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c0wboylikeharry · 18 days ago

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BATHING SUIT SHOPPING (h.s)

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harry styles x fem!reader

summary: after your luggage gets lost on vacation, harry agrees to take you out shopping to replace what was lost. but after you put on a little show, bathing suit shopping takes a different direction.

word count: 6.3k

cw: smut, dirty talk, penetration, oral, unprotected sex, spanking, exhibitionism

a/n: this is literally pure smut with a small backstory for context. enjoy!!

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

I’m going to strangle the person responsible for losing your luggage. The loss has threatened to ruin our vacation in Rome nearly five times—we’ve been here a total of 24 hours. They told us it’d take a few hours to locate the bag, and when they did, we found out it was heading to the US. Literally the furthest place it could’ve gone. But, hey, at least they tracked it down. Managing to get it back on a plane to us, you won’t have it until late this evening or tomorrow morning. But that just won’t do with you. Oh, no.

After your 5th breakdown, I had to come up with any kind of solution. Something to get you to take a breath and realize that this isn’t the end of the world. I’d already offered up the clothes off my back, but you grumpily refused. There was only one option left.

A shopping spree.

Only when those words left my lips did your whole attitude change. It’s not like you need to go out and buy a whole new wardrobe and makeup routine, your bag will be here soon, but you’ll take this opportunity to do just that. And my wallet is already cursing me out for it.

Walking down the small beach town, hand in hand, you’re practically skipping across the cobblestone. Shops litter the streets ranging from ice cream to jewelry and everything in between. I’m just glad you skipped right past that last designer store.

Wearing one of my old t-shirts and the sweatpants you wore on the flight yesterday, you look completely out of place. Adorable, yes, but also getting weird looks from locals dressed in their swimsuits and summer wear. You could care less, though, not even noticing their sideways glances as you drag me through the streets. And your careless nature is infectious, bringing a reluctant smile to my face when I’m supposed to be angry for agreeing to this.

Today was supposed to be a beach day, spent lounging on the sand and soaking up the warm sun. It wasn’t supposed to be spent wracking up credit card debt. I don’t even accept my fate until your skipping halts and you yank me into a store. It’s a small business with the smell of sand and sunscreen wafting in the air. With a mix of products in here, from tacky souvenirs to home decor pieces, I can’t seem to place why this is the store you chose. I mean, sure, there’s some clothes littered on sparse racks, but it’s not like the usual clothing stores we passed on the way. Doubting we’ll find anything of substance in here, you continue dragging me through the store until I’m proven wrong.

A wall full of bathing suits staring back at me. Men and womens, though bikinis are clearly favored here. So many different colors, patterns and sizes all thrown together in a dizzying mess. And you’ve already thrown yourself into the belly of the beast, scouring through the masses to find ones you like. In the matter of a minute, your hands are already full.

“Can you hold this for me, babe?” you ask at the same time as you drop the pile into my hands. And now my hands are full.

Searching through the bunch, I pull out what I assume to be is a string of floss. It’s thin enough to be just that. But, no, this is a bathing suit… Oh, Jesus.

“Sweetheart, you can’t be serious with some of these?” I speak up, dangling the dental floss bathing suit between my fingertips.

“What? It’s cute!”

You dutifully ignore my pained protests as you continue to toss more and more sets into my hands. Soon enough, I’ll be buried beneath them. Following you around like a puppy dog, finally—fucking finally—we leave the bathing suit section. But you only allow me to believe that we’re leaving for a fraction of a second. That hope is crushed when you steer us to the right—to the dressing rooms.

Great.

Now I’ll have to sit here for hours as you try on the mountain of stuff you picked out. This is definitely not how I wanted to spend our first 24 hours on vacation.

Plopping down on the uncomfortable wooden bench they have outside the curtained off rooms, I try to come to peace with my current situation. It’s hard. You seem quite pleased with yourself, though. Joyfully scooping up the hoard of things in my arms and walking your happy ass into the small room. I only allow the annoyed groan to leave my lips once the curtain closes behind you.

I pull out my phone to mindlessly scroll as I wait, hoping it’ll make the time go faster and help my brain forget about the back pain that’s sure to come. But I don’t get two scrolls in before the curtain is swinging open again.

Eyes glancing up, I immediately have to clear my throat at the sight. You’re standing there in nothing but one of the two piece bathing suits you picked out. It’s pink and white gingham with a tiny as hell top and scandalous matching micro shorts that leave absolutely nothing to imagination. You don’t even notice me staring with the way you’re too focused on adjusting the material in the far off mirror. If anything, it just gives me more time to lazily drag my eyes up your dangerously long legs, over the curve of your ass, and the swell of your beasts in that revealing top. Damn.

“What do you think?” You turn toward me, hands on your hips, clueless to my burning gaze from a few seconds ago.

“It’s nice,” I choke out, my eyes dropping down to thinly covered tits.

“You don’t think it’s too ‘cute’?” you ask that like it’s a bad thing.

“I don’t know what that even means, sweetheart. You look good, that’s all.”

You sigh like I’ve said the wrong thing and disappear back into the dressing room. Rolling my eyes at your attitude, I try to settle in on my uncomfortable seat as I listen to the sounds of rustling material from behind the curtain. Bouncing my leg seems to be the only thing that can keep me from going crazy out here. That is, until you drag open the makeshift door again.

This time, my groan stems from anything but annoyance. Now wearing a skimpy little bikini, littered with black and white polka dots, I’m surprised my jaw hasn’t dislocated and hit the floor. And when you turn—Jesus, when you turn—your whole, glorious ass is on display. It has me, literally, jumping out of my seat. Latching myself behind you, my hands grip your hips and use myself as a shield from anyone else seeing you like this.

“Jesus, baby, are you trying to kill me?” I practically growl the words, feeling your soft skin beneath my rough fingertips.

“Do you like this one?” you ask, acting innocent.

“Do I like it?” I pull away just just enough to land a good slap to one of your ass cheeks, watching the skin recoil. I physically have to swallow down a moan from the sight. Pulling you back against me, I squeeze the skin I just spanked. “I like it so much that I’m thinking about taking it off of you right now,” I drop my voice to a whisper so only you can hear.

“Harry!” you whine, digging your elbow into my ribs. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I!” I argue back. Grabbing your hips again, I align mine up against your ass, letting you feel just how much I truly do like this. “See?”

You scoff and pull away from my embrace. “You’re impossible.”

And then you just leave me hanging, sitting at half-mast in my pants, all alone in this shop while you change again. I sit back down and try to think of some not-so-sexy things to calm myself down. It’s uncomfortable enough sitting on this bench with no back support, but doing it half-hard is making it worse. Suddenly, I’m very eager to sit here and wait to see what you come out dressed in next. My knee still bounces, but for a whole different reason.

But you’re taking longer than usual. The sound of you changing has stopped, so I know you’re wearing a new suit, but you haven’t come out to show me. That almost angers me. I kind of liked this little fashion show we had going on. Well, more than liked it, clearly. Maybe that’s what’s keeping you closed up inside?

That just won’t do.

I stand up quickly, too on edge to care about how the bench skids against the floor from my abrupt movement. Making my way to the curtain you’re hiding behind, my heart speeds up as if it knows what lies behind it. As my hands slowly drag it open, I hold my breath, but it doesn’t last long. Expelling the hot air in one quick huff when I see you standing there.

Now this one has to be the best—or the worst, whatever way you’re looking at it. A tiny little thing, barely even there, showing off that body you know I fold for. Covered in scraps of leopard print like you know exactly what you’re doing. It’s torture even being just a few feet away.

“Are you trying to make me lose my mind?” I make my presence known, even though you probably already felt my eyes devouring you.

I’m quick to shut the curtain behind myself, blocking out anyone who dares to peek at you like this. Giving us some much needed privacy.

“Harry, what are you doing? I’m trying to change in here,” your voice sounds exasperated, like you’re tired of my antics. Like you’re not purposefully putting on this little show to rile me up.

I ignore your words and let my hands jet out to grip your waist, pulling you back against me. Just feeling your ass brush the front of my swim trunks has me hissing. “I’m just enjoying the view.”

My hands are frenzied against your skin, smoothing up and down your sides like they can’t get enough. And it’s true, I can’t. I never have been able to, and I still can’t today. You’re addicting.

I lean down toward your ear, watching you watch me through the dirty mirror.

“Now take it off,” I whisper, “slowly.”

“What? Harry, no—“

“Fine… You don’t want to listen?” I slide my hands up your ribcage, eyes locked on yours through the reflection. “I’ll do it for you then.”

In the blink of an eye, I’m cupping your breasts in my hands, feeling their weight in my palms like a reward. Squeezing, I feel you shiver against me, already giving into temptation. My eyes drift to watch my work, tweaking your pebbled nipples through the fabric of your bikini top. “God, your tits are fucking perfect,” I whisper my groan, not needing anyone else to hear what’s happening.

I grope and tease you some more before slowly pulling the top down, the fact that it’s strapless makes it easier. Your breasts come spilling out of the material like they’ve been eager to be free. I can feel your breathing turn shallow when my hands reach for your bare skin, and a shaky sigh leaves your lips when I squeeze your breasts possessively. I have you just where I want you.

My mouth finds your neck, pressing slow and sensual kisses to the skin. Licking and nipping as I continue to tease your nipples, marking you in every way as mine. One hand leaves your breasts, trailing down your body tantalizingly slowly. You’re practically panting now, right beside my ear. It only spurs me on. Reaching down between your legs, I cup your pussy, feeling the heat and wetness through the material.

“Looks like you have to get this one, sweetheart. You’ve made a mess in it already,” I tease, growling into your ear before taking your lobe into my mouth.

Your hips buck against my hand as a desperate whimper leaves your lips—the sound goes straight to my cock. I mimic your movements, thrusting my hips up against your ass, unable to stop the groan from leaving my lips. Leaving the warmth of your clothed center, and the weight of your breasts, I grip your hips in my hands again. Slamming you back against my front a few times, I watch in a daze, but I can’t get lost in it just yet. Instead, I push on your lower back, forcing you to bend at the hip and reach out to stabilize yourself with the glass. Just the sight of you bent like this, ready for me to do whatever I want with your body, could have me finishing in seconds. But for now, I sink to my knees behind you, holding your gaze through the mirror.

With a perfect view of your ass and covered cunt, right in my face, I’m a happy man. Leaning forward, I place two gentle kisses to each of your ass cheeks and then a few to the insides of your spread legs. All open and ready for me. Working my way up, my nose nudges your cunt, making you gasp and me smile. Your back arches, pushing yourself further toward my face, and my smirk deepens.

In one swift motion, my tongue darts out and licks a strip over your covered folds, front to back. Your unrestrained whine has me pulling back.

“You’ve gotta stay quiet for me, baby,” I warn, hands sliding up and down your calves.

I watch you through the reflection, nodding eagerly to my request as your hips move in a way that begs for more. Who am I to deny you?

I settle back in between your legs, reaching for the scrap of material you call a bathing suit, and pulling it to the side to expose you to the cool air. Forcefully biting back a groan, I focus in on your dripping folds, like they’re the bright light calling me home. With my free hand, I pull your lips apart, and I blow a cold breath against your throbbing cunt. Watching your entrance clench around nothing nearly sends me to an early grave.

I bring my mouth forward, my flat tongue swiping over your slit with no warning. You gasp against the mirror, and I have no doubt those dangerous lips of yours are now pressed up against the glass. Moaning again when I take another taste into my greedy mouth. A high pitched, needy little mewl that has all the blood in my body rushing south. Shivers wrack through your body when I circle my tongue around your clit, feeling it throb. My lips wrap around the bud and suck, just how you like it. Working you with a death grip on your hips to keep you stable.

The taste of you on my tongue has me feeling a lot less patient than I intended to be. I’m not sure how much more teasing I can give before I lose total control. My grip tightens as I pull you down closer onto my face, nose burying into your cunt as I lap and suck on your clit. I’m trying to get as close as possible, but nothing ever is with you. I’m not satisfied with just a little taste, I need more. More of you. I want everything. Having been craving you since we walked into this godforsaken store.

I pull back for a quick breath, muttering, “Fuck, you taste like a dream,” before diving back in for more.

My mouth is demanding against you, working your sensitive skin skillfully to make you feel nothing but pleasure. And with the way the mirror fogs up with your heated breath, I’d say I’m doing my job. I can feel the precum leaking from the tip of my cock in my shorts, making my own mess. But with your wet, little pussy pressed against my face, I have no plans to leave this spot anytime soon. Lips and tongue relentless as I eat you out the way you deserve.

Your legs are shaking in my firm hold, threatening to give out, but I keep you standing. Pushing my tongue deep into your folds, I circle your entrance with the tip of it, eliciting a harsh moan from you. I take no mercy, and your body is telling me you don’t want me to. But I also can’t have everyone knowing what’s going on in here.

Reluctantly, I pull back. “Baby, you know how much I love your sounds, but I’m not gonna let you come if you can’t stay quiet.”

You whine and whimper and everything in between to protest against the thought of me stopping. I reassure you by gently licking at your core just once. It has you shakily replying, “I-I’ll be quiet… I promise.”

“Good girl.”

And then I’m back to it. Sinking my tongue into your entrance with no warning, I lap up anything and everything you can give me. You keep your promise of staying quiet, biting down on your bottom lip with enough force to cause damage. Fucking you with my tongue has your hips writhing in pleasure, grinding against my face as you seek your release. “You’re a mess, baby,” the vibrations of my voice against your pussy have you jolting in pleasure. “Soaking wet and all spread out for me…”

I feel your thighs twitch and tense under my grasp, every muscle tightening up. Slowing my pace, I focus on the most sensitive parts of you. Swirling your clit and sinking into your entrance.

“That’s it,” I murmur, knowing you're holding yourself back. “You can let go, baby… Come all over my face like a good girl.”

My lips are back around your bud, sucking and teasing as my hands push your legs further apart. I flatten my tongue against you again and allow you to fuck my face how you want. Grinding your whole pussy along my nose, mouth and chin. Covered in your juices, the corners of my lips twitch upwards as you coat me. This is my happy place. Your hips move faster and sloppier, desperately gripping onto the flat glass with your hands to give you some leverage. Something to hold onto when your release crashes into you. I stay unmoving, letting you use me, other than the occasional flicks of my tongue. I can’t help myself.

Quiet cries leave your lips, too quiet to hear from outside, but loud enough for me to revel in. Soaking them up, my hands grip your thighs tighter, pressing my face as close as I can to your cunt. You’re so close, I can feel it. Teetering on the edge of madness, I do the one thing I know will send you toppling over.

Blindly reaching up, my hand smacks your ass with as much force as I can. Your hips jolt forward as a pained whine escapes you. So I do it again. Spanking the sensitive skin and then soothing the redness away. Over and over again until I feel your muscles contract, and your hips still. A muffled moan breaks free from your throat as you come undone. Moving again, I lap up all that you give me, tasting your cum on my tongue like a delicacy. My cock is straining to be buried deep inside of you.

I actually can’t take it.

I stand up abruptly, leaving you shaking and spasming, still obediently bent over. Not for long. Grabbing your hips, I force you up straight again and slam you against the too-thin wall next to the mirror. Facing each other now, I finally get a good view of your flushed face, still painted with your pleasure. Dazed eyes, blotchy cheeks, and swollen lips from biting them so damn hard.

I’d like to bite them too, I think.

So, I do.

Leaning in without any warning, I capture your lips in mine, letting you taste the remnants of your release on my tongue as I thrust it into your mouth. Swallowing up your moans, I bite down on the lip I promised myself I would. Soothing the sting with a graze of my tongue, my hands glide up and down your body without restraint. I can feel your pebbled nipples pressed against me, begging for some attention. Before I give in to them, I reach behind my head to whip off my ratty t-shirt, tossing it in the heap of clothes in the corner of the room. Chests pressed together, silky skin pressed against my own, and an exchange of heated breaths between our open mouths.

“You’re fucking perfect.” The words tumble from my lips before I can stop them, not that I would, it’s the truth. Cemented as I peer down at your breasts squished against my chest from our closeness. “One day, I’m gonna come all over your tits,” I voice my thoughts, making a shaky breath leave your lips. “But today I’m gonna do it in that sweet, little pussy of yours.”

You shiver and I smirk, reaching down to grab one of your thighs and hitch it over my hips, pressing my bulge against you. Your tiny little bikini has since taken back its residence covering your core, and the two layers of material are killing me. Not enough, though, to stop myself from rocking against you. I can’t get enough of how good you feel.

Feeling your arms wrapping around my neck, I push myself impossibly closer, grinding my clothed cock against your clothed slit. Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of my neck, tugging on the strands to summon a groan from my lips. I need more and more.

Burying my face in your neck, my teeth graze the curve, scraping over your skin, as my hips grow desperate. I’m panting into your neck at this point, pathetically. Trying to get any and all friction against my aching length, my hips move faster, pressing you harder into the wall behind you. One hand on your thigh to keep you spread open for me, and one creeping up your torso to grip onto your breast like my life depends on it.

“You drive me crazy,” I mutter against your skin, gently licking a patch I know makes you feel the same. “Gonna make me come in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

Resting my forehead against your shoulder, I stare down at where our hips are making contact. Watching my bulge rub up and down your center, spotting the wet spot you're leaving on the front of my trunks; the hot sight has a shiver running down my spine. It’s so much, I have to grip your thigh a little tighter to keep my head on straight.

I need you. Need you on me. Need you around me. I need you in all the ways you could possibly give me. I’m not lying when I say you make me crazy.

“Harry,” you whine, bringing me back to the present. Only then do I notice how fast my hips have been grinding against yours and all the small moans that have been leaving my lips.

I lift my head from your neck to press my forehead against yours. “God, I love it when you say my name like that.” All you can do is whine in response. “Yeah? You need me that bad? Need me to fill you up, baby?”

“P-please,” you cry, tugging on my hair harder, until my resolve begins to show its cracks.

“Oh, baby, I’m gonna fill you up so good. Gonna stretch you around my cock.” I’m working myself up more and more with my own words, slamming my clothed length against your heat. I’m surprised the wall behind your head hasn’t given away.

But the minute one of your hands leaves my hair to travel down my neck and over my chest, I lose all patience.

Pulling back just enough to grab at the waistband of my trunks, I unsteadily push the material down. Finally, my cock springs free, fully hard and throbbing with its own heartbeat. I grip the base of myself, feeling the heavy weight begging to have something warm wrapped around it. And I know just the thing.

As I pump myself, I use my free hand to slowly drag your bikini bottoms down your hips and thighs. Picking up speed as your cunt comes into view, I groan as I stroke myself, getting sucked into the sensation. My cock twitches in my hands, like it knows your pussy is near, begging me to speed up the process. Luckily, you help me by shimmying the bottoms down the rest of your legs and kicking them off to the side.

I grab your thigh again and hold it up against my hip, feeling the heat of your center aching for me. My hand never stills on my length, especially not at the sight of your glistening folds pleading to envelop me.

Gently, I drag my tip through those folds, spreading my precum and letting it mix with your mess. You moan unabashedly, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

“You feel that?” I say, keeping my body pressed up against yours. “Feel what you do to me?”

You nod, a whiney sound deep in your throat as you clench around nothing. I drop my forehead back against yours as I drag my tip up to your clit, feeling your sensitive jolt. I can’t help myself but to tease you, circling the bud with feather-like pressure.

You pull me closer, looping an arm around my neck and bringing me down for a heated kiss. “Please,” you beg against my mouth.

The pleading, desperate tone of voice has my hips thrusting up through your drenched folds, making us both gasp a moan. It shudders me, making me lose grip of myself and force me to hold onto the wall to keep myself up. You claw at my back, needy for more. So I don’t waste any time.

Reaching down between us, I grab my length again, wrapping my hand around it tighter. I moan low and loud against your open mouth, guiding my head toward your entrance. I’m shaking from how much I’m aching and holding back. My other hand slides up your chest, leaving its vice grip on your breast, and grabs your jaw instead, pinning your attention on me.

“You’re all mine, aren’t you?” I watch as every emotion passes through your eyes. Pleasure, lust, and adoration all swirled into one.

“Y-yes, baby,” you shakily reply, nodding against my restraint.

“Are you dripping for me? Aching?” I murmur, eyes dark and half-lidded as I stare back at you. Your chest rises and falls, brushing against mine, with every unsteady breath you take. You’re wrecked before I’m even inside of you.

“Always,” your voice is more confident this time. It has a wicked smirk growing on my lips.

I squeeze your jaw just a fraction tighter. “Such a good, good girl for me.”

The hand that’s on your thigh threatens to leave marks from its grip as I finally press my tip against your entrance, just barely pushing in. I watch as your eyes flutter shut as I feed my cock into you slowly, inch by inch. Gasping when you feel the first stretch, your pussy squeezes me the second I get just the head in. I curse under my breath, trying to keep myself from coming too fast.

“Sweetheart… You’re so tight,” I grit out between clenched teeth, holding myself back from just snapping my hips and burying myself deep inside of you.

Before you can get used to it, I’m pushing in again. My mind goes blank as I feel your walls milking and clenching around me. I trust you’ll keep your leg in place as I let go and move to press my thumb against your clit, hoping it’ll open you up enough for me to reach the hilt. You cry out and on the next flutter of your cunt, I’m sinking fully in. “Jesus,” I hiss.

I slowly pull my hips back, dragging out of you at a pace that has you squirming. It doesn’t last long. Not when my hips rapidly snap back against yours, making you jump and gasp. I do it again. And again and again and again until your gasps and whines are all that I hear. I drop my forehead to your shoulder again to get a better listen, feeling my deep moans rattle against your skin. It all grows when I feel your hips start to grind to meet my thrusts.

“Need…more,” you gasp, trying to get my hips to speed up. Your hands pull at me needily, doing anything you can to get me to comply.

I ignore your request, keeping the slow, languid pace instead. “No,” I say, fingers digging into your skin. “You take what I give you.”

But, despite my words, I do find myself moving faster. I can feel my pleasure building, feeling myself slipping into the daze, but I’m far from finished with you.

So, I pull out, just for a second. Doesn’t mean you aren’t crying out in protest, though. But I make quick work in scooping you up, forcing your legs to wrap around my hips and holding my hands under your ass to support you. I even give it a nice squeeze, so you should drop the pout.

I let go with one hand, easily holding you up with just the other, and reach between us. Grabbing my length again, I waste no time in lining it up with your entrance and sinking in deep. It’s a whole new angle, letting me hit deeper than before. Which means your cries of pleasure intensify.

Oh, we’re definitely getting caught in here. Might as well make the most of it while we can.

With you wrapped around my cock, I grab onto your hips again and hold you against me in the air, no more wall to support you. I take control of your movements, guiding you to pull off my dick and then take me back in. I do it slowly first, letting you get used to the movements led by my hands. Your whimpers tell me I’m doing good.

Losing control, I guide your hips faster and meet you with my own thrusts, slapping our hips together and definitely making our presence known. Your tits fly around right in front of my face, bouncing from the force of our movements. I can’t help myself from leaning forward to take one of your nipples into my mouth. Swirling the bud with my tongue, my eyes stare up at you to gauge your reaction. Your eyes pressed shut, brows knit together, jaw dropped with soft moaning breaths leaving your lips; I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

And I’m not sure how, but my feet find the purchase to move as I continue fucking you against me. Moving us around the small room until I’m facing away from the mirror and standing in front of a small seat.

A devilish and delicious plan forms in my head.

Pulling out, you whine and try to find friction against my abdomen. No words need to be shared to show my refusal, only actions talk as I unwrap your legs from my body and set you down on shaky limbs. With my hands on your hips, I flip you around, your back to my front again. And like deja-vu, I’m pressing your back down until you arch and take the hint to hold onto the stool in front of you.

Your ass is pressed up against my groin, wriggling around seeking attention and pleasure. I scold you with a fast smack against the needy skin, but it only spurs you on. Gripping both cheeks in my hands, I spread them apart, giving me the perfect view of the most intimate part of your body. I can’t help but to grind myself against you again, giving us what we both need.

“Are you gonna be good for me, baby?” I speak up, my eyes glued to your perfect skin as I smooth my hands up your back. Pressing you further down until you’re arched into perfect form. “Gonna stay nice and quiet?”

“Y-yes… Yes, baby,” you shakily reply, whole body shivering when I line myself up with you again.

I know how this position has you, so I doubt your promise. “We’ll see about that.”

With a bruising grip on your hips, I slam my whole cock into you in one fell swoop. And just as I predicted, you scream out. But I can’t find it in me to care. Not if anyone hears, or walks in, or—hell—if they call the cops. Being buried deep inside your wet, hot cunt makes every worry disappear.

“Fuck!” I groan. “You’re clenching me so hard, baby. So fucking tight.” I keep up a brutal pace, leaving my hips slapping against your ass.

Your ass that wiggles and grinds to meet my thrusts, desperate for anything I give you. My grip somehow tightens, guaranteeing fingerprints on your skin for weeks. It’s an effort to hold back and not just explode into you, release every bit of cum I know you’re desperate for, but I do. Though watching my cock disappear into your pink pussy probably won’t help my case.

Looking away, I catch sight of our position in the mirror, seeing your shaky legs and blissed out face. Not a good idea to look here either, but I can’t hear my gaze away.

“Look at yourself,” I demand, slowly my hips until I see your eyes in the glass, seeing what I’m seeing. “Look at the way I sink into your tight fucking cunt.”

My hips emphasize my words, picking back up where I left off so you can watch too. I’m entranced by the sight, like watching my own personal porno. It’s the best damn one I’ve ever seen. Eyes flicking to your face, I watch your jaw drop as you lock onto the contact of my disappearing length, watching me rock and slam into you.

“Oh my god,” you breathe the words, eyes glazing over and threatening to roll back.

So I smack you ass to keep you alert. Back arching from the painful pleasure, I sink deeper into your heat. Pants leave my lips as I force myself to tear my gaze away, staring at the wall ahead of me and trying to get my head on straight again. It’s impossible, though. With the way your pussy clenches around my cock, I know I won’t survive much longer.

“Shit, baby, you’re killing me,” I hiss out, succumbing to watching our hips connect again. “Feel me stretching you out?” You moan. “You’re taking me so well. Taking my big cock deep inside.”

“I-I’m gonna come!” You yell, far too loudly for my liking. It has me leaning over your body and clamping my hand over your mouth to keep you silent. But it also changes the angle once again, leaving me to repeatedly hit up against that spongy spot inside of you. You scream into my hand, hips meeting mine with a greedy desperation.

I’m losing myself here, leaning my forehead against your back as I try to keep myself from coming. At least until you do. Reaching between us and grabbing at your bouncing tits might not have been the best idea for that. A strangled groan leaves my lips as I struggle to keep my hips at an even rhythm. Groping and squeezing at your supple flesh, your hot breath hits my hand almost erotically.

And with one pinch of your nipple, you’re a goner.

I feel your back arch up against mine, straining your muscles as you come—hard. My hand isn’t enough to silence your screams, a mix of curses and my name tumbling from your lips as you’re overcome with pleasure. I feel it around me, pulsing and sucking and getting impossibly wetter as I continue to drive into you. It forces me to let out my own stream of curses against the skin of your back, my eyes pinched shut with immense pressure.

“Fuck, baby… So good. So fucking good coming on my cock like that—shit! I’m gonna fucking come. You’re so tight, trying to milk me, baby. Fuck!” the words tumble out of me without a second thought, slipping under the wave of pleasure.

You're still spasming around me as I pull out just before I come, and my whole body screams in protest. You whine from the abrupt loss, but with a clearer head, you’d be thanking me.

Taking my cock in my hand, I stroke myself to the same rhythm I was just fucking you with. Keeping my eyes trained on your cum dripping cunt, I pretend I’m still buried to the hilt. Streams of moans and grunts escape me as I watch your legs threaten to buckle and your juices drip down the apex of your thighs.

I did that, I think, I wrecked you.

That thought and this sight is what sends me over the edge, gasping out as I feel my muscles tighten. Transfixed by the sight of my hot, white, beaded cum shooting out of my tip and landing on your lower back and ass. I swear I could come again and again over that alone. Watching my mess drip down your body and paint your back like a masterpiece.

Fuck.

I take back what I said before.

I’d like to thank whoever is responsible for losing your suitcase, because without them, this wouldn't have just happened.

𖦹

taglist: @tpwkmr @alex-voiddome @butdaddyiloveh1m

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hypno-matt · 7 months ago

Text

One of the best parts about hypnosis is that you can turn any fun game into something completely incredible by just sprinkling a few trancey elements into it.

Take HypnoChess, for example. It's just regular old chess, but every piece you lose makes you dumber, dizzier, and less focused. This one change alters a game of wits into a game of defense, where trades of pieces are incredibly risky at all times, while also turning losing from a frustrating result to an arousing one.

Or we can look at Hypno Truth or Dare. It has all the elements of regular Truth or Dare, mixed in with dirty questions about hypnosis and dares to go deeper, listen to files and to obey without question~

And the best part is that this change is incredibly easy to do. Any game can be made more fun with hypnosis if you alter a few rules. You can replace boring punishment cards with suggestions to stare at a spiral, or to become another player's toy for x ammount of turns.

You can make it so that the closer you get to the finish in a game like Snakes and Ladders, the emptier you get, and the more addicted you become to the thought of sabotaging yourself going back to the beggining.

This does not just apply to physical games either. Video games lerfectly lend themselves to hypnosis. A lot of them feature very rigid gameplay rules and repetitive gameplay, so, in theory, you could make a very mindless task like farming for a certain item or mining for a certain ore condition you deeper, every level gained and block broken drilling in the suggestion of your choosing into your already focused head.

I'm sure that there are a million other examples, ranging from simple to extreme, but I'm going to let you readers share some of yours~

#my posts #cw hypnosis #brainwashing #conditioning #mind conditioning #brainless #mind control #hypnotized #hypnosub #hypnok1nk #hypnosis #mind break #brain drain #hypnotoy #hypnotic

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captain-huggy-bear · 6 months ago

Note

"Can- Can you come over please?" (I believe prompt list 1 number 80?) with whoever you're inspired for please 😊 thank you! - em

Em, it was giving soft boy Luke who's maybe feeling shitty after a bad game, so I hope you like it. First time writing Luke so I'm super sorry if it doesn't feel right for him (as we think of him because obvs we don't know him but still) Also I like how I was like let's write something short and then...just kept writing...😂 Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

You'd been friends with Luke Hughes for almost as long as he'd been in New Jersey, both of you new to the city at the time had stumbled into each other quite literally one wintery afternoon. Your coffee going all over his hoodie, his doughnut squishing chocolate icing over your sweater. You'd expected him to yell, instead you learnt that day how utterly sweet and kind Luke Hughes was. He replaced your coffee and refused to let you buy him a new doughnut, but did let you invite him over so you could put some stain remover on his hoodie.

You might be thinking, 'are you crazy? Inviting a strange man to your apartment?', but you can only explain your risk through two pieces of information: 1) You knew roughly who he was. You weren't a fan of his by any means but you followed Hockey and had heard about the newest addition to the Devils, so you at least knew he wasn't a criminal, 2) Luke Hughes had been wearing snoopy socks and something about that had screamed 'non-threatening'.

Looking back it was probably slightly insane on your part, but it bagged you a close friend who you may or may not have had a massive crush on, so you couldn't really say you regretted risking it.

It wasn't unusual for Luke to phone you after a game, more often than not you got a quick phone call or a few texts sent through while he was out celebrating or commisserating with the team, often being invited out even when he knew you weren't much for late nights out on the town.

It was unusual though for that phone call to come in at 1 in the morning while you were sleeping.

You're groggy and half awake, hand patting the bedside table until you grip your phone, Luke's ringtone blarring through the speakers only because he was one of your few exceptions. One of a handful of people who could call you after 11pm without being sent straight to voicemail, the others being your family.

"Lukey? It's..." You stop to squint at your alarm clock, "1:41 in the morning, what's wrong?" You knew the game had ended late, but Luke should have been in bed by now or he should have been out partying with Jack and the boys, definitely not phoning you. You half expected him to be drunk on the other end of the line, maybe having phoned you while out with the team.

Instead his breath is shaky on the other end of the line, voice raspy like he's been crying and that's what has you sitting upright and swinging your legs out of bed before he even finishes his question.

"Can- Can you come over please?" His voice is scratchy and strained, a rasp that sounds defeated. You don't even considering getting changed from your pajamas, you just throw a jacket on from your closet.

"Yeah, yeah, of course, what's wrong?"

"Just...just come over please, angel" You're quick timing it as you shove your feet in a pair of shoes and grab your keys off the side, locking your apartment door behind you. It didn't matter to you that it was nearly 2am or that you hadn't brushed your hair or that you were half-asleep, all that mattered was Luke and the way he sounded like the world might be just a little too much for him right now.

"Okay, okay, want me to stay on the line?"

"No, just...drive safe?" You pause in the hallway, heart hurting at his concern, that even now when he's begging for your help he cares that you're safe.

"Yeah, course, Lu, i'm leaving right now, sweetheart." He lets out a shuddering breath on the line, right before he hangs up and you're certain you might cry because God, Luke shouldn't sound like that, so utterly defeated, so fragile.

You do your best to honour his request on the drive to his and Jack's apartment, even as you want to break a hundred traffic laws just to get there sooner, but you don't. It doesn't take long, but ten minutes feels like one hundred when all you want is to be see Luke and make sure he's okay.

He's at the door from the first knock and you don't say anything, just take him in. His tall form hunched at the shoulders like he's trying to hide within his hoodie, hood pulled over his head and eyes red rimmed, blotchy. There are dark, deep circles beneath his eyes and his lip is bruised and split, a few neatly placed stitches holding it together.

You don't say anything, just step forward and wrap him in your arms as best you can, tiptoeing to press your chin to his shoulder, arms tight around him as if you can protect him from whatever is going on in his head.

He grasps as you like you're a lifeline, fingers digging into your jacket, face pressed so tight to the crook of your neck that you're certain he'll fuse there.

He doesn't protest when you pull him into his apartment, door slamming shut. Doesn't protest when you pull him to his room, asking where Jack is, only to get a short clipped reply of 'club'. Doesn't protest when you sit him on his bed and join him, shoes being kicked off. It's not until you try to pull away from him that he really seems to come to life, hands grasping you firmer, pulling you back, "Don't go, please don't go..."

"'m not going anywhere, Lu, it's okay..." You pull back just enough that you can pull his hood back, fingers carding through his brown curls gently like he might break. "What happened?"

"Just needed you..." His face presses back into your shoulder as your fingers work through his hair like it's a perfectly normal thing to say to your best friend, like he didn't call because he had a shit game, because he doesn't want to talk about it."

"Lu...talk to me, baby"

There's a stark silence, broken only by a shaky breathe that comes from Luke as if the idea of talking is enough to make him cry for the second time that night. "I'm...i'm not good enough for the team, did a shit job tonight and we lost...it's my fault. Played like shit."

"What did Jack say?" You're gentle with it, soft voice, soft fingers on the nape of his neck. It's silly, he knows he's being dramatic, he also knows that it's not a friend thing to do. Knows he wouldn't call any of his other friends at near 2am because he needs them, knows he wouldn't beg for their fingers in his hair to sooth him or feel better just by the smell of their laundry detergent and shampoo. Luke knows he called you because he loves you, pretty sure he loved you the moment you excitedly showed him you'd gotten the coffee stain out of his UMIC hoodie.

"I was being too hard on myself, that it wasn't the 'Luke Hughes show'." He immitates Jack's voice, a pouty sort of tone riding his voice because he knows his brother is right even if he refused to sit moping with him and went out drinking instead.

"He's right. Hockey is a team sport, Luke, you aren't even on the ice the entire time! You do not get to decide that you're the reason a game is won or lost, you don't get to shoulder that."

"But.." Your palms cup his face, pulling him up to look at you. Your face is dead serious brows furrowed, lips pursed.

"No, you're a good hockey player. They picked you to play for them because of what you bring to the table and maybe you didn't play your best tonight , but you deserve to be on the team. You can't always be at 100." Your thumbs brush his cheeks under his eyes, like you might be able to wipe away the dark bags there. He looks worn, exhausted, tears just welling in those green eyes of his.

You're not entirely sure he believes you, "If I said I wasn't good enough because I had a bad day at work, what would you say to me?"

"To shut up and stop being mean to yourself..." Luke frowns at you like you're insane for even suggesting something like that, and it's what makes you smile for the first time that night, as if to say I told you so.

"Exactly, so stop being mean to yourself, Lu. You're amazing, i'm always in awe of how you skate..." You brush a curl from his eyes and watch them flutter closed slightly, throat tightening a little because you know this isn't the way you're supposed to feel about your best friend.

"Really?"

"Really..." You watch him carefully, the way he just leans more into your hands like he trusts you entirely to hold him up, the deep swelling of his lip, the beauty marks across his cheeks. "What do you need from me, right now?"

He takes a moment, like the words are stuck on the tip of his tongue whether unsure of how to ask or worried to make things weird. Both of you always toeing the line between friends and something decidedly more romantic.

"Can...can you just hold me? Just stay the night?" He blinks up at you with such big sweet eyes that you're not sure anyone would be able to refuse him, so you don't.

"I can do that."

You treat him delicately, like he's not a nearly 200 pound hockey player that regularly gets body slammed against boards and ice, who's covered in bruises and currently sporting a split lip. You pull him to lie down with you, curling around him like a protective blanket, pulling his face back into the crook of your neck, legs twisting with his. It's definitely not what friends do, but it's what he needs, so he grips you back tight, presses his face firmly into your neck and pulls your leg over his hip to be as close as possible.

You don't move more than the brush of fingers through his hair or down his arm, across his back. Even when you can hear soft snores, the sign of him having fallen asleep, you don't move because as much as Luke said he need this, you kind of need this too.

#huggy bear writes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes/reader #nhl x reader #nhl imagine

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studioeisa · 16 days ago

Text

maybe happy ending 🪴 jihoon x reader.

jihoon was always too good at pretending to be a person, and you were always a little too good at knowing better.

🪴 pairing. helper robots!jihoon x reader. 🪴 word count. 11.5k. 🪴 genres. alternate universe: non-idol. science fiction, romance, friendship, angst, hurt/comfort. 🪴 includes. mentions of food, death; themes of grief, mortality, memory. set in 2060s seoul, jihoon & reader are life-like bots. heavily inspired by maybe happy ending. 🪴 notes. i wrote this with the intention of proving to myself that i could still write for svt (lol), and i ended up bawling my eyes out on three separate instances. if there is any work of mine that you might read, i do hope this is one of them. this is a love letter to maybe happy ending, which most recently made history as the first original south korean production to win the tony award for best musical!!! not proofread; all mistakes are my own.

▶︎ WORLD WITHIN MY ROOM.

The light comes on in pieces. First the ceiling strip, then the wall panel, and finally the amber filament lamp in the corner that Jihoon insists on keeping—warm, inefficient, obsolete. Like him.

He powers on, slow as a secondhand thought.

“Ppyopuli,” he says, because it is polite to greet your houseplant. He nods to the drooping fronds with the seriousness of a man bowing to a superior. “You made it through the night. Unlike my left hip actuator.”

He rotates the joint. It makes a sound like someone crumpling a foil gum wrapper. The noise echoes in the apartment. Metal, silence, memory.

The radio comes on automatically. A woman’s voice—soft, practiced, almost human—tells him that today will be clear. Dust levels are low. UV index moderate. Good day for outdoor activities.

“It’s a perfect day,” Jihoon agrees, pulling the curtain an inch wider. Seoul stretches outside his window like a paused video. Skyscrapers, skybridges, the blur of a bullet tram in the distance. The air looks clean enough to breathe. Not that he does.

He makes his way to the kitchen. One slow step. Two. The fourth toe on his right foot has a loose servo and drags like a sleepy child.

Coffee isn’t necessary, but the smell is nice. He boils water for no one. Sets a cup beside the plant. “For ambiance,” he explains to Ppyopuli. “They used to say it helps people feel less alone.”

The mail chute clicks. Jihoon straightens.

“And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for,” he intones with mock drama, crossing the room in careful strides. The envelope lands with a satisfying slap.

He holds up the April issue of Jazz Monthly, turning it to show Ppyopuli. “Duke Ellington. Looks like he still hasn’t forgiven the world for outliving him,” Jihoon says. It would be a joke, if Jihoon knew how to joke.

There’s another package. Small, boxy. His replacement elbow joint. “Shall we model it later? Make an event of it?” Jihoon tells Ppyopuli. “I’ll invite the ficus from next door.”

He places the parts carefully on the table, like heirlooms. “Any mail from Shownu?” he asks the voice assistant. Silence. Then: This function is not available to retired Helperbots.

Jihoon hums a measure of Coltrane’s Naima, tuning his inner disappointment like a radio dial. He spends the afternoon alphabetizing his vinyls, though he can identify any one by spine pattern alone. He talks to Ppyopuli about chord changes, the difference between sincerity and sentimentality in brass solos, the scent of rain on real grass.

When the sun lowers behind the next apartment block, he flips the switch on the filament lamp. The room turns honey-colored. “There. Mood lighting,” Jihoon announces.

For a second, Jihoon imagines Shownu—big hands, deep laugh—walking through the door. Jihoon would offer him the magazine. Ask about Jeju. Pretend not to notice the decade of dust on the threshold.

“He’ll come back,” Jihoon says, gently brushing a bit of lint from Ppyopuli’s pot. “We’re the kind of people others come back for.”

The lights dim on schedule. The system begins its shutdown hum.

Jihoon lowers himself to the floor mat beside the window, the same spot he always chooses. Perfect view of the street, the tram, the moon when it shows up. “Let’s enjoy tomorrow, too,” he murmurs to no one in particular. Then powers down.

Soft click. Black.

Another perfect day, folded and filed away.

Four perfect days later, Jihoon is in the middle of folding an imaginary blanket. The kind with corners that don’t exist and fibers that only live in memory. He’s halfway through the third fold (or maybe the fourth—robot math, surprisingly bad with soft things) when someone knocks.

Knocks.

The hallway outside is usually as dead as discontinued firmware. No one knocks here. Not unless it’s a delivery drone misfiring or the ficus next door finally tipping over in a tragic act of photosynthetic despair.

Another knock.

He answers it.

You’re standing there. Slouched a little, like your battery is chewing through its last 5%. Still immaculate in that newer-model, showroom kind of way. Glossy exterior. Fragile expression. The kind Jihoon’s model was never programmed to wear.

“My charger’s dead,” you say, plainly. Not embarrassed, not not-embarrassed. Just factual. “Do you have one I can borrow?”

Jihoon eyes you the way a CRT monitor might regard a smart mirror. “Helperbot-5, right?”

You nod.

He sighs. Loudly. For emphasis. “Figures. You overheat when someone looks at you wrong.”

“I don’t overheat,” you say, a little sharply. “My power regulation firmware is just optimistic.”

Jihoon disappears inside and returns with a charger in hand. He holds it out, but doesn’t let go just yet. “Helperbot-3s didn’t need replacements until the building itself started falling apart,” he says. As smug as a humanoid robot can be. “We were built to last. You guys were built to sync playlists.”

Your hand closes around the charger, not delicately. “Thanks,” you say. The door closes before you can mean it.

You fail loudly at pretending like Jihoon hadn’t struck a chord. Jihoon hears it, while he is alphabetizing again. This time it’s tea sachets. There’s a box he’s never opened—hibiscus. He’s not sure why he owns it. Maybe Shownu liked the color red. Maybe he liked things that sounded like flowers.

Another clatter. A curse that’s been downgraded for civilian use. Jihoon’s audio sensors ping the sound, tag it: frustration. Human-adjacent. Female voice signature. Subunit #5-A. You.

He listens longer than he should. Not out of curiosity.

Out of—

Well. Something.

His OS runs a diagnostic. No errors, no flagged emotional feedback loops. Just a new, unfamiliar weight behind the ribs he doesn’t technically have.

He taps the wall. Just once. It’s not meant to be a warning, but you take it as one. You fall silent in the midst of what Jihoon can only assume is an attempt to fix what’s broken in you. In that literal, robotic sense.

Jihoon sits there in the dim light, tea box in hand, trying to name the emotion that’s come to visit him.

The system doesn’t recognize it.

So he gives it one of his own. Static.

▶︎ CHARGER EXCHANGE BALLET.

Morning begins with the usual fanfare: the ceiling light flickers awake, a low buzz in the wall socket orchestra. Jihoon powers on without ceremony. No jazz today. Just the sound of his own servos settling like old bones into place.

Then, a knock.

Predictable. Timed to the second, in fact.

You stand there with the charger tucked politely between your palms like it’s sacred. You’re upright this time. Charged, obviously, and possibly smug about it. Your posture says, Look, I survived the night without frying my kernel processor.

Jihoon takes the charger from your hands and gives a perfunctory nod. “Seven-oh-five,” he says. “You’re three seconds early.”

You smile like it’s a joke. It isn’t. He files the timestamp away, just in case. “Thanks,” you say, again. Neatly.

And so the pattern begins.

Mornings: knock, hand-off, nod, silence. Evenings: knock, retrieval, short exchange, maybe a quip about overheating.

You never overstay. You never apologize. You never ask for more than what you came for. Which Jihoon finds efficient. Familiar. Like maintenance.

He does not make space for you in his routine. He just slides you in between the others.

Jazz Monthly on Thursdays. Ficus gossip every other Sunday. You—twice daily, on the dot.

It does not feel disruptive.

It feels like doing what he was made to do: provide assistance, ensure stability, optimize.

If Jihoon notices that he starts putting the charger near the door before you arrive, he doesn't say anything. If he reroutes his tea-sorting to accommodate the evening exchange, it’s just coincidence. There are efficiencies to be had. If he catches himself waiting—not with anticipation, but with idle, service-ready stillness—that’s just protocol.

He is, after all, a Helperbot.

It’s in the name.

He has no emotional flags to report. No diagnostic anomalies. No electric flicker behind the chest plate. Just a charger, passed from hand to hand. A routine, now cleanly installed, and the peculiar ease of slipping into someone else’s schedule as if it had always been his own.

Perfectly logical. Perfectly him.

But then, one day, seven-oh-five comes. Then goes.

No knock. No politely smug posture. No handoff.

Jihoon sits in the same position for forty-seven seconds longer than usual. Statistically negligible, but still.

He waits a minute more, just in case your internal clock is out of sync. It’s not. He knows. Helperbot-5s are optimized for punctuality. Eight percent more precise than his own model, which still insists on resetting to factory time every full moon.

At seven-oh-eight, he stands. At seven-ten, he knocks.

Your door opens part way. You look... bright. Not metaphorically. Literally. A soft electric glow pulses from behind you—cables snake across the floor in a chaotic kind of order. A mess that works. That lives.

Jihoon clears his throat. “You missed your pickup.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You came to check on me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You step aside, revealing a patchwork monstrosity of wires, clips, adapters, and a repurposed rice cooker. “I improvised,” you say.

You’ve mad scientist-ed your way into an at-home charger. The setup hums quietly, almost smugly. Jihoon stares at the Frankenstein of it all with a look of mild horror. “That’s not regulation,” he manages.

“Neither is collapsing from power loss alone in a rental unit while your neighbor alphabetizes tea.”

“Looks unstable.”

“So do you.”

Silence, then: you laugh. It’s not artificial. It’s a real laugh. Amused, tired, just a bit triumphant. Eight percent more expressive, after all. That’s what the specs say. Better emotional nuance. More adaptive neural flexibility. Capable of interpreting, expressing, and—when necessary—weaponizing feeling.

Jihoon crosses his arms like a defensive firewall. “Good,” he says evenly. “Saves me the trouble.”

You tilt your head. “You were worried.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m not a liar at all. I’m just not... upgraded.”

You consider this. Step closer. Close enough that Jihoon has to look past his own reflection in your eyes. “You don’t have to say it,” you murmur, teasing. Jihoon thinks it’s a tease. “I already know.”

Jihoon opens his mouth. No words deploy.

Just static, caught in his throat. You’re standing there, humming gently under your skin, eyes brighter than usual. He’s standing in a doorway he doesn’t remember choosing.

You smile. Not triumphantly this time. Just kindly. “It’s okay,” you say. “You’re still a good Helperbot. You still helped.”

You shut the door before he can respond, leaving him standing in the hall with a charger still in his hand.

A routine officially broken.

And no diagnostic error to show for it.

Only eight percent of something else.

▶︎ WHERE YOU BELONG.

Jihoon did not expect the knock.

It came at six fifty-seven in the evening. An offbeat time. Off enough to disapprove of. He opens the door half a second slower than usual. A calculated delay. Polite disinterest. There you are.

Not glowing this time. Just standing there, in the hum of hallway fluorescents, holding something behind your back. Jihoon reads that as a preamble. A lead-up. Trouble.

“I came to thank you,” you say. Too happily. Suspiciously happy.

Jihoon narrows his eyes. “For what.”

“For the charger. The schedule. The tolerance.”

“You already thanked me. On Day Six. With that terrible rice cracker.”

You step inside anyway.

The apartment isn’t exactly a mess, but it’s clearly occupied. Lived-in by something that wasn’t supposed to keep living this long. Jazz Monthly sits open on the floor, a cup of barely-warm water rests on the windowsill. Ppyopuli is perched by the window, its leaves tilted as though eavesdropping.

Your eyes track to the bottles. Neatly arranged in a corner. Counted, labeled. A small tower of carbonated dreams. You walk over to them like they might mean something.

“This is a lot of soda.”

“It was on sale.”

You crouch beside the stack. Look closer. And then you see it. The label on the envelope tucked behind the plastic fortress: Jeju Ferry Deposit – Shownu Reunion Fund.

You don’t say anything.

Jihoon tries to explain, even though he has no reason to explain to you. “It’s nothing. Just spare change. Recycling incentives.”

You hold up the envelope. “You’ve been saving.”

“It’s not uncommon. My model was designed for budgetary efficiency.”

You walk slowly back toward him, eyes soft now, as if your processors are adjusting to something dim and real. “You’re going to see him,” you accuse.

Jihoon nods. Stiff. Matter-of-fact. “Of course,” he chirpsts. “It’s only been twelve years. There are ferries every hour.”

You smile. Not the knowing kind. The kind reserved for fools, and those you don’t quite pity. “You think he’ll still want you,” you say.

“I think,” Jihoon says, precisely, like solving for X, “that I will knock. He will answer. He will say my name. I will explain the bus delays. The misrouted magazines. The company recall. He will say: ‘Go put the tea on, Jihoon. It’s you and me now.’”

A long pause.

“He said that often?”

“Never. But I imagine he would.”

You don’t laugh. Not this time. Gone is the patronizing look. In its place, something closer to commiseration.

“Then what?” you ask, even though you sound afraid of asking.

Jihoon looks out the window. Beyond the Yards. Past the fog. Toward something shaped like a future. “Then I’ll help him,” he says. “I’ll help again.”

You sit down beside Ppyopuli, who leans gently toward you. Then, with the spontaneity that can only come from a model of your kind, you announce: “I want to come.”

Jihoon blinks. The default move when emotions exceed available RAM. “Why.”

“I want to see the fireflies.”

Jihoon’s brain digs, and digs, and digs. Comes up short. Fireflies. Fire flies. Flies, made of fire? No. That makes no sense. He tries harder. Flies that are on fire?

He doesn’t notice that you’ve reached out until he feels it. Your fingers at his temple. An efficient exchange of information. The images flood Jihoon’s mind.

“Fireflies are a special type of insect that used to be almost everywhere, but can now only be found in one forest on Jeju Island,” you say softly as Jihoon’s vision swims with images of the glowing insects. “There’s a complex chemical reaction in their abdomen that is not found in other insects. Because of this chemical process, they can produce light by themselves without ever being plugged in.”

“Little forest robots,” Jihoon says absentmindedly, his voice cracking with awe.

You almost smile. Your lips curl upward then flatten, like you decided against it at the last minute. “They only live for two months,” you say, “but what a beautiful two months.”

Jihoon is not built to understand mortality like that. Age, either. He knows when he was manufactured. Knows when he became Shownu’s. Knows when Shownu left for his trip. These are all just days and times that bleed into each other.

You pull your hand away. The fireflies behind his eyes leave, too. “I can help you with the ferry times,” you say, going back to the topic at hand. “I’m good for those.”

He thinks about it for a moment. You. On a ferry. With your charger. With him. With hope.

“The ferry,” he says slowly, as though conjuring it from myth. “Could sink.”

“It won’t.”

“Or the car could break down.”

“You do maintenance every other Thursday. You have a ledger.”

You are looking at his ledger. You’ve been reading his notes again. His left eyelid twitches. “And what if we break down?” he prods.

Your head tilts. The kind of tilt that indicates calculation, not malfunction. “That seems less likely for you,” you confess. “You might just experience significant emotional interference.”

He bristles. “I don’t experience interference. I operate on logic.”

You smile. Barely. It’s the smile you use when he is being especially Helperbot-3. “Then you’ll let me come.”

“When did I say I’m going?”

“Just now. By listing all the ways you could fail.”

Jihoon stands. Too quickly. His knee clicks. He wonders if you hear it, record it, file it away under potential deterioration. You’re already walking toward his hallway. He follows, without realizing it. Still clutching a truss screw. “We’re not going,” he says, to the air.

You turn around. “Midnight,” you decide for the two of you. “Have everything ready.”

He opens his mouth to argue. Closes it.

Instead, he looks at the truss screw in his palm. The most ambiguous of them all. Part round, part flat, part none of the above.

Jeju. Fireflies. An island.

What a ridiculous, preventable detour.

He stumbles back into his apartment and starts folding shirts. It isn’t excitement, obviously. It’s something else. System calibration, maybe. New parameters. He can call it whatever he likes. But still, he packs.

Jihoon folds the last pair of socks into thirds, not halves. Halves would bulge too much in the suitcase. Thirds, he’s decided, are more respectful. You’ve returned, and now you’re watching him from the corner, your optical sensors dimmed out of courtesy. Ppyopuli sits on the edge of the bed like a stuffed animal summoned to court.

Jihoon exhales, zips. Then stands still. He isn’t frozen, just slightly unplugged from action. One foot on the ground. One still inside the past.

“We should say goodbye to the room,” he says.

He says it to Ppyopuli, and maybe for the room itself. Four walls, modest scuff marks, the subtle dent in the left side of the wardrobe where he once bumped into it carrying a humidifier in 2017. The humidifier didn’t work. The dent remained.

“You’ve been loyal,” he tells the room. Ppyopuli bobs in agreement. “Didn’t fall on me in an earthquake. Didn’t flood, even when it should’ve. Didn’t let the neighbor’s violin seep in through the walls. Well, not entirely.”

He sits down beside the suitcase. The zippers smile politely. Jihoon keeps going, “Remember the winter I overinsulated and the heater shorted out? You held the warmth anyway.”

The room doesn’t answer. But Jihoon feels its quiet understanding. A space that knew when to echo and when not to. You shift, softly. Enough to register empathy but not enough to interrupt.

“I think Shownu will like you,” Jihoon says to Ppyopuli. “He always liked things that didn’t talk back. You’ll fit right in.”

Ppyopuli leans a little closer, as if understanding loyalty as a language.

Jihoon nods to himself. That’s that. He picks up the suitcase by its handle. It wobbles slightly; he’s packed heavier on the left. Unbalanced, but honest. He takes Ppyopuli, tries to keep the plant to the left so it might tilt the scales.

Jihoon takes one last look. “Goodbye, room,” he murmurs, more sincere than sentimental. “Thanks for keeping me.”

Then he turns toward the door, toward you, toward Jeju.

He doesn’t look back again. He doesn’t need to.

▶︎ THE RAINY DAY WE MET.

The two of you are halfway to the port when you bring it up. The sky is overcast, a smudge of silver and blue, like someone rubbed their thumb across the afternoon. The road is mostly empty. The playlist is on shuffle, leaning jazz. Jihoon doesn’t admit it aloud, but he’s been skipping the vocals. Too risky. Too much feeling per square note.

“We need a story,” you say. Casual. Like you're not currently engaged in light federal evasion.

Jihoon blinks twice. Acknowledgement. Also buffering.

You tilt your head, that little pivot that usually precedes either a sharp observation or a wildly inappropriate metaphor. “Retired Helperbots aren’t allowed to leave their districts. But humans are. And humans fall in love.”

Jihoon groans, a full-body sound. “Please no.”

“We are a couple,” you insist. “On holiday. A romantic getaway to Jeju.”

“You’re not even—”

“Exactly. That's why it will work. Who would make that up?”

He stares ahead into the gentle asphalt horizon and tries to remember when you started winning arguments by sheer momentum. Probably somewhere between firmware 8.3 and the first time you reorganized his spice drawer alphabetically and by Scoville index.

“So,” you continue, clearly delighted, “where did we meet?”

“We didn’t.”

“Wrong. It was raining. I didn’t have an umbrella. You did.”

“This is sounding suspiciously like a musical.”

“No. It’s Paris. Or New York. Or possibly Seoul, but definitely with cobblestones.”

He snorts. “Cobblestones. Because pain is romantic.”

“Exactly! You held your umbrella out like a gentleman from the 1940s. But you said nothing. Because you were shy.”

“And you?”

“I wore a bright red raincoat. And a fur hat.”

“Basically, you were Santa Claus.”

You stifle a laugh before weaving the rest of your fantasy. “You tried to speak, but we both said ‘Where are y—’ and ‘How long have y—’ at the same time. It was very awkward.”

Jihoon indulges you. “Did we laugh through the awkwardness?”

“No. We stood in perfect, beautiful silence. So much silence it wrapped around us like a scarf.”

“Sounds clammy.”

You ignore him. “Then we danced. In the subway. To a jazz quartet.”

Jihoon glances at you. Not disbelief, exactly. More like reluctant amusement curling at the corners. “So we met. In the rain, in a city you refuse to name. I had an umbrella. You wore a war crime of an outfit. And we fell in love through the power of proximity and precipitation.”

You nod. “You see? You do improvise.”

“This all sounds too oddly specific to be fictional,” Jihoon remarks.

For the first time, you falter. Jihoon realizes it before you admit it. The fabled First Meeting is not a fable. It is somebody’s story.

“My owners,” you say in explanation, and that’s all you have to say for Jihoon to drop it. There are some things that need no explanation. The hesitance in this moment is one of them.

Outside, the road bends. The sea begins to appear in the distance, gray and gleaming. The kind of view that dares you to feel something. Jihoon doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and turns up the volume.

Saxophone. Mist. The low hum of two fugitives pretending to be fools in love.

And then the dashboard pings.

A sharp, uncaring noise. The sort of alert that suggests, in polite corporate euphemism, that you are now one bad decision away from becoming roadside sculpture. Maybe art. Probably not the kind people stop to admire.

Jihoon glances sideways. You are perfectly still. Too still. Your usual composure edged with a dimming hue that would terrify him if he had the bandwidth for terror. Instead, he has concern. Which is worse, somehow, because he knows how to spell it.

“Battery low,” you say, evenly. Not a plea. Not yet.

Jihoon grunts. Pulls over at the next exit, which, because the universe is mean-spirited and unnervingly precise, leads to a part of town where the neon signs are all cursive and vaguely anatomical. There are hearts. So many hearts. None of them metaphorical. Some are malfunctioning. One has wings.

You look up at the building and then at Jihoon. “Love hotel.”

He blinks. Default response to emotional excess. “We can’t—”

“We can pretend,” you say. Calm. Deadpan. “I taught you sarcasm. This seems like a natural progression.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Wonders briefly if he’s developing ulcers. Is that even possible? Emotional ones, maybe. The kind that grow legs.

In the end, you go inside. Together.

The woman at the desk doesn’t even look up from her tablet. Jihoon shuffles awkwardly like a schoolboy entering the wrong classroom. You lean forward with the gleam of a perfect con artist and say, with eerie confidence, “We’re celebrating an anniversary.”

“Three years,” Jihoon blurts, betrayed by his own tongue, brain choosing treachery over silence. He wants to die or at least reboot.

The woman doesn’t say anything. She only nods, pops her gum, keys over a plastic fob. Doesn’t care. Why would she? Everyone lies in motels. That’s what the wallpaper is for.

The room you end up booking is pink. Aggressively pink. The wallpaper is textured and suspiciously damp. The lights are dim but everything still has a sort of lusty sheen to it. There’s a mirror on the ceiling, which Jihoon avoids with religious fervor. Even the carpet has ideas.

You plug into the bedside outlet with a sigh like someone returning from war. Then, surprisingly, you sit beside him on the edge of the bed. You tuck your knees under your chin, almost human, almost small.

“Want to watch something?”

Jihoon shrugs. “If we must.”

You pull up a file. It’s not one of your documentaries or philosophical lectures or grim, slow meditations on the heat death of the universe. It’s Terminator 2: Judgment Day.

Jihoon looks at you. You look at the screen. The irony looms, thick as smog. Twenty minutes in, Jihoon is actively offended.

“That’s not how processor reboots work,” he huffs. “The cooling logic is backwards. And his motor cortex override—”

“You’re missing the point,” you interrupt, voice soft, flickering. “It’s not a film. It’s a poem.”

“It’s nonsense.”

“Which is exactly what we need.”

The Terminator says, I know now why you cry, with devastating sincerity. You snort. Jihoon doesn’t. He’s too busy watching the screen, jaw tight, brow furrowed, like it might offer answers to questions he hasn’t learned how to ask.

When it ends, neither of you move for a long time. The motel buzzes faintly, a low electrical hum beneath the silence. The air smells like old perfume and newer mistakes. Eventually, you both lie back. Him, rigid and unnaturally straight. You, curling slightly in dim recharge mode, your glow settling to a slow pulse.

“You’re very strange,” Jihoon says, eyes fixed on the mirrored ceiling.

He watches you curve like a parentheses. “So are you,” you whisper, your words muffled into your pillow.

It’s a simple exchange. A statement of fact. But it feels larger, somehow. Like the shape of a beginning disguised as a joke. Somewhere above, a neon cupid flutters his wings and burns out a bulb. It is the first honest thing in the building.

Jihoon doesn’t realize his hand is next to yours. Doesn’t move it. Doesn’t name it. Just lets it be.

He thinks: this is what it’s like.

Not to be alone. He glances at Ppyopuli, who is sitting atop his suitcase, and he mentally apologizes. Ppyopuli is good company. A good plant. But Ppyopuli does not snore, or make jokes, or brush against Jihoon in a way that has him feel almost-but-not-quite alive.

Maybe, in some inconvenient corner of his circuitry, Jihoon understands. The moment he let you plug in was not the beginning of the end. It was the end of the beginning. Or something equally ridiculous. He doesn’t have the capacity to think in metaphors.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t mind. He lies next to you and plays in his mind’s eye images of Paris, or New York, or cobblestoned Seoul. Rain-slicked streets, red raincoats, and a borrowed love story.

▶︎ WHAT I LEARNED FROM PEOPLE.

The ferry ride is unremarkable, which feels like a minor miracle. No one questions your scarf, your oversized sunglasses, or your strategic silence. Jihoon spends most of it holding on to Ppyopuli, occasionally glancing at you as if trying to solve for an error message that hasn’t been coded yet.

You hum a little. Too loudly. Too often. Like a motor running just beneath its tolerance threshold. Jihoon notices, of course. He notices everything. But he says nothing.

The car rolls off the ferry and onto Jeju’s sleepy roads. The light here is different. Not softer, exactly. Slooower. It drips off the trees, crawls across the sky. Jihoon drives like someone trying not to wake a dream.

“You okay?” he finally asks, when your fingers start twitching in your lap like you’re typing something no one can read.

“Fine,” you say. Too fast.

He doesn’t push. You probably wish he would, but that is not how he was built, not how he was raised.

Shownu’s house appears the way ghosts do. It’s a modest thing at the end of a gravel road, tucked between orange trees and fog. The paint is peeling. The mailbox leans. Jihoon pulls in slowly, like the car itself isn’t sure it should.

He opens the car door. One foot out. But then, you say, the word falling out of you as if it were punched, “Don’t.”

He pauses.

You’re still in the passenger seat. Buckled in. Glowing faintly. “Jihoon,” you say again, and he is surprised by the fact that your voice quivers. He didn’t know that was possible for your model. “Please don’t go in there.”

He turns to you, frowning. “You brought me here.”

“I know, I know. But I—” You hesitate. The air inside the car thickens. “I don’t want you to think he’ll be the same. He won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “because I’ve watched it happen.”

He doesn’t ask. He stays there, one foot out the car door, as you give anyway. “There was a couple,” you begin, and your voice changes. Like it’s coming from further away. From a backup drive you never meant to access. “Newlyweds. Architects. She liked old movies, and he liked old buildings. I thought I would live with them forever.”

“I watched them dance. In the kitchen. In the rain. I thought it meant something. Maybe it did for a while. But humans change slowly. Like corrosion. At first it looks the same, and then one day, he says her name like he doesn’t believe in it anymore. And she doesn’t notice, or maybe she does. She smiles anyway.”

You turn your head. Look out the window, as if you are looking for the owners you can’t even name without breaking down. “They were still standing next to each other,” you say, “but they were alone.”

The memory flickers across your eyes. Jihoon watches it—reflected, refracted—half-light and shadow on glass. A couple. Young and in love. Fools.

“I stayed through the whole thing,” you say. “I stayed until they sold the house. Until they boxed up everything they weren’t brave enough to fight for. And then they shut me off.”

The car is very quiet. Even the birds seem to pause.

“I know what heartbreak looks like,” you insist, turning to glance back at Jihoon now. You look… sad. “It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t beg. It just disappears. So if he’s not what you remember—”

Jihoon places his other foot on the ground. Stands. “Then I’ll meet him where he is,” he says decisively. “Not where he was.”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. Doesn’t say it like he doesn’t believe you. Just says it because it’s his turn.

You look at him. At this man with lint on his shirt and a barely-healed crack in his voice.

He takes a breath and starts walking. He doesn’t have to check behind him to know that you’re following, ready to steady him when—if—it all comes crashing down.

You don’t reach the front door so much as drift toward it, two figures suspended in time. The house is small, whitewashed, with a slanted roof. Everything smells like salt and citrus. A low wall curls protectively around the garden, where a windchime ticks out notes in uneven time.

Jihoon feels you beside him. Too still again. Watching him the way one watches a candle guttering out. Not for the light, but the inevitability. He raises a hand to knock. The door opens after Jihoon has knocked four times.

The man on the threshold is younger than Jihoon expected. Early thirties, maybe. Wiry frame, short black hair, suspicion curled behind his eyes like a reflex. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move aside.

“Jihoon,” the man says, and it is not a greeting.

Things click into place a beat too late. This is an older version of a person Jihoon is supposed to know. Once a boy. Once ruddy-cheeked and missing two front teeth. “Changkyun,” says Jihoon.

“Yeah,” Shownu’s son says. “And you haven’t changed.”

Jihoon takes this in. Quietly. He had expected a reunion. Not resistance. Not this acid stillness between them. “I came to see Shownu,” Jihoon says, the words firm in their anouncement.

“You’re late,” Changkyun says flatly. “He died. Three years ago.”

You move closer to Jihoon, almost protectively, but he doesn’t react. Or maybe he can’t. The word doesn’t compute.

Died. Di-ed. Diiied. Died died died. DIED. died.

Pass away, pass on, lose one’s life, depart this life, expire, breathe one’s last, be no more, perish, be lost, go the way of all flesh, go to glory, give up the ghost, kick the bucket, bite the dust, croak, flatline, buy it, cash in one’s chips, go belly up, shuffle off this mortal coil—

Become extinct. Become less loud or strong. Stop functioning, run out of electrical charge.

Died. Died. Died. D—ead. Dieeed.

Verb. Die. Past tense. Past participle. Died. Of a person, animal, or plant. To stop living.

Died.

“I wasn’t informed,” Jihoon says, and it sounds less like sorrow and more like a misfired protocol.

Changkyun laughs. It is not kind. It is not unkind. It is exhausted. Like someone scraping the last of a dish they never wanted to make. “No, you weren’t,” he says. “Because I didn’t tell you.”

He leans against the doorframe now. The weight of history pressing forward.

“You were never supposed to be his son,” Changkyun says. “But somehow, he loved you more than he loved me. Took you to baseball games. Bought you piano lessons. Called you ‘bud.’ I was eight. I watched from the other side of the screen door. Do you know what that feels like?”

Jihoon does not. Cannot. He computes it, but it doesn’t resolve into emotion. He sorts through years of memories in three seconds. Jihoon was not the ‘son’. He was the programmed robot that could be everything Shownu wanted to be.

Changkyun has to know that. Changkyun needs to know that.

“I believed I was helping,” Jihoon says.

“Yeah. You always did.”

There is something so painfully human in Changkyun’s face then. Not rage. Not even jealousy. Just bruised memory. Mismatched love. The ache of being out-loved by a machine.

“When he got sick, I moved him here,” Changkyun says. “I made sure the mail didn’t reach you. He kept asking. But I wanted—I wanted the last years to be with me. Just me. Even if he never looked at me the same. Sue me.”

He steps back inside briefly. He doesn’t invite you and Jihoon in. Neither of you move. Not away or towards. When Changkyun returns nine minutes later, he is holding a thin, square package wrapped in plastic.

“He wanted you to have this. Said you’d know why.”

Jihoon takes it. His fingers scan the object. Billie Holiday. Lady in Satin. The vinyl glints in the light.

Changkyun breathes out. Hollow. The fight inside him scattered. “That’s it,” he says, and there is relief. Closure. “You got what you wanted.”

No, Jihoon nearly says. This is not what I wanted at all.

The door clicks shut on him before he can force the words out.

Jihoon stands there, Billie held like scripture. You step closer, gently, as if sound might crack him.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. He is, for once, truly still. Inside him, protocols rearrange. Mourn. Try to reroute.

This is not a malfunction. This is something else.

This is grief, he thinks. Possibly.

Jihoon says nothing for a while.

He just stands there on the doorstep, LP pressed flat against his chest like it might slip away. The Billie Holiday sleeve has a water stain across her mouth. It makes her look like she’s still singing. Or drowning. The vinyl inside shifts when he tightens his grip, and he hears the faint whisper of it sliding against cardboard. A ghost of a voice. A ghost of a gesture.

You wait beside him in the gravel path, silent. Not intervening. That would be cruel. And you, famously, are not cruel—just devastatingly accurate.

“You were right,” Jihoon says at last. Voice flat. Nothing to sand it down. No inflection. Like a dial tone.

But you glance at the record. Tilt your head, just slightly. A tiny glitch of grace. “No, Jihoon. I was wrong.”

He doesn’t look at you. The horizon is easier. “He didn’t forget you,” you go on, delicate and graceful and so devastatingly kind. “He just wasn’t allowed to remember out loud. That gift? That was a whisper. He whispered your name.”

Jihoon swallows. Some ticks never deprecate. The action is unnecessary, yet he performs it anyway, like muscle memory from a body he never had. “Come on,” you say, gently. “Let’s go see the fireflies.”

He nods wordlessly. He did his Thing. You should, too.

You walk in silence. Past the cracked tiles of the cul-de-sac. Through the loose stone and root-stitched path. Into the forest, where the trees press in like old gossip and the humidity climbs like a rumor. Each step is its own decision, a soft rebellion against grief’s gravity.

The jar in your hand swings lightly. Jihoon watches it and tries not to think. Fails. He is very, very good at recursive thought. It loops in his head like a bad pop song or a corrupted code.

He says, suddenly, “I never learned how to grieve.”

You nod. Not surprised. “Most people haven’t.”

“But I’m not people.”

“No,” you say. “You’re not. But you tried. You’re trying. That’s the part humans get wrong.”

Jihoon stares at the jar. At the soft sway of your arm beside him. He wants to ask what part he got wrong, what he missed in the script, but then the lightning bugs appear.

Tiny green flares in the dark. Drifting like lazy stardust. Some slow. Some quick. All of them impossibly small. They blink like they’re thinking, like they might ask questions if they had mouths. The forest breathes with them, pulsing gently.

You and Jihoon speak at the same time.

“Oh,” you both whisper. He says it with awe. You sound like you are about to cry.

Both of you are quiet, so quiet, as if speaking too loud might scare away these insects.

You open your jar with shaking fingers. You make no sudden movements, no attempt to snatch any of them up. You just leave it open, as if seeing if any of them will be attracted to the little terrarium you’re offering.

The fireflies flicker by. “Hi, tiny friend,” you call out, almost sing-song, “can you say hello?”

The insects blink. Jihoon does not. He watches your face instead. The soft lift of your mouth. The reverent hush of your voice, speaking to something that can’t speak back. “Do you fly just for fun,” you continue softly, “or to get somewhere by the dawn?”

There must be enough of a coax in your voice to entice, because a single firefly drifts into your jar.

Jihoon holds his breath. He’s ready for it to hate its glass cage, to come and go. Instead, it settles. It perches in the jar. It stays.

“Do you have nowhere to be, little friend?” Jihoon murmurs to it.

You’re holding the jar between your palms like it’s the entire world. “Do you care what you mean to me?” you hum, voice crackling around the question.

You are talking to the unafraid firefly. You are talking to your long-gone owners. You are talking to Jihoon, who is surrounded by little forest robots but still looking at you.

“Never fly away, little robot,” he tells your firefly, because he knows that’s what you want. Because that’s what will make you happy.

It works. A little. You crack a watery smile. The fireflies around you take their cue. They begin to retreat, begin to disperse. Except for the one in your jar. That one stays.

“They’re just going home to charge,” Jihoon tells you soothingly, but it sounds like he’s talking about himself. Like the metaphor snuck in through the back door and now refuses to leave.

You’re quiet until all the lights are gone. Until it’s just you, and the darkness, and the loneliness that is now unfamiliar.

“Then maybe we should go home, too,” you say once the last firefly has gone, once all that’s left is the friend in the jar.

Jihoon nods. Looks at you. Not the place beside you, but you. The jar glows between your hands like a secret.

There is something different now. Hard to quantify. Asymmetrical in the way change always is. He cannot name it. Cannot trace the moment it clicked into gear. Only that something shifted, and that it does not want to shift back.

He exhales, just because. A simulation of relief. It fels close enough.

You begin walking back, and he falls into step beside you. Your shoulder bumps his, lightly. He does not move away. He doesn’t pretend it didn’t happen. That, too, feels like something.

“I’m sorry about Shownu,” you say, voice as soft as a thread being pulled through a needle.

Jihoon grips the record tighter. The sleeve crinkles under his hand. “I’ll be okay,” he says. Then, after a beat, quieter: “I’ve still got—”

He stops. The word catches. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true.

You tilt your head.

“Ppyopuli,” he finishes lamely. “I’ve still got Ppyopuli.”

It’s not what he means to say. You know that. You’re smart that way.

In the distance, a firefly lifts and blinks once, twice, and disappears into the trees. The forest takes it back. Your jar remains.

You walk slower now, but not because of tiredness. Because there is nowhere to rush toward anymore. Because going home, this time, feels like choosing rather than retreating.

Jihoon glances sideways. Your glow is low, humming, soft as breath. Like a firefly.

It keeps the grief at bay. It replaces the bad feeling with something else, with something that Jihoon’s vocabulary can’t reach for just yet.

▶︎ WHEN YOU’RE IN LOVE.

The light comes on in pieces. First the ceiling strip, then the wall panel, and finally the amber filament lamp in the corner that Jihoon insists on keeping—warm, inefficient, obsolete. Like him.

Routine is meant to be grounding, but lately it feels like pacing in a square room. “Ppyopuli,” he says, nodding at the houseplant with a reverence that borders on the theological. “You’re looking hydrated, unlike my social life.”

The fronds droop. He chooses to take this personally.

Jihoon rotates his left hip actuator. The sound is still somewhere between a gum wrapper and a ghost sighing. It echoes differently now. More space in it. More absence.

The radio turns on. The woman’s voice—the one designed to sound like a former lover you never quite got over—says the UV index is safe again. That it's a perfect day.

“Perfect for what, exactly?” Jihoon mutters, pulling the curtain wider. Seoul looks unchanged. Which is, in itself, a kind of threat. Bullet trams still thread between glass towers.

He makes coffee. Still not for himself. Still beside Ppyopuli. The ritual is unchanged, but the motivation, fuzzier now. A photograph exposed to too much sun.

The mail chute clicks. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Jihoon intones with a practiced flourish. The mail is junk. Flyers. Discount codes. Nothing from Jazz Monthly. Nothing from Jeju. He doesn’t ask the voice assistant about Shownu anymore.

He alphabetizes his records again. Notices that the Billie Holiday LP has been slotted out of order. He knows it was your doing. He doesn’t fix it.

“Ppyopuli,” he says later, cleaning the dust off a speaker grill with a toothbrush, “I think something is wrong with me.”

The plant does not disagree.

“My system has been searching. Passive scan. Low frequency,” Jihoon rants. “Like when you hum a song you forgot the lyrics to. I think I’m trying to locate someone.”

It is not Shownu. He knows Shownu is d-word.

Jihoon doesn’t say your name. He doesn't have to.

Ppyopuli remains aggressively unhelpful.

That night, Jihoon eats precisely one spoonful of synthetic tteokbokki before pushing the bowl away. His appetite, never really about hunger, seems to have found a better way to ache.

He stands in the middle of the room. Lets the light hit him. Amber and lonely.

Then, without fanfare, he turns toward the door.

Enough is enough.

He doesn’t rehearse what he’ll say. You’d see through it anyway. He just knows he needs to see you. Like checking if a lightbulb still works by touching it, not flicking the switch.

But when he opens the door, you’re already there. You both start. Not expecting that the other would be searching as well.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he. Jihoon—for all his wires and wear and water-damaged memory—knows exactly what to do.

In one of those moments where the world tilts quiet and everything is more possible than it was a breath ago, you both lean in. You kiss right at his doorway.

You kiss him like you were built for it. Which, technically, you were. Not that it makes it any less strange.

Jihoon registers every nanosecond of contact: the tilt, the breath, the impossible, exquisite pressure of your mouth on his. There is data. Input. Endless parsing. It is not the act itself that overwhelms. It is the meaning nested inside it. The truth tucked into the microsecond pauses. The confessions smuggled in between the static.

He kisses you back tentatively. Less fluent. Less native. But attentive, like a translator decoding a new dialect by feel. He tastes the static first, the warmth.

You laugh into his mouth—low, amused, indulgent. You’re good at this. Distressingly good. Your hands know exactly where to go, what to press, how to skim his spine like a familiar page.

“You’re—very—fast,” Jihoon mutters between kisses, dazed, as you push him back into his apartment.

“No,” you say against his lips, “‘m just a newer model.”

You kiss him again. And again. And again. The room sways. Not physically. Metaphysically. A recalibration of coordinates.

Jihoon feels his back hit the doorframe and doesn’t care. He’s smiling. Actual smile. Unsubtle. Unmanaged. It’s disconcerting.

Your nose brushes his. Your hands cage his jaw. You say, soft and certain: “I want you.”

He inhales. Fails to exhale. “I want you, too,” he whimpers.

It isn’t love. He doesn’t have the blueprint for that. Neither do you. But this wanting—this mutual, reciprocal disorientation—it hums like something sacred.

You kiss him again. Slower now. Curious. As if you were mapping him anew. Your lips move across his face, and his arms snake around your waist.

“If I had a heart,” you murmur against his neck, “you’d be in it.”

Jihoon’s fingers twitch where they’re planted on your hips. His voice cracks in the middle. “I concur,” he mumbles.

Your palms flatten on his chest. You start to slide them down. He lets you. Doesn’t stop you. Not until you do it yourself.

“Wait,” you say, as if you’re just remembering something.

You step back half an inch, just enough space to kiss the brick before you throw it at him. “My battery’s failing,” you say.

The room drops a degree.

Jihoon’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. His hands hover in the air, unsure. He asks, after a pause: “Terminal?”

You shrug. Casual. Too casual. Too cool, cool, cool.

“Uncertain. Our models aren’t built to last the same way yours are,” you say matter-of-factly. “Something about corrupted cell matrices. Could be months. Could be days.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I just did.”

Jihoon stares. At your face. Your mouth. Your eyes, that don’t flinch. Then: “I don’t care.”

“Jihoon.” You sound disapproving.

“I don’t care,” he repeats. “If I get a day, I’ll take it. If I get an hour, I’ll take that, too.”

You stare back, silent as the inside of a bell. When you step forward again, you let the rest fall away.

The next kiss tastes like something. Jihoon didn’t know that was possible. That a kiss could feel like grief, and honesty, and desperation all at once.

You sink together, slowly, like dusk into night. Before powering off, this is what Jihoon thinks:

Whatever this is—whatever it becomes—let it burn through the battery. Let it flicker out only after it’s meant something.

He holds you tight.

▶︎ THEN I CAN LET YOU GO.

You agree to end it. Every morning, like clockwork. One of you says it first. Sometimes you, sometimes Jihoon.

“We should stop.”

And then one of you adds: “But first.”

But first, Jihoon takes you to the hanok village because he’s read that human couples like to rent hanbok and pose for photos. You refuse to change. He wears the pink one anyway. He insists it’s for historical accuracy. You remind him he was built in 2037.

But first, you eat street food together—if eating is the word for holding tteokbokki between your lips like a cigarette and pretending it doesn’t short your vocal module. You call it method acting. Jihoon calls it corrosion.

But first, you argue. Or try to. A full simulation of a romantic disagreement. The topic is laundry, which an article from 2025 says is the number one petty cause of break ups.

“You never fold,” you accuse, gesturing to the perfectly ordered basket.

“That’s because I autoclave.”

“That’s not a thing!”

“It is now!”

And then your hand touches his, and his touches yours, and the whole scene melts down into a tangle of arms and mouth and laughter. A synthetic tangle. A beautiful failure.

The fight ends with your face tucked under his chin. He tries not to overheat.

That night, you lie beside him on the floor mat beneath the filament lamp. Billie Holiday plays from his turntable. She sounds like she knows. Everything. Even this.

“Jihoon,” you whisper against his collarbone.

“Mmh?”

“We should stop.”

He turns his head to look at you. “I’m ready if you are,” he says.

A pause. Considering, contemplating. “Maybe one more day,” you answer. You, who once told Jihoon, Everything must end eventually. Living with people has taught this to me.

He plants a kiss to your forehead. He does not understand why, but it makes you feel good. Makes you melt a little, relax, trust.

The next morning, he powers on slower than usual. His diagnostics scan for error, but everything is nominal, except the place where you aren’t yet. He makes coffee for the plant. Straightens the record stack. Updates his firmware. None of it sticks.

Then the knock comes. You.

“Breakfast,” you say. “It’s waffle day.”

He doesn’t question it. He’s learned not to.

At the diner, you both order what you can’t eat. You ask if he thinks anyone has ever tried to smuggle love through routine. Jihoon says no, but he understands the urge.

After, you walk home past a mural of a heart-shaped planet and a tagline: Live like you mean it.

Jihoon pauses. This time, it’s his turn for the charade. “We should stop,” he offers.

Without missing a beat, you say, “But first…” The two of you chase each other down the street. Your laughter is not mechanical. It is real. It is lived.

Later that night, you fall asleep recharging beside him. Your head on his shoulder. Billie sings again. Her voice is a slow ache. Jihoon watches your chest rise and fall with the subtle click of a slowing fan. He doesn’t shut down. He just watches.

Maybe when the glaciers go. When the moon forgets to rise. When the firmware fails for good. Then he can let you go.

But not yet, not tonight. Not tomorrow. Or the day after that, or the day after that, or the day after—

There is no clean way to leave someone who has learned your update schedule.

You try anyway. Approximately seventeen weeks after you two started this whole thing. (Jihoon can, in fact, tell you down to the exact second. Seventeen weeks, four days, thirteen hours, ten minutes. That’s when you decide to pull off the metaphorical Band-Aid.)

You explain it like an operating manual. Bullet points. Projected timelines. Forecasted decay. Your voice is as smooth as always, and it breaks something in Jihoon just the same. “A year, at best,” you say, and you smile like it’s a weather report. Like death is just light rain.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at you with those eyes that were never manufactured. He was always too good at pretending to be a person, and you were always a little too good at knowing better.

“So, that’s it?” he says. Not accusing. Not angry. Just suspended.

“If we stop now, maybe it won’t hurt so much.”

He doesn’t say that it already hurts. He doesn’t have to.

You leave. Or rather, you walk out of his apartment and back into your own. Six steps. Not far, technically. But emotionally, it’s somewhere around Neptune.

He doesn’t follow. Not out of coldness. Just programming. If you said no, he’ll listen. That’s the cruel part about love written in code: the logic is always sound.

He updates his memory with what he has learned:

When you are in love, you are the loneliest. You’re only half when one is what you were. You’re part instead of a whole.

When you are in love, you’re never satisfied. The thing you want is always out of reach. A need without a name.

It was love. It could have not been anything else.

Jihoon returns to his routine like a soldier returning to the trenches. He powers on at six in the morning sharp. Greets Ppyopuli with exaggerated brightness.

“Good morning, Ppyopuli! Just you and me again.”

The plant is wilting a little. So is he.

He makes coffee. Two cups, out of habit. Places one across from him, where you’d sit. Then moves it back to the counter, like he caught himself breaking a rule.

He alphabetizes his records. Again. He updates his firmware. Again. He reorganizes the spice rack by frequency of use, which is laughable because he doesn’t cook. But you did. Sometimes.

He opens the window and stares out at Seoul’s skyline like it might answer back.

He talks to Ppyopuli more now. “It’s been a while since it was just the two of us, huh? Like that first week she borrowed my charger,” Jihoon says. Too happy. Overcompensating. “Remember that? Ha-ha.”

Ppyopuli says nothing. It has no conversational subroutines.

“The air’s clear today. Sunlight’s nice, too. Warmer than usual,” Jihoon chirps. “It’s hitting all the places she used to sit. Isn’t that strange? I never noticed how much light she took with her.”

He stares at Ppyopuli, suddenly accusing. “Stop thinking about her,” he tells it. “First, people pretend to move on, and if they pretend hard enough, it becomes true. We’re going to think about something else now, okay? On three. One, two, three—”

Jihoon still thinks of you. Sitting with you in this little room. How you changed every part of it. The way you rewired the light switches so they dimmed like sunrise, the way you labeled the tea jars in handwriting that didn’t match his.

He tilts his head toward the ceiling, closing his eyes like it might help. He whispers, “Teach me forgetting. Help me go back to that other time.”

That other time is long gone. Memory is not a function Jihoon can disable.

Even time reminds him that he loves you.

▶︎ MAYBE HAPPY ENDING.

Changkyun arrives one afternoon, as if he were scheduled by the sun itself. He knocks once, then again. Sharp and deliberate. Jihoon opens the door slower than necessary, like it might buy him time to rewrite the past couple of months. It doesn’t.

“Hi,” Changkyun says. He’s holding a storage drive and something harder to name.

“Hello.” Jihoon’s instincts kick in. “How can I help—”

“Some memories of my father,” Changkyun interrupts. Not rude, just… focused. “I think it’s time I stopped avoiding the good parts.”

Jihoon doesn’t answer right away. But after a beat, he steps back in a wordless invitation. The amber lamp flickers on in the corner. The room smells faintly of dust, coffee, and longing.

Changkyun steps in. Jihoon plugs the drive into his memory port with something that almost resembles ceremony. A priest digitizing communion. He sorts quickly.

Shownu laughing in the rain; Shownu holding up an umbrella over Changkyun first; Shownu in an apron, jazz playing, fingers smudged with flour. Twenty years of a life well-lived, transferred from one machine to another in less than five seconds.

“Take what you want,” Jihoon says as Changkyun ejects the drive. “They’re only the brightest bits. Everything else got unrendered.”

Changkyun doesn’t smile, but he softens. “I know you loved him,” he says, and it sounds a lot like I’m sorry.

“He loved you too,” Jihoon answers, in a way that translates to I’m sorry, too.

Changkyun takes a deep, unsteady breath. It strikes Jihoon, then, that humans grieve for a long time. It’s supposed to have been three years since Shownu passed, and yet. And yet. Here Changkyun is—fraying at the edges, clutching at straws. Grieving.

“I just didn’t want to remember it until it couldn’t hurt me anymore,” Changkyun confesses. “But then it never stopped hurting. So. Here I am.”

The grief is never-ending, Jihoon realizes with horror.

Then, with relief, he realizes: but so is the love.

The grief is never-ending, but so is the love.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Changkyun asks, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Jihoon freezes. Maybe if he stays still enough, he can pretend like he didn’t hear. Didn’t register. Changkyun catches it and chuckles. “Don’t play dumb,” the man chides. “You’re not good at it.”

“She and I made a deal. No contact,” Jihoon says, sparing Changkyun the details. “Clean break. More humane.”

“You’re not human. Neither is she. So maybe stop trying to follow rules written for people who can forget.”

Jihoon leans back against the wall, arms folded. “That sounds suspiciously like something a child would say.”

“Then maybe stop letting the adults ruin everything.”

That gets a laugh out of Jihoon. A surprised sound. Changkyun looks down at the drive before slipping it into his coat like a talisman. “Thanks. For this. And for… whatever you were to him. You mattered.”

Jihoon follows him to the door. “You sound like you’re saying goodbye.”

“I’m saying: live. While you still can,” Changkyun says, but he doesn’t correct Jihoon about the whole saying goodbye thing. It is very much the last time they will see each other. Both man and robot know that much.

The door clicks shut.

Jihoon stares at it for a full five seconds. Then ten. Then he turns. The room looks the same as ever. Lamp, vinyl, ficus. But none of it means anything without you nodding at it like a museum tour guide who secretly hates art.

He moves before he can hesitate. Opens the door again. Marches next door. Every step is a betrayal of the promise you both made.

He knocks.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

You open the door like you were waiting. Like you knew. Like you always do.

He opens his mouth—prepped, rehearsed, a few dramatic pauses mentally underlined for effect. But before anything gets out, you speak.

“I think we should erase each other.”

Jihoon blinks. Not because he’s surprised or processing, but because he's trying not to flinch.

Your voice is soft. Almost cheerful. It’s like you’re offering tea. Like you’re suggesting a walk. Like you’re not pulling the pin on the only grenade you’ve both been passing back and forth for months.

He shifts his weight. “Let’s talk about it,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s begging. But that would be absurd. Robots don’t beg.

You step aside and let him in. The apartment looks the same. Not yours alone. Yours-together. Slightly off from either solo version. The mismatched mugs. The filament lamp you insisted on stealing from him. The single record sleeve, still propped by the window. A scent capsule still faintly humming in the corner, too shy to admit it's been spent for days.

Neither of you sit down. This is a standing-up conversation. “Those sunny afternoons you spent with me, they’ll still be happening. Just somewhere in the past,” you tell him. “They’re not less valuable just because…”

Just because they didn’t last, goes unsaid. Just because we outlived them.

The logical part of Jihoon is stating to see the appeal. “The ending’s not the most important part,” he says. “But as endings go, ours is not so bad.”

You’re nodding. Trying to convince yourself of the same. “No tears, no regret, no broken heart,” you note.

“Letting go and moving on before we make a mess—is that a happy ending?”

“More or less.”

“Is this a tragic ending”

“Not at all.”

You stare at each other. You agree, because there is nothing else to do. Not when you are both doomed to power down, to corrupt, to experience the kind of grief that lasts lifetimes.

You both know what needs to go.

The firefly jar goes first.

It blinks once as Jihoon unscrews the lid, dazed from the light. The insect floats upward, slow and meandering, toward the ceiling vent. The lazy curve of its flight feels too poetic for something with wings that fragile.

“Go home, tiny friend,” you whisper, voice smaller than Jihoon has ever heard it, “wherever that may be.”

Jihoon watches until it disappears. The blink lingers longer in his retinal afterimage than in the room. Some things do that.

Then: the mugs. The Polaroid. The Post-It you stuck on his collar once that read You are not subtle. The novelty charger you gifted him as a joke but used for months. The tiny sketch you made of him. Lopsided, endearing, taped to the inside of the cupboard.

He deletes the shared playlists. You burn the scent capsule. Together, you fold the blanket you always stole half of. Someone places the stack of shared books into a donation box. Neither of you says which one. It doesn’t matter.

Each item is small. Insignificant. But it adds up to a life, or something like it, or something that could have been like it. A constellation you can only see by looking slightly to the side.

Once everything is done and dusted, he turns to you. For a second, you’re just looking. Staring like it’s a portrait and you want to memorize the shading.

“It’s not a bad ending,” you repeat.

He nods. “As endings go.”

“We still had the good days.”

“And the chords. And the root beer popsicle incident.”

“The skybridge dance.” You grin. Unrestrained. Happy, for once. “We were terrible.”

“You stepped on my toe four times.”

“You were leading with the wrong foot.”

You laugh. He smiles. It's all so achingly gentle.

You lean in.

The final kiss is strange in its simplicity. It does not try to be remembered. It is not desperate. It is not fireworks. It is warmth. Contact. A knowing.

A thank you. A quiet folding of shared time. Neither of you pull away for the longest time, and so the kissing lasts for what could be hours. It is really just minutes. Minutes that Jihoon would have stretched into an entire lifespan, given the chance.

Jihoon knows he has no more chances left. And so he walks to the door, his steps slow, unhurried.

You don’t follow. You stand there, still. Watching him the way he watched the firefly go. Like part of you might still be floating up there, too.

Here is what is supposed to happen: the two of you will input your master passcodes and delete months worth of memories. He will know nothing of you, or your owners, or your firefly. You will forget him, and Jeju, and Ppyopuli.

At the door, he turns around to face you. You try to speak at the same time. It is like the First Meeting That Never Was. Both of you smile, even though it’s a sad, final thing.

“Maybe we’ll meet again some time,” you say first.

Jihoon shuts down the part of him that wants to run research on reincarnation, on alternate universe. He lets himself believe. Blindly. Hope. A foreign, flightless feeling.

He nods, agrees, because it will make you happy.

“We’ll meet again somewhere,” he concedes. “Somewhere things don’t have an ending.”

You are both smiling. You would both be crying, if you could.

“Is this our maybe happy ending?” you ask, and Jihoon thinks for a moment before answering.

“We’ll see.”

▶︎ WORLD WITHIN MY ROOM (REPRISE).

The light comes on in pieces. First the ceiling strip, then the wall panel, and finally the amber filament lamp in the corner that Jihoon insists on keeping—warm, inefficient, obsolete. Like him.

Routine is meant to be grounding, but lately it feels like pacing in a square room. Familiar but claustrophobic. Comforting like a splinter you’ve decided to live with.

“Ppyopuli,” Jihoon greets. “Today, the air in Seoul is very clear and warm. Today, the sunlight’s warmer than the norm!”

He rotates his left hip actuator. The sound is still somewhere between a gum wrapper and a ghost sighing. It echoes differently now. More space in it. More absence.

The radio turns on. The woman’s voice says the UV index is safe again. That it’s a perfect day. “Perfect as always,” Jihoon grunts as he pulls open the window blinds.

The future hums forward on repeat.

Then, there’s a knock.

Jihoon freezes. The toothbrush still in his hand, poised mid-dust swipe over the speaker grill. A relic cleaning a relic. A knock again. Familiar rhythm. Four taps. Two-second pause. One.

He opens the door.

You.

Like a ghost. Like a glitch. Like muscle memory wearing your shape. You stand there, like you’ve always belonged in that frame, except you don’t. Not anymore. Maybe never did.

“My charger’s dead,” you say, plainly. Not embarrassed, not not-embarrassed. Just factual. “Do you have one I can borrow?”

Jihoon eyes you the way a CRT monitor might regard a smart mirror. “Helperbot-5, right?”

You nod.

He sighs. Loudly. For emphasis. “Figures. You overheat when someone looks at you wrong.”

“I don't overheat,” you say, a little sharply. “My power regulation firmware is just optimistic.”

Jihoon disappears inside. Returns with a charger in hand. He holds it out, doesn’t let go just yet. “Helperbot-3s didn’t need replacements until the building itself started falling apart. We were built to last. You guys were built to sync playlists.”

You arch an eyebrow. Tilt your head. It’s the same expression you wore the first time you mocked his record collection. He was secretly delighted then. He's not sure what he is now.

But, this time, he doesn’t let you say thanks and leave. He lets you in.

You find the port with unthinking grace, and sit in the corner where the filament lamp burns. You do not seem to notice the Billie Holiday LP is still out of order.

Ppyopuli rustles faintly. Jihoon leans over and whispers, “Don’t tell her.”

Your eyes flick toward him. No smile. No question. The ambiguity hums like static between power lines. Present but unspoken. Heavy as a memory, light as a lie.

“You know,” Jihoon says, settling across from you, tone shifting, softening, “the 5 Series—they really are something. I mean, you adapt better. Handle unexpected variables. React to nuance. You’re more attuned to tone shifts. Sarcasm. Subtext. That kind of thing.”

You don’t answer. You watch him, expression unreadable, like a screen on standby.

He scratches his jaw. “I read somewhere—don’t ask me where—that you’ve got 8% more emotional processing capacity. Doesn’t sound like much. But 8% is the difference between laughing and not. Between noticing someone’s gone quiet and actually asking why.”

You blink. Slowly. “Eight percent. That’s the number,” you say, and you sound so pleased it makes something in his hardware feel heavy.

“Eight percent more likely to remember birthdays. Favorite meals,” he says. “The way someone’s voice changes when they’re tired. The mug they use on hard days.”

There’s a pause. Enough to hold something unnameable. You’re looking at Jihoon, and he doesn’t quite know if the weeks apart are folding into each other. If you chose the route of memory. If you’re lying to him, now, like he’s lying to you.

Your voice is softer when you speak up, your eyes trained to the charger keeping you alive for a couple moments more. “Do you think it’ll be okay?”

Jihoon exhales. It could be a laugh. Could be a sigh. Could be the sound of giving up on forgetting.

“I hope so.”

You sit in silence. Not comfortably. Not uncomfortably.

Something real. Something human. Something bigger than the grief, and the love, and everything else that should matter.

Outside, Seoul pretends to be perfect.

The future keeps arriving.

Ppyopuli doesn’t say a word.

#jihoon x reader #woozi x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svthub #keopihausnet #jihoon fic #woozi fic #svt fic #seventeen fic #jihoon imagines #woozi imagines #(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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often-daydreaming · 10 months ago

Text

A Quick Chat

'Absolutely not!'

'I'm just gonna talk with him!'

Following the quickly escalating shouts down to the Batcave Bruce found Dick and a heavily armed Tim at each other's throats while their siblings oh so helpfully egged them on.

They were arguing about Wally and their last universal saving mission for some reason and Tim had nearly every contingency he could think of to handle a speedster on him.

-nna talk, that's it!'

'Then you can leave the gear here!'

'What's going on?'

All of his children froze, finally realizing he was here before they started shouting over each other.

'You remem-'

'-ick's trying to-'

'Father Dr-'

'-ng crazy, just because the universe re-'

'Enough!'

'Now, can someone tell me what's going on or do I have to get Alfred?'

And Jason was happy enough to tell him. 'Replacement's pissed because we finally discovered a pretty big difference with the universe after the League hit the reset button.'

Multiple screens on the Batcomputer held information on new heroes, a Junior JLD and everything Tim could dig up on two individuals. The first one was Phantom, a new addition to the Titans and had a number of detailed conspiracy theories tracking his appearances through time while the other held the detailed background information of a recently graduated Daniel James Fenton. Tim had dug up everything from his kindergarten grades to... Oh... Oh no... That explains why they were arguing about Wally.

Most of Daniel's latest online post covered his move to Gotham, his new job offer working in their engineering department and his new boyfriend Bernard. Looking at it all made it painfully easy to piece together that... 'They stole my life!'

And Dick and Tim were arguing again but Bruce knew it wouldn't get too heated and focused his attention on the gathered information. It was easy to see that a number of encounters his kids (mainly his oldest three) should have had with the Titans were adjusted just enough to fit Phantom now and Tim's involvement with the Children of Dionysus had been shifted around to involve Daniel in this new universe.

'-e universe reset doesn't mean you can ruin their lives. Phantom seems like a good kid.'

'Dowd would have left you eventually.'

Dick had to hold Tim back from launching himself at Damien while Jason and Steph stood by egging the two of them on, but then Tim got that look in his eye when Duke brought up the idea of reintroducing himself and everyone noticed.

'No.'

'Come on. Tim, you don't need another restraining order.'

'But it didn't happen in this universe so it doesn't count.'

'It counts if we still remember it!'

But Tim wasn't listening, too busy changing out of all of his gear as a plan quickly started forming together in his mind.

Why waste time with Wally when he can just as easily win over the new couple while ignoring everything else he's learned from his friends.

He'd figure it out one mess at a time. After he won Bernard back he'd figure out the situation between Red Robin and Phantom.

-_- -_- -_-

Reading over the sticky note Danny couldn't help but wonder what Clockwork meant when he wrote 'Have Fun'.

Again, I blame my medication for this, but this came from a couple of different prompts about Tim, Bernard and Danny and I just sort of went with it. Basically the main roster of the League has to stop (Pick a threat) and end up resitting the universe again. The problem is they still remember the old universe so they spend a week or two looking up any big changes and a sleep deprived Tim starts believing he barely knows Bernard in this universe when he's actually dating him and Danny. He just hasn't dug deep enough to figure out his own connection.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc prompt #danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x dc crossover

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waayoutofline · 9 months ago

Text

Like Seeing A Ghost.

Marvel Masterlist

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Prompt: Married life and family core.

Summary: Your teenage daughter changed styles, and you cant help but be remained of a certain someone.

Warnings: None. Just love and fluff.

WORD COUNT: 1489

AN: I wrote this under the wonderful influence of sleep depravation. I just corrected it grammatically. It’s the first time I have written a family related prompt, so sorry but it’ll probably be a bit cringey :´). YDN stands for: Your daughters name btw—

It was a quiet day in the Maximoff household, a rare sense of calm settling over the space. Humming softly, you switched off the vacuum and put it away, satisfied with the tidiness of the room. The peaceful silence was soon interrupted by the doorbell, drawing your attention with mild curiosity. “I’ve got it!” you called, making your way to the door. You didn’t need to check the peephole, you already knew who it was. “Darling, finally! Your mother is almost finished with—oh dear gods.”

You froze as your 16-year-old daughter stepped inside. Taking in her appearance, your eyes widened in surprise. She shifted uncomfortably under your gaze, clearly bracing herself for the reaction that didn’t come as quickly as she expected.

Gone were her typical morning clothes, replaced by a more alternative look. She wore an oversized black t-shirt featuring an old rock band, her arms covered in fishnet sleeves, fingers adorned with silver rings and chains. Her makeup, though still a work-in-progress, was heavy with black eyeliner and smudged dark red eyeshadow. A silver cross dangled from her freshly pierced ear. She completed the outfit with a mid-length skirt and red Converse sneakers. If it weren’t for her eyes—the same color as yours—you might not have recognized her at first. But even then, the look wasn’t unfamiliar. She resembled someone else you knew all too well.

“It’s… it’s—” you began, voice faltering. Your daughter braced herself even more, her posture defiant, though you could see flickers of uncertainty in her expression. That defiant stance finally broke your composure.

“It’s like seeing a ghost! Oh, my beautiful girl,” you exclaimed, bursting into delighted laughter. “It’s like going back in time. Wanda come here please!” you called out, grinning at the uncanny resemblance.

Your heart swelled with nostalgia and amusement. You never thought you’d see such a familiar look on your own child, yet here she was, carrying a piece of the past into the present.

“What is it, love? Is it Y/D/N? I made her favorite,” Wanda called, wiping her hands with a kitchen towel before stopping abruptly. “Oh wow. This is… definitely a surprise.”

Your daughter, tired of the mixed reactions from both of you, crossed her arms defensively. “Before you say anything—no, I didn’t get any piercings or tattoos. But this is how I want to dress from now on. And if you have any issues with it, then…”

Your eyes softened at the sight of her defiance fading into vulnerability. You glanced at Wanda, who nodded. “Honey, you don’t owe us any explanations,” she said gently.

“I… don’t?” Y/D/N repeated, tentatively. You took a step forward, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Of course not. You know your mom and I want you to discover who you are. All we care about is that you don’t hurt yourself in the process. Why would you think we’d be upset?”

Your daughter’s shoulders relaxed as the tension eased. “A… friend of mine dresses like this, and her parents didn’t take it well. They told her if she didn’t dress ‘normal,’ they’d send her to some creepy summer camp.”

Wanda frowned. “Well, they’re idiots.” Your daughter smiled at that. “They are! Like your mom said, we’ll never judge you for who you are. All we want is for you to be safe and happy.”

With that, she smiled and pulled you both into a hug. “Thanks for being such cool parents.” You exchanged a glance with Wanda and hugged her back.

“I mean… if we weren’t, we’d be total hypocrites.” Your daughter tilted her head in curiosity, prompting a laugh from you as you moved toward the living room.

Wanda scoffed. “Oh, don’t you dare, Y/N,” she warned playfully, following close behind, already anticipating your next move. Before she could stop you, you pulled out the family photo album. Your daughter plopped down next to you on the couch, while Wanda took her place on the armrest, wearing a mock pout.

Flipping through the pages, you found what you were looking for. “Why haven’t I seen this before?” Y/D/N asked, eyes wide with interest.

“These are from years before you were born,” you explained softly, turning the album’s pages with care. “Most were taken when your mother and I first met. We kept them hidden… because she was a little shy about them.”

Wanda playfully nudged your arm, her smile a little bashful. “Do you really have to show them? I’d like for our daughter to still respect me, you know.”

You grinned, glancing at your daughter. “Of course, I do! I mean, just look at her. You two are practically twins—it’s adorable.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, though her blush deepened. “You’re having too much fun with this.”

As you flipped another page, your daughter gasped, eyes widening in disbelief. Wanda’s face turned a deep shade of red as she quickly covered her face with her hands, her embarrassment palpable. You, however, couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your face. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me you were so cool?” Y/D/N exclaimed, her excitement bubbling over as she snatched the album from you, flipping through the pictures like a child on Christmas morning.

“What do you mean “were”?” Wanda huffed in mock offense. “I’m still cool!”

A brief silence followed, punctuated only by Wanda’s playful exasperation. You reached out, squeezing her hand, the warmth of her skin grounding both of you. The resemblance between mother and daughter was striking, as if time had folded in on itself. “That picture,” you said, pointing to a particular one, “was taken around the time I first met your mom. She was this emo, tough, and incredibly intimidating girl—” You started dramatically, glancing at Wanda, who shot you a half-hearted glare.

“Okay, okay, no need to humiliate me further,” Wanda cut in, trying to maintain some shred of dignity.

“Humiliate?” You softened your voice, your eyes meeting hers. “That was the version of you I fell in love with.” You turned another page, your tone warm and nostalgic. “I mean, the whole ‘bad girl’ thing really worked for me.”

“Mom, gross!” Y/D/N laughed, wrinkling her nose in mock disgust.

You nudged her playfully. “Oh, hush. What I’m trying to say is… I fell in love with that Wanda, and every version after her.”

With each page you turned, years passed in the photographs. Different styles, changing haircuts, moments of growth captured in still images. But one thing remained constant—your love.

“…and the next,” you continued quietly. “Because that’s what love is. It’s not about how someone dresses or looks. It’s about loving them for who they are, through every version, and with how they express themselves to the world.”

You closed the album gently and reached for your daughter’s hands, holding them tenderly. “That’s why no matter how you choose to present yourself, it will never change how we feel about you. You are our daughter, and we will always love you—no matter what.” Y/D/N smiled, her eyes bright with relief and understanding. Wanda, still blushing from your words, looked at both of you with so much love that it was almost overwhelming. A sudden thought crossed her mind, her lips curving into a small, playful smile.

“You know,” Wanda began, her voice light, “if you’re interested, I still have some of those clothes.”

Your daughter’s eyes lit up. “No way.”

“Oh yes, way. Why don’t you start by heading up to the attic? I’ll join you in a sec.”

In an instant, your daughter gave Wanda a quick, excited hug before practically running towards the stairs. You and Wanda exchanged a glance, bursting into quiet laughter. As you stood up, Wanda caught you by the waist, pulling you close, her eyes filled with nothing but love. For a moment, the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you. She leaned in and kissed you, slow and tender.

“Mama! Do you still have that red jacket?” your daughter called from upstairs, breaking the moment. Wanda sighed, chuckling under her breath as she pulled away.

“I do!” Wanda called back, her voice filled with affection. “In fact, that jacket I stole from Auntie Nat!”

Another excited shriek echoed down the stairs, and you both shared a fond look.

“I better go before she tears down the attic,” Wanda said with a small smile, taking a step back.

You nodded, watching her as she began to leave, but she paused at the doorway and turned back, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Hey,” she whispered, “I am cool, right?”

A full, hearty laugh escaped you, the sound filling the room with warmth. “Yeah, Wanda. You’re the coolest.”

Wanda grinned, the playful tension melting away as she disappeared up the stairs, leaving you with a heart full of love and a smile that lingered long after she was gone.

#wanda maximoff #mcu #fluff #wanda x reader #blurb #wanda maximoff x reader #future AU #one shot

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flemingsfreckles · 10 months ago

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New Name

Synopsis: You and Jessie find a way to subtlety announce your marriage.

WC: 2.1k

Warnings: none :)

A/N: stuff in italics is in the past, previous stuff that happened… I promise replacement and drunk dial are being worked on… just sometimes you need a little bit of a fluffy break

Jessie smirked as she walked around into the locker room, immediately making a brisk walk toward her cubby where her jersey for the game today was hung. She could see it from across the room, everyone else’s, back of the jersey facing the room, names obviously on display, except hers.

Hers had been turned around, just as she has requested. As she reached it, she took a deep breath before reaching for the hanger and turning it to look at the back. For the first time she read not only her own last name, but followed by a hyphen and your last name. Unable to contain herself Jessie felt a huge smile break across her face as she quickly grabbed out her phone snapping a photo of the back before sending it to you.

You were at home, cleaning up from the breakfast you had made for your newly made wife before she headed out for pregame work. She had told you she needed to go in for something early, you didn’t question it. Jessie often had meetings, media, little extra training she wanted to do, small stuff that she’d add on before or after her game days so this was nothing new. What she didn’t tell you was why she had gone in so early.

That surprise came in the form of a photo. You opened your phone after seeing the notification from your wife, smiling when you remembered she was your wife now, not just your girlfriend, not just your fiancée, she was your wife.

Jessie 🫎❤️: had to come in to make sure this was all set

Jessie 🫎❤️: Attachment

You clicked on the picture and your jaw dropped. You saw the all too familiar image of a jersey, Jessie’s name and number on the back. Only now, your last name sat side by side with your wife’s. You stared and stared at the image.

Jessie 🫎❤️: Hope that’s okay, I’m thinking now that I should’ve double checked that it was okay to do today. We talked about it for the first game back but, I’m sorry.

You: I’m speechless, definitely not upset

Jessie 🫎❤️: okay, I still should’ve checked with you, I just thought it would be a cool way to announce it, and I figured it’s a good time to do it.

You: So everyone will know we’re married after today, I like that.

Private but not secret has been the motto that describes your relationship with Jessie. The two of you had been dating since she was at Chelsea. Neither of you ever publicly announced you were dating, but the speculation was abundant. The two of you were always together. You posted photos of Jessie with you at farmers markets, at coffee shops, on hikes, you always attended her games and she’d come see you in the stands, you weren’t hiding it by any means. PDA was never something you were big on so it didn’t bother you to be reserved around your girlfriend when others were present. After nearly 3 years together in London, when Jessie made the move to Portland, you followed her, only solidifying the rumors and assumptions that the two of you were together when fans spotted that Jessie was still coming over to the same girl after her move.

After a year in Portland together, you proposed, Jessie said yes and the two of you slowly began planning a wedding. Unfortunately with the Olympics, international windows, the NWSL season, on top of your job, little to no wedding planning was done by either of you. Not that you minded, it was fine, you’d get to it when you did. You were committed regardless, a piece of paper and a party weren’t going to change that.

It had been an off week for Portland, you and Jessie had been having an easy morning, both of you on the couch, books in hand enjoying each other's company.

“Would you ever have considered eloping?” Jessie puts her book down looking across the couch at you and nudging her foot into your thigh.

“Hmm?” You hum, engrossed in your book not fully hearing what Jessie had said. You finish reading the sentence you were on before putting your own book down to give her your attention. “Sorry what?”

“Eloping? Would you have ever considered it before?” She asks flatly before adding. “It’s in my book, I just was curious.”

“What do you mean ‘before’?” You shifted on the couch, pulling the blanket up more.

“Like we’ve discussed having a big formal wedding obviously, I mean like, before we discussed that?” Jessie clarifies.

“I mean, sure, I think I’d still consider it honestly, easy, quick, intimate. I’m honestly surprised you were more into the idea of the big wedding.” It was true, despite the small planning you had done, the guest list had been one of the first things, when it was all said and done the two of you were looking at a couple hundred names of people you planned to invite.

“I’m not, I actually always liked the idea of eloping. Just me and my future wife, somewhere with a view. I thought you wanted to do the full formal wedding, and I think it’s just been programmed into my head that I have to invite all my teammates and by default that’s a big wedding.”

You hesitate for a moment, listening and processing Jessie’s statement. Just as she goes to reopen her book you speak up. “Want to then?” You say, raising an eyebrow at her and giving a shrug of your shoulders.

“Want to, what?” She puts the book back into her lap.

“Elope?” You say casually, unsure of how Jessie had lost her way in the conversation you were having.

“Seriously?” Jessie squints across the couch at you.

“If you are?”

“When?” She cocks her head at you.

“I’m free tomorrow or if not tomorrow I’m also available the next day?” It’s true, you both were free, no plans, no responsibilities.

You watch Jessie squint at you before a smirk begins to show on her face. “I can’t tell if you’re kidding with me or not.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.” She sighs and laughs. “Tomorrow then.”

“Okay, let me make some calls.” You immediately hop off the couch, making a run toward your phone that sat charging. You hear Jessie laughing at the way you frantically jumped from the couch, that was a sound you were ready to listen to for the rest of your life.

It took 2 phone calls, one to Jessie’s sister and one to a local company that helped you sort out everything you’d need. Jessie’s sister had always been Jessie’s best friend and since the two of you started dating, you became closer and closer with her, she was already set to be Jessie’s maid of honor, it made sense to call her and ask if she’d be your witness. You both also knew you could trust her not to let out your little secret before you wanted everyone to know.

The following day the two of you, Jessie‘s sister, a photographer, and the man who would marry you arrived at the trailhead of a quiet path that you and Jessie frequently hiked.

The five of you hiked to a small opening within the trees, a view of a mountain in the clearing. While everyone got set up, you and Jessie walked over, hand in hand, taking a second to admire the view.

“This is perfect.” Jessie said her head resting on your shoulder as the two of you looked out.

“I know.” You let out a satisfied sigh. “I can’t believe we were going to do the big party instead.”

“I don’t know what we were thinking.”

Just minutes later you and Jessie stood hand in hand, looking at each other with stupidly happy grins on your faces and joyful tears in your eyes as you were officially pronounced as wives. The two of you had just exchanged silicone wedding bands, all you could manage with a 12 hours notice, agreeing you’d get metal ones once you broke the news to everyone.

Jessie pulled you in for a sweet kiss, sealing your marriage. “I’m your wife now.” She said quietly as she pulled away, her forehead resting on yours as the two of you looked at each other.

“You’re my wife.”

Jessie sat in her cubby, jersey still hung up behind her as she nervously bounced her leg. Her other teammates would be showing up any minute, she wasn’t sure how to go about it. Did she make it a big deal? Make a formal announcement? Did she just wait for someone to notice?

That’s when Janine came around the corner first, giving Jessie a quick smile and wave that the urge to tell someone broke. Had it been anyone else Jessie might have been able to hold the news in, but her best friend, she couldn’t do it.

“We got married!” Jessie nearly shouts at her teammate who whips her head around from where she was standing at her own cubby.

“What?”

Jessie turns, grabbing the jersey behind her and holding it out to Janine. “We, last Friday, we got married, we eloped.”

“Holy shit!” She comes up, grabbing the jersey to hold it out and look at it herself. “Wow. I can’t believe it. Shy little Jessie, married before me.” Janine teased. Jessie could feel her face flush slightly. “Is this your announcement?”

Jessie nodded. “We decided might as well let everyone know, confirm the suspicions everyone has had for years now.”

“That’s really exciting Jessie, I’m so happy for you both.” Janine pats Jessie on the back before pulling her in for a quick hug.

“What’s exciting?” The two turn to see more teammates trailing in. A couple of them looked over where Jessie and Janine were standing.

“Go ahead, show it off!” Janine hands her back the jersey and Jessie wanders over to where the group of teammates stood. She slowly starts telling her teammates the news. It's only a few minutes before her whole team knows and the locker room is filled with congratulatory applause and cheers from her teammates as they all learn the news.

A few hours later you’re standing in the family section, sporting a jersey of your own, your new shared last name across the back. When you arrived at the stadium to get your friends and family credentials, a member of the equipment staff had met you, presenting you with a jersey that matched the one in the photo Jessie had sent you. A small note from Jessie attached to it.

‘For my wife, I love you.’ You smiled at the note, the fact that wife was your official title now still had yet to set in. You thanked the staff and quickly found a restroom to change in before heading to your seat.

You found yourself sitting watching, your right index finger and thumb playing with the silicone band that now rested on your left ring finger. It felt weird. Not bad, but new and different, exciting, every time you touched it you thought of Jessie and your perfect little wedding. A few of the other player’s family had asked about the jersey, some of them making jokes that you two needed to hurry and actually get married until you told them you had. You received the same congratulations that your wife was getting from her own teammates.

When the speaker came on to announce the starting eleven for each team you nearly held your breath waiting for Jessie’s name to be called. You didn’t know if she was having them say it, maybe she’d keep it just her name for the lineup. When you heard her first name called, your ears perked up, not only was her last name announced, but your last name followed hers, just as it was written on the jersey. You noticed a murmur in the crowd after the initial cheers died down. No doubt people were confused about her name but you didn’t care.

The game was an easy one, Portland beating Seattle and you got to watch your wife score a beautiful goal. As it landed in the back of the net she immediately bolted over to where you were standing, holding out her left hand toward the direction in which you stood before kissing her ring finger. She then turned to celebrate with her teammates, but the celebration definitely got the message across.

When the game finished you made your way down to the pitch to find Jessie. “Hi wifey.” You say, coming up behind her and wrapping your arms around her to pull her close.

“Hi wife.” She says, pulling her attention away from her conversation with Quinn who quickly congratulated both of you.

“My last name looks good on you.” You say as you lean over putting a small peck on her cheek.

“I know it does, we should’ve done this years ago.”

#jessie fleming #jflem #jessie fleming x reader #jessie fleming imagine #woso x reader #woso imagine #jessie fleming blurb #canwnt x reader

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autisticfaun420 · 6 months ago

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Autism and Fecal Smearing

I want to get this out of the way first so I'm just gonna say it, I struggle with this awful habit which is called diaper digging and fecal smearing, this post (and blog for that matter) I don't want to shy away from talking about this stuff. So yeah if I have a bowel accident, am frustrated/overstimulated/angry/sad, and am left alone for a few minutes I tend to do this. It's not as bad as before because I have preventative measures in place, like special onesies that make it so I can't remove my diaper myself (ughhh whatever...) and crunchy scented textured slime that my mom will add even more scent to just to make it overwhelming. The average number of episodes has been greatly reduced but I had one a couple weeks ago when my onesies were in the watch so the topic is fresh on my mind.

A lot of caregivers and autism parents are mystified and baffled by this habit and wonder why we do it. I can't speak for everyone, only myself, but to me personally the scent and texture of feces is so overwhelming and strong that I get a "high" from it. I take cannabis edibles daily and my parents let me get drunk once a month so I'll say its very comparable. I get a rush from it. My life can be so monotonous sometimes that smearing crap feels like getting away with a bank robbery, I go from extremely angry to feeling before then to like a happy giddy kid without a care in the world. I zone out so hard that I end up smearing it all over my face, walls, floor, and if it gets in my mouth I'm usually too far gone to care. I do not do it because I'm mad at my parents, I do not do it because I want to get back at them for something, I simply do it because my need for sensory input is so strong and when I'm about to go into a potentially violent meltdown I reach for the sensory nuke when my normal things to stim with just won't cut it. No high is complete without the crash and there's a crash. Seeing my parents and one of my unlucky friends SOOOOOOO unreasonably mad, it's terrifying. My parents got used to it and eventually just shrugged it off but I have heard them lose their cool over it several times and have heard my name and every cuss word in the book the room over where they clean. Not nice of them but I do not blame them one bit but the feeling inside hearing that is very real for me. I guess they got too good at shrugging it off. I had an incident where I smeared in the bathroom of one of my high school friends, very chill guy, look at me and scream at the top of my lungs, and punched a hole in the wall in the living room. I didn't know the painting he had in his bathroom was that rare but I ruined it completely and that's why he reacted that way. He could of done better but I do not blame him one bit. After that though seeing a side of that friend that I never seen before scared me into wearing the stupid onesie suit every day without fuss or a fight when before I would. Not only the suit but I have the replacement slime on me at all times, if I have a BM I tend to just pull it out and play with it. This doubles up as subtly letting my parents know I need a change, which I like cause I don't have to ask verbally which can feel kinda degrading sometimes. There is one good thing that has happened with this though. My hippie parents looked at my turd stained walls and thought I had some latent artistic talent and needed self expression and bought me art and painting supplies. They were misguided, it didn't prevent any incidents but I still took the art well. My therapist at the time had some art connections and the art I made was featured in what's known as an "outsider art" gallery. I sold a few pieces for 300-600 each. It's just a little bit bitter sweet cause if you've seen the King of the Hill episode about the Probots or just know a bit about outsider art in general, you'd know the way they market it is kind of, problematic to say the least. The gallery's artist profile for me made me out to be some kind of idiot dunce and made my parents look like heroic geniuses for spotting this talent or some shit and it's embarrassing that my artwork sold most likely cause of that over the strength of the art. Like oh wow look at this stupid R word who plays with poop his cool parents are soo smart, ughhhh. However I guess that's just the art game and I'm super proud of myself I made a couple thousand dollars of MY OWN money, it meant the world to me to have it. I'm not allowed to post my artwork on here and I wish I could share it with you on MY terms and not the gallery's but my parents are worried it could come back to my identity.

I want to end this post by saying if you engage in fecal smearing you are not stupid, broken, or filthy. You are a human being desperate for relief and you took the fastest way to get it. Shout out to all my autistic homies who smear or have smeared, I see you and you are loved.

#Autism #Level 2 autism #level 3 autism #high support needs #medium support needs #ableism #outsider art

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plethorawrites · 4 months ago

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I'm back to my once in a blue moon Roy post. And again, I can't stop thinking about how any person he dated HAS to be approved by Lian.

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

It doesn't matter how much Roy Harper likes you or how perfect he thinks you are, if Lian doesn't like one of his partners, he'll break up with that person the next day.

He obviously waits a while to see if he even likes you enough to introduce you to her, but once he makes that decision, it's nerve wracking. He wants her to approve. He really does. And you want her too as well. He drones on about her constantly. Basically the entire first date was him relating every question you asked him back to her somehow.

Favorite place to go? The zoo, because Lian loves it. Favorite food? Grilled cheese, because he makes it for her so much he got hooked. Favorite color? It changes when hers does because everything she owns switches shades too. But he's partial to the color closest to her eyes.

And you're just as excited and nervous to meet her, knowing exactly how important she is to him. Lian is a good judge of character, she can know instantly if someone is wrong for her dad and she doesn't want them around him.

With you, it's the same as all the others. She's standoffish, curious but hesitant, asking you questions that only seem to have bad answers the way all kids somehow manage to do. And you're panicking, admittedly, not only at the questions, but at seeing Roy slowly deflate when he realizes how judgmental his daughter is.

At some point he excuses himself from the room for a moment, either to take a call, or try to take a breath because he's suddenly thinking about ending the relationship. But the second he walks away and both you and Lian can see the disappointment in posture, you both soften. Mostly her.

"...He works a lot," she told you, almost like a deterrent.

You nodded softly. "I know."

There was a pause, her princess crown falling a little bit. "Things with mom didn't end well," she mumbled.

You fixed her crown. "I know that, too." Tucking a piece of hair behind her ear you scooted closer to her on the couch. "I don't want to replace your mom, Lian. I just...want to love your dad."

She looked up at you. No one he brought home ever said the L word before. Not unless it was in some patronizing way as they talked about her while squishing her cheeks.

Her lips quirked, fighting a pout. "He's always busy," she repeated with emphasis. "I don't even see him for a week or two." She knew why, of course, and never blamed him. It still hurt.

Things suddenly clicked for you, realizing Lian was less worried about you, and more worried about you stealing her time with him.

"Well...maybe when he's gone, you and I could go somewhere? Do you like the aquarium?" You suggested hesitantly, watching her furrow her brows in skepticism as she nodded. "And maybe when he's back, we could all do something too, like a movie..." She seemed to relax a little, still pouting. "I'm not trying to steal him from you. You're the most important thing in his life, you know? You'll always come first."

...

A while later, Roy had all but prepared his typical break up speech, planning to tell you he liked you a lot but needed to take care of Lian and her needs first before focusing on himself. It hurt more this time, though, rehearsing it, than it usually did.

He walked back into the living room, freezing when he saw you braiding Lian's hair, a blanket pulled over her lap as she clicked the buttons on a remote.

"Oh, there you are," you said, glancing up. "We were going to watch 'Brave', do you want to join us?"

He blinked a few times, glancing at his daughter to ensure she wasn't just pretending. Then again, she never went along with anything she didn't actually want to do.

Roy nodded slightly, sitting next to Lian, squishing her in-between you two as she found the movie on the TV.

"You should make us popcorn," she practically demanded, starting the movie and glancing back at you as you finished her hair. "He makes really good popcorn."

You nodded curiously, giving her a small smile. "You ever tried it with M&M's in it before?"

Her eyes widened, head snapping towards her dad as if already asking for it. "O-okay, yeah, I'll check if we have any," he muttered, standing up, sparing a glance over his shoulder as he saw you pulling a blanket over Lian's lap while she passed her favorite princess crown to you.

It seemed she did approve, this time.

#headcanon #x reader #plethorawrites #dc comics #roy harper x you #roy harper x reader #roy harper imagine #roy harper #roy harper x gender neutral reader #gender nuetral reader #x you #x gn reader #lian harper

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stellaspectral · 1 month ago

Note

Hello! How are you! I have literally binged all your work on ao3 in the space of a few hours! I am besotted!!! You write angst like it’s no one’s business!

Lucky me I see your requests are open!

Okay I was wondering if I could request 2007 or bayverse , either Raph or Leo with an established relationship!reader

who had a life altering event happen, ( for e.g being involved with the turtles got her in danger ) and the trauma completely changes her , she becomes cold, secretive ( bonus point if reader becomes vigilante to get revenge ) as a way to cope. how Would the turtles react to that? How would they mend their relationship?

up to you whether it’s straight up angst or angst to comfort!

I know this is a lot so please disregard this if it’s a bit out there, or take what you want from this and make your own spin! I’d frankly read your grocery list!

A/N: Hey there! 👋 Thank you so, so much for your incredibly kind words about my work! Hearing that you binged it and enjoyed the angst has really made my day 🥰

For this request, I’m going with Bayverse Raph. I hope you enjoy it! 💖

The Space Between a Touch (angst)

❤️ Bayverse Raphael/Female Reader ❤️

CWs: Angst, depictions of PTSD and trauma aftermath, past kidnapping, self-destructive behavior, light swearing, some violence and fighting. All characters are aged-up.

The change didn’t happen overnight. It was a creeping frost, starting in your eyes and slowly encasing your heart.

Before, your laughter used to echo in the lair. You’d spar with Leo, teasing him about his seriousness, play video games with Mikey, and assist Donnie with ideas for his inventions. At the end of the day, you’d curl up against Raph’s side, his massive arm a familiar, comforting weight.

That was before.

Before the ambush, before Karai’s blade had sliced too close. Before you’d been grabbed, used as bait.

The memory of the knife’s edge against your neck, the feeling of rough hands dragging you, the chilling pronouncements and threats from Shredder—they play on a loop. You were a vulnerability, a weakness they exploited. And that knowledge has become your armor, keeping everyone out.

Mikey will hold out a controller, his eyes hopeful and pleading. “Just one round? For old times’ sake?” The flashing colors on the screen and the upbeat music feel garish now. You shake your head and tell him you’re busy. The lie tastes like ash in your mouth as you walk away, his smile faltering.

Donnie still shows you his latest gadgets, his explanations enthusiastic, but you no longer offer suggestions. Your mind, once buzzing with complimentary ideas, feels … blank. Static-y. He’ll look at you, searching for that spark. And when he doesn’t find it, his voice trails off, a quiet disappointment settling in his eyes.

Leo approaches you with a different tactic. He finds you in the dojo. Not meditating, not practicing. Just standing in the center, your arms wrapped tight around yourself as if trying to hold the splintering pieces of your composure together. His footsteps are deliberate on the tatami, giving you ample time to acknowledge him.

You don’t turn.

“We need to train,” he states, his voice devoid of its usual older-brother warmth, replaced by the clipped, focused tone of a leader assessing a critical situation. It’s not a request. He moves to stand a few feet in front of you, his expression unreadable. “Now.”

The words are like stones dropped into a frozen pond. For a moment, you almost expect them to skid across the ice you’ve built around your heart. You finally meet his gaze. The Leo before you isn’t the brother you teased; he’s the warrior, the strategist—and he’s looking at you like a problem to be solved.

Training. As if a few katas could erase the phantom feel of steel against your skin. As if a perfect block could undo the way your own body had betrayed you by freezing in terror.

“Why?” The word escapes you, a broken shard of sound, barely a whisper. It’s more than you’ve said to any of them in days.

Leo’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Because out there,” he gestures vaguely towards the city beyond the lair, “they won’t care if you’re not feeling up to it. They won’t wait for you to be ready. Shredder knows your face. He knows you’re with us. You think he won’t try again?”

The implied threat, the reminder of your vulnerability, stabs through the numbness. It’s the very thing that haunts you. You slowly unwrap your arms, your fingers stiff. “Fine.” The word is flat. You don’t reach for a weapon. You simply settle into a basic defensive stance, rigid and shallow.

Leo observes you, his gaze sharp, analytical. He doesn’t comment on your lack of a weapon, nor on the reluctance radiating from you. Instead, he mirrors your stance. “Defend yourself,” he orders, and then he attacks.

His fist comes at your face. A deeply buried reflex from countless hours spent in this very dojo makes you raise an arm. Though it’s too slow, too hesitant. His knuckles connect with your forearm, not with full force. But enough to send a shockwave up your shoulder. The thud echoes the dull ache that has taken permanent residence in your chest.

He doesn’t pause. A leg sweeps towards yours. You stumble back, ungainly, your feet feeling like lead. There’s no grace in your movement, none of the familiar rhythm of sparring. He’s peeling back the layers of your composure, one precise strike at a time.

“Again,” he says, and launches another flurry.

You try to parry, to block, but your limbs feel disconnected from your brain. The commands get lost in the haze. Each impact, even a glancing one, sends a fresh jolt of memory through you.

Rough hands gripping your arms, pinning you.

The glint of steel too close to your vitals.

You flinch, and the movement leaves you open. Leo’s foot connects with your side. It’s controlled, a training tap, but you gasp, doubling over slightly. The air rushes out of your lungs, and with it, a sliver of the ice around your heart seems to crack, releasing a fresh wave of chilling fear.

“Focus!” Leo barks.

His words strike a nerve. An animal—that’s what you feel like. Trapped. Helpless.

“I can’t!” you yell. A choked sob escapes you, a sound you instantly try to swallow. But it’s out. Hanging in the air between you, more damning than any outcry.

Leo stills, surprise and concern flickering in his eyes.

You can’t fight him. Can’t fight this.

You can’t go back to who you were.

“I … I can’t,” you whisper, the admission tearing through you. Before you rush out of the dojo, out of the lair.

Of course, your change in behavior hits Raph the hardest.

When he reaches for you on the couch, you flinch, the phantom weight of Shredder’s hand a cold press against your skin. It’s a reminder of helplessness, of being held against your will. At night, you lie rigid, your back mostly to him, feigning sleep almost immediately. You feel him hesitate, his breath warm against your hair, his hand hovering as if unsure whether to touch you, to bridge the gap.

The feeling of Raph’s plastron against your back, the rumbling chuckle that vibrated through you when you said something particularly cheeky. The surprisingly gentle way his massive, three-fingered hands would cup your face—those are memories now. Sepia-toned and distant, from a life that feels like it belonged to someone else.

The closeness you once craved now feels like a brand, and the frost inside you deepens. Preserving the pain, ensuring no one can get close enough to make you vulnerable again. Your armor is strong, unyielding.

And utterly, terribly lonely.

A chasm has opened between you and the brothers. You see the worry on their faces, the way they exchange glances when you turn away. You hear the hushed tones of their conversations, though the words remain just out of reach. But the fear whispers insidious lies, telling you that distance is safety.

And so, you remain encased, a prisoner of your own memories.

You don’t visit the lair much anymore. Instead, you train at home. At the gym. Becoming faster, more ruthless. You patrol on your own, taking down Foot soldiers and other criminals with a fury that would make even Raph pause. You’re protecting them, you tell yourself.

You won’t be the weak link again.

You’re rarely even at your apartment long enough to talk to Raph when he visits. And sometimes, you disappear for hours on him, often returning well after midnight. You offer vague excuses: “Needed air” or “Just a walk.”

But Raph sees the new bruises overlaid on top of the fading ones. He sees the cut above your eyebrow you try to hide with your hair, the way you move with a carefully concealed stiffness that speaks of fresh pain.

And tonight, something in him snaps.

You barely have your keys out of the lock when his enormous frame fills the narrow hallway of your apartment, blocking your path. He crosses his arms over his chest, his shadow engulfing you. The dim light from the living room throws his features into sharp relief, and the usual gruff fondness in his eyes is gone, replaced by a simmering, dangerous stillness.

“Where were you?”

“Out,” you mumble, trying to sidestep him.

He doesn’t move. Instead, his hand reaches out, his fingers brushing against the fresh scrape on your cheekbone you hadn’t even realized was bleeding. You flinch violently, recoiling as if burned.

His hand freezes, then slowly retracts, a flicker of hurt crossing his face before the anger resettles. “Out gettin’ this?” he presses, his voice tightening. “And the one you’re hidin’ over your eye? What about the ribs I know you’re favorin’?”

“I can handle myself, Raph,” you say, your voice harsher than you intend.

“Handle yourself?” He takes a step closer, and you instinctively brace, your back hitting the wall. “More like handling gettin’ yourself killed. There’s a difference, you know.” His eyes, usually a warm green, are narrowed, boring into you. “You think this is protectin’ us? Runnin’ around like a maniac, pickin’ fights you can barely walk away from?”

“I’m not weak anymore,” you spit out, the old fear twisting into a snarl. “I won’t be a liability. Not again.”

“A liability?” He scoffs. “You think this ain’t makin’ you one? What happens when you don’t come back one night, huh? What are we supposed to do then? What am I supposed to do?”

His voice cracks on the last question. You see the deep worry lines etched around his eyes, the exhaustion in the slump of his shoulders that he usually hides so well.

“You think we don’t see you? The way you keep pullin’ away?” he continues, his voice dropping again, thick with pain. “Leo’s beside himself. Mikey keeps tryin’ to get you to smile, just once. Donnie … he just looks lost.” He shakes his head, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second before snapping back to yours. “And you … you look at me …”

He hesitates.

“You look at me like I’m … like I’m him,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “Like I’m gonna hurt you.”

The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. His eyes search yours, desperate for a denial. For any sign that the you he knew—the you he loves—is still in there, somewhere beneath the ice and fury.

You open your mouth, but no words come out. The shame of his statement lodges in your throat, a bitter pill. Because sometimes, in the dark, when a hand reaches for you—even his—the terror is so blinding you can’t tell friend from foe.

His expression crumples, just for a second, the sight more devastating than any roar of anger. Then, the hardness returns. “This ain’t strength,” he says, his voice flat, final. “This is you dyin’ slow. And you’re draggin’ us all through hell with you.”

He turns then, not waiting for your response, leaving you alone when he departs for the lair. The cut on your cheek stings, a reminder of the battles you keep choosing. And for the first time since everything went to shit, you wonder if this is a battle you can actually win.

Or if you’re just ensuring everyone you care about loses.

Donnie confirms your late-night habits one night. As if Raph didn’t already know. But he dreads his brothers’ reactions.

You’re not here, of course. You’re out somewhere in the city’s sprawling darkness, chasing the adrenaline that numbs the ache, oblivious to the fact that your carefully constructed secrecy is crumbling—because Raph knows his brothers aren’t going to let it go.

Donnie swivels in his chair to look at his monitors. “I’ve been tracking the use of my tech,” he says, tapping some keys. A map flares to life on the main screen, your recent patrol routes shown in red lines. “As well as unusual activity on police scanners and reports for the past few weeks.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder at his brothers. “She’s been going out alone. Not for walks. She’s been hunting.”

Despite already knowing, Raph’s blood runs cold, then hot. The protective fury that defines him surges, so potent it makes him tremble. Not at you. For you. And at Karai, Shredder—at the world that broke you.

Leo’s breath hitches. His eyes, usually so focused and analytical, widen as he stares at the patrol routes—your patrol routes—illuminated in damning red across the city map. The sheer recklessness of it, the isolation, hits him like a blow to the chest.

“Alone?” he murmurs, the word laced with a dawning horror and a sharp sting of guilt as he remembers your shattered cry in the dojo.

Leo thought it was a momentary break, a surrender to fear. He hadn’t grasped it as a declaration of this self-imposed, dangerous exile. His mind races, replaying every interaction, every sign he missed or misinterpreted. His gaze flickers to Raph, seeing the barely contained storm in his brother’s eyes, and then back to the screen, a muscle working in his jaw.

He should have seen this. He should have known. The strategic part of his brain screams about the tactical disadvantage, the unnecessary risk. But beneath it, he aches with a profound sense of failure.

Mikey goes utterly still—before his head snaps up, his eyes wide with an emerging, terrible understanding. “Hunting?” he echoes, the word small, almost childlike. He pictures you out there, alone in the dark, facing down the kind of threats that make even their seasoned team move with caution.

The image of the you he knows being consumed by this cold, violent purpose is hard for Mikey to comprehend. A knot forms in his throat, tight and painful. “No …” he whispers, shaking his head slowly, as if denying the truth will make it somehow vanish. “Not … not by herself. She wouldn’t … she knows better …”

But even as the words stumble out, he remembers your averted gaze at his game invitations, the way you recoiled when he tried to sling an arm around your shoulder. He’d thought you were just sad, lost in a funk he could eventually coax you out of with enough persistence. He hates he was so oblivious.

“She could get really hurt, guys,” Mikey says, his voice filled with a visceral fear for your life. “We gotta find her. Now!”

“What are we waitin’ for?” Raph slams a fist into his palm. “Donnie, you got a lock on her?” His voice is a low growl, the protective fury he feels for you practically radiating off him in waves.

“I’m working on it,” Donnie replies, fingers flying across his keyboard, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Her tracker signal is faint. She must be deep in the old warehouse district by the docks. And—oh no.” His voice drops, a note of alarm entering his tone. “Multiple heat signatures converging on her position. Foot. A lot of them.”

Leo’s face is grim, his earlier guilt solidifying into steely resolve. He meets Raph’s furious gaze, then Mikey’s, and finally Donnie’s. “Gear up,” he orders, doing his best to remain calm despite his rising panic for your safety. “We go in fast, we secure her, and we get out. No unnecessary risks, but she’s our priority.”

This isn’t just a rescue mission. It’s about bringing you back from the brink.

From the abyss you’ve thrown yourself into.

You’re crouched on a rain-slicked rooftop, the city’s neon glow reflecting in the surrounding puddles. The wind whips your hair across your face, stinging your eyes, but you welcome the bite. It keeps you sharp, keeps the ghosts at bay, if only for a moment.

Below, a van pulls up to a darkened warehouse, figures clad in familiar black outfits spilling out. Foot. Too many. Caution tries to pierce through the anger that’s become your constant companion. You ignore it. This is what you do now. This is how you prove you’re not a liability.

You drop silently from the rooftop, landing in the shadows of an alleyway, your breath misting in the cool night air. You move with a speed and ferocity that is born of a reckless disregard for your own safety. The first two Foot soldiers go down before they even register your presence—a swift strike to the temple, a brutal knee to the gut.

You move through them, a whirlwind of focused rage. But they keep coming.

They’re more prepared tonight, or maybe you’re just pushing your luck too far. You narrowly avoid a kunai, the metal grazing your arm, drawing a thin line of blood. Spinning to meet the next attacker, you grit your teeth against the sting. You block a punch, counter with an elbow, but another soldier comes at you from the side.

You duck, but not fast enough; the weapon connects with your ribs. It steals your breath and sends a jagged bolt of pain through your side. You stumble, a gasp escaping your lips. For a horrifying second, the faces of the Foot soldiers blur, morphing into Shredder’s visage. Panic lances through you.

No. Not again!

You fight back with renewed desperation. You take down two more, but you’re outnumbered, outmaneuvered. A blow to the back of your head sends you sprawling onto the pavement. Stars explode behind your eyes, and the world tilts precariously. Rough hands grab your arms, hauling you to your feet.

“She’s the one,” a gruff voice snarls, too close to your ear. “Karai will be pleased.”

Your heart plummets. This is it. This is exactly what you were trying to avoid, the scenario that’s haunted your nightmares. You’ve failed. You’ve become the weak link all over again. Despair washes over you, so potent it almost extinguishes the fight in you.

Just as a pair of Foot soldiers begin to drag you towards the warehouse, a familiar roar cuts through the night.

“GET YOUR FILTHY FUCKIN’ HANDS OFF HER!”

A massive green shape hurtles out of the darkness, slamming into the two soldiers holding you with the force of a battering ram. You fall to your knees as they’re sent flying. Before you can even process it, another green blur, smaller and faster, clears a path around you while another deflects incoming attacks.

From the rooftops, shuriken fly with pinpoint accuracy, disarming several more soldiers. You look up, then look around you.

Raph. Leo. Donnie. Mikey.

They’re here.

They found you.

They came for you.

Leo lands beside you, beating back a blow aimed at you. “You okay?” he asks, his voice tight with controlled urgency, his eyes assessing you quickly for injuries before flicking back to the remaining Foot.

You can only stare, the word “Fine” dying on your lips. The fight is still raging around you, but for a moment, everything seems to slow.

Raph is a force of nature, tearing through the Foot with a righteous fury that makes your own recent efforts look like child’s play. Mikey is a vibrant, chaotic blur of orange amidst the grunts and sounds of combat. Yet every move is precise, protecting your periphery. Donnie uses his tech-enhanced staff, sending out small electrical charges, creating openings, and controlling the flow of the fight.

You watch them move as one, a perfectly honed unit. Protecting you.

The armor around your heart cracks.

They dispatched the remaining Foot soldiers with brutal efficiency. The clash of metal fades, replaced by their heavy breathing and the distant wail of city sirens. But your world has narrowed to the colossal figure dropping to his knees in front of you.

Raph.

His eyes are wide, frantic, scanning you from head to toe. The fury that propelled him through the fight is still thrumming beneath his skin, but now it’s overshadowed by a desperate concern that makes his features almost painfully vulnerable. “You hurt?” he asks, his voice a hoarse rasp.

His hands, the ones you’ve flinched from—the ones you imagined were Shredder’s in your nightmares—reach out. They hover for a heart-stopping second. Then, with an almost agonizing tenderness, one hand gently cups your cheek, his thumb brushing your jaw. You don’t recoil.

You try to nod, to form words. But a choked sound is all that escapes. The fight, the fear, the sudden appearance of your saviors—it all crashes over you.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Raph murmurs, his other hand coming up to gently take your arm, examining the graze from the kunai. “We gotcha. You’re safe now.”

His gaze locks with yours, and in their depths, you don’t see accusation or disappointment. You see the raw, unfiltered fear he must have felt, the pain his own words inflicted on you earlier. And beneath it all, an unwavering, stubborn love.

A single tear escapes, tracing a path down your cheek. Then another. You try to stop them, to maintain some semblance of the hard shell you’ve cultivated. But it’s useless. The crack widens, and the pent-up emotion floods through. “Raph …”

He carefully pulls you forward, and you don’t resist. You collapse against his broad plastron, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His arms wrap around you, strong and secure, holding you together as the sobs wrack your body.

He smells of rain, sweat, and the faint, familiar scent of the lair.

Of home.

“Shhh, it’s okay. I got you. We all got you.”

He just holds you, murmuring against your hair, the rumble of his voice a soothing vibration near your ear.

Through your tear-blurred vision, you see the others. They’re all here. They came. Despite everything, despite the walls you built, they came.

The mending won’t be easy. The shadows of what you endured, and what you have become, will linger. But as Raph holds you, his brothers stepping closer to form a protective circle, you feel the first, tentative thaw around your frozen heart. The journey back to being yourself will be long—

—but you won’t be walking it alone.

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