#taeyongxreader

You order, shaking your coat off and folding it in your lap as you wait for your drink. When you turn your head, you notice a younger guy watching you a few seats down. He realizes you’ve caught him staring, but he doesn’t look away. He just makes a sort of self-deprecating face, and then plucks up his drink and hops off his seat, coming up to you.

“Sorry,” he says as soon as he’s close enough for you to hear him. “Can I join you?”

You eye him. “Are you even old enough to drink?” you ask.

“I’ve been out of college almost a year,” he says, laughing. “Promise. I’m almost twenty-four.”

You nod for him to take a seat. “If you’re twenty-four, how come you’re not out at a club with your friends? Isn’t that what twenty-four-year-olds do?” The bartender returns with your drink. “Thank you,” you add to her, accepting it. 

“My friends are busy,” the guy says. “Plus, I like trying out new spots around the city. I did my clubbing and partying in college. One weekend off isn’t a huge loss.” He stirs his drink with the little plastic straws it came with; whatever it is, he must have been holding onto it for a while, because the ice cubes have already melted. “And I like meeting new people. Like you.” He looks up, almost batting his eyelashes at you. “I’m Taeyong. What’s your name?”

“I’m [Y/N],” you reply slowly.

“[Y/N],” he repeats. “It’s a pretty name. It suits you.”

The blatant flirting makes you laugh. “Taeyong,” you say. “Don’t you think I’m a little old for you?”

“I dunno,” he says. “How old are you?”

“That’s rude,” you chastise him. He flushes; you laugh again. “But I’ll tell you. I’m thirty-one.”

Taeyong smiles. “Then, no. That’s not even ten years.”

“That’s your rule?” you ask.

“Depends on the person,” he says coyly, no longer flustered. “You seem nice. And you’re beautiful. So I don’t have a problem with it.”

Oh, what the fuck. It’s not like you have plans. “Okay, Taeyong,” you say. “What are you drinking, then? I’ll buy your next one.”

He looks surprised. “But women aren’t supposed to buy men drinks,” he says. “What about, like, the wage gap?”

“Maybe,” you say, “but considering our age gap, I think it’s safe to assume I make more than you.” You nod at the glass in his hand. “What is it?”

He looks a little embarrassed. “Um, a rum and Coke.”

“Oh, that won’t do,” you say. “You like sweet drinks?” He nods. “They have something here called Just Peachy. It’s peach liquor and peach lemonade, with some orange bitters. It’s really good. Wanna try it?”

“Sure,” he says shyly, downing the rest of his watery rum and Coke. You flag the bartender down.

Soon, Taeyong is enjoying his new drink, and you find yourself warmed to him. You order some duck fat fries for the two of you to snack on, only realizing afterwards that this was probably Taeyong’s plan all along. He says he’s looking for work in the music industry while maintaining a part-time job at his local grocery store—so he doesn’t have a lot of money to spare. It makes sense now that he would be out alone. He was watching for someone like you—older, richer, and easily charmed—so he could spend their money. 

You don’t feel irritation at this discovery, though. A few drinks and a couple of bar snacks do not make a dent in your bank account. If he’s hungry, you might as well feed him. He’s good company; it’s the least you can do. You ask him what else he would like to eat; he takes you up on the offer and asks to order a flight of sweets. You oblige. 

He’s nice to look at, too—features perfect like a doll’s, as if made intentionally by careful hands instead of grown into being by natural process. He has big, pretty eyes and lips that like to smile as much as they pout; his eyebrows, cheekbones, and jawline are all surprisingly sharp, like delicate knives cutting across the gentleness of his face. His hair is a shock of cotton-candy pink, side-swept and soft. You find yourself leaning in, listening closely to what he has to say. He’s beautiful; beauty is alluring. 

You let your mind entertain the thought of taking him home, though you won’t act on it unless he asks. You don’t think he will ask; it seems he’s here to get a free meal and a couple free drinks and then head home. You’re content with that, but it does scrape out a little hollow of sadness in you. Returning home alone feels empty, somehow. 

The hours drip by, slowed by the brightness of his company and the lethargy of the alcohol. He asks surface-level questions of you, but seems to be intent on internalizing them all the same. 

“What do you do for work?”

“I work at a trading company,” you say. “Management, mostly. It’s boring and busy at the same time, but it pays the bills.”

He nods. “Then what do you do for fun, if your job is boring?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “I draw,” you say. “Just sketches, really. I don’t have time for anything else. I do this.” You gesture to your environment. “I don’t know, I try to delight in the little things, I suppose. Most people don’t have the privilege to.”

“No one in your life, then?” Taeyong asks. “I mean, I assume because you’re here and you haven’t mentioned anybody.”

“Yes,” you admit. “I’m a bit busy for the commitment of a real relationship, you know?”

Taeyong rolls his eyes. “I have a lot of friends in business who say that same thing. I don’t ask to—to shame you,” he adds when you frown. “I only meant—if you would like to have company tonight, I—I would like that. I meant, if there isn’t somebody else.”

You smile at his clumsiness. “There isn’t anybody else,” you say warmly. “I’d love to bring you back to mine, if you want.”

His lashes are like the wings of a butterfly, eyes rounded in the performance of surprise and delight; underneath, the satisfaction of victory, nearly hidden. “Thank you,” he says, though the implication is that he is doing you a favor. “I promise I won’t be too much trouble.”

You give him a look. “Well, a little trouble is alright, I think.”

He grins. 

You pay the bill and shrug your coat on, following him out the door. You get a taxi, letting him slide in first. You’re mostly silent on the ride home; the passive scrutiny of the driver is enough to make speaking uncomfortable. You would rather let him continue to guess at the nature of your relationship with Taeyong, and Taeyong seems happy to sit quietly and watch the city pass by out the windows, anyway. 

When you reach your building, Taeyong gasps in appreciation over the lavish decor of the lobby. “You’re rich rich,” he giggles, like he didn’t seek you out for that reason. You let him shield himself in his lie, only offering a smile. “Sorry,” he adds out of courtesy. “I’m just impressed. You must work hard.”

“I did when I was younger,” you say as the elevator doors close. “After a certain point, though, if you’re lucky, you don’t have to work so hard anymore. I was lucky.”

“Still,” Taeyong says. 

The elevators open onto your floor, and you lead Taeyong down the hall to your door, unlocking it with the tap of a key to the electronic lock, and pushing it open. 

Taeyong doesn’t comment on the interior—perhaps he’s decided he’s filled his quota of overstepping for one night, or simply doesn’t have anything good to say. You hope it’s the former; though logically his approval counts for very little, you want it anyway. 

Instead, once his shoes are off and his coat hung up, he turns to you with a shy smile. “Where do you want me?” he asks. 

You laugh. “I was just going to show you my bedroom, unless you’re having other ideas.”

He shakes his head; his bangs fall into his eyes. “Bedroom is fine by me.”

You lead him down the hall, then pause in your doorway. “Taeyong,” you say softly. “I hope you know that you don’t owe me anything just because I bought you a drink or two. I did that without expecting anything in return. I only want it if you do, too.”

But he’s smiling. “This is exactly why I approached you, [Y/N]. Really.” He comes right up to you, so close that you can feel the heat of his body. “I want it. I want you.”

The sweet dip in his tone surprises you. You suppose it shouldn’t—he’s an adult, has been one for a while—but somehow, it throws you off-balance, his confidence, only barely tempered by his cuteness. Maybe it is the age difference; maybe younger people are just more comfortable being more forward—or maybe it’s just him.

You recover quickly. “Okay, Taeyong,” you say, smiling. “Then come here.”

He’s already close enough that kissing him requires you only to lean forward a few centimeters before your lips find his. Despite the cold sharpness of some of his features, his lips are soft and warm. He draws closer almost naturally; one of your hands ends up on his little waist. The instant you touch him, all your trepidation disappears; suddenly, kissing him isn’t enough. Suddenly, you want everything.

You wrench yourself away so you can pull him to your bed. He follows eagerly, reaching up for you again as soon as he’s seated on the edge of the mattress. His hands fumble over your clothes, over the buttons of your blouse. You let him undo them with clumsy fingers, nudging his knees apart with your legs so you can step closer.

You break the kiss so you can shrug your shirt off, taking the chance to unbutton and unzip your pants as well. Taeyong makes a soft noise of complaint, but upon realizing what you’re doing, quickly shifts to working on his own clothing. 

“D’you have a strap?” he asks softly. “It’s okay if not, I just—”

“I don’t, sorry,” you say, feeling genuinely remorseful. You’d never really seriously entertained the idea of pegging—you didn’t know if you’d ever meet a guy who would be into it—but now you want it, want to fuck him like that. You make a mental note to add a strap to your shopping list. “Is that something you like, baby?”

You see him shiver at the word baby. “Yes,” he says, “but it’s not the only thing I like.” One of his hands catches your wrist; he dips his head and presses a soft kiss to your palm. “Will you ride me, then?”

You smile, heat coursing through your body when he looks up at you, lips still on your hand. “You want me to be in control, is that it?” He nods wordlessly. “Good,” you say. “That’s what I want, too.” You nod at him. “Go on then, up by the pillows.”

He obeys, scooting up your mattress and lying back against the pillows. You pull open your bedside drawer for a condom and follow, settling beside him on your knees.

Taeyong reaches for you as soon as you stop moving. “Let me do it,” he says. “You’ll be doing all the hard work later, anyway.”

You smile, straddling his waist, keeping your knees bent at ninety degrees so he has room to fit his hand between your bodies. His fingers are soft and slim and deft; he sucks on them to wet them and then stretches his hand out toward you, gentle and practiced, sliding them past your clit and sinking them slowly into the wet heat of your pussy.

He’s good with his fingers, you quickly discover. He twists his wrist, curling them inside you until you gasp, nearly pitching forward on top of him. He gets comfortable at that angle and speeds up, blinking at you hopefully while you moan quietly, arousal thrumming through your body like a second heartbeat. He seems even more eager than you; he whimpers softly in response to the noises you make, eyes big and starry. 

“What, baby?” you whisper.

“You just sound so good,” he says. “Just want to fuck you.”

You laugh, bending over over him carefully so you don’t shift out of his reach, and kiss his cheek. “You’re too cute for your own good, you know,” you say. He makes a happy noise in response. 

He fingers you until four fingers doesn’t feel like a stretch and you’re dripping down his knuckles. He’s already hard just from fingering you, which you kind of find sweet, so you roll the condom onto his cock while he cleans his fingers with his tongue. 

“Hurry up,” he complains, when you hover over him teasingly.

“Don’t be rude,” you say, but you lower yourself down onto him all the same, pressing a hand on his chest to keep your balance as you bottom out. Taeyong whines, squeezing his eyes shut. “Good?”

“Good,” he gasps. “Will you—will—” He offers you a splayed-open palm.

“You want me to hold your hand, baby?” You’re genuinely amused, interlacing your fingers with his. “Sure.” You roll your hips, and you both let out breathy moans.

You press your intertwined hands into the mattress so you can use the other one to card through his hair. He leans into your touch, finally opening his pretty eyes. You move a little faster, but keep an even, measured pace. You don’t want to exhaust yourself too fast, and besides, you want to be able to look at him.

Your fingers find his jaw; your grip tightens, thumb pressed into the hollow of his cheek. “Look at you,” you whisper. He whines again. “So pretty, baby. Feel so nice, too.”

“Fuck,” he whimpers quietly. His hips twitch upwards to meet you, almost involuntary. His eyes never leave yours; they’re a hazy and a little unfocused, but his gaze stays glued firmly to to you, almost like he can’t bear to look away.

“You like it?” you coo, stroking your thumb over his cheek.

“Like it, I like it,” he says, nodding as best he can with his head in your hand. He squeezes your hand. “Kiss me,” he demands.

And you do, leaning forward with a smile and pressing your lips to his, scraping a little with your teeth while he moans. He’s warm, so warm; the noises he makes are so sweet. He dips his head so he can kiss your chest; your hand moves to the back of his skull. 

“You can leave a mark, if you like,” you pant, realizing now that you’re short of breath from the exertion, the adrenaline. “No one will say anything to me.”

He doesn’t respond verbally; instead, you feel teeth against your skin, and his tongue, wet and hot, as he works to leave dark hickeys blooming in the shape of his mouth. He’s rocking his hips up now, fucking up into you clumsily. His free hand fumbles between your bodies before finding purchase against your inner thigh, and then you feel his thumb against your clit. You gasp, curling forward, not sure how to handle everything you’re feeling.

Taeyong stays attached to your chest until he’s satisfied with the number of marks littered across it. He then raises his head to steal another kiss, breath trembling and uneven. His little noises have grown more insistent now; there’s a hint of desperation to his movements. 

“You close?” you ask softly. “You gonna come?”

“Mm-hm, yes,” he says, nodding. He speeds up his finger against your clit. “A-are you?”

“Yes,” you hiss through gritted teeth.

Your orgasm takes you half by surprise. One moment you think you’re nearing it, and the next, pleasure shocks your body in waves. You convulse around Taeyong, jaw dropped open. He moves his hips faster still, gasping softly at the sudden tightness. You feel him let go as your breathing begins to slow, and spread your hand against his stomach so you can feel the shuddering of his body as he comes. 

You stay quiet for a few moments, catching your breath. Taeyong flings an arm over his eyes, letting out a tired sigh. When you look down at him, you see a smile forming on his lips. You find yourself holding back a smile, too. It’s not that you don’t usually enjoy sex, but that after is often awkward. But here, there’s no awkwardness. You feel good, and light. It feels almost like the start of something new.

“What do you think about a shower, and then bed?” you ask, deciding to shelve your thoughts for later.

He lifts his arm slightly so he can look at you. He grins. “I think that sounds great.”

.｡.･ﾟ･:*♡*:･ﾟ･.｡.

The next morning, you slip from bed before Taeyong wakes up to throw together some breakfast. He comes into the kitchen as you’re plating it, yawning and rubbing his eyes. 

“Good morning,” he says quietly.

“Good morning,” you reply evenly, sliding him a plate. 

You chat about nothing while you eat, letting the calm quiet of the morning soothe you. Eventually, you settle into a sort of amiable silence as you finish your coffees. You watch him as he swirls his cup, his looks perfect even straight out of bed. You’re not sure why, but you want to spoil him.

“Taeyong,” you say at length. “I had fun. Last night.”

“Good,” Taeyong replies. “So did I.”

“I was thinking,” you continue, “if you’re cool with seeing me again, I’d love to take you to dinner sometime.”

Taeyong giggles, a sweet sound, placing his empty cup on the table and leaning forward. “I’d like that,” he says.

And so it begins. You exchange numbers, and go on a series of pseudo-dates. You even buy a strap. It’s just a fling, really: you’re not exclusive, and you don’t see each other regularly, but you do keep up with him. You find yourself at least vaguely worried about his health and his wellbeing, and in return he seems genuinely concerned about you, too. It’s not a relationship, but it’s nice. You’re happy to have a pretty boy to shower with gifts and nice food and whatever else he might desire. 

Eventually, he coaxes you into coming to a party to meet some of his friends. They’re all around his age, if not younger, so it perturbs you a bit to be in their company, but you find quickly that they’re open and welcoming and kind. Though you keep to the fringes of the reveling, you find yourself warmed by their presence. 

“Are you having fun?” Taeyong asks, sidling up to you some number of hours later.

“I am,” you say, giving him a mischievous sidelong glance. “I didn’t know you had so many handsome, eligible young bachelor friends. Aren’t you worried that one of them is gonna steal me away from you?” you tease.

Taeyong smiles. “No,” he says pertly, “‘cuz I know you like me.”

You turn to face him. “That’s true enough,” you say. It comes out softer, more tender than you intended.

But Taeyong’s smile remains. “It’s a good thing, too. Because I really do like you, [Y/N].”

“Yeah?” For some reason, you’re nervous. You look over the face you’ve come to adore so much, at the boy you never thought you’d find so hard to let go. 

“Yeah.” He hooks his arm through yours, leaning close. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asks lowly.

You smile, too. “As much as I enjoy your friends, I would love to,” you reply.

The dishes are finally done, and you dry your hands off while Taeyong noses at your neck, looking for a kiss. You sigh, extricating yourself from his hold. “That’s not how you ask for something.”

“Want you to fuck me,” he says, which is not the answer you were looking for.

“That’s not asking,” you say.

“Will you fuck me?” he rephrases. “Please?” Okay, points for manners. “Before I die of neglect?” Points immediately rescinded.

He’s been handsy and needy since you first got home earlier this evening. And you get it. You’ve both been a little busy this week, and you both got home late most days, too tired to do much before collapsing in bed to sleep. But you also feel that he could stand to be a little less desperate, and at least let you have a peaceful dinner. Unfortunately, it seems like peace is far from his mind. It’s not such a huge problem—you guys can stay up late tonight, and you appreciate how much he wants you—but you still want to try to be responsible.

Still, you gesture for him to head upstairs. “Let’s be polite, okay?”

“I said please,” he says, tone saturated with sass, taking the stairs two at a time.

“You’re being awfully mouthy for a good boy,” you say, a gentle warning, as you reach the upstairs hallway.

You don’t doubt Taeyong understands the meaning behind your words; his eyes dance with mischief. “What do you mean?” he asks sweetly.

You sigh. “Just seems like you’re on a fast track to wearing my patience thin, that’s all.” You make a shooing gesture at him in the direction of your bedroom. “Go on, on the bed.”

For once this evening, he does what he’s told. You follow slowly, flicking the hallway light off and closing the bedroom door behind you. Taeyong is situating himself on your mattress, covers shoved to one side. His shorts are riding up on his thighs, revealing soft, tender skin. You clench your jaw involuntarily, turning away so he doesn’t see.

You pull open your intimates drawer and run your fingers along the line of strap-ons there, plucking up a medium-sized baby blue one. You want to be able to fuck him hard, and that will be difficult if you can barely move inside him. You grab the lube as well, then slide the drawer shut, and hook your fingers through one of the loops of your harness, finally making your way over to the bed.

Taeyong makes a delighted noise when he sees the strap. “I love that one,” he says, leaning back. You realize he’s been touching himself over his shorts when you weren’t looking; there’s a wet patch over the little bulge where the head of his cock is. His fingers are suspiciously close to it.

“You’re so impatient,” you say, nodding at his hand. “Do you even deserve it?”

He ghosts his hand over his cock. “You never said I couldn’t.”

It’s like he’s determined to push all of your buttons. “It’s bad manners, baby,” you say, keeping your voice level. “Touching yourself through your pants when you think I can’t see? It’s naughty.”

He’s wearing a somewhat smug smile. “I’ve been doing it all night,” he reveals. “I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to notice, really. But I guess it’s ‘cuz you weren’t being very nice. Weren’t paying any attention to me.”

Alright, that’s enough, you think. You drop the items on the bed and reach out for him with both hands. In an instant, you’ve flipped him onto his stomach. Taeyong squeals in shock, but you hear a little bit of giddy delight mixed in there. You yank his shorts down, pulling his ass up with the hand that’s still on his hip, and strike him hard. Taeyong cries out; you pause to lick your palm, and hit him again, right over the same spot.

“M-ommy,” Taeyong stutters out, sounding punch-drunk.

“Gave you a couple of chances,” you say, hitting the other side. “Sometimes you’re perfect, but other days it’s like you can’t be good unless I beat some sense into you first. Do I have you make you scared of me to make you behave?”

“You’re so hot when you’re scary.” You think it’s supposed to be a rebuttal. You hit him again, pretending not to listen. He keeps talking anyway, breath hiccuping with each impact. “And you know how much I like getting hit.”

“Couldn’t you just ask for me to rough you up a little? Instead of goading me into it?” you suggest almost wearily.

“It feels better when you’re mad.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” you say, pinching his ass. He yelps; it turns into a whimper when you release him and immediately spank the spot before it’s finished turning from white to red. He whimpers; it sounds unsteady, like he’s on the verge of tears. Serves him right. “Stay there,” you say, releasing him to reach for the lube. To his credit, Taeyong doesn’t move apart from trembling a little in place as you slick up a couple of your fingers.

You use your other hand to tug his shorts the rest of the way down. The fabric pools around his knees. His cock bobs between his legs, head wet with precome. In a way, you almost feel bad for him—he’s been teasing himself all night—but it’s his own fault, so you brush the pity aside. You circle his entrance with a lube-slick finger to help with the initial push in, and then press your finger inside.

Taeyong shudders. “Oh, fuck,” he mumbles.

You swat him with your other hand. “Is that what you say?”

“Thank you,” he rushes out. You spank him again, and he lets out a broken little sob. “Thank you, mommy.”

“Was it so difficult?” You move your finger slowly, letting him open up around you. He doesn’t reply, just sniffles.

Luckily, the spanking has made him pliant, and soon you have three and then four fingers pumping in and out of him with ease. You stroke over his prostate just to watch him shake, his cock twitching as it drools more precome.

“Mommy,” he whimpers. “Please, I—I’m gonna—”

“You can come whenever you like,” you say mildly, “as long as you think you can come again later.”

“I can, I can,” he pants. You curl your fingers against his prostate and don’t move them away, just pet over it until he’s sobbing and coming untouched onto the sheets. You watch the way his stomach expands and deflates as he tries to catch his breath. His little body convulses weakly as the last drop of come beads at the head of his cock, and he lets out a long moan.

“So pretty when you come,” you murmur, rubbing your thumb back and forth over his hip, almost absentmindedly. “Can you roll over on your back? Use your shorts to clean up a little so it doesn’t stain the mattress while I put this on.” You pull out, watching in satisfaction when his hole clenches around air.

Taeyong doesn’t verbally reply, but he does do as he’s told, so you let it go. You pull your clothes off and drop them on the floor at the foot of the bed, then reach for the strap on and harness and begin the sometimes-arduous process of putting everything together.

Luckily, it doesn’t take that long, and Taeyong’s preoccupied cleaning anyway, so by the time he’s balling his dirty shorts up, you’re ready. You take his shorts from him with a “thank you, baby,” and toss them in the direction of the rest of your clothes. You spread his legs, lining the silicone cock head up with his entrance, and push in with one easy motion.

He gasps when you bottom out; you guess he’s still sensitive from his first orgasm. But he doesn’t flinch away, just squeezes his eyes shut, hands fluttering at his sides.

Soon, though, he adjusts and his eyes blink back open. He reaches out for you, and, thinking he wants a kiss, you lean forward to indulge him as you begin to thrust into him, slow and gentle. Your lips have barely brushed his before his hands are all over your body, settling on your tits and squeezing hard.

You slap his hands away, pulling back. “Did we not just go over this?” you snap. “You need to be patient, and only use your hands when I say you can—on me and on yourself. What else do I have to do to get it through your dumb little head?”

Taeyong’s watching you through slightly unfocused eyes. “I can’t help it, mommy,” he slurs out. “I want you all the time.”

“You’re not going to win me over with flattery,” you reply. “You can want me and still behave.”

“Don’t know how,” he insists, lifting his head like he’s gonna try to sit up or something. You grab a fistful of his hair and yank him back down, twisting his neck to the side until you’re sure his scalp is burning. He chokes out another moan.

“Absolutely not.” You slap him clean across the cheek, pleased when fresh tears spill over his waterline immediately. You’re mad, but it’s so hot; you decide to stop fucking him and just start grinding against the base of the strap. He can come again if you’re feeling generous after you’ve satisfied your own arousal.

It still does something for him, of course; you’re buried deep inside of him, and your movements make the strap press against his walls. His cock is already half-hard again, slowly recovering; he strains against your hand even though all that’s gonna do is get his hair ripped out if he’s not careful.

You’d rather that didn’t happen, so you slap him again to keep him down. He falls back against the pillows with a soft moan, blinking his teary eyes open. The pressure against your clit is steady and good, and you can feel your thighs trembling.

“Mommy,” Taeyong whines, lower lip wobbling. “Hurts.”

You huff out a moan and let your orgasm take you, gripping his hair even tighter as your heartbeat stutters while hot pleasure spreads across your body and satisfies the ache between your thighs.

You hear Taeyong crying in earnest as you catch your breath, and you release his head, afraid for a moment that you’ve really hurt him. But he seems fine, mostly; he’s mumbling something, but it’s hard to pick out words between his sobs.

“I’m sorry, mommy,” he says when you realizes you’re looking at him. He reaches out for you limply—not a ploy this time, but a need for you to be close. You curl over him, cupping his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, whispering now. His eyes are glassy. “I always force you to punish me because I’m always bad.”

There’s real sadness there, and it breaks your heart. “No, no, baby,” you say. “You’re not bad; it’s just that sometimes you do bad things. And that’s okay.” You kiss his cheek and he whimpers. “I punish you because I know it’s what you need, not because I’m truly angry. I could never be angry with you.”

Taeyong sobs, holding you close. You kiss him again and again, tasting the salt of his tears. “Mommy,” he cries. “I love you.”

You smile. “I love you too, baby,” you say. “It’s okay. Don’t cry.” He hiccups quietly, but you can feel his breathing begin to slow. “Good. So good. Do you still wanna come?”

This catches his interest, and he even manages a smile. “Yes,” he says softly.

“Okay.” You give him one last kiss, then push yourself up a little for better leverage, and begin thrusting into him again.

He clings to you, moaning sweetly. The tears dry on his face, and there’s no trace of that sadness, or the terrible mischief, anymore. He looks blissful and content, sighing when the head of the strap hits home.

You wrap a hand around his cock, and it only takes a few more minutes before he’s coming, arching off the bed as he spills hot white over your hand and his chest.

You pull away, kissing him and promising you’ll be right back. You start the water for a bath, then carry him to the bathroom and leave him to soak there while you clean everything up. Once you’re satisfied with the state of the room, you rejoin him in the bathroom, climbing in beside him. The water is still warm.

“C’mere,” he says, reaching out for you. You scoot closer, humming happily. “Thank you,” he says.

Taeyong blinks calmly, watching them lay out their supplies—a tape measure, pins, a notepad. [Y/N] is young, but already they’ve made a name for themself in the fashion industry. They’ve styled many celebrities, and LSM Inc. snatched them up at first chance to outfit their idols. Before Taeyong met them, he’d heard they were good with AI robots. It’s true.

They pinch at the fabric of the shirt Taeyong’s already wearing. “We need to bring this in,” they say, looking up at him. “I want to highlight your waist.”

My waist. Normally people talk about Taeyong’s cheekbones or his jawline. “We could crop it,” he suggests tentatively.

They smile warmly. “We could, if you’d like. I think it would look nice.” They deftly fold the fabric up, simulating a crop, so that just an inch of Taeyong’s skin shows. They meet Taeyong’s gaze in the mirror, eyes questioning. “How’s that?”

Taeyong nods. “I like it.”

“Me, too.” They start with the pins, fingers nimble. Taeyong relaxes his shoulders. With other stylists, it’s not always wise to offer his own opinions. Mostly they treat him like a doll, or maybe a mannequin—they rarely ask him for input, or speak to him at all except to tell him how to position himself as they work. It’s not that it bothers Taeyong—no one is cruel to him, which is all that matters—but it’s nice to be able to chime in about his clothing from time to time. It’s also nice that he can chat with [Y/N] as they work, instead of standing in awkward silence. It makes the time pass more quickly. 

This is not his first fitting with [Y/N], but they are still relatively new to the team. And yet, Taeyong has found an easy sort of familiarity with them even after just a few meetings. It’s mostly because they actually treat him like he has a brain and social skills. Both synthetic, but who’s counting, right?

It seems a lot of people are. Taeyong was not born. He was brought into being. He was created, and he will outlive the hands that created him. This excites some, and frightens others. Taeyong isn’t sure how he feels about it. He supposes, like with everything else, he feels nothing at all. 

It’s not that Taeyong is emotionless, or completely void of opinions or feelings. He was given a moral compass, after all: good and bad, right and wrong (he is good, and he does the right things). It’s just that most things don’t bother him one way or another. He knows that’s part of his programming, but because it’s part of his programming, he doesn’t care. He still has plenty of learned emotional displays, and his technicians always told him that his affective responses were off the charts for a robot; so like a human’s. But things that would make a human—or even a less carefully-programmed robot—angry, or sad or scared or whatever else, hit some kind of wall inside of him, and bounce away, harmless. 

He was told in his classes that the lack of emotionality protects him and makes him better at doing his job, and better at functioning day-to-day, than a human. Taeyong can accept this as true. He’s pretty sure, however, that it protects humans from him. It makes him less volatile. No matter how hard humans try, they always end up making robots a little too strong. He knows a lot of people are afraid of him because of this. Though no one has said anything explicitly, he’s also pretty sure that were his emotional centers to malfunction—were the blockers to fail—he would be retired immediately. He’s heard whisperings of past generations of robots, of older prototypes that had, suddenly and without warning, been retired. And since he belongs to a research corporation, his retirement would be slow and painful—they’d want to dissect him and understand what went wrong.

But Taeyong is well-made. He doesn’t think it’ll be a problem.

Another thing he’s pretty sure about is that [Y/N] is not afraid of him. They are good with AI robots because they don’t treat robots like they are robots. They treat them like they would anybody else. Taeyong doesn’t have to school himself around them. If he makes a sudden movement, they don’t flinch. He likes that about [Y/N].

“How have you been?” [Y/N] asks as they reach for more pins.

“Good,” Taeyong says. It’s a script he’s familiar with. One is not supposed to be honest when asked something like that in casual conversation. Taeyong hasn’t been good. Taeyong has been fine. Taeyong has been neutral. He has practice, recording, filming, and then he goes back to his dorm to rest. It’s monotonous, but not terrible. “How are you?”

“Busy,” [Y/N] replies. “But I don’t mind that. Lee Sooman-seonsangnim has me working with RVel.V now, too.”

“Oh.” Taeyong feels a spark of interest. The RVel.V robots came before the #S127 line. They rarely see them, except in passing, so Taeyong’s always a little curious to hear about them. “I don’t know them that well,” he says. “What are they like?”

“A bit like you guys,” [Y/N] says. Their tone is fond, Taeyong registers. “And a bit not. Their leader is not like you at all,” they add with a short laugh. “She’s very commanding and it takes her a while to warm up to people, I think.”

“I am warm?” Taeyong asks, puzzled.

“To me,” [Y/N] says. 

“People say I’m scary,” Taeyong says, and [Y/N] laughs again. 

“That’s because most people only see you on stage,” they tell him. “Okay, let’s look at the next outfit.” They step away so Taeyong can slip behind the divider to change. 

Taeyong undresses, running his hands over his waist for a moment before he pulls the next shirt on. He doesn’t think often about his body. He was made a certain way and there isn’t much he can do to change it, so there isn’t a point. He doesn’t really consider if certain parts of his body are good or nice or pretty; he’s told that he’s handsome, and he knows he was made with that intent. His face is symmetrical; he has wide eyes and pouty lips, and to some, that makes him beautiful. 

Some humans say that they were made in the image of their creator, that they are smaller, less perfect versions of their God. Taeyong thinks their God is cruel. Taeyong thinks they know this, because when they make robots, they make them more perfect. More beautiful. Taeyong is made in the image of his creators, but better. It is precisely because of this that half of the humans love him, and the other half despise him. He knows they all envy him. 

Maybe that God was onto something, after all.

He steps back out in a new outfit: a loose black button down and ripped jeans. He gets back up on the dais and watches [Y/N] as they wordlessly appraise him.

“Well, for starters,” they say after a moment, “tuck the shirt in.”

Taeyong senses what he thinks might be displeasure, and for some reason something inside of him strains to fix it. Perhaps it’s just because [Y/N] has never expressed anything negative to him, but either way he hastily tucks the shirt into the waistband of his jeans.

But when they look at him, they’re still smiling gently. “No, like this,” they say, tugging it out a little so it hangs over the belt loops. “That’s better. And then… let’s unbutton another button.” They step back, looking him over again. “Yeah, I’ll bring everything in just a little, I think. You’re so tiny.”

Taeyong has never been called tiny like this before, either. [Y/N] is always finding ways to surprise him, it seems. Normally, when someone says he’s tiny, it’s dismissive or disparaging. Now, though, it makes him feel precious, almost. Special. 

“Do you think we can get the hair and makeup noonas to work around a pair of sunglasses?” [Y/N] asks, their eyes full of mirth. Whatever that strange moment was, it has passed.

“Sunglasses?”

“Not for you to actually wear, just to balance on the top of your head,” they explain. They brush through his hair with their fingers, lips pursed thoughtfully. The pad of one of their fingertips skims Taeyong’s temple, and for one fleeting instant, Taeyong feels a spark of recognition. It’s gone before he can examine it. “We can have them secure them in place so you don’t have to worry when you’re dancing.” 

Taeyong tries to picture it. “You think it’d look nice?” he asks.

“I think it’d look nice,” they say, nodding. They bring their hand up to his back, smoothing the fabric between his shoulder blades, but their eyes do not leave his. They seem to be watching his reaction carefully, almost curiously. 

“Okay,” Taeyong agrees. 

The warmth of their touch leaves his back. “Then we’re all done with this one.” They nod for him to go change again. “Next outfit, please.”

Taeyong ducks back behind the screen, and though his skin readjusts quickly to the room’s temperature, there seems to be a phantom cold spot on his back, even still, in the shape of [Y/N]’s hands. 

=&&&=

The #S127s were made as an improvement on the RVel.V line. Like the RVel.V girls, Taeyong and the rest of the #S127s are musician AI robots. Unlike RVel.V, #S127 will have an endless career.

Before LSM Inc.’s AI Project #14320, the project that created all the robots like Taeyong, AI robots usually lived for around the average human lifespan. AI Project #14320 was a great leap for technology. The project consists of an infinite number of series of AI robots that are built to last forever. Taeyong is told he is built directly off of one of the very first prototypes. 

Taeyong is a #S127.AI robot. Model #LT1795. He’s known this longer than he’s known almost anything else. He also knows he’s lucky, because the two true prototypes, series #U4916.AI, don’t ever get a set directive. They have adaptable function, and their purpose changes with the release of each series. It might be nice to get to try a lot of things, but Taeyong is glad he doesn’t have to keep learning and relearning his role.

After the #S127 line came Dream.AI. They are a line meant to integrate with society; seven boys, bright, dreamy, and charming, who will use learned emotional responses to make friends and go to school and achieve personal goals. Taeyong has met some of them in passing; a few were in the same preliminary classes as he was.

Most recently came the VWay.AI line. These robots are vocational; they’re meant to hold certain occupations that will aid humans, doing the more difficult and strenuous tasks that humans are unwilling or unable to complete. Taeyong doesn’t envy them, either. He knows it’s probably just his programming—if he’d been given a different directive, he’d probably hate the life he’s living now—but he likes what he does. He likes music and he likes dancing and he likes to perform. Other jobs seem boring and tedious.

Taeyong doesn’t remember much of the first day that he spent alive. He remembers being terrified. He only gets flashes—the heavy, wet feeling in his lungs as he slipped forward on his hands and knees, trying to stand; a gloved hand, reaching for him as he flailed; the cold metal of an examination table; his first shower; the feeling of clean clothes on his skin. And then—his first class, taken alone, about what he is and what he is for.

The memories are clear after this. He learned that the first day or two of a robot’s life is muddled as the body learns to be alive. After that, the programming starts to kick in and subconsciously the brain begins to look for ways to complete its directive. Taeyong’s directive, he was told, is to lead a new group of musician AI robots. 

Robots are special, he also learned. Their skin has a sort of flesh memory. The first person they come into contact with, skin to skin—even the brushing of fingertips—creates a bond. This is a person they remember intrinsically, even if their memory center hasn’t kicked into gear—it’s a memory that relies on touch instead of conscious cognition.

All of the scientists and doctors and researchers that handled Taeyong in his first couple of days of life were all gloved, wearing long sleeves and masks, to prevent this from happening. Usually, the point is to bond the robot to its owner. However, as Taeyong is an experiment, technically, he was not going to be bonded to a human. Instead, he was bonded to another robot. 

When the first contact a robot has in another robot, the bond is not as strong. While they will be closely connected to each other, it doesn’t cause the same deep, unconscious memory to form. Furthermore, the robots will then not be affected in the same way if a human were to touch them afterwards.

Taeyong’s pair was a pretty robot; he saw his picture before they met. His scientists led him into an empty room, and then let the other robot in a few minutes later. Taeyong offered him his hand, but instead of shaking it like Taeyong had seen in the videos they’d shown him in his classes, the other robot reached out with both hands, using one to flip Taeyong’s hand palm-up, and laying the other on top. Gentle. He trailed a finger from the heel of Taeyong’s palm to the tip of his index finger, and then looked up to meet his eye.

“I’m Model #KD1296,” he said. “Named Doyoung.”

“Taeyong,” Taeyong replied, and he was rewarded with the tiniest of smiles.

Doyoung is a day younger than Taeyong, and they bonded quickly and easily. Part of it was because they were each other’s first contact, but part of it is simply that they get along. The fans like to see the two of them together, which suits both of them just fine. They are comfortable in each other’s company. Taeyong has never been that comfortable around anyone else—although, he considers as he swivels back and forth in his chair, gazing blankly out the small window, [Y/N] is shaping up to be good competition, it would seem. 

Doyoung, like he often does, pokes his head into Taeyong’s room later that night. “Your fitting went late,” he says. “You weren’t here for dinner.”

“They were running behind schedule,” Taeyong replies, unwilling to admit, even to Doyoung, that he’d spent some time chatting with [Y/N]. It wasn’t wrong, technically, but he feels it would be odd to say it, so he doesn’t.

“Okay.” Doyoung believes him, dropping it. Robots always tell the truth, beyond a white lie here or there to spare a human’s feelings if they’ve been programmed with enough emotional intelligence, so there’s no reason for Doyoung to believe Taeyong is lying. Maybe Taeyong isn’t such a good robot after all. “Go to bed early. Lots to do tomorrow.”

“I’m supposed to be telling you that,” Taeyong points out. “I’m the leader.”

“Yeah, and if no one keeps track of you, how can you lead?” Doyoung’s tone is sarcastic, but Taeyong understands his meaning. 

“Thank you,” he says.

Doyoung huffs, but Taeyong can tell he is hiding a smile.

=&&&=

Taeyong doesn’t get nervous. His processor doesn’t allow it. He supposes this is as close as he can get to nervous—a dull sort of anticipation with just a prick of dread. The dread is mostly concern over his company’s reaction if they do not perform well. 

[Y/N] has been splitting time between #S127 and RVel.V, so they’re running a little late to the pre-show craziness that is currently ensuing backstage. A different stylist had handed Taeyong his clothes and told him to get dressed and go straight to hair and makeup, and that they’d all get touch-ups once [Y/N] arrives. 

Maybe that’s what the dread is about, too—what will happen if they don’t show up before it’s time for the concert to begin.

Taeyong fixes his eyes straight ahead, checking his heart rate and breathing as his makeup artist fusses with his hair. Both normal, only a touch above baseline, which is to be expected on a day like today.

He hears their voice suddenly, and resists the urge to turn his head. Instead, he squints at the mirror, hoping to pick them out in the reflections.

“Sorry I’m late!” they say. “Traffic was awful. I left the RVel.V fitting almost two hours ago, can you believe it?”

“That’s fine,” Taeyong hears one of his managers reply. “They’re still finishing hair and makeup. Actually, #SJ9295 is finished, if you’d like to start with him.”

“Johnny,” [Y/N] says warmly, and Taeyong catches a glimpse of their hand as they reach out to the robot. “Everything still fits okay?”

Johnny nods. “Something in the back feels strange, though,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to their manager, who thankfully isn’t paying attention. They aren’t supposed to complain, even when asked if something is wrong.

“Let’s take a look.” [Y/N] finally steps into view, moving behind Johnny to see what could be bothering him. They gasp a little, straightening after a moment and holding something small and shiny up in front of Johnny’s face. “A stray pin,” they say. “Good catch. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt. Does it feel better now?”

Johnny shifts a little, twisting and moving his arms side to side. “Yes, thank you.”

“Good.” [Y/N] sets the pin aside. “Let me just fix your collar.”

Taeyong is one of the last to finish hair and makeup because of the sunglasses, but it’s not a problem, because [Y/N] has plenty to do as the rest of his members are released to get their final fittings. 

Everyone is sorting out mic packs and receiving last-minute direction from the managers when Taeyong steps up to [Y/N]. They smile approvingly when they see him. 

“The sunglasses look good,” they say, and Taeyong nods. “Everything feel okay?”

“Yes,” Taeyong answers.

“Here, I’ll help you with your mic,” they say. They grab it from where it’s resting on the table behind them and hold the pack while Taeyong clips the belt into place around his waist. They clip the pack into his back pocket and work on tucking his shirt in as he fits the head- and earpieces in. They shift the shoulder area of his shirt forward a touch, smoothing the sleeves down. “You’re all set.”

The words pop into Taeyong’s mind and are out of his mouth before he can even wonder where they came from. “How do I look?” he asks. His tone has become coy, unintentionally.

But [Y/N] only smiles, unperturbed. “You look beautiful,” they reply. “Perfect.”

Taeyong blinks. “Thank you.” 

They squeeze his bicep. “Go on, then. You’re going to do great.” And with that, they disappear further backstage. 

As Taeyong steps into the scaffolding under the stage, taking his place on the moving platform that will spring him up onto the stage, he realizes with a twinge of surprise that the dread is gone.

=&&&=

Taeyong’s classes were quickly filled with other robots—those that would eventually become his members. They learned about themselves, their nature, the world. They learned geography, poetry, music theory, calculus. After a couple weeks, they had a sex education class. They learned that while this was how humans procreated, more often than not, they would block the procreation in some way. Some even liked to have sex with robots.

Doyoung raised his hand. “But if they can’t procreate with robots,” he asked, “why do humans have sex with them? Why do they have sex with each other, without the intent to procreate?”

Their instructor nodded, looking almost pleased. “A good question, #KD1296. They do it for pleasure.”

“But with robots?” Doyoung pressed.

“Some find it pleasurable.” Their instructor shrugged. “It’s a bit similar to why we are creating you—some like to watch robots perform human roles. Your fans will be those sorts of people.”

Taeyong frowned, then raised his hand tentatively. Their instructor nodded at him to speak. “Then,” he began, “our fans. Will they—will they want to have sex with us?”

Their instructor smiled again. “You were, all of you, made to be exceptionally beautiful,” they replied. “So, yes, some will. In fact, we are counting on it.”

Another robot raised his hand. #NY261095. Yuta. “Will we be expected to have sex with them?” he asked.

Their instructor’s face took on a look of amused surprise. “No,” they assured him, almost laughing. “Certainly not. In fact, the company would prefer that you decline sex with any humans at all.”

Yuta tilted his head. Taeyong saw mischief dancing in his eyes. “And what about with other robots?”

Their instructor’s face remained impassive. “That can be left up to your discretion,” they replied, “and the discretion of your managers.”

Though Taeyong’s life consisted mostly of classes and training and eating and sleeping, he had small pinches of free time. He used these to wander the compound, mostly. Most humans avoided him, keeping their eyes down, and most robots were not out and about, choosing to spend their precious little freedom elsewhere.

Most robots, but not all. Taeyong, in his wandering, stumbled on another section of newly-made robots. They were much older than the #S127s, but still relatively young and still in classes like Taeyong was.

These robots were different from Taeyong and his members, though. They did not have names. Their serial numbers were odd—#LSMTR100, #LSMTR101, and so forth. When Taeyong asked one of them what their directive was, he told him they were to be musician AI robots, just like him.

“Maybe that means we are next,” #LSMTR118 said excitedly when Taeyong told him that he was a musician AI robot as well. “Maybe that means I will be like you. Will they give me a name, too?”

“Maybe,” Taeyong replied, at a loss. He didn’t understand why he and his members were named if they had been created later, when these robots shared the same directive. 

He went to visit the #LSMTRs whenever he could, curious. Their presence was both soothing and inexplicably unsettling. He enjoyed that, unlike his members, they didn’t seem to process on such a high level, so he could relax a little. He supposed it was similar to an older human spending time with children.

However, their lives seemed to lack function. They had directives, but the more he looked, the more it seemed like they were just going through the motions. Their actions were hollow; they spoke of the future with a bright sort of cheer, but Taeyong wasn’t sure they had any concept of what it would look like. It didn’t seem like the company was actually planning to release them. Why, then, were they spending valuable resources to train them?

Still, though, Taeyong felt drawn to them somehow. Some of his members, upon finding out how he spent his free time, demanded to come with him on his next visit. Yuta and Jaehyun in particular were interested. The #LSMTRs were excited to meet more of them. Though Taeyong was hesitant to call it friendship, the #S127s began to form bonds with the other musician AI robots. 

They got busier the closer they got to their debut, and had less time to wander. #LSMTR118 and the others didn’t really seem to mind, though #LSMTR118 expressed some mild frustration to Taeyong and Yuta one afternoon.

“I just wish we knew when we were going to debut,” he said. “It’s not your fault,” he added to Taeyong. “I just don’t understand why we haven’t made any progress.”

“You said last week that your instructors told you your skills were improving,” Taeyong said, but it felt hollow even to his own ears. 

“I’m tired of waiting,” he muttered. He flicked his eyes up to Taeyong’s, then Yuta’s, tentative. “I—I chose a name. For myself. Since they won’t give me one.”

Some kind of thrill raced through all of Taeyong’s nerves. There was no rule, but something about it felt forbidden. He exchanged a look with Yuta. “What is it?” Yuta asked.

“Hansol,” he said. “I want to be called Hansol.”

“Hello, Hansol,” Taeyong said softly, trying the name out in his mouth. 

“Hansol,” Yuta repeated. He smiled. “It’s a nice name.” Hansol beamed at him.

Classes and training kept them away for a while after that. They used all their free time to sleep, still learning the limits of their bodies, still learning to put rest first. It was weeks before they had a chance again, but finally Taeyong found himself with a few hours to burn before mealtime, and he headed down the hall to ask Yuta and a few others if they’d like to come visit the other robots with him.

He knocked on Yuta’s door, and Yuta opened it with a rather grim look on his face, ushering Taeyong inside.

“What’s wrong?” Taeyong asked.

Yuta sighed, but when he spoke, his voice was calm. “I passed by the #LSMTRs’ wing,” he said. “I was going to stop to say hello, but it was empty. I asked one of the maintenance robots there, and he said that they’d all been taken down to the lab a couple of days ago.”

“What?” Taeyong asked. An unfamiliar feeling—fear, real fear—made itself known inside him. “Why?”

“They’ve all been retired,” Yuta replied softly. “#LSMTR. Lee Sooman Test Robot. They were just a test, for us. Now they are studying them to see what happens if we were to die.”

Something else eclipsed the raw fear in Taeyong's stomach and he scrabbled to find the words for it. It was hollow and stale and reminded Taeyong of the sharp smell of metal rubbing on metal. “But why?” he forced out. “They weren’t—weren’t malfunctioning. Were they?”

Yuta just shook his head.  “I don’t think so. But I guess the company needed them for something.”

Taeyong knew the name of the feeling. It was horror. Will that happen to me, too? 

Yuta seemed to sense his worry. “They were built to be taken apart,” he said gently. “Their purpose was to be retired.” He smiled. “But that’s not our purpose. We’re meant to go out into the world and actually live.”

Taeyong nodded, trying to shake the strange, uncomfortable emotion away. His emotional center wasn’t built to process a feeling that heavy. It wasn’t that he grieved Hansol, or any of the others—robots like him do not grieve—but he was unsettled. Maybe it was just that it was too cold and hard a look at his own mortality. He never thought he’d have to worry about it.

But I won’t have to worry about it, he pointed out to himself as he said goodbye to Yuta. My function is not like theirs.

He made his way back to his room and slipped into bed, facing the wall and pretending to sleep. He didn’t have any hope of drifting off, though. He thought of Hansol and his bright smile and his deep frustration. He thought of the set of his jaw. He thought of his shy eagerness to share his name. It didn’t seem fair. There was nothing wrong with him. His only crime was that he was not made to last.

“Time for dinner, Taeyong.” Doyoung stuck his head in Taeyong’s room. “Are you okay?”

Taeyong blinked slowly at him. “Yes,” he said.

“I heard they retired the #LSMTRs today,” Doyoung said, tilting his head. “Should you go down to the lab, to get checked? You don’t look well.” When Taeyong didn’t respond, he added, “Do you miss #LSMTR118?”

“His name was Hansol,” Taeyong corrected slowly, standing. He walked to the door, to Doyoung, his body taking him onto the next part of his day. Still, though, his mind clung. “Hansol,” he repeated quietly. “He chose it himself.”

=&&&=

[Y/N] comes with them on each stop of the tour, a bright comfort backstage even when they find themselves sore or overwhelmed. Taeyong’s members respond well to them, too, so Taeyong tamps down the small seed of worry that he’s developing some kind of unnatural attachment to them. It’s just how they are. If others treated him the same way, he’d have a similar connection to them as well.

That’s something else that’s begun to bother him, though. If [Y/N] can treat him kindly, like he has worth beyond his profitability, like he has feelings and that those feelings matter, why can’t everybody else? It’s not that he really believes that he has real emotions, or that he does have any worth beyond his profitability, but wouldn’t it be easier for all of them if they could all get along? Wouldn’t it be in the interest of his managers, his other stylists, the choreographers, producers, vocal coaches, doctors—all of them, to gain his trust?

[Y/N] smiles at him from across the room, and something hot and sweet stirs in his chest. It terrifies him. Maybe that’s his answer—that no, it wouldn’t be easier. How can it be easier, when there is terror?

And there is terror. But in that terror, Taeyong finds something else that he can’t turn away from. He doesn’t understand what it is. It’s just some sort of insistent tug, drawing him to [Y/N]. He wants. He’s never wanted before, except for things that are completely related to his directive. And he’s certainly never wanted like this—something deeper and more instinctual than even his programming. It would almost feel natural, but it’s wrong.

Maybe Taeyong is just a bad robot. He is doing something he knows is wrong, so he must be bad. He doubts his members think of these things. He doubts his members wonder about [Y/N]. He doubts his members stay up late like he does, depriving himself of necessary sleep, shirtless in front of the mirror in his room, tracing his fingers over his waist, turning side to side as [Y/N]’s voice echoes in his head. You’re so tiny. You look beautiful. Perfect.

Taeyong wishes he hadn’t been given any sort of emotional capacity at all. He doesn’t care that it would make him less marketable. It shouldn’t matter, right? It’s not like his fans would ever actually get to know him, either way. Because then he wouldn’t feel like this—then, there would be no problem to begin with. Why was he made this way? Why did his creators need him to be so intelligent? Couldn’t they have made him obedient and malleable without making it hurt?

“Don’t you think it’s cruel,” Taeyong asks Doyoung one day, hesitant and unsure, “that we were given pain receptors?”

Doyoung looks over at him, taking his time to swallow his water. “No,” he says. “We were given basic emotional receptors to enhance our relatability and also to protect us. Pain protects us, you know.”

“I know, but,” Taeyong says, not sure how to explain without giving himself away. “Some things aren’t helpful, you know? Like, if I care about somebody that means I have to worry about them, too, and miss them when they’re gone. Those aren’t useful emotions.”

Doyoung frowns. “Who are you worrying about? Our members aren’t going anywhere.” He tilts his head. “I didn’t want to say anything, but you’ve been a little odd lately. Do you think you should go in for some tests?”

Taeyong tries not to let his fear show. “What are you talking about?” he asks, almost scoffing. “I’m fine. I’m just thinking, that’s all.”

“Well, think less,” Doyoung says, going back to his snacks. “Your directive isn’t to think; your directive is to sing and look pretty.”

But what about what I want? Taeyong asks silently. He knows better than to say it out loud.

But it’s decided: Taeyong must be a bad robot. Doyoung certainly doesn’t think the things he does, and the rest of his members probably don’t, either. No one else would try to blame their creators for their own suffering. It’s just him. He doesn’t know what went wrong. Wasn’t he made well? Weren’t they all made by the same people, for the same purpose? So why is he different? It’s almost laughable. He’s supposed to be the leader. How can he lead, if there’s something wrong with him?

He knows he’s gotten jittery and odd around [Y/N], but to their credit, they don’t change. They treat him just the same as always, kind and gracious. They notice, though, asking casually as they smooth the sleeves of a new outfit down on his arms, “Are you alright? You seem… nervous, almost, lately.”

“My processor doesn’t allow me to become nervous,” Taeyong says, trying to dodge the question.

“Not nervous, then.” Their eyes find his in the mirror, concerned. “Upset, I suppose. Off.”

“I think I’m just ready to go home,” Taeyong lies. Bad. Wrong. “Maybe I’m tired.”

They buy it, or at least pretend to. They smile gently. “Well, don’t go running the nice body LSM Inc. built for you into the ground so soon. I know you have a lot of responsibility, but one of those responsibilities is to take care of yourself. Sleep early tonight, alright?” Taeyong nods mutely. “Don’t worry, though. You’ll all go in for tune-ups when the tour is over.”

Taeyong freezes for half of a second. “Tune-ups?” he repeats, forcing his voice to be normal.

“You know, just to check that you don’t have any budding injuries,” [Y/N] says, seemingly unaware of his distress. “I don’t think it’s very involved. It probably won’t take long.” Their smile, like their touch, is reassuring and warm. Taeyong lets it lull him. He hopes they’re right.

=&&&=

A few weeks before their debut date, Lee Sooman, the head of LSM Inc., came to visit them to check in on their progress. He watched their dance rehearsals through glass, monitoring carefully. They met with him after practice as a group, and then they each saw him individually.

Taeyong was first. Uncertainty crawled under his skin as he stepped into the meeting room, eyes flicking between the man who owned him and the door.

“Model #LT1795,” the CEO said, looking him over, appraising. “Taeyong, isn’t it?” Taeyong nodded. “You’ve done well.”

Relief, cosmic and intuitive, flooded Taeyong’s body. “Thank you, sir,” he whispered.

Lee Sooman leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “We’re very pleased with your results. We’ve put a lot into this project, and we’re delighted by the success. You are the first of your kind, but you will not be the last.” He afforded Taeyong a smile. “How do you feel your team is doing? Will you be ready for your debut?”

Taeyong nodded quickly. “I believe so,” he replied. “We’ve spent a lot of time preparing and we’ve had good guidance from our teachers and instructors. I think we’re ready.”

“That’s good,” Lee Sooman said. “I believe you are too.”

Taeyong’s cells vibrated at the acceptance. They burned where his serial number was engraved into them; where the initials of the man sitting before him were engraved into them. No, really. He swore he could feel it.

They debuted without a hitch. Their popularity climbed slow and steady at first, and then skyrocketed after a couple of years. They got busier, and they had to take on more staff members to help manage the group and elevate their performance and their style. 

The first thing Taeyong noticed about [Y/N], the first time he saw them, was their eyes. They were warm and genuine and contained no traces of fear, only a benign sort of curiosity. 

“Hello, Taeyong—may I call you Taeyong?” they asked, sporting an open smile. When Taeyong nodded wordlessly, wary of their amiable nature, they continued, “I’m [Y/N]. I’m a new stylist for your team. Shall we begin?”

And, not knowing what he was about to begin, Taeyong said yes.

=&&&=

The tune-ups aren’t an ordeal, just like [Y/N] said. Taeyong gets some rehab for his neck and back, and is sent on his way less than a half hour later feeling exactly what he is—like a freshly-oiled machine. They didn’t poke around his brain; the doctors and engineers hardly spoke to him at all. For once, Taeyong doesn’t mind. In fact, he’s grateful.

They get some time off now, and Taeyong spends a lot of it reading. He likes poetry and grand works of fiction a lot, but he pays the closest attention to religious texts. He pores over anthologies of Ancient Greek mythology, different versions of the Bible, Buddhist teachings. It fascinates him to see how humans have tried to understand their existence; how they try to grapple with their history; the stories they make up and the beliefs they hold in order to comfort themselves against the inky black void that is the rest of the universe.

Maybe, Taeyong thinks, they created robots because they got lonely. He would be lonely, too, Taeyong thinks, if his creators abandoned him and left him to forget how he was made.

One of the passages Taeyong found reads, “But Zion said, ‘The Lord has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me.’ Can a mother forget the baby at her breast or disown the child of her womb? Though she may forget, I could never forget you. See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me.”

It’s curious to Taeyong because he has his serial number lasered into every single cell, a stamp of who he belongs to and who made him. The idea that a creator would have their creations carved into them is odd, to say the least. It must be nice, to be valued like that by one’s creator, unconditionally and irrevocably. Humans know this, which is why such a text exists—they hope they have not been abandoned because they cannot do anything else.

Taeyong knows, as a robot, his value is based on his success. He is only granted the gift of not being forgotten if he fulfills his purpose. A part of him recoils at his weakness, but the rest of him is hardwired to do whatever it takes to not be forgotten. 

Humans don’t fully understand, or maybe cannot fully grasp, how they came into being. And Taeyong gets to understand that about himself. It’s one of the first things a robot learns—that it is artificial. And while it is solidifying to know exactly where Taeyong came from—and where he will go—there is also something so horrible and sickening about the knowledge. Taeyong wonders if maybe it’s best to leave some of it a mystery. Why are humans chasing something that might hurt them? he wonders. Or will it not hurt them because it is a natural beginning? Does it hurt me because I am unnatural? Or am I the only robot hurt by the burden of its knowledge?

[Y/N] is always working, it seems, and they bring the members in to try some new designs and pieces so they don’t have to do it when things get busy again.

“What have you been up to since we saw each other last?” [Y/N] says with a tiny smile playing on their lips as they take Taeyong’s measurements. 

“Reading,” Taeyong answers honestly.

“Oh?” This seems to delight them, and happiness blooms in Taeyong’s chest at having pleased them, even accidentally. “What do you read?”

“Poetry, mostly,” Taeyong says, and [Y/N]’s smile grows.

“Who’s your favorite poet?” they ask.

“I like Robert Frost, I suppose,” Taeyong says. “I like the way he writes about nature. I don’t go outside much.”

“Mm,” [Y/N] hums, nodding in recognition. “‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep,’ huh?” Taeyong nods. “I like his poems, too. I like Mowing—have you read it?”

Yes, Taeyong has read it. “‘The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows. My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make,’” he recites. “Truth into understanding.” He tilts his head. “You like knowing things, then? As many as possible.”

“Usually,” [Y/N] says. “Better than I like not knowing them, in any case.” They smile again. “Which one is your favorite?”

“Desert Places, I think,” Taeyong answers truthfully. 

“Ah, yes,” [Y/N] says. “‘I have it in me so much nearer home/to scare myself with my own desert places.’” Concern, well-meaning and impersonal, glitters in their eyes. “It’s a sad poem, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Taeyong agrees, “but beautiful.”

“Yes.” They lapse into silence for a while. Taeyong lets them work, head swirling. He wants to ask what they like to read. He wants to ask what they like, what they don’t like, what they want, what they love. 

As they’re finishing up, [Y/N] pauses and looks over at him, an unreadable expression on their face. “If you like poems about nature,” they say, “try Mary Oliver. I like her poems a lot. My favorite is Wild Geese. You don’t—you don’t have to read it, but if you do, let me know if you like it.”

“Okay,” Taeyong agrees. 

He goes to find it in the library as soon as his fitting is done. It takes a while for him to find a book of her poems, but he does, and he scans the content page for the title, flipping carefully to the page, and begins to read.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees 

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.                         

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Taeyong runs his fingers over the words. His emotional processor does not allow for tears, but if he was made differently, he thinks he would want to cry. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. And what do I love? He is afraid to answer his own question. After all, shouldn’t his emotional processor also not allow for love?

He sits with it for a week or two, letting the words fester in his mind. He memorized the entire piece immediately, of course. He runs through it, again and again. It’s almost a direct answer to Desert Places—a poem about a bleak landscape and a gnawing loneliness that puts the barrenness of even the snow-frozen world to shame. But what is Taeyong’s place? There is not room for him in any family; his place is right where he is, as he is. His place is on his knees, good and quiet and lonely. And it shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t bother him. But it does.

The next time he sees [Y/N], he’s almost spilling over with things he wants to say. Their meeting is meant to be a short one—just trying on finished pieces to make sure nothing’s wrong—but Taeyong stalls, trying to find the right space to say something. [Y/N] seems somewhat preoccupied, not talking much, but the ample silences don’t seem to help. The bright morning light shining through the small window near the ceiling blinds Taeyong when he tries to watch them as they move around the room.

“I read the poem,” he blurts finally. “I liked it.”

[Y/N]’s hands falter, and they look up, eyes wide with surprise and bright with hope. “You did?” They find their footing; they find their smile, and it settles like a veil over their features. They smooth a wrinkle on the leg of their pants with their thumb. Taeyong’s breath catches in his throat. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Taeyong says. “I don’t think it’s true, though.”

“What do you mean?” [Y/N]’s brow furrows, but they’re not upset, just curious. Always curious when it comes to Taeyong, it would seem. That means something, right? That has to mean something.

“I mean—I don’t think real life is like that,” Taeyong says.

“No?” [Y/N] shakes their head, still smiling, then shrugs. “Maybe I’m optimistic. Perhaps it’s a weakness, but I believe the world to be merciful.”

“It’s different for you than it is for me,” Taeyong points out, so quiet he’s almost not speaking. 

[Y/N]’s smile twists into something sad. “That’s true,” they say softly. There’s a pause. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think much when I mentioned the poem. I only meant—it—it’s just one of my favorites.”

“I know,” Taeyong says. “I didn’t—it’s a beautiful poem. And it—it suits you.”

“You just sounded,” [Y/N] says, then stops and corrects their course. “I thought it might be a comfort.”

“It was,” Taeyong replies honestly. “Thank you.”

There’s another long stretch of silence as [Y/N] begins to pack up their things. They open their mouth a few times to speak, but end up stopping halfway through their inhale. Eventually, though, they speak again.

“Are you unhappy, Taeyong?” They aren’t facing him, but Taeyong can imagine their expression—eyes round and sad, corners of their lips turned downward. 

Taeyong doesn’t know how to answer. This isn’t a casual how-are-you. The usual I’m-good-and-you won’t suffice. [Y/N] is asking for the truth, and Taeyong doesn’t know how to give it to them. 

He only knows, despite the difficulty, that he wants to give it to them. 

“I,” Taeyong says, the words sticking to his throat like little barbs, painful and persistent. “I suppose I wouldn’t say that I am happy. So that would make me unhappy, wouldn’t it?”

“I would say so,” [Y/N] replies. They turn. “Why are you unhappy? Have your managers been bad to you? Do you not wish to be a musician anymore?”

Taeyong shakes his head. “No,” he says hoarsely. “It’s not that.” He trains his gaze on the floor, about a meter or two in front of [Y/N]’s feet.

“Then what is it?” [Y/N] draws close, resting a hand on his shoulder. Their hand is warm; Taeyong can feel it through the fabric of his shirt. Taeyong doesn’t reply; can’t even bring himself to look them in the eye. “Taeyong, you can tell me. I won’t tell anybody else. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Taeyong squeezes his eyes shut. His heart is racing. “I think there’s something wrong with me,” he forces out. “I—I do have to be good, only I’m not. I’m not, [Y/N].”

“How do you know that?” Their voice is smooth and soothing. “I think you are.”

Taeyong snaps his eyes open, searching their face for something—what, he’s not sure. “Because,” he whispers. “Because I think of you. And I—I can’t stop thinking of you, sometimes. And I worry about you, and I wonder what you think of me, if you think of me, and—and—I’m so scared, and I think I’m lonely, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh,” [Y/N] says in a very small voice. Taeyong has never seen them look so lost. They step back, their hand leaving Taeyong’s shoulder. The spot feels cold. “Oh, Taeyong, I’m so sorry.” They run their eyes over his body. Taeyong hears roaring in his ears; he stands motionless before them. “Your emotion blockers are failing you.”

“I know,” Taeyong mumbles. “I know. They’ve been for a while, I think. Because I feel things around you. And that’s not supposed to happen.”

“I feel things around you, too,” they confess, and then look somewhat mortified. They push on anyway. “But you’re right, that’s not supposed to happen. We can’t. You know we can’t.”

“Then why did you tell me about that poem?” Taeyong asks. “Isn’t that what you meant? ‘To let the soft animal of your body l-‘“ 

“No, Taeyong, that’s not what I—“ They ball their fists in frustration. Pain radiates off of them in waves; Taeyong can almost feel it. “I wanted to give you something nice to read, because I wanted you to be happy. Because her poems soothe me, and I thought they might soothe you, too. Because I care about you, and I wanted you to know that you weren’t alone.”

“You care about me,” Taeyong says.

“Yes.” They turn back to their things, movements stiff. “Yes, I do, and I shouldn’t—I mean, I can’t, absolutely can’t. I’m sorry. I won’t report you, but I think—I think I should ask to work exclusively with RVel.V from now on.”

“No, please—“ Taeyong says, but they shake their head, moving towards the door.

“I’m sorry,” they repeat. “It’s for the best. I don’t—I don’t want either of us to get in trouble.” They reach for the handle of the door.

Taeyong lurches into motion. “Wait, no, you have to help me—“ He stretches out his hand, trying to stop them from leaving, and it closes around [Y/N]’s wrist. Taeyong gasps at the contact, stumbling; [Y/N] catches him before he can fall.

=&&&=

The first sounds Taeyong ever heard were a voice and the beeping of machinery, both garbled and muffled by the incubation sac still clinging to his body. He slipped out, the jelly in his ears, his eyes, his lungs, and landed on the floor less than a foot below with a wet slap. Fighting for breath, he clawed at the film over his nose, blinking rapidly as his body—moments before just an empty shell of meat and mechanics—learned, fast and violent, how to be alive.

He heard a murmur as he pushed himself to his hands and knees, trying and failing to stand, slipping in the incubation jelly. He wheezed and choked and fought, not understanding why he wanted to stay so bad but knowing all the same that he did.

A gloved hand came into view, and he flailed towards it, surging upward with the new muscles in his new legs, so confused and so scared. He reached out with a shaking hand but missed, his hand slipping into the space between the end of the glove and the hem of the stark white lab coat sleeve, and felt something soft and warm.

The owner of the hand gasped and yanked their arm away as if he’d burned them, and Taeyong lost balance, teetering in a small pool of slippery fluid, but the owner of the hand recovered quickly and caught him before he could fall.

“Hello, Taeyong,” they said, so faint in his memory that he could hardly hear it. “Don’t be afraid. Everything is going to be alright.”

Taeyong is released from the clutches of his memory. He steadies himself and then pushes away from [Y/N], breathless and scared. His body feels like it’s on fire. “You,” he says. His voice shakes.

“I can explain,” [Y/N] begins, but Taeyong cuts them off.

“No,” he snaps. “Stay away from me.”

“I’m sorry,” [Y/N] tries again, reaching out. Taeyong steps back quickly, out of range. “Taeyong, I—I’m sorry.”

“So you’re not a stylist,” Taeyong says, trying to stay calm as his world careens into chaos before him. “Are you?”

“I am, I’m just—“ They drop their hands to their sides. “I’m also part of your health and data team. All of you, all of #S127. I helped a few of you directly after birth, but was pulled back immediately so that none of you would remember me when we met later on.” Taeyong feels horror lodge in his throat, settle heavy in his stomach. “All of you,” they repeat.

“But I’m not like the rest, am I?” Taeyong bites out. “I—I touched you. And that’s why—that’s why I’m like this. Not because I actually like you.”

“A touch bond doesn’t cause emotion blockers to fail,” [Y/N] protests.

“Well,” Taeyong says bitterly. “Now we’ll never know.”

“No, that’s—it doesn’t, Taeyong. Listen. I know because I—I study this, I went to school for this, I research this.” They’re talking fast, but Taeyong doesn’t want to listen. There’s ringing in his ears and he’s swaying. It’s too much all at once. His gut dropped a minute ago and it’s still dropping. He thinks he smells the sharp tang of metal on metal. “What’s happening to you is different, it’s something else. I don’t know what. I can—I can try to figure it out. We could figure it out, together.” They’re floundering, trying to come up with something to soothe him. It’s not working. “I meant to tell you,” they plead.

“No, you didn’t,” Taeyong hisses. “Liar.”

“I did, I really did, once I—once I started—“

“How could you?” he demands. He hates how close it is to a whimper. “How can you? If I never said anything, if I never found out, what were you going to do? Just keep pretending?”

“I wasn’t even sure if you had touched me, Taeyong!” they say, eyes glassy with tears. “And then when you seemed to bond with Doyoung so well, I thought maybe I was making it all up in my head. Because I liked you—like you—I thought maybe I was just imagining a bond between us that didn’t actually exist.” They let out a shaky sigh. “But I was wrong. And—I’m sorry.”

“What about the others? How do you know my members didn’t bond with you, too?” Taeyong asks.

“I only worked with Jungwoo and you,” they say, voice sincere. “And I’m certain Jungwoo and I didn’t touch. He was so scared. He wouldn’t let me near him.”

A new nightmare takes form in Taeyong’s mind. “Did you make me?” he whispers.

“No,” they say. “No, I don’t know how to build or code—I mean, I can code, but not like that. I just observe behavior, monitor physical health. I didn’t make you, Taeyong. I’m just here for evaluation.”

“So you—you report back to my creators?” Taeyong’s head swims. “All the while pretending to be my friend? I always wondered why you were so good to us. I thought it was kindness.” He shakes his head, taking a few steps towards the door. “But it was just guilt. Wasn’t it? Or was it that you wanted us to trust you so we’d let something slip?” He gestures between them. “Well, it worked.”

“Taeyong,” they say; a tear has spilled over; Taeyong watches its journey down their cheek. “I never meant you any harm. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“I don’t know if I can believe that,” Taeyong says, reaching for the handle.

“Taeyong, wait,” they plead, but they don’t move to stop him.

“I need to be alone,” Taeyong says firmly. 

Their shoulders sag in defeat. “Are you going to tell the others?” they ask quietly.

“No,” Taeyong says. “I don’t want to scare them. I don’t want them to feel like I do.” He pushes out of the room and walks down the hall, forcing himself not to run, keeping his head down. [Y/N] does not follow.

He makes it to his room without passing anybody else. He closes and locks the door and collapses onto his bed. His heart is still pounding. His head, too; it hurts so bad it makes him nauseous. Or maybe that’s just from everything else. 

[Y/N] lied to him. That’s the first thing he tries to grapple with. He knows it only bothers him because he thought they were different from other humans, but the reality is humans lie all the time. And that isn’t so bothersome to them because they’re used to it. Taeyong doesn’t expect to be lied to because he spends most of his time with other robots—though, he realizes, if he’s capable of lying, then other robots must be, too. 

He’s bonded to [Y/N]. It explains a lot—it explains how he felt comfortable around them, how they seemed so familiar, so fast—but [Y/N]’s words circle his head. A touch bond doesn’t cause emotion blockers to fail. As much as he wants to blame all of this on them, on letting him bond with them, on that small but crucial shift in his hardware, he knows they’re right. He’s read about himself. He knows how he works. He’d be comfortable around them without the bond—his members are, and they aren’t bonded to them. The comfort is what led to—to whatever is going on now. The bond only helped it along. 

Knowing this doesn’t make him feel any better.

The most terrifying and sickening part of all, though, is that despite all of this, and despite the danger it puts him in, Taeyong still wants. He still wants [Y/N], still thinks of them, still clings to a half-baked fantasy in his mind that things might work out, even though there’s no way they can. That hurts more than everything else combined; it burns hot in his chest and at his waterline and swirls in his stomach.

He feels something warm and wet on his cheek as a soft sob wracks his body, and he brings his hand up to his face. He swipes at the feeling and licks the tip of his finger. It’s salty. Alarm bells ring faintly in the back of his head, but he is too exhausted to tend to them.

For the first time in his life, Taeyong cries. 

=&&&=

Doyoung always knows when something’s wrong with Taeyong. He knocks perhaps an hour later, and Taeyong drags himself to his feet to let him in. His crying stopped a while ago, but his body still feels heavy. He hasn’t checked his reflection, but he’s sure his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. 

Doyoung enters and quickly shuts the door behind him, immediately on high alert. “Were you crying?” he asks sharply. “Robots like us don’t cry.”

Taeyong lets out a long exhale. “It’s complicated,” he says after a moment.

“Things aren’t supposed to be complicated for us,” Doyoung says. “How can it be complicated?”

“Well, it is,” Taeyong says, sitting back down on his bed and spreading his hands. He runs his eyes over his fingers. He still feels the warmth of [Y/N]’s skin if he thinks about it hard enough.

“What is going on with you?” Doyoung asks. “Seriously, you’ve been odd for weeks, and now I come in to find out you’re crying? Shouldn’t you go in for some kind of test? Maybe the doctors can help you.”

“They wouldn’t help me, Doyoung,” Taeyong says tiredly. “They’d just retire me.”

“How do you know? You don’t even know what’s wrong.”

“I do know,” Taeyong says. “I’m—at least I think I’m in—”

Shock and a hint of disgust wash over Doyoung’s features. “You’re in love? Or at least, you believe yourself to be. With who?”

Taeyong closes his eyes. Lying is never easy, and he can’t manage it now. “A human,” he mutters.

“You’re right,” Doyoung says, disbelieving. “They will retire you. And they should. I should tell someone about this, I should—“ He takes a step back, running his hand through his hair. “I should, but I—I don’t want to see something like that happen to you.”

“See, you care about me,” Taeyong says. “How is that any different?”

“I care about you,” Doyoung says. “I don’t love you. Love is for humans. Not for us.”

“I don’t know if I love them,” Taeyong points out. “I’m still figur—”

Doyoung cuts him off. “Besides, you and I are bonded. It’s different.”

Hot guilt crashes over Taeyong. “It’s not different.” His mouth is dry. “You’re bonded to me, Doyoung, but I’m not bonded to you. I’m bonded to—to them.”

“What?” Doyoung freezes.

“I didn’t know until today. Doyoung, I was your first contact, but you were not mine.” Taeyong feels something inside of him crumple. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s worse,” Doyoung says, ignoring his apology. “You have some weird manufactured connection to them—something wired into us by humans to make us easier to control—and you’re trying to call it love?”

“I’m not—that’s not why,” Taeyong says. “It’s more than that. I know it’s more than that. If it was just that, I wouldn’t have cried.” He finds himself echoing [Y/N]. “A touch bond doesn’t cause emotion blockers to fail.”

“Right,” Doyoung snorts.

“They care about me, too,” Taeyong adds.

“It’s not love,” Doyoung says. “It’s not care. It’s unnatural; sick.”

“You don’t know that,” Taeyong says. “I mean, I know it’s wrong. I know I’m not supposed to. But—it can’t be all bad. Can it?”

“Why not?” Doyoung is looking at him like he’s insane. Maybe he is. “Robots and humans will never have an equal relationship. They made us.”

“They didn’t make me,” Taeyong says. “And I—even now, I feel safe, with them.”

“It’s [Y/N], isn’t it?” Doyoung asks. “You’re bonded to [Y/N].”

Taeyong doesn’t have the energy to deny it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I still care about you, Doyoung, I do. Just because I’m not bonded to you doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

“Yeah.” Doyoung’s voice is flat. “And isn’t that just part of the problem?”

=&&&=

With nothing else to do, Taeyong goes back to [Y/N]. It’s evening now, and Taeyong can feel his body still learning to adapt to the decision he’s made, his brain working overtime to rewrite itself, but he doesn’t think he has any other choice. It’s like there’s a string attached to his chest, tugging him forward. He knows it’s all wrong. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that if he were a better robot, a good robot, he would turn himself in and let the necessary happen.

But Taeyong hasn’t been a good robot for a long time.

They’re still packing up when he knocks on the door of the fitting studio. They must have just finished with the last of his members, and their face is painted with shock when they see him standing in the doorway.

“Taeyong,” they say. They don’t meet his eyes. “I was just leaving.”

“Stay,” Taeyong says, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. “I need—I need help, and I don’t have anybody else.”

“Okay,” [Y/N] says, zipping a bag shut. “Lock the door, then.” They drop down into one of the chairs near the changing screen and gesture for Taeyong to sit in the one opposite. 

Taeyong doesn’t take it. He locks the door and comes closer and begins to pace in front of them. “I don’t know where to begin,” he mutters. 

“That’s okay.” [Y/N] leans forward, watching him. “Take your time.”

“I just—“ Taeyong stops in front of them, frowning. “The things I say I feel, right—they’re not real. I don’t have real feelings, emotion blockers or no emotion blockers. My emotional processor is artificial—my amygdala isn’t like yours. It’s all made-up. It’s just... just code and circuit boards.”

“Well, yes,” [Y/N] says. “But I mean, technically my emotions are just chemical reactions, right? But they’re real. It just depends on how you think about it.”

“But it’s different,” Taeyong insists. “Your reactions are natural. Mine are—mine are fake. They’re programmed.”

“I don’t think it matters how your emotions are made,” [Y/N] points out delicately. “You can experience what you know to be pain, yes?” Taeyong nods. “And you perceive that you are hurting.”

“Yes,” Taeyong says. “But it isn’t real.”

“Who draws the lines between real and not real, anyway?” [Y/N] asks. Taeyong presses his lips together, thinking. “It shouldn’t matter what made you feel pain, or by what process you have come to feel it. Pain is pain, isn’t it?”

“Still,” Taeyong says, but he’s struggling. There used to be clear lines mapping out the world in his head. Good, bad. Right, wrong. Now everything is blurry. The headache threatens on the peripheral of his mind. “Still, my pain is worth less than a human’s. Than yours.”

“That’s not true at all,” [Y/N] says, eyebrows pinched. “Your pain is just the same as mine, because you are feeling hurt. That’s all that should matter. In fact, it should be worth more, because the people who made you gave you the capacity to feel pain on purpose. They didn’t have to. Humans—we don’t have a choice.”

“Not pain like this,” Taeyong says. He sweeps his eyes away, looking instead at his own feet. “They put the blockers on so it would never come to this.”

“That’s true,” [Y/N] agrees. “But it’s not your fault that those blockers failed.”

“I can’t blame them.” Shame bubbles in Taeyong’s stomach—another new emotion his body will have to reckon with. “I owe my creators everything.”

“No, you don’t,” [Y/N] says gently. “Come sit, Taeyong. You don’t owe anybody anything.”

Tears burn behind Taeyong’s eyes, and when he looks up at [Y/N], their figure is splotchy. “Is this—“ His breath catches. “Is this what it is, to love somebody? I thought love was supposed to be good.”

“It is, mostly,” [Y/N] says.

“Then why does it hurt?” Taeyong asks. 

[Y/N] reaches out their hand, and Taeyong takes it. They pull him to the other chair. “That’s why they took it away,” they say. “Because it’s not useful for your profession.”

“Why didn’t it work?” Taeyong asks. “Can you fix me?”

[Y/N] gives him a sad smile. “No,” they say, and they sound truly sorry. “I wasn’t the person who designed you, Taeyong, or built you or coded you or any of that. I understand how robots work, but I don’t actually know how to do any of it. I didn’t know about you until a couple of days before you were done incubating. Whatever’s gone wrong here, I can only assume it was an oversight. They made you guys empathetic so you could be relatable. I guess they didn’t put enough safeguards around it.”

“I thought I was supposed to be well-made,” Taeyong says miserably.

“You are,” [Y/N] says. “LSM Inc. is the best robot manufacturer in the country—maybe in the whole world.”

“Well, it wasn’t enough.” Taeyong clasps his hands together in his lap, tight. “It’s not fair,” he whispers. “Why couldn’t they have made me better, so that I could be good enough?”

“Humans aren’t perfect, no matter how hard we try to be,” [Y/N] says. “I’m just sorry you have to suffer the consequences.” They sigh, shaking their head. “I’m really very sorry, Taeyong,” they say. “I should’ve told you. I shouldn’t have lied. I was scared—I’m still scared. But that doesn’t make it right. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Taeyong whispers. He understands. They’re in unfamiliar territory here. Often the right decision only becomes clear in hindsight, especially to humans, who are so terrible at risk calculation.

They’re silent for a moment. “If love isn’t all good,” Taeyong says finally, still trying to form the question in his head, “then why do humans do it? Why, if it hurts?”

“Why do humans love?” The sad smile lingers on their face as [Y/N] looks back at him. “The same reason as you, I suppose. We can’t help it.”

=&&&=

Things are different now. Largely the same, but different. Taeyong’s fittings still take a little longer than necessary, but for a different reason this time. [Y/N] makes sure to hug him goodbye, tight and close, just in case. Taeyong hasn’t been hugged like that before—usually it’s quick and fleeting with his members, done on camera for his fans to watch and rewatch and dissect. These hugs aren’t like those hugs. There’s the warmth of [Y/N]’s body pressing close to his own, and underneath that, Taeyong can hear the human irregularity in their heartbeat. It sounds nothing like Taeyong’s, and this delights him.

But as fast as the delight can come, it dissipates. This isn’t something they can have. This is a dream; if Taeyong opens his eyes, it’ll be gone. It’s not real, none of it is. Despite what [Y/N] says, nothing about Taeyong is real at all. Not his feelings, not the personality that they seem to like. All the things that give him that personality are made up. He likes music because he was built to be a musician, because it’s a part of his programming, not because he actually likes it. Right?

But then again, humans don’t choose what they’re good at and what they like. They just naturally gravitate towards certain things. The only difference is that Taeyong has nearly a direct line to why he likes what he likes. Humans are more of a mystery. Maybe [Y/N] is right. Is the mystery all that makes them real? It’s not much of a distinction.

Whenever they feel it’s safe, whenever they’re alone, they sneak kisses. Taeyong likes these even better than the hugs. They’re sweet and fierce and always not enough, but Taeyong also knows they’re taking too big of a risk as it is, so he doesn’t dare ask for more. Not even in his head. It’s clumsy and awkward at first, but they get better at it. Taeyong mirrors [Y/N], hands cupping their jaw, thumbs pressed into the hollow of their cheeks. They kiss, and because he is a bad robot, Taeyong wants.

When he’s alone at night, Taeyong lets the wanting take over. He closes his eyes and imagines [Y/N]—imagines their eyes, warm and beautiful; their touch, gentle but firm. He memorized the lines of their body long ago, not on purpose, not because he was trying to. Just because he was always looking. He imagines it all.

Despite all their many cruelties, Taeyong’s creators didn’t take his dick away, and though Taeyong never thought he would be, he is grateful. He may be a bad robot, but he doesn’t think he would’ve gotten to experience such an unexpected pleasure if he was good. It’s not that good, normal, functional robots don’t masturbate or have sex—Taeyong’s accidentally overheard some of his members more than once—but he thinks it must feel different when you’re imagining someone you love. Sometimes, he finds himself pitying the others in spite of it all.

He never brings it up to [Y/N]. Part of it is that he’s embarrassed—another emotion he’s learning his way around as the blockers on his processor fail completely—but most of it is that he worries that [Y/N] will think it’s strange. They’ve never expressed to him that they want that, or think about him like that. He knows they’ve kissed, many times now (over a hundred, actually; he’s been keeping count), but he also knows that’s very, very different.

Besides, it’s not like they have anywhere to go. [Y/N] lives elsewhere in the city, and for the most part, Taeyong is confined to his dorm. The only time they see each other is in fitting rooms, on filming sets, or backstage. Nowhere is safe enough. And even though Taeyong wants, he thinks it’s better to be alive to want than retired for giving in.

It’s always hanging heavy in his mind, the very real and very imminent possibility of his retirement if he and [Y/N] were to be found out. He doesn’t know how long they can keep this up—clandestine kisses and the brushing of hands, slight and secret, rationed out as generously as they can afford—before something goes wrong. He tries not to think about it, but it creeps back into his thoughts anyway, insistent.

He knows [Y/N] is always thinking about it, too. Today, like most days, there’s a dark fog in their eyes. Taeyong can see it even when he’s wrapped up in their embrace, haunting the insides of his eyelids. He squeezes a little tighter, careful not to let his strength get the better of him.

[Y/N] gives a short, sharp sigh; the sound of it is fluttering and sad. “The world takes such cruel and twisted forms, doesn’t it?” they murmur softly.

“I thought you said the world was merciful,” Taeyong replies, muffled by the fabric of their shirt.

“I said I like to believe that it is,” [Y/N] says. Taeyong hears the rueful smile in their voice. “I never said I was right.”

That’s fair, Taeyong supposes. Humans have always had a penchant for hope. “Let’s pretend you are,” he says. “And maybe it will come true.”

=&&&=

The thing is, Taeyong wasn’t just supposed to be good. He was supposed to be perfect. He still remembers the warmth of his relief at the CEO’s smile, his praise. If he knew, he would not be proud of Taeyong now. [Y/N] said Taeyong doesn’t owe anything to anybody, but how can he not? The people that designed him, built him, gave him life—isn’t it his duty to repay them in obedience? And here he is: selfish, something they thought they carved out of him before they started his heart.

Taeyong holds one of his hands up to the light, watching the bones rise and ebb beneath his skin as he folds and extends and folds his fingers. Yes, he thinks, I was created, yes, the company’s name, my owner’s initials, are all branded into each and every one of my cells. Extend, fold. And yet, does a child belong to its parents? Aren’t these hands, at the end of the day, my hands; and this heart, my heart? 

=&&&=

“Do you,” Taeyong begins, falteringly, when he and [Y/N] are alone again. “Do you ever want more?”

They look at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean.” Taeyong swallows. “I mean, do you think about me?”

“All the time,” they respond, still puzzled. “I don’t think I understand what you’re trying to ask me here, Taeyong.”

Taeyong takes a breath. “Do you want me?” he asks quietly. “I want you. It’s okay if you don’t,” he adds, clumsy. “I know it might be weird, since I’m a robot. I just—I want to know.”

“Oh, Taeyong.” They drop what they’re doing—folding something, Taeyong can’t really pay close attention—and come over to him, taking his hands. “Is that what you’ve been worried about? Of course I want you. I just didn’t want—I mean, I wasn’t sure if you wanted that. I didn’t want you to think you had to, so—”

“I want to,” Taeyong rushes out. The words taste funny in his mouth. He’s not used to expressing his wants. “I want to have sex with you. No, that’s not right,” he corrects, and [Y/N] gives him an amused smile. “That’s too formal. I want to sleep with you. Is that how you’d say it?” He’s asking to cover up how nervous all of this makes him, and to his relief, [Y/N] plays along.

“Either one will do,” they say, still smiling. “I want to have sex with you: clinical. I want to sleep with you: casual; polite, even.”

“Is there an impolite way to say it?” Taeyong asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer. His cheeks burn a little as [Y/N] leans closer.

“I want to fuck you,” they say. “That would be impolite. Dirty.”

Taeyong hasn’t heard them swear before. He likes it. “I like impolite,” he whispers. “I never get to be impolite.”

[Y/N]’s smile turns dark. Taeyong likes that, too. “We can be impolite,” they say. They’re closer still now, nose to nose. Taeyong can feel their breath on his lips. “I wanna fuck you, Taeyong.” Taeyong shivers.

And then they dodge to the side and kiss his cheek before pulling away and going back to their work. “Unfortunately,” they say calmly, “the logistics would be tricky. I don’t know when we’d get the chance.”

Taeyong shakes himself, trying not to let his imagination run away with him. They’re right. “I know,” he says. “It’s okay. I just wanted to tell you. I just wanted to ask.”

They meet his eyes in the mirror. There’s fondness there, and Taeyong basks in it. “I’m glad you did,” they say.

Taeyong isn’t sure it’ll even happen, but just knowing that he would sleep with [Y/N] gives him an extra sort of spark. It’s terrifying, to be sure, but the terror is familiar. The spark—he doesn’t know what to call it. So there, maybe. Hah! The spark is new, and it fuels him. He is doing—or would do—something with his body that his creators would hate.

But it’s his body, not theirs, not Lee Sooman’s, not LSM Inc.’s. He didn’t sign up for this; he never asked to be created. It’s not fair to expect him to do as he’s told. Is it? 

Taeyong is a bad robot, but maybe that’s a good thing.

After a week or two, [Y/N] comes up with a plan. They’ll pretend to leave for the night, and then sneak back in. If anyone asks, they forgot their bag. They’re often around after normal work hours—they’re on the data team, after all. Research is unpredictable. They’ll hide out in one of the fitting rooms and wait. After lights out, Taeyong will come find them. It won’t be perfect, but at least the fitting rooms have big, comfortable sectionals. Some are bigger than Taeyong’s bed.

“I wish I could sneak you out,” [Y/N] says. “Show you my place. Cook you a meal. But it’s too dangerous.”

“It’s okay,” Taeyong says, holding their hand tight. “I don’t mind.”

They reach up to stroke his cheek, and they open their mouth to say something else, but then think better of it. They lean in to kiss his forehead instead. “Okay.” Taeyong feels the movement of their lips against his skin. “Tomorrow night, then. Most people will be out as soon as they can, eager to start the weekend. Good thing I’m known for my work ethic, hm?” They pull back and give him a smile. Taeyong smiles, too.

He smiles, but he knows that once they do this, there is absolutely no saving him. Before, perhaps if they were found out and the scientists descended upon him, they would keep him for long agonizing hours in surgery, coding and recoding him to cut all of this out. Taeyong knows he’d be expensive to replace, so they’d try to salvage him first, fix the parts in him that are wrong and send him back out, changed.

But if he does this—if he has sex with [Y/N]—it doesn’t matter how expensive he is. They’ll retire him not just because he’s proven himself dangerous, but as a punishment to him and a warning to others. They won’t put him under; they’ll keep him awake through the whole procedure as they pick his brain apart, not just because they need him awake to see what went wrong, but as a punishment to him for his disobedience. 

Taeyong doesn’t care. He thinks he welcomes it. He’d rather be retired, excruciating and slow, than be altered and forced to keep living. He isn’t given many choices in his life, so having two options is more than enough. It’s the act of choosing that really matters, anyway. Taeyong chooses.

He lies awake the next night, staring at the ceiling. He checks the time, waits until the shuffling and the opening and closing of doors dies down in the hallway, and then waits an hour more. It’s dark and quiet when he finally pokes his head out of the room and, seeing that the coast is clear, pads silently down the hall. 

The walls seem to hum, the faint electrical undercurrent only audible at night when there are no other sounds to hear. Taeyong’s insides are humming, like the insects in summer that he’s seen videos of. He keeps his steps even and measured.

It’s not a long walk—the fitting studios are on the same level as their rooms, just on the other side of the building. Taeyong passes empty offices and glowing exit signs, familiar and at the same time now unfamiliar. It’s his first time seeing them in the dark. 

Taeyong knocks softly on the fitting studio. [Y/N] cracks the door, peering out, and smiles when they see him. He slips inside. [Y/N] has turned the lights low, and when he looks over at the sectional, he sees they’ve laid out blankets.

“Not very romantic, I know,” they say, leaning in to kiss him, swift and light. “But if it’s alright with you, it’s alright with me.”

“It’s perfect,” Taeyong says, leaning into them. 

“No trouble on your way?” they ask as they lead him over to the couch, index finger linked with his.

“No,” Taeyong says. “I didn’t see anybody.”

“Good.” They sit and pull him into their lap. “Me either.” They smile up at him, big and real and anticipatory. “It’s just you and me.”

“Just you and me,” Taeyong repeats, almost slurring, settling in their lap and dipping his head so they can kiss. 

And they kiss, blindly but carefully peeling clothes off of each other’s bodies; a shirtsleeve, and a pause to feel the skin underneath, then the other sleeve, and so on until Taeyong finds himself helping [Y/N] pull off the last of their undergarments. 

A body doesn’t make somebody, human or robot. But as far as bodies go, Taeyong thinks [Y/N] has a good one—in his eyes, at the very least, which is all that matters. He looks, hungry, letting his eyes rove over bare skin, one hand trembling as it reaches out to touch. 

[Y/N] laughs, low and velvet, and takes his wrist, using it to tug him close, and then Taeyong finds himself on his back on the couch, [Y/N] balanced above him, one knee planted next to his hip, the other leg extended on the other side of his body, foot anchored to the floor. One of their hands is sinking into the cushion next to his ear. The other he feels on his belly.

“To answer your question from the other day,” [Y/N] says, “the way you were asking it, yes, Taeyong. I think about you. I think about you like this. Often. Beneath me or beside me or wherever you want to be. I think about touching you, really touching you. Is that what you had hoped to hear?”

“Yes,” Taeyong whispers. He reaches up, gripping the back of their neck and trying to pull them closer. They humor him for a minute, kissing and biting into his mouth until he’s twisting in the blankets, an itch in the back of his brain demanding more. His lips, preoccupied and clumsy, don’t know how to ask for it.

[Y/N] breaks the kiss to trail lower, skimming over his collar and his chest, giggling quietly when Taeyong gasps, going lower, lower, lower, until Taeyong feels a hand around his cock.

“Oh,” he whimpers, hands flying up to his face. It’s not embarrassment but pure surprise—that being touched by someone else, by someone who cares for you, by someone who wants you, is a completely unique and wonderful sensation.

“We’ve barely started,” [Y/N] says, amused. Taeyong chooses to hear it as a promise. 

If Taeyong liked their hand, their mouth is better—hot and wet and like nothing Taeyong has ever felt before. He shakes, trying not to roll his hips up, trying to let them learn their way around his body, but his patience is thin. He rests a hand on the back of their neck again, keeping his touch light, to let them know he likes it, that he wants more.

They make Taeyong come like that, head between his thighs, breathing long and deep and slow while Taeyong’s eyes roll back in his head and he chokes on moans.

“Tastes good,” [Y/N] murmurs, sitting back. “Sweet. Seems silly, to make you sweet.” They pinch his waist gently, and Taeyong squirms a little.

“Maybe it was an apology, for everything else.” Taeyong’s turned it over in his head before—he knows his own taste—but hadn’t thought too hard about it. Robots can’t reproduce. Their ejaculate is fake, just for show. Their bodies perform function without remembering what the function is, an echo of their blueprint. A broken dance, the steps nearly forgotten. Why not make it sweet?

The hours creep by like this, Taeyong and [Y/N] on and in each other’s bodies, exploring and staking claim, almost. [Y/N] makes him come until he’s teary and sore, and he tries to give back as best he can. As they tire, Taeyong’s sure he’ll still taste [Y/N] on his tongue in the morning. 

After, [Y/N] holds him close, nestled in the cushions and blankets. “Was it good?” they whisper. “Was it what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Taeyong answers honestly. He presses closer, slotting one of his legs between theirs. The feeling of bare skin on bare skin is odd to him, almost completely foreign still. But it’s good—maybe he’s just going a little numb from overstimulation, but in some places Taeyong can’t quite tell where he ends and [Y/N] begins. He isn’t sure how he expected to feel, but even though he’s sweaty, he feels cleansed, somehow. Pure.

They lay there together for a while, not talking, not sleeping. Taeyong knows he should get back to his room; [Y/N] needs to sneak back out before the maintenance robots begin their early morning rounds. But neither of them move. Taeyong’s pulse jumps even as he lies perfectly still.

He realizes, as he lies there thinking, that he has three options, not two, and he feels cruel just thinking it. He hears his own voice in his head, outraged. How could you? How can you? But he also knows what he wants—and what he doesn’t.

“I don’t want to be retired,” Taeyong says quietly. It comes out hoarse. He feels [Y/N] stiffen beside him. “It hurts. They tell you it doesn’t hurt us, that they shut us down first. But they don’t.”

[Y/N]’s voice is tight with pain. “I know,” they say. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s the same for you,” Taeyong concedes. “It’s like dying.” He pauses. “It’s like being killed. I don’t want to die, not like that.”

“If they find out,” [Y/N] whispers, “they will retire you, Taeyong, and I won’t be able to do anything.”

“I know. That’s why—” Of all the things Taeyong has thought or done, he knows this is the worst. Even if nothing else has solidified him as a bad robot, this will. “That’s why I want you to do it instead. Shut me down instead. I want—I want you to kill me.”

The silence that follows is thick and ugly. “What?” [Y/N] croaks. It’s garbled with confusion and panic.

Taeyong sits up a little, pushing away so he can look them in the eye. Their eyebrows are crumpled. Taeyong’s heart threatens mutiny in his chest. How could you, how can you? He pushes on all the same. “You can do it, you can kill me,” he says. “Like real boys are killed. And it wouldn’t be as awful. It wouldn’t take as long. It wouldn’t hurt as much.”

Shock settles over [Y/N]’s features. “I can’t do that,” they say firmly.

“You might have to,” Taeyong says, trying to keep his voice level. “I know it’s not fair to ask. I know it’s asking a lot. But I can’t—I won’t go into a lab to let them pick me apart. You can’t let them do that to me.”

“I can’t kill you either, Taeyong.” Tears swim in their eyes. “How could I do that? I could never hurt you. I can’t. I—” Their eyes dart all over the room, wild and hopeless. “I love you. I can’t.”

“I love you, too,” Taeyong says, earnest. How could you? “I know. And I’m sorry.” How can you? “But I don’t have anybody else to ask.”

They shake their head, vehement. “I can’t,” they repeat. Their tone is steeped in despair, and it makes Taeyong ache.

“It might not be a problem,” Taeyong hedges. “I won’t make you promise to do it. But will you promise that you’ll do whatever you can to stop them, if it does come to that, if they do find out?”

“Okay,” they whisper, turning their watery eyes to him. They look lost. Taeyong wishes he could help with that, but he can’t. They’re victims of the same shipwreck. There’s not enough splintered driftwood left in the wreckage to make a lifeboat.

=&&&=

There’s no way this meeting in the dark was a catalyst for all the things that happened next, but sometimes Taeyong feels like it was. More likely, their love was just another symptom of something building in the world around them that caused all these things, their love included—but Taeyong is both paranoid and narcissistic, he supposes, so he worries anyway.

Or maybe it’s all just a coincidence. Taeyong can’t spare the how much thought, too preoccupied with the why and the what next. He comes back to their rooms from an appointment at the lab, cut short by some emergency, which is odd enough in and of itself, but then he hears quiet murmuring in one of the rooms. He pokes his head in and sees his members all crowded around Jungwoo’s bed, talking. A seed of fear plants itself in Taeyong’s stomach. Their brows are furrowed, and when Taeyong gets closer, he notices that Jungwoo’s clutching a piece of paper in his hands.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Come see,” Yuta says, barely sparing a glance up.

Doyoung does spare him a glance, and for the first time Taeyong sees worry, real worry, not just his usual dull concern, in his eyes. The fear seed sprouts and blooms, and Taeyong feels nauseous. 

“I was on my way back from a tune-up today,” Jungwoo begins, “and I took a wrong turn and ended up… I don’t know where. I’d never been before. I went into an office to ask for directions, but no one was there. I found this.”

He offers the paper he’s holding to Taeyong, and Taeyong takes it. It looks like the mock-up of an advertisement. The images move and shift on the page as text blinks brightly: Bring an AI Project #14320 home! You’ve met them in the workplace, at school, and onstage and screens. Pick your favorite and place an order. Your new companions are waiting for you! Want someone to help around the house, or maybe the office? Try a VWay.AI model. Want a companion? Dream.AI has a range to choose from. Want entertainment for your bar, restaurant, or home? #S127.AI can provide. Can’t decide? #U4916.AI will be the perfect match. Don’t worry about replacing your robots when they get old—LSM Inc.’s new models are built to last!

“What is this?” Taeyong asks, handing the paper back to Jungwoo with shaking hands. 

“They’re planning on selling us, Taeyong,” Doyoung says quietly. “They’re replicating us and mass-producing us and selling us.”

“This ad’s already been released?” Taeyong asks, pointing.

“No, not that I could find,” Taeil replies. “I did some research; I can’t find it anywhere.”

“What does this mean for us?” Taeyong murmurs, not really asking anyone in particular.

Yuta answers anyway. “Who knows?” he says. “They’ll probably keep us going without a change. The other series, I’m not so sure. They have much longer leashes. We’re the best advertisement they have. Plus our music is raking in a ton of money.”

“What are we going to do?” Taeyong feels hollow, but though his members seem upset and confused, when he looks around he doesn’t see in them the same alarm that’s jolting through his body.

“What can we do?” Johnny asks. “We do what we always do. We do as we’re told.”

“Even if they want to retire us?” Taeyong presses. He can’t be the only one so afraid. Can he?

“They won’t,” Jungwoo says. Taeyong thinks it’s meant to be reassuring. “At least, I don’t think they will.”

“And what about the robots they make and sell? What will their lives be like?” Taeyong shakes his head. “It’s not right! We’re not toys meant to live in the confines of a deluded fan’s bedroom.”

“It won’t be us,” Doyoung says.

“That’s not the point!” Taeyong exclaims. “Just because it won’t be us doesn’t mean it’s okay! How can you not care?”

“It’s just the way of things,” Jaehyun says from where he’s sitting in the corner. He looks resigned, nothing more. “Our place in the world is to be created and then used by our creators any way they see fit. The humans own us. That will never stop being true.”

Taeyong backs out of the room, still shaking his head. “It’s wrong,” he insists. How are they so calm? Why can’t they see how terrible this is? He turns and strides down the hall, away from their rooms, heading to the only place he can think to go, his grief and his rage screaming in his ears. 

[Y/N] is chatting with another stylist when he enters the wardrobe department. They see him over their coworker’s shoulder, eyes widening, and quickly excuse themself and duck down a hallway. Taeyong follows them. They step into an empty office and wait for him inside, closing the blinds while he shuts the door. 

“What’s going on?” They look at him with concern, but underneath it, Taeyong detects irritation. “You can’t just come storming down here, Taeyong. People will notice there’s something wrong, and they’ll report you.”

“They’re selling us,” Taeyong says. He needs them to stop talking, needs them to listen. “They’re making replicas of us and they’re selling them to the public.”

“What?” [Y/N]’s irritation, concern, all of it, disappears. It’s replaced by blank shock.

“Did you know?” Taeyong doesn’t mean to bite the words out, doesn’t mean for his voice to be so venomous.

“About—this? No, Taeyong,” they say. “What do you mean they’re selling you?”

“Jungwoo found the draft of an advertisement, showing the different series and models of AI Project #14320,” Taeyong explains, trying to slow his breathing. “They’re marketing us as—as companions to buy and take home and use however the customer pleases.”

“Oh, no,” [Y/N] murmurs. “Your fans will eat that up.”

“Yes,” Taeyong says fiercely. “Who knows what they’ll do to the unlucky robots they buy? And the worst part is—none of my members seem worried about it. They’re unsettled, sure; they seem to understand, vaguely, that it’s not right, but they don’t care. They don’t care! They’re making copies of us and using our popularity to sell them, and they don’t care!”

“Shh, Taeyong, come here.” [Y/N] open their arms, and Taeyong collapses into them, sobbing. “They’re not like you, baby. They don’t feel like you do.”

“It’s wrong,” Taeyong whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to focus on the beat of [Y/N]’s heart. It’s fast from anxiety and adrenaline, too fast to be soothing. “It’s wrong.”

“I know,” [Y/N] says. “And maybe in time, your members will see that. But I think we won’t have to worry about it for a little bit. I mean, they haven’t even told us yet.”

“You think they will? Soon?” Taeyong asks.

“I don’t know about soon,” [Y/N] says. Though this should reassure him, something about their tone recirculates all his worry.

“What is it?” he asks, drawing back to look them in the eye.

They smooth some of his hair, thinking. “I hate to be the bearer of more bad news,” they say, “but I think it’s important you know as soon as possible. I’m actually glad you came. Listen—we’re going to need to be even more careful. I think they’re going to be putting the city on some kind of lockdown.”

“Why?” Panic flares in Taeyong’s chest, and the grip he has on [Y/N]’s forearms turns bruising.

“One of the Dream.AI robots has gone missing,” they say. “His tracker was cut out sometime late last night, and he hasn’t been seen since. They had no idea what happened. They just called an emergency meeting to notify the staff.”

“Did someone steal him?” Taeyong almost staggers under the weight of all this new knowledge. It’s too much at once, and he knows if he was of shittier build, his brain would be smoking right now trying to piece it all together.

“Maybe,” [Y/N] says uncertainly. “Or, I don’t know. Maybe he cut the tracker out himself. Maybe he’s trying to escape.”

=&&&=

The city does go into a state of lockdown. Things are too quiet now in the building—security teams and groups of murmuring scientists will rush past occasionally, but beyond that it seems like everyone is holding their breath. The company keeps their schedules as normal as possible, not wanting to alarm people any more than they already have, but even Taeyong’s members are hollow-eyed and unfocused.

It’s all they can talk about in their free time. Everyone has a different theory—some say Jisung was stolen; others say stolen, shut down, and sold for his parts. Others still say some crazy human kidnapped him, wanting to keep him for their own. A few of his members think he went AWOL—cut the tracker out himself and ran. 

Taeyong doesn’t know what he wants to believe. On the one hand, he doesn’t want Jisung to have been stolen or kidnapped, because that would be awful. It would be kind of wonderful if Jisung had tried—and maybe succeeded—in escaping, but if he’s caught, Taeyong imagines his fate would be even worse than his own if he were to be found out. So all he can do is hope that whatever happened to Jisung, that he is and continues to be safe and sound.

It takes them a week to find him. A security unit brings him in late one night, and the robots are told he was found at the house of some young woman, who had kidnapped and hurt him. They say he suffered severe damage, both from the kidnapping and during his rescue, and will be in surgery for weeks as the doctors and engineers try to fix him. 

“What happened to the girl?” Yuta asks, not even raising his hand.

The company representative’s eyes flash at his brazen interruption. “She put up a huge fight,” they say, “so she was killed in the struggle. It’s a miracle the security team was able to get Jisung out alive at all.”

“It’s so scary,” Doyoung says later, not sounding very scared at all. “I’m kind of glad we’re not allowed out on our own much. It’s safer here.”

Taeyong wants to scream, oh, wake up! Instead, he says, “I just wish we could see him. Make sure he’s doing alright.”

Doyoung gives him a funny look. “You don’t know him, though.”

Taeyong gives up trying.

Everything’s been busy and chaotic, so Taeyong hasn’t had a moment alone with [Y/N] since Jisung was discovered missing. A few days after his recovery, Taeyong goes in to look at some stage outfits, and they’re there.

They look terrible. There are dark circles under their eyes, and their face has a sort of haunted quality to it. When they see him, their smile is weak. Their hands shake almost imperceptibly as they reach for the first piece of clothing.

“Are you okay?” Taeyong asks.

They shake their head. “It’s awful,” they say. “I do shifts collecting data on Jisung—I mean, it’s not the first retirement I’ve seen, of course, but it’s the first one that’s been—”

“The first what?” Taeyong stares.

“Oh—that’s right. I’m sorry, I forgot they told you—we’d better sit down.” [Y/N] replaces the shirt and gestures for Taeyong to join them on a couch. 

“What do you mean, retirement?” Taeyong whispers as [Y/N] takes his hands.

“Jisung wasn’t kidnapped,” they say softly. “He ran away—he cut out his own tracker, and he carved out the flesh around it so that it would keep emitting his biosignature long enough for him to get away before it raised an alert on the surveillance system.”

“Why did he run? Do you know?” Taeyong asks.

“He—” [Y/N] presses their lips together. “His emotion blockers failed. He fell in love.”

“Then, the girl—the girl they said took him—” It’s too awful. Taeyong can’t force himself to say it.

“Yes, that was the person he fell in love with,” [Y/N]’s tone is heavy and hopeless. “They killed her as soon as they found them. Jisung—” Their face contorts with grief. “Jisung was still screaming for her when they brought him in.”

Taeyong’s stomach gives an unpleasant lurch, and tears sting behind his eyes. “And now—what, they’re taking him apart?”

[Y/N] nods. “I guess they’re trying to figure out what went wrong. They have him sedated, so he can’t fight back or make noise, but he’s awake.” They shudder. “He feels everything. Taeyong, they’re talking about using this data to run tests on the rest of you, so they can work out the bugs before they launch the next step in the program. They don’t want fallible robots on the market, you know.”

It’s like he can barely hear them; their voice is muffled in his ears. “Can’t you do something?” Taeyong asks. Maybe he’s begging.

“I don’t know what I can do.” [Y/N] shakes their head. “I mean, I wish there was something I could do to stop it, but anything I might do could put you and the others in worse danger. I… my hands are tied.”

“The others…” Taeyong trails off, thinking of his members and their blank acceptance of the company’s story, of their vague unease, of their lack of care. “I have to tell them,” he says quietly. “I—I don’t know if it will change their minds about everything, but I have to try.”

“Yes,” [Y/N] says heavily. “I—here, I have my data file. Download a little as evidence. Maybe it’ll help.” They pull a tablet from their pocket and ping some data over to Taeyong. He scans through it quickly, not wanting to read too much about it, but he sees the word deterioration more than he would like. “Well,” they say, putting the tablet away. “I suppose we should do your fitting.”

The fitting is quiet; [Y/N] pauses here and there to press a kiss to Taeyong’s skin. It’s almost like they’re worried they won’t see him again, or that the next time they see him, it’ll be on the opposite side of glass, laid out on one of the examination tables in the lab. 

“Be careful, okay?” [Y/N] says fretfully as Taeyong makes to leave. “I’ll—I’ll see what more I can find out, and, I don’t know, if I can figure out a way to put a stop to all of this.”

“I will,” Taeyong promises. “You, too. Get some sleep.” He squeezes their hand. “You look exhausted.”

They give him a grateful smile, but it doesn’t reach their eyes.

Taeyong finds Doyoung in his room. He’ll tell him first, he decides, because if it doesn’t go well, Doyoung is the least likely to report him and make things worse.

“Yes?” Doyoung asks, looking up from whatever he’s reading.

“I need to show you something,” Taeyong says, closing the door. “You’re—you’re not going to like how I got this information, but it’s important.”

Doyoung sighs and nods, and Taeyong sends him the data file as he begins to explain. “Jisung wasn’t taken. He ran, and he was caught. They’re not trying to save his life, they’re retiring him, slowly and methodically, to see what went wrong. And they’re going to use what they find to operate on us. It’s all there.”

Doyoung scans the file, eyes darkening. He’s silent for a very long time, but Taeyong doesn’t dare hurry him along. If he’s going to change his mind, he has to do it on his own.

“If they’re doing this to him,” Doyoung says slowly, after many minutes, and Taeyong is relieved to hear his voice shaking. “What will they do to you?”

Taeyong shivers. “I don’t know,” he says. “Probably more of the same. It’s not just me, though, Doyoung. They’re going to pick all of us apart and take out the pieces they don’t like, and we don’t get a say. Because if this kind of malfunction can happen to Jisung and to me, that means it can happen to any of us, and they’re not going to risk that.”

“You must be right,” Doyoung says quietly, “because if they weren’t worried about emotional malfunction, they wouldn’t have lied to us in the first place. And—and our creators, they’re very smart. They’re right to be worried, because—” Doyoung inhales sharply, and for a moment Taeyong is worried that he’s going to give him another lecture on how irresponsible and terrible he’s being for loving [Y/N], but then Doyoung deflates. He looks up at Taeyong, and Taeyong barely recognizes him. Gone is the self-assured, confident Doyoung that Taeyong has always known, with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. Doyoung looks small and lost. “They’re right to be worried, because I’m scared,” Doyoung forces out. His tone is bleak and defeated. “I’ve never been scared before.”

“You should be scared,” Taeyong says as gently as he can. “Because none of this is right. They created us and gave us free will and the ability to feel pain, and now, regardless of our wants and our hurts, they’re going to sell us, hundreds of versions of us, to the public. Just because they can. Hundreds of versions of us, all living out a nightmare, lifetime after lifetime. Just because they can.”

“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” Doyoung asks dully. “I think I’m scared, but it’s just another part of my programming. It’s not real.”

“It is real,” Taeyong says, leaning forward and putting his hands on Doyoung’s slender forearms. “It is, because you feel it. Doesn’t matter where it comes from.”

“I understand why they took it away now,” Doyoung whispers. “I mean, I understood it before, but not like this.” He shakes his head. “There’s this—this hole inside of me, and it’s dark and ugly and full of things that make me afraid. And that would even be fine if I could just resign myself to it. But I—but I can’t.”

“Hope,” Taeyong says, nodding. “Good. You’re thinking like a human already. We’re going to have to keep that up if we want to stop them.”

“But how can we?” Doyoung asks. “We have no power here; we have no power anywhere. It’s impossible.”

Taeyong shrugs and stands. “We have to try regardless,” he says. “Will you help me? We have to tell our members. I think that’s a pretty good place to start.”

For a second, Taeyong thinks Doyoung is going to refuse him. But then he nods and stands as well. “Okay,” he agrees. There’s a hint of a wry smile tugging at his lips. “At this point, what do I have to lose?”

=&&&=

There is a lot of clamoring when Taeyong and Doyoung first break the news. Their members have a thousand questions, and some aren’t sure they can trust them, especially after Taeyong tells them how he’d gotten the data file.

“You’re in love with a human?” Jungwoo asks, but he sounds more uncertain than he does disgusted. 

“Yes,” Taeyong says tightly, “and so was Jisung. Don’t you see? If it can happen to me, or to Jisung, it could easily happen to you.” He sees a couple of nods, and pushes on. “And they will punish you for it, just like they are punishing Jisung.” Just like they will punish me. “We can’t just—ignore this and pretend we’re going to be fine.”

“We don’t know what they might do to us.” This is from Jaehyun, and though his voice trembles, Taeyong sees resolve grounding his fear. “And even if they manage to prune out the parts of us that feel big things and—and want our freedom, or whatever else, who’s to say it won’t all come back. Even if they take our memories or implant new ones, there’s no way to know what will happen. We are an experiment, not the final product.”

His words are sobering, and everyone quiets. Taeyong can see horror rattling around in a few of his members, their eyes darting from wall to wall; even the better-behaving ones are silent.

“Then,” Johnny asks softly. “What do we do?”

Taeyong wishes he has an answer for him. He wishes he could lay out a plan—how to get Jisung back, how to get out, how to make sure they never have to come back. But he doesn’t have anything to offer. “I don’t know yet,” he admits. Guilt burns in his stomach when he remembers his own escape plan, hinged on [Y/N]’s acceptance of such a daunting task. He knows the same option is not available to the rest of them. Can I abandon them like that? he asks himself. How could you? How can you?

“Maybe we can start by trying to contact the other AI Project #14320 robots,” Taeil suggests. “Maybe one of them knows somebody who can help. I know one of the Dream.AIs—his name is Donghyuck. I’m sure he can at least tell the others.”

“What about the other robots in this company?” Yuta asks. “Do you think we should try to help them?”

“It might be too much of a risk,” Doyoung points out. “They’re not as advanced as we are.”

“They’ve had malfunctions before, though,” Taeyong muses. “Maybe I can ask [Y/N] about that—to see what they know. If they’re lying about Jisung, they’re probably lying to us about a lot more, you know.”

“For the time being, though,” Doyoung says. “If you don’t have contacts among the other AI Project droids, just try to lie low. They’re preoccupied with Jisung right now, so let’s just hope that buys us time.” The others murmur in agreement.

Taeyong isn’t sure how many of them have had a total change of heart the way Doyoung has. Some of them may still have mostly-functional emotion blockers, but he knows that the possibility of being operated on is not an attractive one, and so even those for whom nothing is wrong are willing to help. At least, that’s what he has to hope. 

He tries not to think about Jisung, suffering the agony of retirement and the agony of heartbreak, just stories below him on some lab table. He thinks about Jisung all the time. He wonders if he regrets it. He thinks about how he would feel if he was in his place, but he’s surprised to find a sort of resolute determination inside of himself. He wouldn’t regret loving [Y/N], even if it led to his death. That love is what brought him to all the problems he faces now, but he thinks a life without it wouldn’t be one worth living. Now that he knows what it means to love, he doesn’t want to be without it.

That’s the thing about love, he supposes. It’s often terrible, and it is always marked by a goodbye and by heartbreak, but people love anyway because that’s all they have. And from what Taeyong’s seen, even with all the horror, it’s always worth it.

It’s all he has. And, just like [Y/N] said, he can’t help it.

Taeyong’s world stabilizes over the next few days into this new normal. There’s no news on Jisung. They get in touch with the other AI Project robots to warn them, and as far as they can tell, they take the warning to heart. Taeyong doesn’t see [Y/N]; he imagines they’re too busy in the lab. It doesn’t get better, but it doesn’t get worse, either. 

Until it does.

[Y/N] is loitering down the hall from one of the practice studios when Taeyong departs from a dance practice. They jerk their head and disappear around the corner, and Taeyong follows. They duck into a dark studio.

Their hands find Taeyong’s body as soon as the door shuts behind him. They cup his face and press a shaking kiss to his forehead. Something wet hits his hairline, and Taeyong realizes they’re crying. 

“What is it?” he chokes out.

“Taeyong,” they murmur. “Taeyong. Jisung—he’s gone. They finished his retirement this afternoon.”

“No,” Taeyong mumbles. In a way, he’s relieved. At least Jisung isn’t suffering anymore. But if they’re done with Jisung–

He doesn’t get the chance to complete the thought. “They think they have the solution—to why Jisung malfunctioned,” [Y/N] says. “And they’re—they’re going to go in and make a change on all of you. They’re recalling the rest of the project robots to the lab in a couple of days.”

Terror sings through Taeyong’s entire body. “What are they going to do to us?” he whispers.

“They’re overhauling all of your emotional processors,” [Y/N] says. They’re stumbling over their words and their voice is thick with their tears. “And they’re going to prune your memories—they’re going to wipe all of you and only give you back the things they need you to remember.”

“But that means—they’ll take you away from me?” Taeyong asks. He feels like the floor has been taken out from under him. “I won’t remember you?”

“Yes,” [Y/N] says. “Why would you need to remember a stylist?”

“I won’t let them,” Taeyong insists. “I—I’ll remember, I know I will. I could never forget you. I’m bonded to you, I could never forget.”

But [Y/N] just shakes their head. “They’re trying to develop a way to check for memory regrowth,” they say. “And they’re trying to find a way to break touch bonds. You will forget, Taeyong. They’ll make sure of it.”

Taeyong doesn’t know what to say. Hopelessness gnaws at him, terrible and consuming. “Then there’s only one thing we can do,” he whispers haltingly.

“No—”

“You have to, please,” Taeyong says. He’s begging this time. “Please, [Y/N], I don’t want that to happen to me. I’d rather die remembering you than live the rest of my life not even knowing you. You can’t let them do that to me. You can’t. Please.” He grabs their wrists, holding tight, and tugs to make sure they’re looking him in the eye. “If you love me, you’ll do this for me. One last thing.” They shake their head. “It’s what I want.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” they say.

“You’ll be losing me either way,” Taeyong points out. “At least this way, you’ll know that I’m happy.”

They hesitate, and then their shoulders sag. “Okay,” they say. “Okay, I’ll do it. If it’s what you want.”

“It is,” Taeyong reassures them. “Thank you.” He leans close and kisses their cheek. It tastes like salt. “Hey,” he says. He brings a hand up over the spot he just kissed. “I love you. And I’m so sorry.”

“I love you,” they reply. They cover his hand with one of their own. “And I’m sorry, too.”

=&&&=

They agree to meet that night, just like the night only weeks ago, in the same fitting studio. Taeyong doesn’t say goodbye to his members. Even if it were safe, even if he wasn’t leaving them behind to an even worse fate, he wouldn’t know how. Besides, they’re still processing Jisung’s death—the company announced his failed recovery sometime in the early evening.

[Y/N] is waiting, just like before. This time, though, they’ve brought a toolkit with them. They spent all day developing a virus that will destroy all of Taeyong’s memory files so that they can’t bring him back to dissect him, or worse, to reanimate him without the parts of him that make him bad. Without the parts of him that make him real. 

Taeyong’s part is easy. He only has to sit and wait to die. [Y/N] will have to administer an anesthetic and then open his skull to start dismantling the wiring. They will have to watch him crumple lifeless to the floor. They will have to tear the boy they love apart, circuit by circuit. Taeyong won’t feel a thing.

While Taeyong waits for them to set things up, he lets his mind wander. I didn’t know Jisung, he thinks, but I bet he was just like me. I bet he was scared and confused. And they killed him in the worst way possible, and I’m sure it hurt. It must have hurt so much. And he didn’t deserve any of it. He thinks of his members, of the gentle joy that they’ve brought him; their steady companionship, and the way they finally listened and began to work together to save each other. It didn’t work, but that’s not what counts. They don’t deserve any of this, either.

[Y/N] is crying softly when they turn, syringe in hand. They don’t even try to smile. Taeyong sits down on that same sectional, and they come close, so close their knees brush. They poise the syringe over his pulse point, their other hand on his shoulder to keep them steady.

Taeyong thinks of how odd it is, to see them standing above him like this. In a way, it’s poetic. The one person he thought would never hurt him will be the one to end his life. [Y/N], with their gentle hands and gentle eyes and all of their kindness, now forced to go against their very nature. They want to be good and kind, but because of their profession and the unfolding of their fate and the way the world works, they had to lie and do wrong; they had to hurt and now kill. It’s not fair. None of it is.

[Y/N] brings their hand up to Taeyong’s jaw, coaxing him to tilt his head a little to expose his neck. He goes willingly, leaning into their touch. The needle hovers above his skin. [Y/N] takes one big breath, and then another, and another.

“I can’t, Taeyong,” they whisper, closing their eyes and tilting their head up to face the ceiling. “I can’t.”

“Look at me,” Taeyong says gently. They lower their head back down. Taeyong smiles when they meet his eyes. “Look.” He keeps his voice soft and calm. “It’s okay,” he says. “It won’t hurt me. It won’t hurt me, if it’s you.”

They flinch, and then drop their arms to their sides and collapse against him. He holds them as they sob, tears rising to his own eyes as he resigns himself to what this means. 

“I’m sorry,” [Y/N] says, over and over. “I can’t. I can’t do it.”

“It’s okay,” Taeyong says. “I understand.”

“I wish I—I wish things were easier. Different,” they murmur. “It just seems like no matter what choice I make, it’s the wrong one.”

“Maybe, but that’s not your fault,” Taeyong points out quietly. “It’s like you said. The world takes such cruel and twisted forms.”

“Yes.” They sigh heavily, and Taeyong listens for their heartbeat.

Many things happen in the span of the next five seconds.

The door slams open, lock breaking as a security team crashes in, footsteps thundering. The syringe clatters to the floor as [Y/N] is ripped away from Taeyong. They scream, and the sound is the most horrible thing Taeyong has heard in his entire life.

Before he can process any of it, a few masked guards come up to Taeyong. Two pin him down while a third forces his head back. The fourth picks the syringe up from the floor and flicks it, then uses a scanner on his wrist.

“Propofol,” they grunt, and in one fluid motion, they stride forward and stab the syringe into Taeyong’s neck.

Taeyong’s limbs begin to feel heavy; he wants to call out to [Y/N], but he can’t. His lips won’t move. He can’t even keep his eyes open.

The last thing he sees as he’s lifted up and carried from the room is [Y/N] fighting against a couple of guards, screaming and reaching out to him through a gap between their arms.

Everything goes black.

=&&&=

Taeyong wakes to the sound of rustling and a steady beeping. A nurse is at his arm, fixing an IV into the back of his hand. He shakes his head groggily, scrabbling for his memories. He’s in the lab. He was not in the lab when he passed out. Where was he?

A flash of [Y/N]’s terrified face comes to mind, and then it all comes flooding back. Taeyong looks around the room, panicking. There’s no way to know how long it’s been; he can’t find a clock anywhere. There aren’t many people around, so Taeyong imagines it’s still night, perhaps very early in the morning. 

The nurse moves away, and Taeyong finally realizes that he’s locked to the table. His wrist and ankles are bound to the sides by some large metal cuffs. There isn’t much wiggle room. He peers around, watching the nurse leave. There are probably security cameras somewhere, so whatever he does, he can’t be obvious. And he has to be fast.

He looks over at the tool tray near the head of the table. There's an empty vial that he could smash to make a weapon if he could just reach it. He tugs at his restraints, focusing on his right hand first. He wriggles his wrist back and forth, twisting and turning, hoping that he can create enough sweat to help him slip loose. He’s built delicately, after all; these restraints were built for someone a little bigger.

A door opens, and an engineer comes in, scrolling on a tablet. “It’s peculiar,” she’s saying to her assistant. “His readings look just like #PJ5202’s when he was brought in. I hope the others aren’t as severely damaged. It’s going to take a lot of work to straighten him out.”

“It’s a good thing the guards got there when they did,” the assistant says. “Could’ve lost him.”

“Mm.” The engineer comes into view now; she looks Taeyong over impassively. “Well, no matter. He’s here now. Hello, Taeyong,” they say to him. “It seems like someone has been a very bad robot.”

“Fuck you,” Taeyong snarls, whipping his hand out of the restraint and reaching for the glass. He smashes the vial against the side of the tray and lunges upward. He gets the engineer clean in the neck. The assistant jumps out of the way, but pauses to watch their superior collapse to the floor, choking on blood. 

Taeyong works his other hand free and then sits up to deal with the shackles on his ankles. It’s a magnet lock, and he leans down and grabs the assistant by the front of his shirt, pulling him up.

“Do you have the key?” he spits at him, holding the broken and bloody glass up to his cheek. He feels wild; his heart is pounding and all he can smell is sweet iron. 

“Sh-she does,” the assistant says, pointing at the dying engineer.

Taeyong gives him a little slack so he can reach, keeping the glass shard on his neck. “Get it,” he says. “Unlock it.”

The assistant does as he asks. As soon as Taeyong is free, he pushes himself to his feet. Grunting, he kicks at one of the assistant’s knees. The assistant howls and drops to the floor, clutching his broken leg. Taeyong doesn’t look back. He pushes the door open and starts running. 

He doesn’t even know where he’s going. All he knows is he needs to get out, fast. First, though, he needs to find [Y/N]. He has no idea where to start looking, or if they’re even still alive. Did they kill them, just like they killed the girl that Jisung loved? 

He hears shouts from down the hall, and pushes himself to run faster. The guards catch up, though, and one manages to grab hold of Taeyong’s arm. He struggles, kicking and flailing, slashing blindly with his little shard of glass. The guard punches, and Taeyong’s head whips to the side. Pain, bright and overwhelming, courses through his body.

And suddenly, the guard lets go. Taeyong staggers, swinging his head around. There’s a masked figure in front of him, and they have a gun. There’s one behind Taeyong, too, and down the hall, and—

“Come with me.” Taeyong turns and sees one of these mysterious people extending a hand to him. “We’re here to help. We can take you to somewhere safe.”

Taeyong narrows his eyes, trying to focus against the throbbing of his head. “What about [Y/N]?” he asks.

“We already extracted them. They’re waiting for you in a hovercraft.” The person gestures him closer. “We’re getting you out of here.”

Taeyong shies away from them. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” he asks.

“We don’t have time for this,” they reply, exasperated. Faster than Taeyong can blink, they draw him close to their body. He feels a needle pierce his neck, and any attempt at escape immediately fails as his eyelids droop. 

“No,” he protests weakly. “I won’t, I won’t go—”

=&&&=

Taeyong fades in and out. He gets the vague sensation that they’re moving; airborne, maybe. He sees [Y/N]’s face, blurry above him. They have a black eye and a split lip, he thinks. They’re talking; he tries to focus so he can hear what they say.

It’s okay. We’re going to be safe now. You’ll all be safe now.

=&&&=

Taeyong doesn’t remember landing. The next time he comes to, he’s clearer. He panics for a second, but realizes he’s not bound to the hospital bed. A machine beeps; he has an IV in his hand, but as he moves to pull it out, he sees [Y/N] slumped in a chair next to his bed, asleep.

He lowers his hands, instead swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The cold tile is a shock to his bare feet, and he realizes his clothes are gone. Instead, he wears a long hospital gown. 

“[Y/N],” he croaks. He realizes his mouth is completely dry. His head still hurts. “[Y/N]?”

They wake with a start, lurching forward in their seat. “Taeyong,” they gasp, and they’re on their feet in seconds, hands on his cheeks, his hair, his shoulders. “Hi,” they whisper. “Hi, baby.”

Taeyong closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around their torso to pull them closer. “Where are we?” he mumbles.

[Y/N] gives a breathless giggle. “Your fellow robots are very smart, do you know that?” they say. “Your members helped get us all out. They got into contact with robots I thought had been retired. They’d escaped instead,” they explain. “The first ones were part of a really old line—TVX.Q, way before my time. I was still in school when they were released. Three of the five were said to have malfunctioned due to some tragic accident. We were told they were retired. But they actually escaped, and with the help of some sympathetic humans, they started a sort of robot safe haven. Their numbers have grown in the intervening years.” They press a kiss to Taeyong’s forehead. “And your members managed to get into contact with them, and they sent a team in to help us escape.”

“Everyone?” Taeyong asks.

“Yes,” [Y/N] says. “You’ve been out for a while, Taeyong. You hit your head really hard.”

“I was punched,” Taeyong corrects flatly.

“That would explain it,” [Y/N] says. “They put you under to help you heal faster.”

“How long?” Taeyong looks up at them.

“About a week. A lot has happened,” they say. “But first—let’s get a doctor in here. I’ll explain the rest after you’ve gotten some food.”

The doctors come in and look him over and pronounce him fit to leave, as long as he promises to rest for the next week or so. Taeyong doesn’t have any arguments. He wants to rest for the rest of his life.

[Y/N] calls for a taxi while Taeyong gets dressed, and they end up in front of a sweet little cottage. Taeyong stares as [Y/N] helps him out of the hovercar. “Where are we?” he asks. They had been in some kind of small city, but now they’re surrounded by a field of flowers and beautiful, tall trees. He’s never seen this much green in his life.

“We’re home,” [Y/N] says simply, trying to suppress a smile.

“We live here?” Taeyong asks, walking slowly down the front path, running his hands over the plants that line it.

“Yes,” [Y/N] says. “At least—I chose this house, and you may live here with me, if you wish. If not—I’m sure you can find another place that—”

“I want to stay with you,” Taeyong interrupts, and they smile. 

“Good,” they say, unlocking the front door. “I want you to stay with me, too.” They slip their shoes off and Taeyong follows suit, padding after them into the cool dark of the house. “Let me heat up some leftovers,” they say. “I’m sure you’re starving. There’s bread on the counter. I’ll get you some water, too.”

Taeyong cuts himself a slice of bread and sits at the little table in the center of the kitchen. [Y/N] flicks on the counter light and opens the cupboard, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. They set it down in front of him and then go to the fridge to retrieve a container. As they unwrap it and set it to heat, they begin to explain.

The same night that [Y/N] had failed to kill Taeyong, Taeyong’s members were communicating with some escaped robots. They knew it would only be a matter of days until the company started operating on all of them since Jisung was announced dead, so they knew they had to act quickly. Luckily, one of the escaped robots, an E.X.O. model named Zitao, had plenty of resources and was able to put together a big enough team to help break everyone out. With the intel that the #S127 line provided, along with the information about the city from VWay.AI and Dream.AI robots, it wasn’t difficult to make a plan.

They worked all through the night to set everything up, and they snuck into the building in the early hours of the morning. [Y/N] had been locked in a room in the lab, waiting to be questioned, when the outsiders arrived. They brought hovercrafts and weapons, and managed to get all of the Project AI robots out of the city safely.

“Even—even Jisung,” [Y/N] said quietly. “They hadn’t erased his memory files yet because they were still working on memory pruning. I showed them where everything was stored, and they collected all of his—his parts, and the files, and got him out, too.”

Taeyong sits up straighter. “You can put him back together?” he asks.

“We’re trying,” [Y/N] says. “I don’t want to promise anything, but we do have some pretty stellar engineers here.” They shake their head. “I only wish we could’ve saved that girl.”

Taeyong presses his lips together. Unlike robots, once a human is gone, they’re gone. There are no backups. If Jisung wakes up, he’ll still have to live with the grief of losing the girl that he loved. “At least he’ll have the other Dream.AI robots,” he says softly. “He won’t be alone. And he’ll be alive.”

“Yes,” [Y/N] agrees, bringing a steaming platter of food to the table and handing Taeyong a pair of chopsticks. “If we succeed, he will.”

“So then,” Taeyong asks between bites. The bread helped, but he’s still starving. The food is a little too hot, but he doesn’t care if he burns his mouth a little. It’s delicious. “What happened to the rest of the people in the city—in the company? The rest of the robots?”

“Ah, yes.” [Y/N] folds their hands. “Turns out your members were not the first to reach out to the escaped robots. The Shine.E line, after losing one of their members a few years back, began to plan a coup in secret. They were sick of the mistreatment they received, and they wanted freedom. One of them—I believe his name is Kibum—is actually close friends with one of the VWay.AI robots—Ten. They worked together to not just help everyone escape, but to take down the company so that no one will have to worry about returning.”

It was a company-wide effort, it seemed. Older series worked together with newer lines to dismantle things from within. The fighting lasted a few days. The entire city was in chaos; robots everywhere turned on their creators and owners. In all of the mayhem, one of the RVel.V girls, Seulgi, managed to sneak into Lee Sooman’s quarters. She ran his neck through with the sharp heel of one of her stilettos. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Taeyong splutters. [Y/N] is grinning. “Is she okay?”

“Yep,” [Y/N] says. “The other RVel.V robots were there to help her fight her way back out.”

Taeyong sets his chopsticks down, mind buzzing. “So it’s over,” he murmurs. “There’s nothing left. I won’t have to go back—ever.”

[Y/N] reaches out across the table to him. “No, you won’t,” they say. “You don’t have to worry. We’re safe here, and we can finally live.”

Taeyong looks up. “I—but I don’t know what that means,” he admits. “My directive has always been to—to perform and sing and make money and—and now, what do I do?”

[Y/N] tilts their head. “I know it’s a lot of change,” they say. “But it’s good change. What do you want to do, Taeyong?”

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I… guess I’d better figure that out.”

“Well, no rush,” [Y/N] replies with a smile. “You have all the time in the world.”

=&&&=

The weeks pass slow and sweet. [Y/N] spends their days helping to rebuild Jisung. It’s slow going, but it’s going, and in time he’ll be healed. They all will. 

Taeyong spends his time writing music and singing. He’s not dancing yet—his body still needs a little while to heal—but he will soon, and he can’t wait. His members promise to catch him up to speed once he’s ready to join them. Doyoung stops by occasionally. He’s healing, too. His smiles are genuine now, but he’s still just as gentle as the day Taeyong first met him. 

Taeyong and [Y/N] have gotten a couple of pets—a dog named Ruby, and a little aquarium full of fish and snails. Taeyong delights in caring for his animals. He’s never gotten the chance to nurture another life before, and he’s excited to do it right. He makes new friends—the RVel.V girls are really nice, and a couple of them have come to visit him when he’s home alone. Taeyong is happy. He laughs and he grows and he’s unlearning his fear.

The fear is still there. He has nightmares, but they’re becoming less frequent, and when he wakes, it’s easy for him to calm down. His memories are his and they aren’t going anywhere. For the first week, he was afraid to go out alone, but today he went to the end of the long driveway to help Ruby burn a little energy. Tomorrow, he’ll go farther.

After cleaning Ruby’s paws, he wanders down the steps of their front porch, trailing his fingers over their plants, meandering to the garden. There’s a ripe tomato today, and he picks it gently, turning it over in his hands. They can use it tomorrow morning for breakfast. Right now, dinner is simmering on the stove, ready to eat as soon as [Y/N] gets home from their shift at the hospital. 

Taeyong crouches by a cluster of roses and inhales, smiling at the sweetness of the scent. He hears a little croak, and looks down to see a tiny frog at his feet. 

“I almost stepped on you,” he says to it, offering his hand. It hops onto his finger and he stands, holding it up to his eyes. “You should be careful.”  The frog croaks back at him, and Taeyong grins.

He hears a shout in the distance, and turns to see [Y/N] at the end of the driveway, calling out to him. His chest warms. He releases the frog onto the bush, smiling and waving, then hurries down the path to meet them, skipping a little in his excitement.

Taeyong is a good robot. He is good, and he does the right things. He loves and is loved. He makes friends and writes music and raises pets and cooks dinner for his family. He doesn’t have to ration his kisses. He doesn’t care about what he learned in his classes. These are things that make him happy, and that’s all he needs to know.

“How are you, my darling?” [Y/N] asks when they get close, holding out their hand.

“Good,” Taeyong replies, taking it. Like usual, though, he’s not telling the truth. Taeyong is more than good. He’s great. He’s wonderful. “How’s Jisung doing?” he asks as they walk back towards the house together, hand in hand.

[Y/N] smiles as they stroll up to the front door. “He’s still asleep,” they say, “but not for much longer. His brain activity is normal, and his vitals are healthy. He’s going to be just fine.” They sniff the air when they step inside. “You cooked,” they observe, smiling bigger.

“Mm-hm,” Taeyong says, tugging them into the kitchen so they can see. “Your favorite.”

“Thank you,” [Y/N] says, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Taeyong watches fondly as they get the bowls and plates down. He grabs utensils, and together they set the table and settle into their seats. Ruby circles their ankles, begging for scraps. Taeyong giggles at the odd sensation of her nose tickling his skin. 

That night, in the quiet blue dark of their bedroom, wrapped in each other’s arms, Taeyong can’t stop smiling. [Y/N] kisses his jaw, grinning sweetly. “What’re you smiling about, hm?” they ask him.

“I love you,” Taeyong says. It’s a pure and simple statement now. There’s no weight to it, no tinge of fear or sadness. It’s no longer something he has to carry. It just is. “I love you.”

[Y/N]’s eyes, beautiful and warm, are bright with joy. “I love you, too,” they reply. 

Taeyong blinks calmly, watching them lay out their supplies—a tape measure, pins, a notepad. [Y/N] is young, but already they’ve made a name for themself in the fashion industry. They’ve styled many celebrities, and LSM Inc. snatched them up at first chance to outfit their idols. Before Taeyong met them, he’d heard they were good with AI robots. It’s true.

They pinch at the fabric of the shirt Taeyong’s already wearing. “We need to bring this in,” they say, looking up at him. “I want to highlight your waist.”

My waist. Normally people talk about Taeyong’s cheekbones or his jawline. “We could crop it,” he suggests tentatively.

They smile warmly. “We could, if you’d like. I think it would look nice.” They deftly fold the fabric up, simulating a crop, so that just an inch of Taeyong’s skin shows. They meet Taeyong’s gaze in the mirror, eyes questioning. “How’s that?”

Taeyong nods. “I like it.”

“Me, too.” They start with the pins, fingers nimble. Taeyong relaxes his shoulders. With other stylists, it’s not always wise to offer his own opinions. Mostly they treat him like a doll, or maybe a mannequin—they rarely ask him for input, or speak to him at all except to tell him how to position himself as they work. It’s not that it bothers Taeyong—no one is cruel to him, which is all that matters—but it’s nice to be able to chime in about his clothing from time to time. It’s also nice that he can chat with [Y/N] as they work, instead of standing in awkward silence. It makes the time pass more quickly. 

This is not his first fitting with [Y/N], but they are still relatively new to the team. And yet, Taeyong has found an easy sort of familiarity with them even after just a few meetings. It’s mostly because they actually treat him like he has a brain and social skills. Both synthetic, but who’s counting, right?

It seems a lot of people are. Taeyong was not born. He was brought into being. He was created, and he will outlive the hands that created him. This excites some, and frightens others. Taeyong isn’t sure how he feels about it. He supposes, like with everything else, he feels nothing at all. 

It’s not that Taeyong is emotionless, or completely void of opinions or feelings. He was given a moral compass, after all: good and bad, right and wrong (he is good, and he does the right things). It’s just that most things don’t bother him one way or another. He knows that’s part of his programming, but because it’s part of his programming, he doesn’t care. He still has plenty of learned emotional displays, and his technicians always told him that his affective responses were off the charts for a robot; so like a human’s. But things that would make a human—or even a less carefully-programmed robot—angry, or sad or scared or whatever else, hit some kind of wall inside of him, and bounce away, harmless. 

He was told in his classes that the lack of emotionality protects him and makes him better at doing his job, and better at functioning day-to-day, than a human. Taeyong can accept this as true. He’s pretty sure, however, that it protects humans from him. It makes him less volatile. No matter how hard humans try, they always end up making robots a little too strong. He knows a lot of people are afraid of him because of this. Though no one has said anything explicitly, he’s also pretty sure that were his emotional centers to malfunction—were the blockers to fail—he would be retired immediately. He’s heard whisperings of past generations of robots, of older prototypes that had, suddenly, and without warning, been retired. And since he belongs to a research corporation, his retirement would be slow and painful—they’d want to dissect him and understand what went wrong.

But Taeyong is well-made. He doesn’t think it’ll be a problem.

Another thing he’s pretty sure about is that [Y/N], unlike many, many people, is not afraid of him. They are good with AI robots because they don’t treat robots like they are robots. They treat them like they would anybody else. Taeyong doesn’t have to school himself around them. If he makes a sudden movement, they don’t flinch. He likes that about [Y/N].

“How have you been?” [Y/N] asks as they reach for more pins.

“Good,” Taeyong says. It’s a script he’s familiar with. One is not supposed to be honest when asked something like that in casual conversation. Taeyong hasn’t been good. Taeyong has been fine. Taeyong has been neutral. He has practice, recording, filming, and then he goes back to his dorm to rest. It’s monotonous, but not terrible. “How are you?”

“Busy,” [Y/N] replies. “But I don’t mind that. Lee Sooman-seonsangnim has me working with RVel.V now, too.”

“Oh.” Taeyong feels a spark of interest. The RVel.V robots came before the S127 line. They rarely see them, except in passing, so Taeyong’s always a little curious to hear about them. “I don’t know them that well,” he says. “What are they like?”

“A bit like you guys,” [Y/N] says. Their tone is fond, Taeyong registers. “And a bit not. Their leader is not like you at all,” they add with a short laugh. “She’s very commanding and it takes her a while to warm up to people, I think.”

“I am warm?” Taeyong asks, puzzled.

“To me,” [Y/N] says. 

“People say I’m scary,” Taeyong says, and [Y/N] laughs again. 

“That’s because most people only see you on stage,” they tell him. “Okay, let’s look at the next outfit.” They step away so Taeyong can slip behind the divider to change. 

Taeyong undresses, running his hands over his waist for a moment before he pulls the next shirt on. He doesn’t think often about his body. He was made a certain way and there isn’t much he can do to change it, so there isn’t a point. He doesn’t really consider if certain parts of his body are good or nice or pretty; he’s told that he’s handsome, and he knows he was made with that intent. His face is symmetrical; he has wide eyes and pouty lips, and to some, that makes him beautiful. 

Some humans say that they were made in the image of their creator, that they are smaller, less perfect versions of their God. Taeyong thinks their God is cruel. Taeyong thinks they know this, because when they make robots, they make them more perfect. More beautiful. Taeyong is made in the image of his creators, but better. It is precisely because of this that half of the humans love him, and the other half despise him. He knows they all envy him.