erik, I've seen everything. And I'm still here,” she whispered, her hand still resting on his hand that was holding the mask. A gentle pull was enough to let her take it, and slowly his eyes returned to the mirror where now both of their reflections were staring back at him. She felt tension engulf him as his sight wandered to her hand, her fingers curled around the edge of the mask.

He turned away from the mirror then, but his gaze didn't dare to seek hers longer than for a breath of time; his warm exhale swept over her lips but it was only followed by his lips when she gently pulled on his sleeve.

His first kiss was more of a tremor against her lips and she leaned against him to seek a second one; one of his hands wandered to her waist and pulled her closer until she was close enough to feel his heartbeat against her chest.

Had they turned around and eluded the gendarmes, would he still be alive?

Had she chosen to hide inside the house with him?

Had she not lied?

Her heart skipped a beat at the thought and she reached up to brush her thumb against his face; then shuddered with him when a long shiver ran down his body in return.

Anything.

She would so anything to cover him, even if it meant she had to lie to the authorities again about him. Or rather, about herself; after today she would be most probably considered as an accomplice. He already told her that much – and most probably he had already added this to his long list of crimes.

Except that it was all her doing.

Had he had any idea if this was what she had in mind, when she had asked him to go inside alone, would he have still done what she had asked of him? Or would he have risked being recognized just to save her conscience?

Tears began to tighten her throat and she breathed him in, his now familiar, comforting scent that still seemed foreign because now she didn't need to deny she had already known in for a long time; and she leaned up to capture his lips in yet another kiss.

I'll protect you – even if you don't want to allow me to.

They stayed close in an unmoving embrace even after the kiss had ended, only the weight of his palm on the small of her back became more promiment.

Then his head lifted, and slowly turned to look into the mirror.

The hand on the small of her back faltered.

As he turned back to her, he held her even tighter then before.

“This was the first time you didn't disappear from there,” came his low voice, and tears began to gather in her throat when the meaning of his words began to unfurl in her mind.

Outside, the sun had already set and the lamplight was hardly enough to illuminate their forms, shrouded as they were in dark coats; only their faces were visible in the mirror as he folded her in his arms and was once more staring at their reflection.

Her fingers curled into his lapels.

I'm not going anywhere.

“I wish you saw this the next time look into the mirror,” she told his reflection, and then shivered when a long tremor shook his whole body.

“I love you so much,” he breathed, the green of his eyes unusually bright with emotions, and her throat was suddely too dry as she whispered, “I love you, too.”

– o –

Placing his cup back on the saucer, M. Clément flipped through the Wednesday morning letters, some of which had been written to M. Duranceau. It was not quite extraordinary, but as the baron had less and less affaires to be taken care of in Paris, it was certainly something worthy of attention. Especially so that one of those envelops were addressed with an unknown, overly neat handwriting.

Laying aside all other letters the secretary opened this most peculiar one.

Then frowned.

Who on Earth wants to buy the barons house?

It had been up for sale for more than a year now, and not a single person was interested enough just to inquire about it.

Most interesting.

The customer demanded to meet in person at the building in question this afternoon, and he also offered to pay the full price of the property in cash. What a curious request! Most unusual, and, to be fair, quite suspicious.

Nonetheless, the baron would be surely pleased to hear he managed to get rid of this burdensome property after such a long time.

Decision already made, M. Clément dipped the quill in the ink and began to write:

Cher M. Nilsson,

I would be most delighted to meet you after my regular office hours at 5 pm, ...

#poto #Phantom of the Opera #poto fanfiction #phanfiction #edka88

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simsadventures · 4 years

Text

Yours Forever

Summary: You enjoy the summer with your boyfriend, Captain America, who, sometimes, need assurance that you’ll love him no matter what

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, smut (MUST BE 18+ TO READ THE PART BETWEEN WARNINGS!, the warnings will be before and after the smut, so that those who aren’t comfortable reading, won’t have to), semi-public sex, jealousy

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 2402

A/N: This piece was written for the loveliest @the-soulofdevil, who requested a one-shot for my 500 Followers Celebration, and her song of choice was either Love or Young and Beautiful by Lana Del Rey, and I kinda combined the two of them (I got carried away, I’m so sorry if it isn’t what you expected love). Also this is my first Steve fic, so be gentle with me. Hope you’ll enjoy it guys.

Masterlist

Steve has been home from a mission for about a week, and you couldn’t get enough of him. It was mid-July, so you could spend most of your time outside, either beside the pool at the compound, or just wandering through the streets of New York, and especially Brooklyn.

Steve loved to show you around his once own neighbourhood, his stories revolving mainly around places where he got beaten up. You would always caress his cheek, letting him know that you were there and that even if he got shrunken back, you’d still want him and kick the asses of those guys.

Steve was always a little worried, that most women wanted him for his looks, once he got enhanced, and that nobody really saw through it. It was a huge struggle at the beginning of your relationship, because whenever you’d compliment his physique, he would always go into this defensive state of mind, and would be pissed for pretty much the rest of the day. You didn’t understand it, because, sure, his body was a blessing and you couldn’t look at it without your knees going a little soft, but other than that, you loved Steve for who he was, and not for what he looked like.

It was only when you found out what the problem was that you sat him down and talked sense into him. It was that night that you and Steve made love for the first time. Until then, you always fucked, but that night was a breakthrough in your relationship, and something shifted to the better. There were still moments when you had to remind Steve of why you actually loved him, and today was one of those days.

You were in front of the compound, being too lazy to actually get up and leave the comfort of what you now called home. Although you weren’t part of the team and were actually a nurse, Steve insisted that you were most protected there, that even if he wasn’t around, there were still other people who could take care of you, and there was also FRIDAY. You tried to tell him that everyone knew where the compound was, even the bad guys and that you were much safer in your old apartment, but Steve wouldn’t have it. He was probably the most stubborn man you’ve ever met.

You were laying by the pool, a big part of the team surrounding you, enjoying the free day they had. Earth didn’t need its saviours for a while, and they all couldn’t get enough of the summer in the city. You were in your bikini, absorbing as much of vitamin D as you could, trying to store in for autumn and winter, where you knew you’d need it. You just hoped it would work. Bucky was sitting behind you, chatting with you, both of you completely relaxed. You laughed at one of his jokes, throwing your head back. The guy was cheesy as hell, but his heart was golden, and you were glad Steve had him back in his life.

After a while, you looked up, your hand shading the sun from burning your eyes out of your head, looking for Steve. You could see him standing by the nearest wall, shadow on his face, both literal and metaphorical. You frowned a little and called his name to get his attention. You only got a wave of a hand as an answer, and you thought it was even odder. You knew he was excited to see you on your new bikini, white with golden circles all over it and with little gold beads on the straps. But he seemed to not care about your attire at all.

You excused yourself to Bucky, who just cocked his eyebrow, looking at his best friend. “Go easy on him, Y/N. I think he’s jealous that you’ve been talking to me the whole time.”

You chuckled and rolled your eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, James.” He just made a gesture like you-wait-and-see, and let you go discover what was bugging Steve.

The closer you were getting, the more you noticed how rigid his whole body was. He was standing there like a sculpture, moving and perfect, with a very serious face. He was beautiful, just in his blue swim trunks reaching only his mid-thigh. But you couldn’t enjoy the sight too much, because he’s pissed off, and maybe sad face wasn’t fitting the image.

“What is it, baby?” You asked meekly when you reached him and tried to touch him but almost jumped away from your touch, the wrinkle on your forehead only deepening.

“Nothing, go back to having fun.” He mumbled, now pouting like a little child. Was it possible that he was jealous, just like Bucky said?

“But I’m not having that much fun when you’re not around.” You stepped closer to him, but this time keeping your hands to yourself, although it took all your willpower to do so.

“Yeah, you and Buck looked like you were having a terrible time, laughing like crazy there.”

You sighed, and even though he wanted to protest, you flung your arms around his neck and made him look at you that way. “Are you really jealous of your best friend, Steve?”

He closed his eyes, and you could see there was a fight behind his eyelids. One side won, the better one for you, and he let his hands grip your hips.

“It’s just that… I don’t know. Bucky has always been the one getting all the girls, and if there were two of them, they still wanted him and never me. And I’m just worried that you’ll see that he is the better man and leave me.” He whispered the last part of the sentence because tears were forming in his eyes. Your poor shy boy from Brooklyn.

“Baby, look at me, please,” you pleaded gently, and Steve obediently opened his eyes. “I love you with all my heart. Yeah, I was laughing with Bucky, but that’s about it. I laugh with you, I cry with you, I fall asleep with you, and so much more. And I’d do all that if you were the skinny boy again, because sure, the body of yours has its advantages, especially in particular area, but other than that? I care about what inside, and you’re the best guy.

I don’t care about your looks if we’re thirty, or two hundred. I’ll love you no matter what Steve. When we’re both old and wrinkly, I’ll love just as much as I love you right now, and maybe a little more, because you’ll have put up with me for ages by then.”

Steve was looking at you intently, drinking in everything you said. He couldn’t believe his own luck to have someone like you beside him. He knew it was stupid of him to be jealous, but sometimes, he just couldn’t help himself. Just like he couldn’t help himself now, finally seeing through his sadness and fear of losing you, and seeing what you were wearing.

“What areas are we talking about?” He said with a raised eyebrow and a smirk playing on his lips.

You had to laugh at that. “That’s the only thing you heard, you perv?” He wiggled his brows, and you just shook your head. He was in a better mood, and that was the goal. He leaned down to be on your level, his hands flying to your head and he kissed you with so much passion that you thought you’d faint right there. From the shy boy standing in front of you just second ago, he transformed into this dominant man, ready to devour you and show you who you belonged to. And you loved both versions equally, even if each of them with a different bodily part.

You let him take what was rightfully his, putting no obstacles in his way. You opened your mouth willingly, letting him explore it with his tongue. When he felt you were running out of your breath, he moved to give your neck the same attention he gave to your mouth. You were standing impossible close to each other, and you could feel his member pushing against your leg, getting some sort of friction.

Warning: smut ahead

You moaned softly, which only spurred Steve forward. He loved hearing the little noises coming out of your mouth, and he wanted to hear more. You, on the other hand, was very much aware of the environment in which you still were, his team-mates all around you, and because a lot of them were super-humans, you were pretty sure they could hear your every ragged breath.

Steve didn’t understand why you were pushing against his shoulder and wanted to continue with the activity at hand, but you pushed a little harder this time, calling his name as well.

“What? I’m having fun, sweetheart!” He said with a small pout which you couldn’t help but tried and kissed it away.

“So am I, Steve, but your buddies are all over the place and not for nothing, but I don’t need all of them seeing my bare ass, or worse.” Steve seemed to have thought about it for a second before he picked you up as if you weighted nothing, threw you over his shoulder and marched towards the door leading inside.

When he felt like you were far enough from the prying eyes, he let you stand up on your own. You looked around, seeing you were still in a very much public place, in a hallway. It was not the main hallway people would use when leaving the pool, but still.

“Can’t we go to our room?” You squeaked, but Steve wasn’t listening anymore. He was pushing the top of your bikini away, revealing your boobs. He growled at the sight of them, your nipples standing erect from the kissing session you and Steve had mere seconds ago. He didn’t waste any time, and sucked on one of them, while his fingers played and tugged on the other one. You involuntarily arched up against his touch, wanted more, even if you wanted it in the confines of your own private room.

Steve could feel the change in your body, the will to fight him about the place leaving your body, being replaced by sheer lust. That was the exact moment Steve waited on. He released your nipple with a pop and looked at you through his lust-hooded eyes. He smirked at you, and you knew what was coming, and suddenly you couldn’t give to fucks about someone finding you two. You just needed him, and he seemed to be as eager as you were.

He released his painfully hard cock from his shorts, rubbing it against your leg, as he kissed you again, conveying all of his emotions in this kiss. You could feel the love he was pouring into it, and you were drunk on it. He pulled only to put his forehead against yours. “I love you so much, Y/N. And I always will, I promise. Even if we’re now young and in love and it might seem like a plain promise, but I mean what I say. And anyhow, I’m basically an ancient guy now, so…” he trailed off, and you smiled up at him.

You gently grabbed his cock, rubbing your hand up and down his length, and from the hisses and silent curses falling from Steve’s lips, you assumed he enjoyed what you were doing. But you still wanted more. You pushed your panties away, not wanting to waste time pulling them down, and put your legs a little wider apart, for Steve to have enough room to operate.

Steve obviously got the message, as he grabbed your right leg and locked his arm under your knee, opening you even more. Then it was just easy for him to slide home. You were so wet, not only from the physical touch but also from all the confessions, that he didn’t need to prepare you at all.

He slid in with one thrust, revelling at the feeling of your walls clenching around him. No matter how many times you two slept together, he would always be little too large for you, and you’d still need a little time to adjust to his magnificent size. Steve waited patiently, until your hips bucked against his, giving him a sign that you were ready for all he had to give to you.

Steve didn’t hesitate and started thrusting into you mercilessly, both from his own horniness and from the possibility someone could walk in on the two of you.

He knew exactly how to make you undone in minutes. All he had to do was thrust deep enough to hit your sweet spot, and massage your little bundle of nerves, and you’d be gone in no time. For him, it was just the feeling of your velvety walls when you came that always did it for him. He always had to make sure you came before him, so he could marvel at the sight of you, in the highest state of pleasure possible.

And it really took him not even 10 minutes, before you were silently whispering his name, chanting it like a prayer, your face contorting in ecstasy. That was all it took for him to feel the wave of pleasure rolling over him so hard his toes curled and he gave a few sloppy thrusts before he was coming deep inside your pussy. He was breathing hard into your neck, both of you sweaty and sticky from the activity and the humidity in the hallway.

Warning ending

You could hear voices coming from the other hallway, and you snuggled a little closer to Steve as if to shield yourself from any visitors.

“You two done? We thought we’d play water polo, but we’re missing two players.” Bucky hollered at you, and your cheeks were suddenly burning, and you knew they were bright red.

Steve just laughed and kissed the top of your head. “Yeah, give us a sec, and we’re with you.”

“Sure, just be so kind and have a shower first.” You could hear the smirk on Bucky’s face, and you rolled your eyes.

“Asshole,” you muttered, earning a chuckle from Steve and a loud Ouch from Bucky. Damn them and their enhanced hearing.

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moonah-rose · 3 years

Text

Two Pairs of Glasses and a Bottle of Red

Chidi goes to say thank you to Michael for being there for Eleanor.

“Hey…Did I go back in time?”

It probably seems that way, Michael smirks, considering the multiple boxes containing Hawaiian pizza that have been stacked up around his new office.

“Welcoming present from Shawn and Vicky, I reckon.” He says to Chidi, waving a few of them away to allow him entry, the Professor having to slide around them in order to reach the chair in front of Michael’s desk.

His request for a perfect replica of his previous office had otherwise been met to the last detail. It had simply come with the extra bonus of seventy boxes of pizza only a mad man would eat.

He can’t be too annoyed. As demonic hazing attempts go, this one seems rather light-hearted. Almost nostalgic. Perhaps he really was getting the chance to repair some burned bridges with his former colleagues. It wasn’t something that ever appealed to him before but is oddly satisfying now.

“How does it feel to be back?” asks his friend.

Michael shrugs, “Weird. Kinda miss my second neighbourhood already. I know it wasn’t around as long as my first one but it felt like part of the same one, y’know? It’s good to know it’s still there this time. I wish you had all agreed stay there rather than coming here with me.”

Even with Shawn’s guarantee of the humans protection that binds the rest of the demon, Michael can’t help but be weary. He knows there’s a lot of employees unhappy with the shake-up, more than half who are perfectly happy torturing humans as their job, whether they deserve it or not. They would be more than ready to take their work frustrations out on the four people who are the reason for this shake up, the first one in fifty thousand years. Even Janet stands the risk of being marbleized again if she lets her guard down, it wouldn’t be the first time.

He wishes they had agreed to stay tucked safe back at the Good Place 2.0. But the little cockroaches had been stubborn as ever.

“Are you kidding? As if we’d let you have all the fun sorting out dimension of frustrated demons on our own.” Chidi smiles.

“I never thought I’d see you describe having to deal with a bunch of demons as fun.”

Another way of saying that, of all the infinite wonders of the Universe he’s experienced, he never thought he’d get to see Chidi be cool.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still wanna scream like a little girl when one of the lava monsters passes me. But then it says hi and I remember it’s just Todd.”

Good to know confident Chidi can still be scared when Michael feels an old desire. He’ll remember that.

Even he feels the need to relive old habits at times. In a safe, harmless, controlled way of course.

“Did you need me to help with anything, pal?” He asks, “I thought you and Eleanor would be getting settled into your new apartment? They cleaned out the rat-snakes, right?”

Not the best living quarters but he tried to find the comfiest temporary homes for all of them, not able to design and build them their own places as before in this area where he has no control as an Architect. He at least managed to get Tahani a penthouse suite, even if it is at the top of a volcano.

“You didn’t tell us those were the previous occupants, they had to come back to collect some stuff they left. But it’s all good, I left Eleanor to ‘wear in the new couch and test drive the TV’ as she put it.”

Michael smiles to himself. After the year she’s had, she more than deserves to put her feet up. He doesn’t tell Chidi how little she slept while he went away. Not that she needed it, or that Michael didn’t try to encourage it, but he reckons she could now sleep for a week if she wanted.

“Actually…Eleanor is kinda why I’m here.” Chidi admits, Michael noticing the serious change in his tone.

“Oh. Did you wanna sit down?” He gestures to the chair, waving his hand again to clear it of more of the boxes.

Chidi shakes his head, hands in his pockets.

“No thanks, I’m gonna need to stand.”

“Why’s that?” Michael frowns.

“Because there’s a chance I might hug you and this will make it less awkward.”

Michael goes still, not sure how to respond to that. There’s always been an unspoken physical distance between him and the Professor, more so than with any of the other humans. He’d had the most hugs with Eleanor, followed by Jason’s which always left him smelling jalapenos, and a few recent ones with Tahani (which, he couldn’t deny, were simply amazing, how on Earth could he parents not adore her?!). The most contact he’d had with Chidi was a fist bump on the few times they saw eye-to-eye.

Not that Michael can blame the guy for wanting to keep a safe distance, given how he used to be the main target of Michael’s more jerky conduct in the past. He’s probably only now stopped expecting him to splatter him with fake blood or a shower of needles.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

“…Thank me? For what exactly?” The three hundred years of torture that he’d recently been accessed to?

“For…everything, man.” Chidi says, face lighting up with gratitude; “For taking my classes seriously…eventually. For saving us, even when it cost you literally everything you had been working for until then…Sacrificing yourself for us, bringing us back from the dead, saving us, donating all that money to make sure we were okay and then helping to save, not only us, but humanity itself, I mean…You really weren’t expecting a few thank yous thrown your way?”

Michael looks away, feeling the heat rise beneath the cheeks of his skin suit. He didn’t do any of it expecting a thank you and, up until now, he hadn’t really received any. A few unspoken, grateful smiles from the others, a pleasant stroke of his arm, but never the two words said aloud.

“I’d do it all over again.” He says, earnestly, still not believing it was enough to undo the centuries of psychological harm he’d inflicted on them to begin with.

“I believe you. I mean, I’ll be honest, when you first started taking my classes, there was a point I thought you were beyond help but…I can tell you with the utmost sincerity…I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of one of my students.”

Oh, fork, the pesky nerd is going to bring him to tears.

Michael sniffs; “Yeah, well…I had an amazing teacher. You only have yourself to thank. And Eleanor, obviously…She’s the one who got me to take all your ethical nonsense seriously.”

If not for her, he’d still be sat at his desk in his old office with his feet up, refusing to budge, refusing to be the bigger not-man and apologize and admit he needs help. Shawn might jokingly call him a demon daddy but it was the two of them together who got him to grow up.

Chidi gives a wistful smile; “Yeah…Eleanor is the answer. That’s clearer to me than ever.”

Damn straight.

“Thank you for looking after her for me this year.”

Those words make something buckle deep within Michael. His thumb starts to itch at his side.

“You should know her well enough by now to know she usually has to be the one looking after me.” He tries to laugh it off but there’s an uncomfortable stinging in his chest.

What is wrong with him?

“We both know she’s not invulnerable as she likes to pretend. Leaving her was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do…but I had no choice.”

Yes, you did, Michael stops himself from saying, the ethical voice in his chastising his own.

“I know.” Is what he says instead.

He respects the guy for not letting himself be a potential risk to the experiment and everyone’s eternal safety. He’s been there himself.

“I remember seeing you two together, when I was ‘away’ all that time.” He says, again surprising Michael with the brief use of air quotes – who is this guy? “You looked like you had fun together, ruling that fake Heaven. You were always smiling together. Right up until the end, I mean, that evil laugh the two of you did....I know she enjoyed that, even if it was terrifying for me at the time. I’m glad to know she was okay…And I think a lot of that is down to you.”

He rubs the back of his neck, trying not to remember the feel of her hips in his hands when he’d grabbed her waist during their Hail Mary; “Or maybe Eleanor is just that strong-willed…”

“That too but…C’mon, man, I know you care about her as much as I do.”

More than the dweeb could ever know, Michael thinks to himself. He never intended to play favorites and he appreciates all of them in their own special way; Tahani’s grace, Jason’s optimism, Chidi’s kindness as much as his intellect…But Eleanor…Eleanor was as much like himself as he could ever hope to meet and yet, somehow, a thousand times better. Braver, wiser, sharper…Everything he could only dream of being.

“I’m just relieved to know that, if I have to go away again, she’ll always have you there.” Chidi says, softly.

That buckling sensation inside Michael finally snaps.

He clenches his jaw.

“No.”

Chidi blinks; “Sorry?”

“I said no.” The voice of his long-buried demon husk rears its head; “You’re not to go away again, do you hear? You’re not allowed to…leave her again.”

“I…”

The Professor inches back a bit as Michael makes a move forward, the desk his only protection from the demon grabbing him by his sweater-vest.

“You think she was all smiles and laughter during the past year?” He growls, “Let me tell you something, buddy, those were just glimpses of your girlfriend you saw there as you passed us on the street or at all those events! You didn’t have to stay up with her all those nights she cried over how much she missed you or how worried she was that having to put you with Simone would change your feelings for her, all because you were too much of a dummy to help that woman out without believing she was your soul mate!”

He sees the other man recoil at that, wincing with shame. Michael suffers the recoil, feeling the twist in his gut, but now that the bottle cap on his emotions has been popped, he has a years worth of anger and resentment to spill.

“Did my little reload of all your memories happen to miss out that time you saw her break down in tears because you told her you felt like you were being punished?! Because I’d convinced her you needed to be tortured so you would stop flitting around like you were on vacation and actually lend a hand to help that deckwad Brent, but she went too far, because she was rightly pissed at you for leaving and ended up hating herself for it! And yeah, I admit, I was pissed at you too for breaking her heart when I’d trusted you, of all people, to take care of it!”

He can see Chidi’s shoulders hunched now, a grimace appearing on his face as a stomach-ache brews within him. Good. He’s not immune to those. They’re just no longer rendering him immobile with pain.

“The last thing I wanted to do was hurt…”

“Then you should’ve thought about that before you left! You should have gotten over your stupid anxiety about Simone before considering leaving her! What on Earth is wrong with you, man?! How could you be so lucky to fall in love with Eleanor Shellstrop and be blessed to have her love you back, and then agree to forget her?! After everything she’s been through, how could you do that to her?! How could you think it was okay to leave her with me as a piss poor substitute and then have the gaul to waltz back in here after a year and say ‘thanks for looking after her’?! You don’t deserve her!”

He regrets those last four words before they’ve passed his lips.

By the time the red mist has parted from his eyes, he sees the tears in Chidi’s eyes as they lock across the desk. Michael’s throat goes dry. He takes a step back back, only noticing how wet his own eyes are when he finally blinks. Oh shit. How could he say that? As if thinking it had been bad…Had been wrong enough, but to finally…

“Chidi. I am…Oh, I am so, so sorry…” He breathes.

The other man doesn’t respond. He doesn’t deny the accusations, which somehow makes it worse.

The most agonising of silences hangs between them before they seem to move at the exact same moment. The both of them removing their glasses at the same time to give them a wipe, Michael using his handkerchief while Chidi uses his sleeve.

“Damn, these things steam up quick, huh…” Chidi says, awkwardly, his voice broken.

Michael gives a weak smile; “I don’t even need mine, they’re just for aesthetic…Speaking of which, if you ever want me to fix that astigmatism, just say, you shouldn’t really have it dead.”

“No, no, it’s fine…Like you said, it’s part of the look.”

Michael lets out a sigh, partly relieved to get those words out, awful as they are. He’s eternally grateful that the other man didn’t storm out of the room and slam the door. He wouldn’t have blamed him. It hurt enough that he no longer had Eleanor at his side, his partner in crime and saving the Universe, her constant shining spirit and quick-wit lighting up the room. It hurt knowing that her time and companionship had been prioritised to someone more worthy of her. He’d tried so hard to ignore the ache of her missing presence, when it had only been a couple of days since the experiment ended. He should have remembered that burying his sadness only made it worse in the long run. One of her first lessons and he’d forgot.

He was the one who didn’t deserve her. How dare he ever say that Chidi was the one to blame in all of this, after everything the man had given up, had missed out on?

With another wave of his hand, Michael summons a bottle of merlot, one of Chidi’s favorite vintages, along with a couple of glasses. His friend sniffs again, giving a grateful smile. They’re both in need of a drink.

They each take a glass and a seat at either edge of the desk, their backs to each other.

Michael takes a sip and then looks down at the glass in his lap.

“What’s it like?” He dares to ask, after a while, “….Being with her?”

There’s a pause behind him.

“…You’re asking me what love feels like?”

He shakes his head; “I know what being in love feels like.” That might say more than enough, “…I’m asking how it feels to have her love you back.”

Michael has been content on the scraps of affection he gets, like a dog sitting at his master’s table at dinner, those smiles and jokes and fleeting hugs more than enough to keep him grateful and satisfied with the place he’s honoured to take in Eleanor’s heart. But he’s not entirely reformed, there’s still a tiny wicked side that dares to be greedy, that dares to…imagine, what it would be like to be truly hers. Surely, just once, he can be allowed to live vicariously.

Once again, he’s amazed that Chidi doesn’t chew him out, smash him over the head with the wine bottle and leave. Instead he hears the Professor take another sip.

“How do I describe it? I mean…I’ve had girlfriends before, as you know, but I never…I was in never truly in love before her.” He explains, heavily; “When I’m with her, when she’s with me…It’s like all those difficult questions and puzzles of the Universe suddenly fit. Or what remains unsolved fades into the background and…I stop worrying about it all. Because all I need to know, when she’s there…is that she’s there. She looks at me and, wherever we are in these insane dimensions we keep falling through, from Heaven to Hell, to that weird pancake nightmare…So long as she’s with me…I belong. I’m home.”

Michael smiles, moving his hand up to wipe a stray tear from his cheek. He always assumed it would feel something like that, based on the fleeting sense of peace he found in those moments with Eleanor. He’d never felt at home in Hell, with his fellow demons. He already knew he would never be accepted or belong with those dorky angels on the other side. The closest he had ever come to feeling at home was on Earth and that was also off the table. He’d spent his whole existence as an ugly duckling searching for swans that were probably long extinct.

But he knew what being part of a home…a family, felt like, a little. Especially during the past year, when they were a team, there were times he could almost convince himself that where he was always meant to be was at her side. Her equal. Two sides of the same coin. But every time that hope of feeling complete at last would appear, it would be cruelly snatched away, every time that grief of missing her true love appeared on her face. And he would be lost again.

“You’re a lucky man, Chidi.” He tells his friend, truly.

He hears him shuffle to look around behind him; “You know she loves you too? Right?”

He shrugs; “Yeah, sure…”

“C’mon, Michael. I’ve seen the two of you together, since you joined up with us.” Chidi tries, reaching to touch his elbow; “You’re like…a part of her. She needs you as much as me.”

He wishes there was truth to that.

“Tell me something, man,” He asks, looking down at the fingers on his arm; “How many tears did Eleanor shed over me after I gave her my pin and sent her through the portal after you guys?”

Chidi slowly brings his hand back to his lap.

“I…Uhm…” he frowns; “Well, we didn’t really have time for that…She wasn’t exactly skipping about it-.”

“Did she mention me once again before me and Janet turned up?”

The other man doesn’t respond.

“Thought not.” Michael refills his glass; “And rightly so, you guys had way more important things at hand. But, let’s be honest, if it had been you who was left behind, she would have screamed at that Judge to get you to come join her, or fought her way back through Hell to get to you…It’s always been you, Chidi, it always will. In every reboot, lovers or not, you were the missing piece she sought out. I’m grateful to be her friend but let’s not pretend we’re on equal footing. It’s not fair on either of us.”

“I think you doing yourself a disservice-.”

“Has she told you about Bad Janet yet?” Michael cuts in again; “That was a fun night. I mean it sucked, it was one of the worst of the year, but it was…interesting, if nothing else. We had no idea what was sabotaging the experiment and, to cut a long story short, the suspicion fell on me being the spanner in the works. The only thing I could do to restore Eleanor’s trust in me was offer to blow myself up.”

“WHAT?!” Chidi exclaims, nearly spilling his wine.

“Oh, you wait till I get to the part where Jason figures it out and saves the day!”

“Okay, now I know you’re lying.”

They manage to share another brief laugh. It’s a lot easier to find it funny now, all these months on, despite it being the night Michael’s heart was shattered and, despite everything good that came after, created a crack that was still waiting to be repaired. Possibly never.

“Point is…She barely said a word against me taking myself out. But you? I mean, you had to convince her just to forget her for a year and look what it did to her.” Michael says, “I could vanish from her life tomorrow and, sure, she’d be bummed…but if it was you? Even in death, she wouldn’t survive that. That’s how much you mean to her. Don’t ever take it for granted.”

Michael knows he won’t. He just needed to give him that kick in the ash to be certain he knew how serious this was. For both of them.

“I’m sorry.” The professor whispers.

“What for?” Michael asks, “You did the one thing I never could. You made the woman we both love happy. I’m just glad I get to share in that, even if I’m not the cause.”

He hears Chidi put down his glass on the desk and stand up. Michael takes it as his cue to get on his feet as well, turning to face the other man.

“I’d quite like to give you that hug now, if that’s all right.” He says.

Michael rolls his eyes, as if inconvenienced.

“I suppose, if you must.”

Chidi takes the first step to bridge the gap between them, holding his arms out as Michael mirrors his movements and they share their first embrace. He hopes it’s one of many to come.

He can’t help but be surprised, as ever, by the tightness of the other man’s hold. It was always easy to forget how strong he was underneath that dorky outfit, those jacked arms and pecks strangely reassuring to the touch. He can understand the appeal for Eleanor. It seemed more forgivable now for her to constantly tease him of his own physical shortcoming compared to the man she loved.

“I hope you know how much you mean to all of us. Not just Eleanor.” The Professor tells him, as sternly as he used to lecture him in the past.

He gives the guy’s shoulders a pat.

“I do, buddy.”

Chidi is the first to move back, his hands still firm on Michael’s arms as he regards him, intently.

“She doesn’t know, does she?” He asks, “You never told her?”

Michael shakes his head, heavy with regret he can’t begin to describe.

“I was going to. When Janet saved me from Shawn, as we were going through the portal, I told myself…” He takes a breath, “I told myself that I’d been given a second chance and that, next time I saw her, I’d tell her. I’d tell her how I felt and I’d ask if she felt the same and…Take it from there.”

“What happened to that plan?”

Michael can’t help but laugh. It’s amazing what an idiot the genius can be at times.

“You kissed her first, dummy.”

And when he saw the smile on her face...how he could ever dare to come between anything that made her that happy again?

The door opens and Eleanor strides in, a bounce in her step that hasn’t been there for almost thirteen months.

Even with the office in a new location, she’s able to treat it as if it’s Michael’s usual home, free for her to walk in and own when she pleases. The demon behind the desk who quickly steps back doesn’t complain, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Well, don’t you two look all cosy!” She says, brightly; “You guys having a pizza party without me?”

Her arms immediately wrap around Chidi’s neck and he greets her with a kiss on the lips.

“Ham and pineapple, babe,” He doesn’t tell her she missed out on the wine, that can be their little secret; “But if you fancy pizza for dinner, Todd recommended a place on the corner of our street?”

“Oh yeah, they do a great meat feast…I mean, some of the salami used to be sliced humans but I’m pretty sure Shawn is recalling all of those.” Michael says, off-hand.

Eleanor barely seems to hear his commentary.

Her eyes are focused purely on the man she’s been pining for all these months, hands hooked behind his neck, humming as she presses her nose against his. Michael looks away, knowing he’s no more than a blurry shape in the corner of her eye now.

“Whatever, I’m starving…You’ve kept me waiting long enough, dude, time to fill me up.” She says to Chidi, her voice low but not quite subtle; “And we can food too, I guess.”

“Eleanor!” Her boyfriend blushes on behalf of the third wheel having to listen in.

“Oh, it’s just Michael, he knows what filth to expect from me, right bud?” She says aloud without looking at him again, merely expecting him to be there.

Would it even matter how he responded?

Would she hear him if he confessed, out loud, how he wished it was his chest that she was leaning against, his shoulders she was hanging from, her lips against his? Would she react with anything other than laughter if he told her about what he was planning to do at the Judge’s chambers all those years ago?

“Our love is stronger than anything you can throw at us.”

Even his own, he humbly accepts.

“Michael, do you wanna join us for dinner?” Chidi asks.

Before the demon can respond, Eleanor does it for him.

“Oh I’m sure Michael wants a break after having to put up with me for a year, right dude?” Eleanor gives him her first direct look since she entered, followed by a wink.

Of course. He wasn’t going to intrude anyway, but he’s nothing if not a good wingmon.

“I’ll be fine, I’ve had more than enough pizza for one day….You guys should catch up. You’ve only got eternity together.” He smiles.

Eleanor mouths a ‘thank you’ before leaning back up to kiss Chidi’s bottom lip again.

Anytime… He sighs and looks away, Anytime, I’m yours.

Every kiss he watches them share is both parts pleasure and pain. Obviously, he’ll take the truth with him to retirement or whatever his end will be. No way would he risk tarnishing what they have. He’s happy to remain in the shadows, grateful to be allowed to watch the light shine nearby, even if it’s forever beyond his touch, beyond the cruel hope of getting to feel that warmth on the skin of a body that isn’t truly his.

“Well…if you horny mammals don’t mind, some of us have some work to do.” He puts on the smug superior being mask again, “And you’re no longer my boss, Shellstrop, so I’m gonna take this opportunity to tell you to get out.”

“What d’you say to me?” She throws him a glare.

Fuck. Nope. Damn it, she’s still in charge.

“I mean…Have a good time at dinner.”

She giggles, knowing full well the power she wields over the two men in the room.

“That’s better.” She looks back up at Chidi, eyes shining with a joy they’ve not possessed in far too longer; “Let’s go, my new confident, sexy nerd.”

“Do you still have to call me a nerd?”

“Take the damn compliments.” She tugs on his hand, pulling him out of the room with her.

Michael puts the wine away.

“I’ll see you guy later…” He wishes, as casually as he can.

“Yeah, see you, bud.” Eleanor throws back, her mind clearly on more important things, with barely enough room left in her horny, lovesick brain to pay him notice anymore.

Chidi, however, meets his eyes, almost apologetic again, on her behalf.

“Don’t be a stranger, Michael.” He tells him, almost as an order.

The demon nods. No, sir.

“You know where to find me.” Always right there, for all of them.

Despite the hallow ache in his hearts, despite knowing that spark, that unbeatable connection he shared with the woman he loves, is now gone, that he’ll always be looking in from the outside, left out with his memories of what they could have been…He keeps Chidi’s words in his head. It might be the end of whatever beautiful mess he had with one of his humans, but perhaps it’s also the start of a friendship he didn’t realise how badly he needed with another.

#this was angstier when i first wrote it #so i maybe i feel better #yay #chidi x michael brotp #eleanor x chidi #michael x eleanor #hellstrop #cheleanor #tgp fanfic #unrequited love #friendship

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kristallioness · 3 years

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2016 | 2017 | 2018 | 2019

*arrives a month late*... Happy 2021 to all of you, my dear followers! *raises a glass* It seems that my tendency to finish my artwork or personal posts on time has only gotten worse over time (I blame work *lol*). Oh well, better late than never, since there are things I would still like to take with me from this extraordinary year of 2020.

It is cringeworthy that I have two huge red X-s this year. But after I'd put these puzzle pieces together, I remembered far too well what was going on in my (work) life at the time, so it's completely understandable why I didn't have the time nor the energy to draw at all during those two months.

What were those typical statistics that I wrote about again to compare the years? *goes to read last year's post*.. Oh, right! In 2020, I managed to finish 3 full digital drawings (from the months of April, July and December) as well as work on several sketches. I wrote 28,154 words worth of fanfiction (oohh, that's a lot better than previous year), plus 3,126 words in English (I dare say I wrote an equal amount in Estonian) for the prompts I got during UYLD (making the total 31,280 words, which is quite impressive!).

I finished reading the 1st Kyoshi novel in the evening of the 20th and slightly past midnight on the 21st December (barely before the holidays, but I set this goal for myself and I did it!). Am already looking forward to starting with the 2nd part some time this year. Besides that, I ordered and received all the other new Avatar books that came out (3rd part of "Ruins of the Empire", "Katara and the Pirate's Silver", "Legacy of the Fire Nation") as well as BOTH Avatar series DVD sets (I still can't believe I found these on sale on some random online store in Estonia, but these are now among my most prized possessions!).

I finally started my Avatar rewatch last January, but merely got to the Ba Sing Se episodes in Book 2 (I need to continue with "The Earth King") and now it's been 5 YEARS since I last saw Korra. Reading through my journal personal posts from last year, I know far too well that it's not about rushing through it as fast as possible. Instead, I should enjoy the ride and continue watching the episodes when I'm well rested and in the right mood. That way I'll end up feeling much more at peace.

As for the entire year as a whole? I don't think anyone in this world of ours was prepared for the way this decade would begin - with an uncontrollable pandemic, the virus of which is randomly attacking and threatening to wipe out the weakest amongst us. If any of you (or even if you know someone who) have lost a loved one to this plague, there is not much else I can offer but my sincerest condolences! Me, my family, friends and colleagues seem to have managed to avoid catching it so far. *spits 3 x over her shoulder*

I had such high hopes for this year in so many ways. Event-wise I was looking forward to watching the Eurovision Song Contest in May (where Uku Suviste was supposed to represent Estonia for the 1st time ever after so many unfortunate failures to get selected as the winner of our local competition), the European Football Championships in June (asking my colleagues which countries they support, perhaps make fun bets / guesses with them to see whose team would win the matches), the Tokyo Olympic Games in July-August, the President of Estonia (Mrs. Kersti Kaljulaid) coming to visit my hometown to celebrate our Victory Day by taking part in the parade together with the Defence Forces (after 15 years *sigh*)...

I will always remember my last big event, which took place when life used to be "normal", so to say. It was the 102nd anniversary of Estonia on the 24th of February, when I took part of all the most important celebrations in Tallinn on our Independence Day, FULL-TIME (whenever I scroll through my Facebook timeline, I see the photos I uploaded of that day, my heart melts and I smile fondly). But the day after that.. utter hell broke loose. We had our first infected person in the country.

I will also remember the last day I went to work in "normal" conditions. Friday, the 13th of March (typically my lucky day-number combination): I missed the tram I wanted to get on in the morning, at work my team received great news that one of our colleague's family had grown bigger by a new tiny member the day before, we had our last team lunch together, we discussed the safety measures that we should take and joked about what might happen next week, I took the bus home instead of the tram (as the tram's route came from the airport and that place was considered to be more dangerous and with a higher risk of catching this virus).. It was another 2.5 weeks later by then (since the 25th of February) - Estonia (along with the rest of Europe) went into full lockdown.

The beginning was frightening and people were on edge, nobody really knew what to do nor what was gonna happen next. But in time, things began to shake into place and everybody developed a comfortable routine for remote work, including figuring out how to get everyday things done (such as grocery shopping). I found solace in taking photographs of various beautiful bird species, who began to fly around and serenaded me during spring, visiting the trees around my "nest" i.e. rented apartment (with a pair of them ACTUALLY building a nest in the chestnut tree right beside my window, thus turning me into a protective godmother of their chicks).

To be honest, I was awestruck by the positive / surprising aftermath of this lockdown: how the world / environment began to heal itself from the pollution that was normally caused by humans. I was taken aback by how dead silent our usually loud capital became in my neighbourhood (I could only hear trams passing by my house according to their schedules, practically no cars whatsoever, streets were empty of people.. absolute silence).

By May-June, things started to look up in Estonia (as well as the rest of Europe) and people were allowed to start travelling / moving around more freely. During my vacation in July, I managed to go to my last (open air) event (for the rest of the year) under these new "corona" conditions and ended up having a blast at the Open Farm Days in my home county for the first time.

Our country's shining moment came during the first week of September, when we hosted the first ever Rally Estonia of the World Rally Championship (WRC), where our very own Ott Tänak and Martin Järveoja won. The event was so well organized and successful that nobody caught the virus nor did the spectators / participants spread it to others, which surely must've helped in ensuring us a spot in the WRC calendar for 2021 as well.

The remainder of the year was rather dull, with the exception of the US Presidential elections in November, when we were all holding our breaths that Joe Biden would win (congratulations, my American friends!). This eventually led to the painful downfall of THE WORST government the Republic of Estonia has ever had, and to the rise of our first female Prime Minister, Kaja Kallas (both happening in January 2021, I couldn't believe it all spiralled so soon, ha-ha!).

Anyways, during the last 4 months, work was very stressful and driving me nuts, so badly that when I eventually went on vacation before Christmas, I had a slight anxiety disorder that wouldn't let me relax for several days (luckily it went away just as quickly once I began to take it easy and managed to get some proper rest / sleep).

In hindsight, I kind of get this weird feeling as if I saw this whole thing coming, given how actively I was living my life throughout 2019. My final year of the 2010's was so full of important events and personal achievements. It's almost as if something mysterious inside was driving me, telling me to visit all the places and do all the things I wanted to do, cause I wouldn't have this sort of a chance again for a very long time.

This must be the main reason why I am thankful for 2020 for going the way it did. Sure, I'm disappointed that a lot of events were cancelled, that so many people have had to leave this world so soon due to this unpredictable disease.. But I think there are so many lessons to take from what came out of all of this. I believe the world needed some sort of a restart or break, given in what direction we were headed (politically, economically, environmentally, socially etc.). I'm just sorry it's had to come with such a high price of innocent lives.

I have even higher hopes for 2021, given how amazingly January has already passed for me and my country, and what is to come in my hometown in February. Let's take the lessons learned from 2020 with us and keep on heading back towards the "normal" lifestyle we used to know. Except this time, let's improve our ways, put all the hatred behind us, be more considerate, keep a distance, stay safe, but still try to make the world a better place for everyone. Thank you so much for reading, for remaining by my side, and for your support and love throughout the years, my friends! I hope to see you all alive and healthy at the end of the white metal ox year of 2021! *virtual hugs*

#personal #shards of Kristal

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fifiliphile · 5 years

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take my hand and follow me into the sun (Cherik fic)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

[AO3 Version]

A story, inspired by that beautiful scene at the end of XMDP, exploring how Charles and Erik’s relationship develops from there, and how this development helps Charles to sort out his issues and finally find his peace.

So, yeah. Hi, everyone. Took me long enough. In my defense, I initially intended to post it all at once, but—as it keeps happening to me lately—the story has gradually become longer and longer, so, in the end, I decided to divide it into four parts. I hope you’ll enjoy it. I tried to explore Charles’s state of mind more, because I doubt he was completely alright at the end of XMDP. As always, it’s proof-read and not beta-ed. So, I’d be grateful for any and all comments. The title comes from the song Where We Come Alive by Ruelle. The name of the café comes from this post by @miss-melodypond, because I couldn’t help myself.

Part 1

You love someone, you open yourself up to suffering, that’s the sad truth. Maybe they’ll break your heart, maybe you’ll break their heart and never be able to look at yourself in the same way. Those are the risks. That’s the burden.

Like wings, they have weight, we feel that weight on our backs, but they are a burden that lifts us. Burdens that make us better than we are.

Burdens which allow us to fly…

—Bones, season 4, episode 26

The Old Friends Café is a truly pleasant spot, which Charles has quickly taken a liking to, what with its accessible location and tasty treats. He’s been coming here almost every morning since he arrived to the neighbourhood. Thanks to the mild weather, he could sit outside and observe pedestrians rushing in various directions, the soft hum of their thoughts surrounding his mind and drowning out any bleak images overflowing from his subconscious.

It has become a sort of a ritual of his, a morning coffee among passing people who have no idea who he really is. Quite refreshing, to blend in without the need to use his ability. That’s one of the reasons why he decided to leave the US and head somewhere else. Perhaps it was in an attempt to run away from the past, from his mistakes; to run away from what he is. As futile as that running fundamentally is, Charles finds himself strangely content, lost in the bustle and vibrancy of the City of Lights.

He tries to smile when a waitress places his coffee in front of him, but part of him knows that this smile is just a shadow of what it once was. Despite his great efforts, he cannot muster enough enthusiasm to radiate joy like he used to; he simply lacks energy for that these days. Even the usual politeness of his tone sounds off to his ears, as if an ill-fitting mask started to slowly slip down his face.

It is truly ironic, how what made him the Professor in the first place—his focus on others, on their well-being, his compassion and how tuned in he tries to be to everyone’s feelings but his own—has essentially become his greatest downfall. He’s come too far, flew too close to the sun, and paid the price for it, greater than he could ever imagine.

The memory of the colourful flowers scattered on the freshly turned earth, bathed in the unrelenting cold rain, is as vivid as if he was still looking down at what was left of one of the people he cherished the most—his sister whom he thought he had got back, only to lose her yet again, long before wooden splinters could even slice through her chest. Even so, it isn’t only her death that has broken his heart, shattering it into a million small pieces.

Charles looks down at the cracked, uneven pavement, not even fighting the urge to compare it to his pathetic emotional state. Although he finds his mind constantly drifting in every feasible direction, a muffled, yet relentlessly suffocating sense of guilt is always colouring even the most idle of his thoughts nowadays. After all, it was his fault that they lost Raven, what with his recklessly desperate attempt to prove to his sister that he respects and trusts her opinion. It was his fault that Jean started wreaking havoc, his actions bringing her to her breaking point and his efforts to help her only making things worse. It was his fault that Hank left, feeling raw, wronged, and seeking vengeance. It was his fault that he didn’t notice those soldiers earlier, too occupied with Jean to realise he should find a way to stop them from capturing all the mutants.

None of that would’ve happened if it hadn’t been for him.

That was why he left. He was tired after years of keeping the school going, surely, and after the fiasco in New York his reputation has been tarnished forever, yet those reasons alone wouldn’t have stopped him from staying with his family, if only he was able to look them in the eye. He couldn’t do that, not with the knowledge that it was him who tore this family apart.

His departure from the mansion was rather unceremonious, as if he were leaving only for short holidays rather than retiring completely. Many students bid him goodbye, unaware that they probably won’t see him again in a very long time. It pained him terribly to leave the children who had grown on him so much over the years, yet, as egotistical as it might’ve been, he didn’t have the heart to admit to them that what he was actually doing was running away.

Even Hank, though their relationship has still been a little strained ever since the Jean Grey incident, tried to talk him out of the retirement idea, honoured with Charles’s wish for the scientist to become the new headmaster, but rather unwilling to take his place. It took Charles a while to convince Hank, but he just couldn’t bear it anymore. Looking at Scott trailing forlornly around the mansion, at Ororo trying to keep the team together and step into Raven’s shoes, at Peter doing his best to bring Kurt’s humour back, at the children’s enthusiasm remaining somewhat subdued after the threat of the school being shut down; it was all too much for him, the relentless whispers flooding his mind and only amplifying the grief-fueled darkness lurking in its corners.

Hank eventually relented, although he insisted on driving Charles to the airport after he unsuccessfully tried to fish out from the telepath where he intended to go. Despite Hank’s good intentions, born purely out of concern for him, Charles couldn’t afford anyone knowing his destination, foolishly so, perhaps. Not much of him has remained in the mansion, and that is precisely what he wanted, with the school having the name changed and being under the new management. He even briefly considered altering everyone’s memories, so they would have hardly any recollection of him; he decided against it in the end, however. Nevertheless, it hasn’t made him feel less of a coward, roaming the busy streets of Paris in an attempt to fade into the background, to become nothing more than another nameless face in the crowd.

In the aftermath of the Jean Grey incident, it initially seemed that the mutant cause was lost, but they somehow managed to sway the government from taking any drastic measures, what with the main threat being “neutralised.” The damage to the mutant perception in the eyes of the general public has been done, however, and although many haven’t supported the idea of the mutant confinement centres, the discourse has quickly become exceedingly mutantphobic.

There’s a bit less hostility in Western Europe, as there has been no incidents here, which doesn’t mean, though, that people are not fearful. Therefore, it is the most reasonable not to attract any attention, even if the vicious voice at the back of Charles’s mind mocks him for hiding. It isn’t the world he’s fought for, but it’s the one he wakes up to in the wake of his mistakes.

With his jaw set firmly, Charles eventually reaches for the cup. He’s come here to forget, not to dwell on what is left of his aching heart, so these thoughts are really of no use to him. He reigns them in, perhaps for the thousandth time, his gaze boring into the smooth, dark surface of his coffee. However, before he manages to do as much as raise the cup to his lips, he feels something, a small, familiar tendril of thought.

A presence which he isn’t sure he’d like to feel right now.

For a moment, he can’t help but entertain the idea that maybe it’s just an illusion, conceived in the depths of his lonely mind. It wouldn’t bode any good for his sanity, and yet Charles would rather not face the possibility that Erik is indeed here. Although they didn’t part on particularly bad terms, their history having seen much more hostile farewells than that one, their relationship just isn’t what it used to be, even though after everything that happened, Erik has appeared to be less distant and perhaps even willing to rekindle their friendship.

What a twist of fate that it was Charles this time who shied away from this connection. It seems, though, that Erik is more unrelenting than the telepath expected.

Charles braces himself, unable to stop a sigh from escaping his lips. His body is tense as he watches Erik pass him and walk casually toward the other chair at the table. He places a folded chessboard on the ground before he sits, while Charles puts the cup away, pulling a saucer a bit closer to himself.

Erik seems to be quite relaxed, looking more put together than in the aftermath of the battle, when they saw each other for the last time. There’s a small smile curling on his lips as he asks, “How’s your retirement treating you?”

So different is Erik’s demeanor from the coldness that Charles has come to associate with him, that the telepath cannot stop suspiciousness from blooming in his mind. It doesn’t seem right, to see Erik so calm—so serene—when Charles feels like his own mind resembles one huge beehive. There’s only one way to confirm his suspicions, to see if what Charles interpretes as blissful indifference isn’t in actuality a completely different emotion, but he refuses to go anywhere near Erik’s mind, even if it leaves him at a significant disadvantage.

“What are you doing here, Erik?,” he says instead of acknowledging the man’s question, not bothering with any pleasantries, not even trying to hide his reluctance.

His clipped tone does little to deter Erik, however. “I came to see an old friend,” he answers simply, his eyes trained on Charles’s face thoughtfully. Charles tilts his head, but doesn’t say anything, which Erik apparently takes as a cue to continue. “Fancy a game?,” he offers briskly, glancing down at the chessboard next to his leg.

Charles follows his gaze, and then crosses his arms, leaning slightly away. Normally, he would never say no to a chess match, especially with as challenging an opponent as Erik can sometimes be, but he doubts his game would be any good now, what with the whirlwind of not only his own, but also all the other people’s thoughts threatening to consume him.

“Not today, thank you.” A meagre sad smile crosses Charles’s lips and he looks away, his stare once again fixated on the pavement.

Despite his greatest efforts, however, he cannot simply ignore Erik’s presence, not when it brushes against the edges of his mind, surprisingly comforting in its tranquillity. Charles barely suppresses the urge to dive inside, to drown in Erik’s consciousness and forget about everything else, so he quickly strengthens his shields.

He can see out of the corner of his eye how Erik leans in, resting his elbows on the table. He’s thoughtful for a little while, before he looks up at Charles once again.

“Long time ago, you saved my life and you offered me home,” he says firmly, and Charles can’t stop himself from glancing back at him, utterly taken aback by the sudden change of topic. “I’d like to do the same for you.”

Erik’s expression is wary, but earnest, and Charles catches himself sifting fleetingly through the man’s surface thoughts, which seems to confirm the genuineness of his words. All the while his eyes are trained on Charles’s face, not leaving it for even a second. Even though being a subject of Erik’s undivided attention used to excite him beyond compare back in the day, now that piercing gaze feels nothing but overwhelming, as if Erik could see his very soul and notice all the darkness lurking in his heart. Charles cannot stand it, he has to look away.

This is exactly why he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see him. Charles doesn’t seem to have been particularly good with people lately, not that he ever actually was. It’s easy to smile to a stranger, to offer a helping hand to someone who looks up to you, but looking in the eyes of those close to him and seeing his true reflection—an overconfident egomaniac, convinced that he has the higher moral ground and is the only one who can make the world a better place, who’s in reality nothing more than a lost little boy, seeking validation and love from others—is at times simply too painful. No wonder he has struggled with getting closer to others, and even if he managed, they always ended up seeing through his poise and leaving him sooner or later. Not that he holds it against them; he would leave himself, too.

Seemingly unaware of Charles’s turmoil, Erik reaches into his pockets. After a moment, he pulls his hands out, clenched into fists, and lifts them in the air, leaning in, resting his elbows back on the table.

“Just one game,” he asks good-naturedly, and his lips slowly form an encouraging smile. “For old times’ sake.”

Hunched slightly over, Charles has to look up to face him. Why Erik is so insistent escapes his comprehension, but there is no harsh judgement nor bitter disappointment which Charles expected to see in those bright mesmerising eyes—nothing but a bit exasperated affection.

That’s not the way it should be. It has always been Charles who’s tried to help Erik find peace, to help him become a better person. And now that they’re sitting at the small Parisian café, it is Charles who’s struggling to find it in himself not to run. After all, he knows what he is, and what he is isn’t worth all that trouble.

And yet there’s something so pleasant about Erik’s mind, almost welcoming, even if all Charles feels is just its very surface, that the telepath cannot pull away. He wants to say no, to ignore Erik long enough for the man to leave, but he eventually relents, slowly reaching and tapping Erik’s left hand. He quickly withdraws, though, despite pleasant tingling in his fingertips that just a quick brush over Erik’s skin has evoked.

Erik smiles, with an excited glint in his eyes, and spins his hand. He slowly unwraps his fingers, revealing a single white pawn.

Charles’s colour.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Erik assures as soon as Charles has snatched the pawn out of his hand, even though his voice sounds rather mischievous.

Even if you come in, Charles hears, clear as day, and it cannot not be a projection. For a split second, he thinks that maybe he’s just overheard something he’s not supposed to, but he’s been shielding himself from Erik ever since he sensed him, so it must’ve been Erik’s intention for Charles to hear it. Something pangs in his heart, even though Charles is too miserable to get his hopes up, to see it as anything more than just teasing.

But his hope has never needed much to spring back to life.

A small smile spreads on Charles’s lips almost on its own accord. “No, you won’t,” he says, a bit of cheer returning to his voice, and continues in their thoughts, Even if I come in.

Erik grins at him, his eyes warm, and he looks so unguarded—so delightfully open—that Charles’s heart skips a beat. It hits him in this moment that no matter how many decades have passed, how many wrinkles have started to adorn Erik’s face, how many of his hair have already turned to grey, he continues to be as beautiful as he was on the day they met, in the cold Atlantic waters thirty years ago, if not even more so. Charles cannot help but try to mirror Erik’s smile, his stomach twisting into knots. He never expected that he would feel like this again, giddy and excited, flushed with the intensity of Erik’s gaze as his companion doesn’t seem to be able to look away from him, so it is Charles who averts his eyes first.

Erik sets up the board swiftly, his deft fingers placing meticulously all the pieces in their proper places. Charles follows them, mesmerised by the grace of even the smallest of movements. He is used to seeing Erik do that with nothing more than a gentle wave of his hand, but he has brought a wooden set and is forced to set up the game in a more traditional way. They don’t draw unnecessary attention to themselves this way, at least, and Charles appreciates that.

Even so, he cannot help but feel the bitterness seeping into his heart. There would be no need for hiding in the world he once hoped to build, but the dream has been shattered. Much as he loathes himself for this, he cannot refrain from wondering that perhaps prioritising trying to gain the humans’ approval over keeping the mutants he was supposed to take care of safe was never the proper course of action; that he should’ve focused on the school, not his political ambitions. But what is done is done, and all that Charles is left with is the bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach that Raven was right all along.

After all, he did sacrifice his team—his family—for the cause which seemed to be less about mutants and more about building his own public persona. Clearly, he lost his touch so thoroughly that he has become what he had once stood so strongly against—a politician focused solely on his own success rather than people he was supposed to serve. It was bound to end in disaster. So many years devoted to the mutant cause, and all of them wasted because of his own vanity and the fantasy of mutants becoming the heroes of humanity.

To think that it might have been different if only he had been less stubborn, not as lost in the vision of the world which was as idealistic as it was impossible to achieve. Perhaps, had there not been a division between the mutants, their efforts could have brought much better results. Maybe Erik was right, and that rupture was meant to weaken them, as it has quite clearly done so.

Leaning away from the board, Erik gives Charles a quizzical look. Even though he isn’t the one with telepathic abilities, he stares at Charles as if he knew exactly what the telepath is thinking. Perhaps he does; perhaps he has similar regrets, Charles muses, still determinedly blocking out Erik’s thoughts. They both wanted to make the world a better place for mutants, even if using drastically different methods, and all of it has been for naught.

Perhaps not all—there is still Genosha which seems to function better than Charles suspected. It may not be a mutant utopia yet, as his friend certainly wanted it to be, but it does provide mutants with the place where they can live free of persecution, given a chance to create their own system. He even remembers a couple of his students with more visible or not so easily reined in mutations choosing to move there after their graduation, something that should go against his goal of mutant-human integration, but deep down Charles felt relief every time one of them found a safe home in Genosha. Erik might’ve had a point while insisting on the separation between mutants and baseline humans, after all.

A quiet snort escapes Charles’s nose, and Erik raises his eyebrows, a corner of his lips rising in a lopsided smile as he asks, “Something’s funny?”

Charles studies Erik for a long moment, his gaze tracing wrinkles which replaced the lines once almost permanently running across his friend’s face. Now, though, despite the years, Erik almost looks younger, his eyes bright and his expression serene, and Charles thinks that he’s falling for him all over again, enticed by the soft humming of Erik’s thoughts, its pull akin to the strength of the magnetic force that the fascinating man before can bend to his will.

“Nothing, just…” Charles sighs and pauses for a moment, trying to find the best way of putting into words a strange paradoxical feeling. He cannot refrain from snorting again as he shakes his head. “I didn’t expect that we would swap places,” he admits at last, an edge of humour to his voice.

“Life’s full of surprises,” Erik murmurs, with smugness written all over his face.

The chessboard momentarily becomes forgotten as Erik holds Charles’s gaze, his eyes flicking to the telepath’s mouth every now and then. Were they alone, in a more secluded place, Charles wouldn’t probably stop himself from reaching out to Erik, but—as it happens—they sit in a public space where any more intimate gestures might be as frowned upon as a display of their abilities.

Charles could just make everyone else look away or think that something completely different is happening, he knows that. Part of him is tempted to do so, yet he doesn’t feel like meddling with all those minds, unsure of how his erratic emotions impact his control; whether he’d be able to draw the line before hurting somebody. Maybe it’s for the better; he’s not sure if he’s actually ready for anything to happen just yet.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Charles says instead, his voice soft, surprising even himself with how blunt his words are.

Perhaps he’s too old and too tired to hide his vulnerability anymore. Perhaps, despite him running away, he doesn’t actually want to be alone. Wallowing in self pity and letting himself be consumed by his pent-up emotions certainly won’t solve anything, he’s perfectly aware of that, and yet, it’s not that easy for him to pull himself out of that dark place. But Erik is here, offering to throw him a lifeline to which Charles so desperately wants to cling.

For a moment, he is afraid of Erik’s reaction, of his possible ridicule of such sappiness, yet Erik only smiles tenderly, and the wave of fondness encompassing at once Charles’s thoughts makes it clear that he must share the sentiment. Once again, Charles finds it hard to shake off the feeling that the scene playing out before his very eyes isn’t real; that he’ll soon wake up, alone in his bed, hating his mind for conjuring images of what he’s always wanted, but will never have. After all, the Erik before him is nothing like the man who left him over and over again, not with the serenity which is practically pouring off of him.

His mind, however, has the achingly familiar tinge to it that Charles isn’t sure he could so easily recreate, not even with the help of his rather remarkable memory. Yet again, the telepath has to suppress the urge to plunge into Erik’s thoughts and allow them to wash over his troubled psyche. It’s almost painful to hold himself back; even so, Charles cannot quell the fear that his presence won’t be welcome. After all, nobody wants a telepath rummaging through their heads.

His throat feels suddenly dry as Charles tries to clear it, his gaze boring into the chess board. Despite his doubts, if Erik’s projection is anything to go by, it seems that he could’ve tried to prompt Charles to do something. Perhaps it does sound too good to be true, but Charles has to ask.

“Could I?”

There’s a swell of mild surprise on the surface of Erik’s mind when he says calmly, “Could you what?”

Charles looks back up at him and finds Erik gazing at him curiously. Although there’s a hint of a smile in the corners of his lips, Charles hesitates. Part of him knows that what he’s about to ask is quite a lot, probably more than he deserves after everything that he’s done. But he cannot help himself.

“Could I—,” he hesitates momentarily, with his heart practically in his throat, “—come in?”

Charles struggles not to drop his gaze, as the world around him seems to have come to a halt. It surprises him how desperate he is to sink into Erik’s mind, even though he hasn’t done so in a terribly long time, and waiting for his friend’s reaction only makes him jittery. What’s worse, Erik keeps a straight face, and the surface of his thoughts brushes against Charles’s calmly, doing very little to help the telepath gauge his friend’s reaction.

Some of Charles’s desperation must be evident in his look—or it could’ve been his voice—because Erik’s expression softens, and he glances down at the chessboard.

“Your move,” he says casually, as if Charles hasn’t just asked him about something as intimate as opening a mental link between them.

The telepath tries to hide his disappointment, clearing his once again awfully dry throat. He shouldn’t be suffering from such disenchantment, not after his gift has been routinely rejected throughout the vast majority of his life. After all, people generally value their privacy quite highly, and Charles really understands that, even though he himself would give anything not to be alone in his own head at the moment.

Scarcely does he have a chance to slip back into the thick darkness of his mind, however, before he feels the deliberate caress of a thought against his consciousness. Another projection, but much gentler than before. You can if you’d like.

Charles finds himself blinking again, and the question escapes his mouth before he can do as much as consciously register asking it, his voice small and vulnerable, “You don’t mind?”

Erik’s gaze is on him again, although this time there is a flicker of something else in those kaleidoscopic eyes, greenish in the warm light of day, something much less peaceful. Regrettably, the odd ripple on the surface of Erik’s mind is gone too fast for Charles to put a finger on what his friend might feel, as Erik takes a deep breath, the playful smile back on his lips.

“I know you won’t cheat, you’re too bloody arrogant for that,” he says teasingly, though there is no actual bite to his words.

Charles doesn’t know if he’s more relieved that Erik seems to be genuinely unbothered by the prospect of Charles’s presence in his mind, or affronted by the suggestion that the only reason why he wouldn’t go as far as to cheat during their always wonderfully engaging games of chess is all due to his arrogance. In the end, his relief wins over, what with the familiar mischievous glint in Erik’s eyes.

“I simply happen to have a moral code, thank you very much,” Charles argues, even though his tone lacks any actual disdain, his hand hovering over the board. He ponders for a moment how he should start this time, and ends up picking the pawn before his queen. With his fingers wrapped around it, he continues, his voice matter-of-fact, “And I find that cheating essentially kills the purpose of the game. After all, it’s hardly any mental challenge to just take a peek into your mind to foresee your intention and adjust my strategy accordingly—”

Even though he quickly realises that he’s started mumbling, it is a gentle touch of Erik’s fingertips to the top of his still extended hand that puts him out of his reverie.

“Charles.” Erik’s voice is tender, yet unyielding. “You can read my mind.”

Despite the reassurance, Charles hesitates, which clearly doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I’d like you to,” Erik adds firmly, his fingers slowly starting to draw comforting patterns over Charles’ dry skin.

As little as it is, this amount of physical contact is enough to make shielding from Erik that much more of a bother, so Charles eventually just lets go, his consciousness instantly washed over with Erik’s thoughts. They are as serene as Charles expected, but there is also a different tinge to them, one that he didn’t really pick up on before.

Affection.

He’s barely able to compose himself enough not to let out a quiet whimper. It’s been ages since he felt anything remotely resembling this; Raven didn’t really allow him into her mind, even when their relationship was much less strained, and with Hank it’s been a different kind of companionship, one that has never included that kind of affection. That has been the void that even the children couldn’t fill, not with their respect and admiration, and even though he loved them—and still does—very dearly, being the authority figure for young minds has always put him in the position hardly allowing for forming equal connections, even when they grew up.

And to think that those are just surface thoughts… Although he’s well aware that he probably shouldn’t be doing that and most certainly will come to regret it later, he feels his mind plunging deep into Erik’s, flowing through the beautiful buzzing stream of consciousness. It won’t last long, Charles is sure of that, so he sets his mind to enjoy that while he still can, before Erik changes his mind and forces him out.

Instead of this anticipated withdrawal of Erik’s consent, Charles is once again met with a playful smile. “Want to know everything all over again?”

Charles can’t help but wince, even though the question hasn’t got any accusatory undertone whatsoever. Despite that, he’s quick to start withdrawing, his thoughts curling tightly around themselves. He hasn’t invaded another person’s mind like that in years, and he has no idea what’s overcome him to act so recklessly, unmindful of Erik’s boundaries.

“Don’t,” Erik says warningly, stopping Charles in his tracks.

He squeezes the telepath’s hand reassuringly, and even though he promptly lets go, his touch lingers, leaving the pleasant tingling sensation in its wake. Charles swallows, his mind still surrounded by Erik’s calming thoughts.

That is the moment he feels it for the first time, something relatively new in the mind that he once was so familiar with. A cool, metal-like surface, of which the tendrils of his ability slid off smoothly, feels as foreign as it is fascinating, and it can only be one thing.

“Shields?,” Charles finds himself asking incredulously.

The mischievous look is back in Erik’s eyes. “I had some practice,” he admits cheekily, though his thoughts get a slightly melancholy tinge that he is clearly struggling to hide.

Charles can’t do much more than stare at his friend. “I—”

“It’s easier for you this way, isn’t it?,” Erik observes lightly, his eyes back on the chessboard as he makes his move. “If there’s something I’d rather you didn’t see, I can take care of that myself.” He once again gazes at Charles, the smile still on his lips. “Other than that, you’re free to rummage around.”

It is difficult to even describe the feelings that one sentence evokes in Charles. It seems like the whole world around him has suddenly brightened, filled with the warmth that Charles has clearly been missing. Rarely has he been given such an explicit permission, a wish even, to allow his telepathy to run free, unchecked and unbound. It’s truly exhilarating, how it feels to let his mind wander aimlessly in the space where he’s very much welcome.

“That is…” Charles’s voice is rough, his throat weirdly constricted in his elation. He soldiers on, however, not minding it that much—the need to express his overwhelming gratitude is much stronger than his self-consciousness. “Thank you, my friend,” he says with a watery smile, reaching across the table to cover Erik’s hand with his own. “It means a lot.”

The softness is back on Erik’s face, his thoughts brushing tenderly against Charles’s, and as surprising as it was for Charles to feel it just moments ago, it slowly becomes a familiar—and very much cherished—sensation. “I know,” Erik murmurs, focusing again on the chessboard.

The game is rather unhurried after that, not that Charles minds. It’s actually a very pleasant reprieve from the mundaneness of his recent routine, and Charles finds himself more relaxed than he’s been in weeks, even before the incident. It feels very nice to stretch his mental muscles while coming up with the suitable strategy, even if his whole heart isn’t exactly in the game.

They are slowly making progress, at first chatting idly about things of little importance, such as the charm of early summer, even in the city as frequently bathed in pouring rains as Paris. There is an undercurrent of worry to Erik’s thoughts, even if he doesn’t voice it, and Charles can tell that he’s not the only one avoiding some more sensitive topics. Instead, they focus mostly on Charles’s stay in the City of Lights so far, the struggles of daily life in Genosha, and the atmosphere at the mansion when it turns out that Erik has recently pay the school a visit. It surprises Charles, but not altogether unpleasantly; after all, it is a good thing that Erik seems to be on good terms with Hank now, even if the circumstances leading to that were rather unfortunate.

Despite the concern swirling somewhere deeper in Erik’s mind, the man keeps steering away from the questions that are clearly pestering him. Charles is grateful for that because he isn’t sure how he would explain what is going on inside his head.

Rather than tackling those topics, the telepath allows his mind to drift, floating freely through Erik’s thoughts. Surrounded by calmness and affection, Charles realizes with a start that he feels at peace for the first time in years. It isn’t until now that he notices how much he was missing that feeling.

Unfortunately, Charles doesn’t get to enjoy that feeling for long. He is about to make his next move when a thought comes to the forefront of his mind—one that demands an explanation for something that has been bugging him distantly for quite a while now. He looks up from the board in time to see Erik’s eyebrows furrowing as he’s observing the progress of their game. The board is already lined up with a bunch of the pieces, both black and white, but the real struggle is only about to begin.

There’s something truly endearing in Erik’s focused expression, in the way his eyebrows are drawn and his eyes flicker about the board with a playful glint, and Charles is pretty certain that the affection must be written all over his face. As much as he wasn’t actually aware of that, he’s been missing this sight deeply. This, and the simple, yet undeniable pleasure of the companionable game of chess.

And yet, the question of the real reason behind Erik sitting at his table right now brings his hopes back down.

“I doubt you came all this way just for a chess match,” Charles says, still smiling lightly, even if his voice comes out a bit strained.

The telepath’s attention is yet again on the board, though his thoughts have already drifted away from strategising. He can’t see Erik’s face, but he feels his intense gaze.

“You’d be surprised,” comes Erik’s quiet answer, which nevertheless manages to take Charles aback with its fervency.

It is still rather unlikely that Erik has travelled across the world solely to play one game, which leaves Charles with a couple of explanations to consider.

“Are you meeting somebody?”

Erik keeps studying him for a long moment, before he finally decides to answer.

“No.”

There is yet another possibility, since Erik has mentioned swinging by the mansion. “Did Hank send you?”

Charles’s question hangs in the air for a long moment. The telepath can feel the myriad of thoughts swirling in Erik’s mind as the man tries to figure out what would be an appropriate answer. Hardly comforting, Charles thinks distantly.

“He did say that you’d probably use some company,” Erik eventually admits, caressing a white pawn in his hand thoughtfully, one that he’s just picked up from the board. “But I don’t think he believed that I’d bother to find you.”

“But you did.”

Erik’s attention snaps back to Charles, his thoughts sharpening, his gaze wary. “Clearly.”

“Why?” Charles barely suppresses the urge to look away, afraid of being too much of a bother with all those questions, but he has to know what hides behind Erik’s carefully dispassionate tone.

The waitress chooses that moment to walk up to them, a questioning look on her face. She’s about to ask a question, her thoughts brightening with mild interest at the appearance of an earlier unseen man at the otherwise rather lonely table. She doesn’t get a chance to, however, when Erik simply shakes his head, giving her a polite smile. In the end, she rushes past them, to another table, greeting another guest.

“Why do you think?” Erik asks, and the waitress is soon forgotten.

Erik’s thoughts continue to be calm, gently lapping against Charles’s mind, and yet the telepath doesn’t fail to notice a shade of worry which colours them. It should be reassuring, he thinks briefly, that somebody still cares about his well-being, more so than he does himself. Somehow, though, it only triggers the anger that lurks deep in his thoughts. Perhaps it’s his pride, feeling wounded at the suggestion that he, Dr. Charles Francis Xavier, the honoured professor of genetics and the creator of the first school for mutants, might need rescuing. Perhaps it’s seeing Erik’s concern as patronizing. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t deem himself worthy of it.

Whatever the reason, Charles cannot stop himself from snapping, “I don’t need help, I’m fine.”

Despite Charles’s sharp voice, Erik doesn’t do as much as flinch, seemingly unbothered by the man’s harsh reaction. His fingernails are drumming against the table as he goes back to contemplating the advancement of their game.

Eventually, Erik decides to speak up. “Charles,” he starts slowly, his voice calm, almost soothing, “you come here every morning, order one black coffee and sit, sometimes for an hour, hour and a half, just idly looking around.”

Erik’s tone isn’t accusatory, he merely states the facts, and yet Charles cannot help but feel a burning stab of shame, as if he was caught doing something he wasn’t allowed to. It’s ridiculous; he’s an adult, he can do whatever he pleases, and there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a morning coffee and revelling in the pleasant surroundings.

Even so, Charles catches himself continuously being defensive as he asks, “How did you know?”

“I’m observant,” Erik says simply, finally making his next move, one of the corners of his lips curling up slightly.

Charles takes a deep breath, hoping to clear his upset mind somewhat. Getting angry doesn’t serve anyone, and neither does it help in finding out the real reason behind Erik’s visit. Charles could just pluck it out of his friend’s mind, but the mere thought of it fills him with a sense of self-disgust.

“I’m just… taking a breather, I suppose,” he allows, reaching to the chessboard. “Enjoying my retirement,” he adds, more of an afterthought than anything else.

“That’s what I came to see.”

A grimace crosses Charles’s face. “There isn’t much to see, as you’ve noticed.” His voice is as tight as it is bitter.

“Still worth it,” Erik says firmly. “Especially when I can do this.” His hand hovers above the board for a moment, a quick move of one innocent piece, and when the man pulls it back, it doesn’t take Charles more than a quick glance to know that he’s just lost. “Checkmate. I warned you.” There’s pride, glistening in Erik’s eyes, but his thoughts lack an undercurrent of boastfulness which tends to be sparked off by Erik’s victories.

Nevertheless, Charles purses his lips, deeply unsatisfied, even though he hardly expected any other outcome. “I’d like a rematch, if you don’t mind.”

“Let me take you to lunch first.” Although Erik’s proposition is rather nonchalant, seemingly unprompted, there is a sense of nervousness creeping in his thoughts.

As if he was hoping to ask, but dreaded that Charles would refuse. But Charles finds himself unable to turn down the offer, in spite of the strong desire to bid Erik goodbye and continue on with his mundane day.

Charles clears his throat, reminding himself that he only agreed to one game. There is no need for him to entertain Erik, to keep him company when all he wants to do is hide somewhere where he’d be alone, preferably in his Parisian flat, yet he finds himself thinking that maybe this is what he needs right now, a little bit of comfort, and he smiles, a small, but genuine curl of his lips, for what feels like the first time in weeks.

“Actually, lunch sounds lovely.”

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