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foxdev1l · 6 days

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How do you think the Goslings feel about their bodies?

Thanks for your ask! :]

I was, once again, all wrapped up in writing. Catching my breath a bit now, so I can think about this question of yours!

I know I mentioned Luke's relationship to his body before. I don't think he specifically dislikes his body, he just strikes me as insecure in general, but in a way that makes him more likely to overcompensate for it by building up an impressive facade. To be honest with you, though, I feel like I have a pretty bad grip on Luke's character beyond the very basics (e.g. lacking purpose and all the consequences).

Six, I think, dislikes his body only because he looks like his father. Even if he objectively didn't, I'm sure he would find a way to conjure endless similarities. I think he also likes his body, though. Not visually necessarily, but because of what it allows him to do. The way it allows him to move and fight, and by the end of the movie, the way it allows him to protect others.

Jacob likes his body, most days. He's an insecure mess in other ways, but I think he knows he looks good – he's not irrational like that. It would be a different case altogether if something happened to him that took him out of what is considered conventionally attractive, because Jacob Palmer has never heard of body neutrality and he almost certainly wouldn't practice it.

K's thoughts about his body are a mess to say the least. There's this knowledge that he was created to be pleasant to the eye, like a pretty vase or painting, that has to be very dehumanizing. He probably feels like he's playing into right Wallace's hands when someone finds him attractive, even though he can't influence people's perception of him. Beyond that I think K appreciates all the parts of him that are indistinguishable from human's and despises all the parts that aren't. It's chaos, but I like to think about a post-movie world where K survives and finds peace in modifying his body any way he chooses. I'm mainly thinking of tattoos, of course, but maybe K has other ideas.

Holland is insecure about his body but not to an extreme extent. I'm sure he managed to put on weight from the rampant alcoholism and that he doesn't necessarily like it, but I also think his personality causes him more insecurities than his body ever could and that he's well-occupied with those. Dan is much the same way, I think. Can't imagine crack is good for staying in shape.

Dean wasn't horribly insecure when he was younger, but he's certainly grown to be. He sees himself largely through Cindy's eyes and I don't think that serves him well.

Sebastian, Noah, Richard, Colt and Ken are decently confident in their bodies. Richard moreso than the rest and it's a nuisance for everyone. Colt knows he's hot, he's not blind after all. But mostly he appreciates his body for being his home and for allowing him to follow where adrenaline takes him, which is often the top of a twelve story building. Ken doesn't have insecurities about his body, I don't think, but about his ability to control it. Because, you know, he's a blond guy who can't do flips. Also he can't surf. There was the whole "having all the genitals" thing, but I think that was purely to impress the workers there and resolved itself with his return to Barbieland.

I honestly think Driver and Lars don't really care one way or another. Maybe those two are most likely to practice body neutrality. Not that they'd know of the concept by name, but they could live it all the same.

Julian is a mess, too. I don't even know how to articulate how chaotic he and his feelings about himself are. He definitely has a problem with his hands, that's clear enough. Something about how hands are the way you affect the world and how his only effect on said world has been pain or disappointment. Suffering or unmet expectations. He's convoluted and difficult and I fear the above is all I can say on him. Maybe I should rewatch his movie.

Thank you for your question!! And I'd love to hear yours and everyone else's input on it :]

#this.#on fucking point #k with tattoos when???#ryan gosling

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foxdev1l · 17 days

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#ryan gosling #snl

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foxdev1l · 21 days

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look, it's you and colt

changing my name to jean-claude(im his dog)(wroof wroof)

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foxdev1l · 21 days

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#so uhm #yeah #ryan gosling #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #writing #the nice guys #holland march #jackson healy

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foxdev1l · 21 days

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hi here's the very rough(!) first chapter of a fic that i'm not done with.

if anyone wants to beta or just offer feedback i would be grateful :') but i'm writing this very slowly and don't plan on seeing it done for at least a few more months

March x Healy

Summary: 1980. March and Healy take your classic "reunite me with my estranged adult child" case and may or may not wind up getting involved with a cult, irritating 80's toys, shady business, gardening, and drugs. Oh, and they're pretending to be boyfriend because that's totally a perfect cover.

Rating: 18+ for the eventual porn

Length: I'm gonna guess 30k? I'm at 15k rn and we're maybe halfway through. frankly i got no idea

Tags that aren't exhaustive and mostly aren't applicable to this first chapter, but just a sneak peek: pretending to be boyfriends and there's only one fucking bed anyway bitch, March wearing jeans

The thing about kitsch dolls was that they were supposed to be cute. In abundance they became disturbing. An uncanny noise of soft pastel abstraction, dotted with innumerable eyes, staring at you from living room walls and display cabinets. It didn’t help that almost all of them were religious; angels with halos, praying children, robed biblical figures. March felt like he might combust if he made direct eye contact with the teeming mass of holy ceramic.

“March, did you write that down?”

Holland whipped his head toward Healy, and then at their client, and then at his open, empty notepad. See, you shouldn’t have that many dolls in one room, it’s distracting. It’s weird. “Sorry, ma’am, could you repeat that?”

“Benjamin Larry Hooper. We called him Benny.”

“Bejamin….L… Hooper… Benny.” March mumbled, pen dashing across the page with a show of gumption.

Mrs. Hooper nodded at him, all patterned dress and curled hair, hands placed politely on top of their respective thighs. “He was fifteen when he left, he’ll be twenty-six now. Tall for his age, I’m sure he’s giant by now.”

Holland wrote in big block letters: DOB 1953 TALL

“This is my most recent picture of him, just a few months before he left.” Mrs. Hooper, Francis, reached across her doilied coffee table to hand Healy a framed photograph. It was obviously some kind of family reunion, the photo lined with folks like a tin of sardines. “That’s Benny.” she said, tapping a young man sitting cross legged in the very front row.

Benny Hooper looked like any other fifteen year old at a family reunion, irritated or bored or both. He had a great mop of hair, a downright halo of pitch black curls reaching every direction. The slacks and short sleeved button-down were probably not his normal choice of attire, so that wouldn’t be helpful even if the kid had disappeared less than a decade ago. The shot was too wide to memorize the details of someone’s face on top of being old. The Benny in the photo hadn’t even finished puberty yet. Overall, the photo wasn’t great.

“Very helpful, thank you. We could use any other photographs you have, too.” Healy smiled pleasantly the way he did. It was freakish, the way the guy could go from deadpan bruiser to soft-eyed teddybear in an instant.

Holland smiled along, ignoring the everpresent eyes of Mrs. Hooper's kitsch, even though he knew that there was no chance in hell they were finding Benny Hooper.

“There’s no chance in hell, man.” March lit his cigarette in the passenger seat and donned his sunglasses.

Healy tapped his fingers where he rested his arm in the open window. “We have a lead.”

“If you wanna call maybe seeing a glimpse of someone you haven’t seen in eleven years driving a truck a couple of times a lead, sure, we have a great lead. Can we stop at Hammy’s? Told Holly I’d bring home dinner.”

“Y’know, I bet I could count on two hands the number of times you’ve gone proper grocery shopping since I’ve known you.”

“That’s not true, you went grocery shopping with us like two weeks ago.”

“And you bought eggs, bread, a gallon of neon colored juice, a gallon of whiskey, and five frozen pizzas.”

“Are those not groceries? Is that not sustenance?” March waved his cigarette for emphasis.

“Anyway,” Healy redirected, taking the turn toward Hammy’s, “all we have to do is stake out the spot she saw the truck, right?”

“If everything worked out just that easy we’d be out of a job, Jack.” March took a drag from his cigarette, thanking the stars that loaded, aging ladies were willing to shill out for the most unfeasible asks imaginable time and time again. Healy let it sit because he knew it was true by now, well over two years down the line as a PI.

“Why do you think the kid really left?” Healy asked after a while, expertly flat when Holland had figured out eons ago that the guy really was invested in each case, even the small ones.

“I don’t know, too many doilies? An aversion to puce colored carpet? I wouldn’t stay long either.”

Healy ignored him. “I find it hard to believe he just up and left for no reason.”

“Maybe Mrs. Hooper’s chicken is dry.” Healy purposefully hit the curb pulling into Hammy’s, jostling March’s cigarette nearly out of his hand. “I mean, it’s not like it matters. Even if we find the kid, he’s not comin’ back. Ten fuckin’ years. Remember that girl, Arrow or Rainbow or whatever she named herself?”

Healy grunted in reluctant remembrance. They’d found her after a long, boring two months and by the end of it all she’d had to say was ‘thanks for letting me know my family's looking for me, you can go now.’ Not that it mattered much to Holland. They made out with enough money to take a couple of weeks off so they could take Holly to Catalina Island. She got food poisoning on the first day but still claims it was the best trip they’d been on in years (which wasn’t very meaningful considering they’d gone on maybe three of them since she was little).

“Guess you’re right.” Healy parked the car in the crowded parking lot. The line at Hammy’s was always so damn long. “Not getting paid to psychoanalyze the guy.” He sounded reluctant. Any time Healy couldn’t slip in one more act of Good it made him feel like a failure. It was something March secretly admired, however harebrained it was. He glanced a punch off Healy’s shoulder before getting out of the car. “That’s the spirit.”

“So why do you think he really left?” Holly asked through a mouthful of burger.

“Jesus, you two should become shrinks.” March grumbled.

Healy sat comfortably sunken into the couch, a March sitting cross legged on the floor on either side of him. “It might be useful to know.” he added.

“Right. Like maybe you’ll be able to narrow down what kinds of places he’d go if you knew.” Holly agreed.

“Our only lead is a truck. Anyone can drive a truck. I don’t care why he’s driving it. All we have to do is follow.”

“So you admit, it’s a lead.” Healy pointed at him with a french fry.

“It’s a crumb of a lead. It’s the suggestion of a lead. It’s a lingering scent of maybe a lead.”

“Says the guy with no sense of smell.” Healy winked at Holly, who bit her lip to stop her smile from blooming. “A lead’s a lead.”

“Did you notice anything about Mrs. Hooper’s house? Like, anything that might make someone want to run away?” Holly was fifteen and already putting in more work than March.

“Yeah, puce carpet.”

Healy nudged March with a socked foot. “She seemed nice. Boring, maybe. Said her husband died a few years ago and her other kid’s off at college somewhere, so the house was pretty quiet.”

“Boredom could drive someone away.” Holly said thoughtfully.

“And if it did that still gives us absolutely nothing to go on. Some kids just hate their parents, alright? Guy probably just hitchhiked to New York or something.” March said.

“Sounds nice.” Holly murmured under her breath. Healy nudged her with his other foot.

March, begrudgingly, loved the gentle way Healy mediated. Fatherhood was something Holland hadn’t really been prepared for, much less being the single dad of a teenager. It didn’t help that he was a big time fuckup or that Holly was too smart for her own good. Having another person in their lives— having Healy in their lives— was a saving grace.

Recently, Holly had started dating her first boyfriend. Or at least the first that she’d admitted to when she’d lost all plausible deniability after that time they’d picked her up from school and seen her drop some young punk’s hand like a hot iron. It was a point of contention now, between Holly and Holland. Boys were pigs, and Holland would know, he used to be one. It was one of the endless number of things Healy had become referee over, but also something Holly had adopted a near constant attitude because of.

“So when are you starting the stakeout?” Holly asked, fiddling with the cracked straw of her milkshake. March looked at Healy for an answer. He was always better at managing their schedule. Unlike March, he usually remembered what day of the week it was. Healy looked back at him and shrugged. Wasn't like they had another case on, much to the dismay of their wallets. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

Holly got that look on her face. “Can I come?” Tomorrow was a Saturday.

March shook his head. “Don’t you have normal teenage things to do? Shouldn’t you be like sneaking vodka out of someone’s mom’s cabinet on a Saturday?”

Healy chimed in before she could argue. “It’s gonna be boring anyway, Holl. You’ll be sitting in the backseat twiddling your thumbs all day.” She knew that. She’d been on stakeouts with them before. But Healy’s say was more valuable to her than her dad’s, apparently, so she dropped it.

It was late when Healy headed home, agreeing on the asscrack of dawn to reconvene and start their stakeout.

“Why doesn’t he just live here? You guys spend every day together anyway.”

March wandered into the dimly lit kitchen for a glass of rye. Their (second) rental, real house unbuilt as ever, was always so still when Healy left. Another item on the laundry list of things March tried not to think about. “Because he’s a grown man, Holly, with his own house.”

“I wouldn’t call that dump a house, and anyway it’s an apartment. He should be sleeping here and not in an attic with a laughtrack that plays until two in the morning.”

“Well then you can invite him to stay for a sleepover next time. You guys can paint nails and read magazines.” Holland wasn’t stupid. He knew that wasn’t really what girls’ sleepovers were like. One time he’d walked in on Holly and her friend eating donuts and saying such depraved things about Joe Strummer that he’d vowed to not open the door without knocking ever again. He never looked at that Clash poster on her wall the same way.

Holly scoffed in time with the ice tinkling into Holland’s tumbler.

The sun shone way too brightly for Holland. When he’d woken up he’d still been a little drunk, but now out of the house and into Healy’s car a hangover had eagerly seeped in. They’d agreed to start the stakeout before the sun came up, but March had skillfully convinced Healy to take him through a drive-thru breakfast and they were running late. He now nursed a coffee as the sun rose into the perfectly wrong spot in the sky. They watched cars zip lazily by from the corner of a parking lot.

“I just think it would be good to have a dog around.” They’d had this discussion every other day for a month now. March wanted a dog in the house for the very logical reason of alerting them to intruders, Healy nay-sayed because he was a killjoy with no imagination.

“I’m telling you, March, putting in a doggy door just isn’t gonna be enough for a German Shepherd. And we all know you’re not gonna walk it.”

“Why do you even care so much, man? It would be my dog.” And more importantly, why did Healy even have a say in whether or not they got a dog?

“I care because I’d somehow get stuck taking it out half the time. And your sorry ass wouldn’t train it. We’d have an untrained, overpriced menace tearing around the house.” The house. Not Holland and Holly’s house, but The House.

“Well, whatever, even if that was true it’d make a good guard dog, right? No one’s getting past a pent up, feral German Shepherd. Might shit on the carpet but it’ll take a guy’s dick off. Balls too.”

“You should really consider a shrink. I think you’ve lost your damn mind.” Healy shook his head, but Holland caught his smile.

“You taking new patients, doc? I’ve been told by my teenager that I’m a headcase.”

“I could make some room in my busy schedule. Gonna cost you about the same as a purebred German Shepherd, though.”

March smiled and leaned back into his seat. Absolutely nothing of interest was happening outside at all, which was just fine now but give March three or so more hours and he’d start going stir crazy and the headache wasn't helping.

Mrs. Hooper had seen the truck twice, once in the morning and once in the early evening, which gave them an unfortunately broad window of time. She’d described it as a white, short cab semitruck, maybe a GMC, with a small trailer on it, which narrowed it down almost not at all. It sounded like every third short haul semi chugging around Los Angeles, of which there were many. Very many.

The only thing they had to go off of was that the second time around she’d seen what she thought was some kind of blocky hand-lettering on the driver’s side door, done in “nearly illegible” multicolor. When Healy had asked what she meant by “multicolor” Mrs. Hooper had only elaborated as “horribly garish.” So at least there was that.

The odds that the guy driving the bespoke truck was this Benny person were essentially zero. That was about half their cases these days, desperate longshots funded by desperate rich people. The other half was still taking photographs of idiots who fuck with the curtains open. It was wearing a little thin. Couldn't people invent more important problems to investigate? Whatever. A job’s a job’s a job.

The coffee in March’s cup had gone cold just in time to meet the creeping heat from outside. He downed the tepid sludge before wrenching the little metal fan out of the back seat and plugging it in. It whirred to life gracelessly.

“Hey.” Healy tapped him on the arm, which startled and excited Holland enough that he flung his empty coffee cup onto the floorboards.

“What—what, you see something?”

A short cab semi puttered toward them from a distance, aiming for a perfectly timed red light. Healy pulled up the binoculars and squinted through them, waiting for the cab to pull into view enough to see the driver’s door. March’s breathing was shallow in anticipation.

The truck moved, and Healy tutted, and March could see the glaringly blank door even without the binoculars. “Driver’s blonde. Ginger beard.” Healy said, still staring through the eye pieces like the truck and driver might magically change. “False alarm.”

“They’re all gonna be false alarms. This is gonna be like finding a needle in a haystack, only the needle was never in the haystack to begin with.”

Finally, Healy let the binoculars fall into his lap. “I ever told you how much I love your optimism?”

#OMFG #i love this so much #really well-written #can't wait for more #the nice guys #the nice guys fanfiction #march x healy #nice guys #holland march #jackson healy

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foxdev1l · 22 days

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proofreader face reveal pic? 🐱

jsksksjsjs thanks for your ask!! i will take any and all opportunities to share my esteemed proofreader, son and general light of my life with the people :]

this is mischa;

#LOOK AT HIM #JUST LOOK #the king himself #mischa time

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foxdev1l · 23 days

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#he's just a silly little cat #iconic #ryan gosling #holland march #the nice guys #colt seavers #the fall guy

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foxdev1l · 23 days

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one officer k pussy moodboard to go please

here you go pookie

#HELLOOOO??????#can confirm thats exactly what my wife tastes like #watch me dive in there like its a fucking swimming pool #gonna be eating blood and desolation for breakfast lunch and dinner #YOU JUST KNOW ITS TASTYYYYY #tw: blood #officer k #ryan gosling #blade runner 2049 #moodboard

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foxdev1l · 24 days

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What do you think losing their virginity was like for the Goslings?

Thanks for your ask!! :]

I love these asks fr. They make me think about the Geese even more than usual.

Lars and Ken are virgins, let's just get that out of the way first. Noah lost his virginity on-screen and I don't think there's much more to analyze than is shown.

I believe K lost his virginity on-screen and I don't think it was a particularly great experience for him. It's messy, because he wants to sleep with Joi, but can't, and I imagine he was painfully reminded of that every step of the way. I don't think he could "suspend disbelief" enough to actually enjoy fucking someone who is not Joi, even if it looks like her. I'm also not sure if it would have been better if he could fuck Joi, because I think their whole relationship doesn't really benefit K– but I guess that's a different question. (Also; fucking a replicant whose job it is to fuck humans must have felt weird to him. I have so many thoughts about this.)

For Julian I consulted Fox and we agreed that he was probably pressured into it by his brother. We think he would have been somewhere between 14 and 16 and hasn't yet realized what a monster Billy is– he's still trying to impress his big brother. We assume Billy would have paid the girl and it would have been awkward and fumbling and both of them probably didn't really want to be there.

Colt kind of got away from me. I think he's exactly the type of guy who thinks it's appropriate to take his girlfriend on endless dates and drop her off at home with a kiss and nothing else, but if she has a different idea I'm sure he'd be on board, which is what i think happened. I'm sure it was all very sweet and exciting. Also: Colt is an adrenaline junkie you can't tell me he wouldn't have a bit of an exhibitionist streak, so the whole sneaking out to fuck would definitely get him going.

Richard lost his virginity kinda young, but it was pretty normal all things considered. I don't think he lost it to his girlfriend, I assume he just tumbled into bed with someone at a party. He's been a whore(affectionate) ever since and despite all the jokes we make about him I don't think he's that bad of a lay. He probably does the usual of just fucking someone and then dropping them, because he's a bastard like that, but I think he'd be at least somewhat considerate in bed. Enough for repeat visitors, lol

Henry lost his at an art party with like 20 or 21. He was high as fuck, two people were being tattooed in the background, Radiohead was playing and afterwards he shared a pack of cigarettes on the balcony with whoever he fucked. It was a good experience for him, I believe. Not perfect due to the lack of experience but good nonetheless.

Six lost his after prison. He got a rare moment of free time from his usual CIA-ordered shenanigans and got picked up by someone. He didn't like it, I don't think, but Fox and I have a very different interpretation of Six than a lot of other people in the fandom. He probably learnt about sex from his father and therefore associates it with domination and with taking something. Decided to try it out, but didn't like how rough and mean it made him feel (the secret is finding someone who can soft dom him or who can show him how to soft dom someone).

Jacob lost his pretty young too and thought he was the biggest dick in town, despite not even attempting to find the clit. He's gotten better. Somewhat.

Holland is 100% the type of guy who got caught in his high school girlfriend's bed by her father. He successfully ran away (fell out the window) and even though they got interrupted it was all very sweet and awkward. They giggled about it the next day, I'm sure. I also think Holland probably wanted to wait to lose his virginity to someone he loves – which he did – but told everyone he already lost it ages ago.

I've been wracking my brain but I'm honestly not sure about Sebastian, Dean, Driver and Dan. Open for input, though :]

#amen to every single one of these #the jacob one LMFAOOO #devious but also very accurate #ryan gosling

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foxdev1l · 26 days

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THE GRAY MAN (2022)

Begging someone to write a proper good whump fic with Six and Lloyd, a nsfw one

c’mon they are such a good pairing especially for some tortured whump ff, with Lloyd’s pet names and sadistic tendencies and Six’s praise kink

just a suggestion 🗣️

#i need to think some thoughts #six is just too goddamn pretty when hes in pain #its not fair #and lloyd???#so much potential omfg #the gray man (2022)#sierra six #court gentry #lloyd hansen #whump #ryan gosling #sierra six x lloyd hansen

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foxdev1l · 27 days

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► Take

Officer K x amab!reader || Masterlist

Wordcount: 2,619

Summary: K isn't particularly good at receiving things– especially pleasure. You intend to change that.

A/N: Did this take me four months? ...no comment. Title is altogether uninspired because I, sadly, did not find a fitting song- I'm open to recs. Reader technically has a dick but it's like barely relevant or mentioned. Anyway, hope you enjoy and thanks to @foxdev1l for proofreading while falling asleep.

Content Warnings: nsfw, dom/sub undertones, male masturbation, rimming, anal fingering

K opens the door the same way he always does; just barely enough to let you slink your way in and then he presses it closed again, gently but firmly. He's had bad experiences over the years he's lived here and no one will ever accuse KD6-3.7 of being a bad student.

He learns and then he implements – there's no room for error. Not in his job and not his personal life either.

He watches you hang up your coat next to his, a small puddle of rainwater already shimmering on the gray floor.

“Do you want a drink?” K asks, easily falling into a practiced routine, as you step past him into what functions as his living room. There's a bottle already out, but not yet opened.

You shake your head and K accepts it with a barely visible nod, though he looks somewhat thrown. You usually share a drink with him, at least on Saturdays, and you think it calms him down somewhat.

It's like he's sinking into a familiar, coordinated dance. He's good at it, nearly natural, which isn't surprising – you did see the emanator mounted on his ceiling after all and you recognize Wallace's work when it's staring you right in the eyes.

So, he's had a good amount of practice, you'd wager.

“Water instead?” K asks, still just looking at you, gaze unreadable, but his posture is forcibly relaxed.

“Alright,” you say and K accepts that with a small nod too.

You study him while sipping at your water and he studies you right back. There's something defiant in his sloped shoulders; like he's used to people expecting him to look away.

A lot of replicants get by with small gestures of defiance simply because it's widely assumed that they can't disobey their human owners. That they don't have the needed spirit and motivation to even want to break rules. It's a patronizing and belittling belief but you guess they take what they can get.

The tension in K's frame reminds you of how far away he still is from truly letting his walls down around you. How much work there's still to be done until he's properly out of his shell. Considering neither of you is moving to a better apartment building anytime soon or moving on in a different way, you figure you've got enough time.

When you're done you hand the glass back to him. He turns around to put both of them in the sink and you take the opportunity to crowd him up against the counter. He tenses for a moment, then relaxes against you with a strained sigh and turns to face you.

You tilt your head closer, slowly, making sure K has enough time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn't want to though, and while he doesn't move closer, he accepts your kiss with a soft noise.

By the time you've made it to the bed K's lips are spit-slick and reddened, his breathing comes just a tad too fast and his eyes glide over your face and to your lips with a not wholly unfamiliar intensity.

He lets you crowd him up against the bed, but when you topple him onto it, he tugs you down with him, rolling the two of you.

You're left lying under him, his body a calming weight above you, and this time the soft kiss is initiated by him, his stubble rasping over your skin. When he pulls back to move down your body you hesitate for a split-second, almost throwing your plans for tonight out the window, because while he doesn't have all that much experience, K is a very devoted student and fast learner. He's grown good at pleasing you, very good actually and there’s something to be said for the pretty picture that K makes between your legs.

But, no, tonight is about teaching him something new. Something you wager he won't be good at.

Because as good as he's grown at giving pleasure he's horrible at accepting it.

K gets all wrong-footed and uncomfortable when you so much as bring him something to drink and you only tried to cook for him once. It was a tense evening and the next time you saw him he seemed more tired and wrung-out than usual. The tension, you had noted, only completely seeped out of him when you allowed him to cook for you the following week.

When he's given something he turns… Conflicted. Like he knows he's supposed to – engineered to – not want for anything, but finds himself doing exactly that. There's a part of him that revels in that disobedience, but it's still too small, too young, to really shift his mood away from the innate distress that comes with the feelings.

You stop K with a hand on his cheek and he tilts his head up to look at you, brows furrowed in question.

“You don't want to…?” he trails off, not looking as indifferent as he'd probably like to.

“I want to do something different today,” you tell him and he nods slowly after a few moments.

You tug him up and K follows easily, even when you roll him onto his back and clamber on top of him.

There's something apprehensive in his gaze, though, so you lean down to place a chaste and altogether too-sweet kiss onto his lips, propped up on your hands on either side of his head.

“Only as far as you can,” you assure him.

“Alright,” he says. His voice is quiet, but he seems more at ease, blue eyes dark-bright and wide like he’s up for the challenge.

You weren't expecting the competitiveness, but then again the drive to be better than the rest and not only fulfill but exceed expectations is certainly a plus when it comes to replicants. Not surprising he's got it built in.

Considering all that it shouldn't be surprising that he actually helps you take off his shirt, then his pants, socks and briefs with a certain degree of excitement, but it still is. A pleasant surprise, though, you think with a small smile.

K doesn't have any chest hair. You're not sure if that's by design or if it's coincidental, but you're pretty sure it's not his doing. He doesn't strike you as vain enough for it. But maybe it's about agency. You figure you can ask him.

Later. Because for now, you drink in the sight of K splayed out naked beneath you, tender and open, pale skin striking a strange harmony with his utilitarian gray sheets.

You gift him another sweet kiss and this time when you try to pull back he cranes his head, following you. You huff a laugh against his lips and indulge him. K lets out a content sigh and you decide to take the opportunity to drift a hand down over his chest and belly until you can fit it around his dick.

It's warm and heavy in your palm, and K lets out a strained noise, muffled against your mouth. He's not fully hard yet, but it doesn't take long or much.

Just a few easy strokes, until he's tentatively grinding his hips up into your grip.

“Good,” you murmur against his lips and if you weren't so focused on him you would have missed the small hitch in his breathing.

You press the answering smile into the stubbled skin of his neck, ceasing your motions and letting him take what he wants by bucking his hips, fucking up into your hand, all the while encouraging him with soft whispers of praise and nibbling kisses.

When he's panting into the open air of his apartment, pre-cum warm and sticky where his hard cock is leaking it over your hand, you pull back and he reluctantly stills his hips. You let your eyes roam over his neck first, making sure you haven't left any marks that could invite scrutiny he can't afford, then raise your gaze to his face. He looks surprisingly put-together, but his eyes are glassy and dark, and the audible way he's trying to catch his breath betrays him.

“I want you to turn around for me,” you say.

K very consciously relaxes the hands that were gripping and twisting his sheets, then asks, “Why?”

“I want to try something. If you don't like it we can do something else, but I'd really like to try.”

He hesitates for a moment, then gives a curt nod. You shuffle off him, giving him space to turn around and taking the opportunity to pull off your shirt and pants.

He seems unsure how exactly to position himself and as pretty as you imagine a flustered K would be, you don't keep him waiting.

“Hands and knees,” you clarify and he complies, despite the embarrassed shudder that runs through him.

You crowd up behind him, drawing gentle hands down his flank, molding yourself along the warm slope of his back until you can kiss his nape.

You place noisy, open-mouthed kisses along his spine, tasting only clean skin and mild soap.

The tension in K's frame increases incrementally the farther down you get and when you've reached his tail bone he bites out a strained “Stop.”

You back off immediately, letting him catch his breath for a moment. “K?”

“I don't…” he starts, squirming where he's still on all fours and you let him gather his thoughts. It's important to know if he's truly uncomfortable with where this is going or if he just thinks he should be.

“What about you?” is what he finally manages to say, voice more level than you expected.

“What about me?”

K lets out a frustrated noise. “Shouldn't this be about you too?”

You let out a laugh and see him tense in response. “I'm not laughing at you, just –”

You move closer again, now not trying to carefully keep your crotch away from his ass, pressing the very obvious bulge in your briefs against him.

“This is about me too,” you say, slowly grinding your erection against him. “Very much so.”

K lets out his own laugh at that, the sound somewhere between incredulity and simple delight, even if associating an emotion as strongly positive as delight with the replicant is unfamiliar.

“So,” you start, lightly squeezing the space just above his hips where your hands are placed, “Can I?”

“Yeah, alright,” K breathes and that's all you were waiting for.

“Thank you,” you tell him, bending at the waist to place one last kiss onto one of the knobs of his spine.

Then you pull back a bit, hands kneading the flesh of his ass and spreading his cheeks, noting that he's not hairless here. You don't care.

K lets out another one of those bitten-off strained noises of his that goes straight to the base of your spine and seeps into your crotch when you teasingly blow air over his hole.

It turns into a low, drawn-out sound, that's almost a keen when you press your tongue flat against his skin and draw it from his balls all the way up to his tailbone. He shudders and you do it again, again, and then again. His cock is hard and leaking, when you pull back.

“Good?” you ask.

You see him nod, before you hear his “Yes” and the hurry in the movement makes you smile.

You get back to the task at hand, fitting your mouth over his hole and sucking lightly. K's answering moan is the first he's let you hear and it’s like music to your ears.

You take your time figuring out what he likes, mapping out the area, licking around his hole, then pressing down on his taint with your tongue, before moving lower to his balls and back up again.

You don't touch his dick, but he doesn't complain.

When you put your mouth back over his hole, finally pressing your tongue in, licking into him with languid, almost hungry, motions, his restraint snaps. He collapses forward onto one leanly muscled forearm with a grunt, using the now-free arm to get a hand around his cock. He doesn't ask for permission, just starts jerking himself off in time with your movements.

You keep working him open, fucking into him with your tongue. He's not loud, but he's not quiet either, low grunts and rumbling groans tumbling out of his throat. It's probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear and there's a possessive thrill to that thought, that goes right to your dick.

You pull back for just a moment, pushing your fingers into your own mouth and getting them as wet as possible.

Then you spread his cheeks with one hand and K easily takes your fingers, opens up for you with a soft sigh, like he's just lowered himself into a warm bath. One of these days you're going to fuck him properly, tease more of those noises out of him. But for now you press two fingers deeper into him, curling them down until you find his prostate and his breath catches.

“Another one,” K says and it's neither a plea nor a command, really. He's just stating what he wants.

You comply anyway, pushing a third finger into him and working up a stable rhythm.

His hand is working furiously between his legs and he's grinding against your hand, trying to get your fingers even deeper. You let him, delighted to see him not only accepting what you're giving but also taking more himself, almost greedy with the hungry way he's pressing back against you.

K starts shuddering and you give his ass a reassuring squeeze, still pumping your fingers in and out of him rhythmically, faster now that his own strokes are speeding up too. He doesn't ask to cum and you wouldn’t have wanted him to anyway; he just presses his face into the pillow and cums over his gray sheets in long, white spurts, a muffled groan resonating through the room.

You keep your fingers in him for the moment, fucking him through the aftershocks with slow, circular movements and drawing your other hand up and down his side like you're gentling a spooked animal.

When the waves of his orgasm recede, you gently pull your fingers out of him and he collapses onto his side, carefully not landing in his own cum.

K throws an arm over his face, hiding his eyes.

“Fuck,” he says and you get up with a soft huff, padding into the direction of his kitchen.

You come back with a glass of water, handing it to him when he raises his head to look at what you're doing.

He empties it and puts it on his nightstand with a soft click, then turns back to you.

You look at him, not entirely sure how to proceed from here. Maybe honesty is the best option.

“Do you want me to stay?”

K looks torn for a moment, two, three.

“Yes,” he finally says and when you just nod, readily accepting his answer, he seems to relax, a small smile on his face.

His gaze flicks to your crotch suddenly, but you wave him off before he can say anything.

“I'm too tired.” It's not a lie, and while K accepts your words with a nod, you're sure there's a myriad of thoughts of ‘tomorrow’, ‘later’ or something similar on his mind.

For now, you join him in his bed, and if the wet spot K left behind forces the two of you closer together than you believe either of you would have initiated otherwise, that's just a small little stroke of good luck.

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