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Lying on the bed, back against his crumpled white sheets, Grace is a vision. The warm glow of his nightlight — a small dog-shaped thing: a gift, Grace had told him, red creeping into his cheeks, and K had inexplicably wanted to reach out and touch him, to dip his fingers into that splash of colour — illuminates his face, his hair fanned out in a golden halo across his pillows.
(His glasses lie, carefully folded, on the nightstand. K had taken care to remove them before their night had begun, knowing that Grace would be unhappy if he had to purchase a replacement pair.)
He looks like something out of an old painting, a muse from an ancient sculpture. For the first time, K wishes his programming had included a more sophisticated language pack, like some of the the arts-specialised Nexus-9s that hadn't been allocated to the LAPD, if only to put this sight into words.
They are both naked, having shed their outer shells earlier in the night, intertwined with each other in their most raw, vulnerable forms. Grace's legs bracket K's waist, and K's own hands frame his hips; his skin is warm and soft under K's palms. So pliable, unlike K's own — though bio-engineered to mirror humanity in every aspect, the skins of Nexus-9 replicants, by virtue of their main purpose, are generally designed to be tougher than a natural human's.
Grace's body is a map of imperfections, a luxury that replicants can not afford and cannot be afforded. K traces a cluster of freckles on his right shoulder, a starburst of moles across his chest (K does not think in unnecessary descriptives; surely it is Grace's influence, then, that has him unknowingly arranging his thoughts around the shape of constellations and galaxies) — they are beautiful, in the way a single yellow cowslip, a symbol of life in a land where nothing grows for miles, is beautiful. Going lower, he brushes his fingers against an old scar near Grace's knee, white and jagged (how had he gotten it? A childhood incident? A minor scuffle? Or simply a moment of clumsiness? K finds himself, strangely, wanting to know). Grace shivers a little at the contact, before relaxing into the sheets once more.
"Tickles," he laughs. It is a tender sound, one of such thoughtless, careless joy that it never fails to take K's breath away.
Such sensitivity from only a minor touch. Replicants feel pain, of course, but unnecessary physiological responses had long since been culled from their artificial biology — it serves no practical purpose for a tool to feel ticklish. How delicate humans are, so responsive and vulnerable; K can't help but track the butterfly flutter of Grace's pulse in his throat, the branching map of his veins underneath his skin and the steady rush of blood flowing within. He knows from instinct, as well as experience, how hard he needs to press down to hurt him; the precise amount of force needed to break one of Grace's legs wrapped around K's waist — first his fibula, and then his tibia. It is not much at all.
Grace is so fragile. K is suddenly, overwhelmingly terrified of breaking him, of hurting him with his violence, in this moment where he's allowed to take.
Maybe Grace notices his hesitation, because he reaches up to cup his cheek with his hand. His blue eyes — not the buzzing, neon cyan of the advertising signboards scattered around the city, shimmering holographic illusions selling dreams to the damned, but the colour of what K imagines to be the gentle blue of a summer sky: the kind that people whisper used to be the norm, before they choked the air with smog and ash — are kind. His palm is so warm without the usual thin barrier of his medical latex gloves — K can't help the way he leans into his touch, like a sunflower turning its face towards the sun, a stray dog seeking comfort from the first kind hand that feeds it.
"It's okay, K," Grace says soothingly. "I'm here. Don't be afraid; take as much from me as you need."
Take.
[ˈtāk]: Verb.
Definition: to get into one's hands or into one's possession, power, or control.
Example sentence(s): I take my blaster into my hand and pull the trigger. I take Sapper Morton's eye from his head and rinse it in his sink until the water runs clear. I take Luv by the neck, press her face into the sea, and watch her drown.
"I don't want to hurt you," K replies. Strange; his hands are shaking.
Grace only smiles. It's soft and easy, like butter melting in the pan on weekend mornings — real butter, smooth and golden-yellow, not the synthesised oils ('with 3% real margarine!') K sees sold in the markets —, the smell of it filling the apartment as Grace flips pancakes over the stove. Before, K had never put much thought in the act of consumption; it was a biological necessity, a process carried out to maintain the machine of his body, and nothing more. He hardly thought about food aside from the bland processed cubes provided to him by the LAPD, needing nothing more than the essential nutrients, proteins, and vitamins. Anything other than that was something he hadn't even bothered to consider, let alone dishes like pancakes and ramen and fried rice — all meals that Grace loves, and that K had learnt the taste of because of him.
It's different, now. Now, instead of boiling synthetic food cubes in water, he knows the ingredients needed to assemble a bowl of vegetable noodles and how to pour pancake mix into even circles so they don't burn; how to make scrambled eggs and how much water is needed per cup of rice to get a perfect consistency. Useless information — but cooking is a science, as Grace likes to say. K is no scientist, but he finds this is something he doesn't mind learning, if it means that Grace will smile at him, eyes shining with joy.
"You won't," Grace says. "You would never hurt me."
Why? K wants to ask — demand, almost, if he could. How do you know? Is Grace that confident in K's programming, the directive of obedience encoded into his very cells? He would know about it more than most, K supposes; his knowledge of biology is why the LAPD had specifically recruited him from Wallace Corporation to work as their Replicant Specialist.
But — then Grace would have said 'could'. Perhaps befitting of an educated professional, he is sometimes strangely deliberate about the words he chooses to say, discarding and selecting them like plucking marbles from a bag. He would have said: you could never hurt me.
Not: you would never hurt me.
Could, would, should. Is there a difference? Is there a choice? I wasn't aware that was an option, he'd told Joshi when she'd asked him if he was refusing her orders, at the beginning of everything — back when he was still Replicant KD6-3.7, Constant K. Back when his largest priority had simply been earning enough credits to purchase an emanator (he cannot think of her name, still. The wound is still too raw, the loss too deep. But is it really a loss, if what is gone had never existed at all? K does not know the answer). No is not a word that exists in a replicant's lexicon.
(Now, he is K. Just K — not KD6-3.7, not Officer K, not skinjob or Blade Runner or doll.
Grace's K, maybe. K thinks he likes the sound of that — belonging to Grace — as much as a machine can like anything. Grace is careful with the possessions he chooses to keep; he might lose his glasses three times in a month and leave sheaves of paperwork all over his office, but the beaded bracelet his brother gifted him when they were children still sits safely on his mantelpiece, and the blue-green glass paperweight that K had bought for him — it looks like Earth, Grace had gasped happily when he saw it, and K stared at him, hoping it wasn't too obvious that he was committing the expression on his face to his long-term memory — has never left his desk.
Grace never throws away the things he likes. If K is his, maybe he will keep K, too.)
Grace trails his hand from K's cheek to the back of his neck; a gentle, steady weight that brings him back to reality.
"Kiss me?" He asks, a hint of hesitance in his smile, as if K could deny him anything.
…No. He could. It is always a choice, with Grace — at least, that's what he always says. From the very first time they'd met in his medical office, white coat draped over his broad shoulders as he'd smiled at K from across his desk — nice to meet you, K! My name is Dr Ryland Grace —, he'd always made sure to ask.
How are you today, K?
We're just running a few simple tests this morning. Is that okay?
Is it alright if I touch you? I'm sorry, I know this isn't very comfortable.
If Grace wants K to choose, then he will.
Grace's lips are soft, just like the rest of him; he closes his eyes as he leans into the kiss, mouth parting to let K in. He kisses K slowly and gently — it's nothing like the way Luv had forced her mouth against his, teeth clacking painfully as she grinned and bit down until K tasted his own blood on his tongue. Grace tastes like the lemon candies he keeps in the bowl on his office desk, fizzy and sweet. He moans quietly into K's mouth, hands curling and uncurling around K's biceps. It's a nice sound. K thinks he wants to hear more of it.
When they part, K takes the bottle lying next to him and dutifully slathers his fingers with lube. Grace's cheeks are flushed, mouth bitten red and eyes slightly dazed, sluggishly following K's movements. K feels his gaze flick towards his face, and he wonders what Grace sees; if it's something he likes.
Grace is already wet when K inserts a finger into him, breath hitching when K works it in all the way to the knuckle. He's tight, and K can't help the rush of heat when he wonders how he would feel around K.
"Is this okay?" He asks quietly, and Grace nods.
"Y-yeah," he breathes. His legs twitch around K's waist, as if wanting to close around him. "You can…you can put another."
K watches him as he does: the way he swallows, the muscle in his jaw flexing as braces himself, the way his mouth hangs slightly open at the stretch of K's fingers, lips shiny with spit. The way he twitches around K as he works him open; every minor hitch of breath and tiny whimper that he tries to muffle, every small sound that leaks from his lips. Slick drools from his entrance, coating K's fingers and trickling down his wrist. K is struck by the urge to taste it, to taste him straight from the source.
He doesn't, of course. Grace hadn't permitted him to. But when Grace's thighs begin to tremble, his breaths growing short and sharp, K knows that he's ready.
His breath stutters when he finally breaches Grace, sheathing himself in his wet heat. Grace moans, throwing his head back into the pillows; K memorises the minute flutter of his long lashes, shadows fanning across his cheekbones. He is beautiful.
"A-ah," Grace gasps, "K…"
He feels good, of course he does — better than fucking a pleasure model, infinitely better than the moments alone in his empty apartment, lying on his threadbare sheets and watching videos of faceless women writhing underneath broad-shouldered men, trying to feel something. Grace is so tight and wet and K has to grit his teeth before he can embarrass himself thoroughly, but it's more than that — it's more than just the physicality of this, skin against skin. It's the way Grace comes apart under him so beautifully, the way he's always straining to touch K, his fingertips leaving trails of heat across K's body; it's the way he looks at him, so tender in the dim light, eyes on K's face like he's seeing something so incredibly precious —
"K," Grace says again, this time in a whisper, and it is only then that K registers the wetness streaming down his cheeks.
…Oh.
Crying is an act unfamiliar to K. Replicants have the ability to produce tears, but the general consensus is that aside from pleasure models, who frequently exercise the function, it serves very little use to anyone else. K is no exception — he did not cry when he found the toy horse in the orphanage's furnace, or when Luv destroyed the only person in his life he'd thought was worth living for, or when he finally understood how laughable his desire to be Deckard's child was, how foolish he had been for daring to wish he could be anything more than a soulless weapon.
And yet.
"It's okay," Grace soothes. Something that looks like understanding has settled in his eyes; his voice is gentle, like he's speaking to a wounded animal. He's got one hand splayed across his stomach, the other curled around K's hand. "You're okay, K. You're doing so well. You, you feel so good inside me — does it feel good for you too?"
"Yes," K gasps, the sound ripped from his chest. He's shaking, bucking his hips into Grace, nearly overwhelmed by the molten heat that lances through him. He tries to set a rhythm, to go slow, but he can't — he can't help but move in short, erratic thrusts, desperately chasing his pleasure like an unleashed dog. "Grace, Grace —"
"It's okay," Grace repeats. His voice has gone high and breathy, and he makes tiny punched out noises each time K thrusts forward, reaching the innermost parts of him. He wraps his arms around K, and the touch nearly undoes him, Grace's heat on his skin arcing through his nerves like lightning, like a shock of electricity in his veins. "Take what you need. You, you always take such good care of me —"
K sobs, unable to help himself. He has never, ever felt anything like this before — he thought he knew what sex was, from the last time he was intimate with Joi, but that hadn't been true at all. The love had been there — or at least some form of it — and it had been her face superimposed on the pleasure model, but it was only a substitution, an imitation of what he'd thought making love would be. The pleasure model was aesthetically pleasing, in the way only pleasure models can be, and she'd moaned and whimpered like all the women did in the videos that K watched, but it hadn't been enough — it hadn't been enough to fill the void in K's chest. He'd only left the room feeling emptier inside.
But this is nothing like that night. Not with Grace. In this bedroom, in the apartment that K has gradually learnt to think of as home because of the man living in it, Grace is alive under his hands. Not a hologram, or a person pretending to offer K something they cannot, but warm and alive and so, so real. And now he has given K control over himself, the choice to take pleasure from his own body. It is a gift so precious that K doesn't know how to form the words to explain what it means to him. All his life, he's only ever been used: as a weapon, as a tool, as a means to an end — what does it mean, when someone trusts him enough to take from them? When someone loves him enough to ask him to take?
His chest heaves with the force of his cries; he's still trembling, like an animal caught in the rain. Grace doesn't tell him to stop; he only tightens his arms around K, arching his body upwards into his thrusts, and the added proximity feels so incredible that K almost comes. He's close, so close, and he thinks Grace must know, because he clenches around K's cock, moaning in staccato cries.
"G-good boy," Grace praises, with so much tenderness in his voice that it only makes K cry harder, tears blurring his vision and dripping onto Grace's chest. Grace blindly reaches out for K's hand, interlacing their fingers together. "You're — ah — so good for me, K. Let it all out; I'm here. I'm here..."
Deliriously, K wonders if he is dreaming. If in reality he's still bleeding out on the snow-capped steps of Dr Stelline's facility, and everything — Grace and his warmth, his gentleness, his love — is simply a delusion created by his dying brain.
If so, he never wants to wake up. With Joi, having the illusion broken — torn from him — once was enough. He doesn't think he could survive it a second time. Not with Grace.
If it is Grace, he doesn't think he wants to survive it.
"No, sweetheart," Grace whispers. He shakily swipes his thumb across the skin under K's eye, gathering the moisture gathering on his lashes. K thinks he looks a little sad. "This…this is real, okay? You're not dreaming. You're, you're here, in our bedroom, with me."
"Yes," K moans, his thrusts growing faster, more powerful. The heat is almost unbearable now, and he can barely register the words leaking from his mouth. "Grace, Grace, Grace…"
"I'm here," Grace says, voice breaking on a whine, "I'm here, love, you can let go, I promise —"
"Please," K whimpers, his words slurring together. He doesn't even know what he's asking for, only that he's almost there, almost there — "Grace, please —"
"I love you," Grace gasps, and that is what unravels K, unspools his DNA and synapses until he's reduced down to his very cells. He chokes on a guttural sob, white blinding his vision as the pressure coiling in his abdomen snaps; he bucks desperately into Grace as he finishes, collapsing and clutching onto Grace like a lost child, like a drowning man being handed his only lifeline in the vast ocean.
Driven by pure, instinctive need, he kisses Grace again, wrapping his arms around his waist, wanting more than anything else to press their bodies as close together as possible. Feverishly, he wonders if they might be able to fuse into one, if they were close enough to one another; to have skin and flesh and bone melt together until it would be impossible to tell where Grace ended and where K began. He would like that, being a part of Grace, staying with him forever until their deaths.
Grace accepts him, taking in every eager touch, every desperate word that K cannot say. He draws K even closer, raising one hand and running it through K's hair, nimble fingers smoothing the cropped strands in such a comforting motion that, had K any more tears left to shed, would have broken him all over again.
"Good boy," Grace whispers against K's lips, warm and soft. "You did so well, K. You were so brave. I love you."
K doesn't feel very brave. But he likes the way that Grace says it, tender and slow, slipping its way in between the gaps of his ribcage. He suddenly finds himself utterly exhausted, so he breaks the kiss, lying in the space that Grace has made for him between his legs. Carefully, with his arms still around Grace, he leans against Grace's chest, tilting his head to listen to his heartbeat.
Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. It is a dear sound, one that K knows by heart.
"Thank you," he murmurs quietly. He feels the brush of lips against the top of his head, as the hand around his squeezes tighter.
(What's it like, the interrogator asks, to hold the hand of someone you love?)
"Oh, K." Grace's voice is so, so gentle. K would do anything to protect that gentleness, that precious softness in him. "You don't need to thank me. Not for this."
I do, K thinks but does not say. That can come later, he decides.
For now, he just closes his eyes, and allows himself to be lulled to sleep by the sound of Grace's heartbeat.