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studioeisa · 12 days ago

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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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wordsofwhimsy · 2 months ago

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【Ｏｐｐｏｓｉｔｅｓ　

Ａｔｔｒａｃｔ】 - Part Eight

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice of life, Mark’s all “duoyy” about your tits lmaoo

Word Count: 2,328

Chapter Synopsis: It’s game day and your roommate convinces you to wear something WAY out of your norm. It’s got Mark all fucked up.

a/n: ugh i really like this chapter – also i wasn’t lyingggg when i said this shit would be slowburn. reader’s ol’ dense ass hasn’t even clocked the way mark be looking at her yet.

Part Seven

Mark had stayed with you late into the night. He didn’t say much. Just lingered in the same room while you flipped through textbooks and typed furiously at your laptop, muttering the occasional curse under your breath when you couldn’t get a paragraph to sound right. You looked exhausted—like you hadn’t slept in a week—but you were clearly trying to push through it.

He didn’t get it.

Not the school stuff, not the effort, not the way you ground yourself down to the bone like it would all fall apart if you didn’t. He couldn’t imagine wasting that much energy on a bunch of overworked professors and a system that, in his opinion, was mostly built to break people down and leave them in debt.

Still, he didn’t say anything. Just sat on your bed and watched the curve of your shoulders as you worked, how your brow furrowed when you mentally hit a wall, how your tongue poked out when you finally found a rhythm again. Pesto had eventually relocated to your desk, curled in a loose half-circle beside your laptop.

It wasn’t until your head slowly dipped, your movements stalling entirely, that Mark realized you'd passed out.

You’d fallen asleep right there—half-upright, cheek smushed against the keyboard, one arm dangling limply over the side of your chair.

Mark stared at you, then let out a long sigh. “Seriously?” he muttered under his breath.

Pesto gave a concerned little chirp and padded closer to you, licking at your cheek with small, sandpaper-rough strokes. You didn’t stir. Just let out a tiny snore and went boneless in your chair.

Mark rolled his eyes. “God. You’re gonna give yourself a hunchback by thirty.”

Still, he got up. And with careful, practiced ease, he hooked his arms under your legs and shoulders and lifted you like you weighed nothing at all. Pesto gave a little squeak and leapt back onto the bed, eyes wide and blinking as Mark crossed the room and gently laid you down.

You curled automatically into the blankets as soon as you hit the mattress, a soft sound escaping your throat—peaceful and worn out in equal measure.

Mark stood over you for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line. You looked so small like this. So tired. And even though it wasn’t anything new—wasn’t like he hadn’t seen you doze off many times in high school gym class before—something about it now made his chest feel tight.

Like maybe he didn’t like seeing you this way.

Like maybe he hated that you kept pushing yourself so hard when no one else seemed to notice.

He tugged the blanket higher, smoothing it over your shoulder. Pesto blinked up at him from the corner of the bed. Mark glared. “What.”

More blinking. Very owl-like.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “Stop it now, I’ll squash you I swear to god...”

Pesto, unfazed, licked his paw and gave him the slowest, most condescending blink he’d ever received from a barely sentient creature.

Mark huffed and turned toward the window, ready to slip out the way he came in—but froze when the doorknob rattled.

Crap.

The door cracked open and Emily stepped inside, still in her lab gear, earbuds dangling from her neck. She paused when she saw the room—your unconscious form tucked in bed, textbooks scattered about, Mark halfway through a panicked turn. Pesto had made themselves scarce, slipping beneath the covers.

Mark’s eyes flicked to the window, then back at Emily. Nope. Not worth it.

“…Hey,” he said casually, like he hadn’t just been caught trying to sneak out like a vampire.

Emily blinked. “Uh. Hi?”

He cleared his throat and adjusted his jacket. “She passed out at her desk. I put her in bed.”

Emily arched a brow. “Thanks?”

Mark made a vague grunt in acknowledgment, then walked past her and out the door with a rigidity that would put dames to shame.

Emily watched him go.

“…Okay then.”

Still, as she kicked off her shoes and crossed the room, her gaze softened when it landed on you. She whispered something about “absolute goblin girl,” then tucked the blanket tighter around you, and flicked off the light.

At least you weren’t alone.

—

The next morning arrived far too quickly.

You rolled out of bed with your hair in twelve directions, your laptop blinking low-battery warnings at you, and Pesto somewhere still tangled in your blanket like a sea creature.

Emily was already wide awake. She perched on her bed like a pristine barbie doll, eyes sparkling, holding two hangers up like she was planning a fashion heist. “Today is the day,” she said gleefully. “Prepare to be hot.”

You blinked at her. “What.”

“The game,” she said, like it was obvious. “Kyle? Nachos? Sunburn? Public awkwardness? Ringing any bells?”

You squinted at her.

She sighed dramatically. “You need something to wear.”

You looked down at yourself—oversized hoodie, pajama pants, socks with little cats on them. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Girl,” she said almost sympathetically. “Be for real.” She stood up and crossed the room in two strides, throwing open your closet.

You groaned and got to your feet, murmuring that you were going to the bathroom. She just waved you off, clearly too invested in her own mission.

You shuffled off toward the dorm bathrooms, clutching your towel and your caddy like armor. The floor was quiet this early—just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of someone brushing their teeth. You took your time showering, letting the warm water ground you. You weren’t sure if you were nervous or excited. Maybe both.

Kyle had invited you. You were going to your first baseball game. In public. With people. That was weird. Good-weird, but still weird.

By the time you came back, hair damp and twisted up in a towel, everything in your closet had been ransacked.

“Emily,” you said slowly, eyes sweeping the scene. “What. Did you do.”

Emily didn’t even look up—she was shoulder-deep in her own wardrobe now, holding up shirts and muttering under her breath. “You own like five outfits and they’re all from the discount bin of a high school anime club.”

You clutched your towel tighter. “I like my clothes.”

She turned around holding a bright yellow summer dress. “Yeah? Well I like seeing you not dressed like a depressed librarian. C’mon, try this.”

You stared at the dress like it was radioactive. “That’s... short.”

“And cute,” she said, tossing it at you before you could protest. “You’ve got the legs for it. And the boobs. Honestly, I don’t know why you hide under all that fabric like a Victorian ghost.”

Your face flushed. “I’m just... not used to showing stuff off like that.”

“Well, you should be,” she said with zero hesitation. “Now get your hot butt into this dress before I forcibly put you in it.”

You groaned but gave in, slipping behind your closet door to change. The material was soft and breezy, the skirt falling mid-thigh and the neckline dipping just enough to feel mildly illegal. You tugged at the hem, your face burning.

“I look ridiculous.”

“Let me see,” Emily said, crossing the room. You hesitated, then stepped out. Emily froze. Her eyes scanned you from head to toe, and then she let out a long, impressed whistle. “Holy hell.”

You immediately folded your arms over your chest. “Don’t—”

“No, no, no. Shut up. You’re hot.”

“Emily—”

“I’m serious! If I saw you across a bar like that, I’d assume you were about to ruin someone’s life. Kyle’s gonna die.”

You tried to shrink into yourself, but a laugh bubbled up despite your embarrassment. “You’re insane.”

“And you look amazing,” she said firmly. “Now twirl.”

“What? No—”

“Twirrrrrl.”

You gave her a half-hearted spin, and the skirt flared up slightly with the movement. You couldn’t help but laugh, a little breathless and pink-cheeked. Maybe… you did look kind of good.

And maybe it felt really nice to have someone see you and say it out loud.

You were still mid-laugh when someone knocked on the door. You and Emily paused, exchanging a look. “That’s gotta be Kyle,” she said, already moving to open it. But when she pulled the door open—it wasn’t Kyle at all.

It was Mark. He stood there in his usual jacket, hands shoved in his pockets, expression sharp and unreadable. Emily blinked, clearly caught off guard.

“Oh. Uh. Hey?”

Mark stepped inside without a word, and then he saw you. His body turned to stone.

His gaze snapped to your legs first—bare, tan, almost shinning under the hem of the dress—and then to the curve of your waist, the subtle line of your collarbones, the dip of skin just above the neckline that knocked a fuse loose in his brain.

And then his eyes dipped lower. For a moment, he just stared—like his brain had rebooted mid-thought.

What the hell.

You had tits. Not just vaguely-there, hidden-under-a-sweatshirt boobs. Real ones. Perfect, soft, gravity-defying, distracting ones. On display. In a dress that clearly had zero concern for his ability to stay normal.

Where the hell had you been hiding those?

Oh. Right. Under three layers of hoodies and a self-deprecating sense of style.

Mark felt something short-circuit behind his eyes. There was a moment of honest-to-god panic, the kind that only came from the realization that you were no longer safe in his brain. Not even a little. Not when you looked like that.

You shifted under his stare, tugging awkwardly at the skirt. “Emily’s letting me borrow it.”

Mark’s jaw flexed. “Why?”

“For the game,” you said, oblivious to the storm cloud forming in real time. “Kyle invited me, remember?”

Silence.

His brain, still fried, took a moment to catch up. Right. The game. With Kyle. You, in that dress. In public. With him.

“No,” Mark said flatly. “You can’t wear that.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You should change.”

Emily blinked, eyebrows shooting up. “Excuse me?”

Mark didn’t take his eyes off you. “It’s too much.”

Emily scoffed. “What are you talking about dude, it’s just a dress.”

“It’s not just a—” He stopped himself, nostrils flaring slightly. “You’ll kill somebody.”

You looked at him, almost mildly concerned that someone might actually lose their life for reasons unknown. “Kill who?”

Mark opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again, like maybe if he just kept rebooting, the right words would eventually show up in his head.

Emily looked between the two of you, mouth twitching. “Oh my god,” she said. “You’re serious.”

“I’m just saying,” Mark huffed, crossing his arms like that would make him sound less unhinged, “maybe don’t go out in something that looks like… that.”

You stared at him. “Like what?”

He looked pained. “Like—legs. And skin. And tits.”

Your face lit up like a Christmas tree at how blatantly he called out your chest. “I’m sorry—”

“I meant—your boobs,” he amended quickly, like that somehow made it better. “I mean—not yours specifically, just—ugh, you know what I mean.”

Emily was openly laughing now. “No, this is good. Let’s see how far down this rabbit hole he goes.”

“Listen, I mean,” Mark snapped, cheeks faintly pink now. “You’ve got people out there. In the world. With eyes. And blood pressure. And I’m not saying they’ll spontaneously combust but like. You never know.”

You stared at him for a second longer, then slowly raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You seem… weird.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, clearly not fine. “It’s the dress that’s weird. You’ve never worn anything like that before.”

You glanced down at yourself, the swell of self-consciousness suddenly creeping in like a chill under the door.

“I mean… yeah,” you said, more uncertainly this time. “That’s kinda the point, right?”

Mark didn’t respond. Not really. Just gave you this look—tight, unreadable, heavy. The kind that made your stomach twist without knowing why. You tugged the skirt down again, nerves starting to itch just beneath your skin. “Do I look stupid?”

Mark’s head snapped up. “What? No.”

“But you said—”

“I didn’t say you looked stupid,” he said quickly, tone sharp. “I said people are gonna look. And… they don’t need to be doing that.”

That last part came out quieter. Like it had slipped past whatever filter he’d tried to use. You blinked at him, lips parting—but before you could say anything, there was another knock at the door.

Emily moved to answer it, and your heart lurched, caught in this weird limbo between feeling ridiculous and wanting to disappear entirely. You looked back at Mark. “Should I change?”

Something flickered in his expression. Something complicated. His mouth opened—but Kyle was already stepping into view.

“Hey,” Kyle said, smile bright as the sun. “Wow. You look—”

“You don’t have to finish that,” you cut in quickly, brushing past him. Your hands fidgeted with the edge of the dress, pulling at fabric that suddenly felt too thin, too short, too much.

You didn’t wait to hear what Kyle had to say. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

Kyle barely had time to catch up before you were out the door, leaving a silence that felt far heavier than it should have.

Behind you, Mark stood unmoving, jaw tight and fingers curled into fists. Emily gave him a long, knowing look.

“You really could’ve said literally anything else,” she muttered.

Mark exhaled, low and sharp. “She looked uncomfortable.”

“She looked excited. And hot. And for the record? She still looked like herself. Just a version of her that actually lets herself exist in the world for once.”

He didn’t answer.

Emily rolled her eyes. “You’re not mad at the dress. You’re mad it’s not for you.”

Mark didn’t deny it.

———————

Part Nine

———————

#invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson fanfic #mohawk mark x reader

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rose24207 · 6 months ago

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The Triangle’s Mercy

Summary: You defy the rules of life and death, sparing Player 333 on the field and pulling your gun on another player in the dormitory, leaving him questioning why a guard would protect him.

Player 333 x guard!reader

A/N: let me know if you want more of that! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

You stood in the sniper station high above the field, peering down through a small window as the players shuffled into position. It was your assigned post for the first game, Red Light, Green Light. From here, you had a perfect view of every player.

Your job was simple: if the doll detected movement, you would receive the player number through your earpiece. Once detected, you would pull the trigger without hesitation. That was the rule. No exceptions.

The field was eerily silent except for the nervous murmurs of the 456 contestants. Among them, your eyes caught Player 333, Myung-gi.

He looked calm but his hands were shaking, his feet barely steady beneath him. There was nothing special about him—just another face among the desperate masses. But something about the way he clung to hope, even in the face of calmness, struck a chord in you.

A beep drew out to signal the start of the game.

“Mugunghwa kkochi piotsseumnida.”

You held your breath. The field froze.

Your earpiece buzzed.

“Player 117. Movement detected.”

Your scope locked onto the target. A man in his mid-thirties stood near the back, his left foot trembling slightly as he struggled to balance.

Your gaze was sharp as you fired.

The crack of your rifle echoed across the field. The man fell instantly, a crimson stain spreading across his chest.

The song resumed, and the doll’s head swiveled back toward the trees. The remaining contestants hesitated, glancing at the fallen man, before cautiously moving forward again.

“Player 335 Movement detected.”

Another shot, another body collapsed. The doll’s sensors worked quickly, and you kept up with the pace, eliminating each target as the system flagged them.

The ground was slowly littered with bodies, some still, others leaking trails of red into the dirt.

Then came the voice of Player 456, shouting above the chaos

“Everybody, stop moving! Just freeze!”

His instructions spread like wildfire. The remaining players obeyed, standing still like statues. The field grew eerily quiet again.

You scanned the group for anyone who moved. You listened for instructions but none came.

As the game continued, your earpiece buzzed again.

“Player 333. Movement detected.”

You froze.

The scope of your rifle shifted automatically, locking onto Player 333. The young man, trembling violently, stood in the middle of the field. He had stumbled slightly, his foot dragging across the dirt. His face was pale, his lips quivering as if he was seconds from screaming.

He knew he moved.

You placed your finger on the trigger.

But something made you pause.

You were supposed to shoot.

But you didn’t.

Something inside you stopped you. Maybe it was the terror on his face or the way his chest heaved as he realized his mistake. Whatever it was, you couldn’t pull the trigger.

The doll’s scanners shifted, the moment passed, and Myung-gi froze again, acknowledging the fact to how close he had come to death.

He wasn’t the only one confused. Far below, Player 230, Thanos, watched him. His sharp eyes narrowed as he realized what had just happened: Myung-gi had moved, but he was still alive.

The game ended with a beep of the clock. The surviving players were herded back to the dormitory, their faces pale with shock. Bodies were dragged from the field, their screams and cries of mercy now replaced with an eerie silence.

The players sat or stood near the rows of towering bunk beds, their expressions a mix of fear, anger, and grief. You were stationed by the door, your rifle slung over your shoulder. The cold metal walls of the room seemed to amplify every whisper, every muffled sob.

But your focus remained on Player 333.

He sat on a lower bunk, staring at his hands. Across from him, Thanos approached, his face dark with suspicion.

“You,” Thanos exclaimed, crouching down to meet Myung-gi’s eye level. “You moved during the game. I saw it. Why aren’t you dead?”

Myung-gi blinked, startled. “What? No, I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Thanos growled, grabbing his collar. “The guards shot everyone else. Why not you?”

“I don’t know!” Myung-gi snapped, his voice shaky. “Maybe I didn’t move as much as you think—”

Thanos slammed him against the bed frame, rattling the metal bars. “You’re lying! You’re cheating somehow!”

The commotion drew the attention of nearby players, who watched nervously but kept their distance. You descended from your position by the doors, rifle in hand, and approached them.

“Break it up,” you ordered, your voice cold and sharp through the modulator.

Thanos looked up at you, his grip still on Myung-gi. “This one’s a fraud! He’s—”

“I said, break it up.”

Your rifle shifted, the barrel pointing directly at Thanos. The gesture was subtle but enough to make him freeze. Slowly, he released Myung-gi, his hands raising in surrender.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Thanos muttered, backing away cautiously.

Myung-gi remained pressed against the bed frame, his breathing heavy as he watched the exchange. His gaze flickered between you and Thanos, confusion evident in his expression.

Why had you intervened? Why was a guard protecting him?

You didn’t offer an explanation. Instead, you took a step closer to Thanos, your rifle still aimed at him. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Thanos nodded quickly, retreating into the crowd of players. The tension dissolved as he disappeared, leaving you and Myung-gi alone.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, hesitantly, Myung-gi asked, “Why… why did you do that?”

You stared at him through the mask, your heart pounding. You couldn’t answer, not without revealing too much. Instead, you simply turned and walked away, your boots echoing against the cold, metal floor.

Myung-gi watched you go, still confused but alive. And that was enough for now.

Thank you for reading!

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myfictionaldreams · 2 years ago

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Day 11: Exhibitionism/Voyeurism - Winter Soldier

Summary: Home alone, you think it's safe to have some 'special time', but unbeknown to you, he's there, always watching and admiring.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, dubious content, stalker!winter soldier, masturbation, sex toys, loneliness, exhibitionism, voyeurism

masterlist 📚

kinktober masterlist😈

AO3 Link

Being the adoptive daughter of the infamous Alexander Pierce wasn’t always as exciting and full of potential danger as you’d expect. For the most part, you are confined to your heavily guarded home 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Despite being an adult and wanting to live your own life, your father deemed it too dangerous that you could be captured and used for ransom.

Throughout your life, you’d never even seen one second of action or risk, and some would say that just means your father has protected you to the best of his abilities. There is a point, however, where you need something exciting in your life even though there are only limited ways to get any thrill.

This usually occurred when you were home alone, like tonight. Bored out of your mind whilst watching the TV attached to the wall in the living room, your dad walked past, clicking a button on his phone before tying his show lace. Glancing at the time on your phone, you assumed he was going to work, considering it was so late; you knew better than to ask him what was wrong to demand his time.

Walking over, your dad briefly paused to lean down and kiss your forehead, pretending he cared, but there was nothing Alexander Pierce truly loved more than Hydra. He didn’t even need to say that he was leaving as your dad prepared to leave, assuming you had caught on to his gathering of stuff that he would be going, but before he could step out of the door, you shouted in his direction, “Am I expecting company tonight?”

Your Dad knew who you were referring to. The Winter Soldier. The assassin whom you’d met on numerous occasions tended to turn up unannounced to your home in search of your father to debrief or receive new orders, so you made sure to ask regarding his whereabouts so that you could be prepared for a midnight visit.

“No, he’s a couple of states away on a mission and not due to be back for another few days. I’ll lock up on my way out; don’t wait up for me”. Without another look or even an ‘I love you’, Alexander Pierce left out of the front door, and the sound of the shutters around the windows started to descend, and the thick locks on all doors clicked into place.

You were locked in, and as soon as the metal stopped creaking and you knew your dad’s car had driven off, you sighed in sweet relief at finally being home alone. It was almost like an automatic reaction for your body to become horny as soon as you were locked in, knowing that no one would interrupt and you had free reign to do whatever you pleased, which would always be masturbation.

Turning up the TV loud so you could hear it from your bedroom and not feel as alone, you changed your clothing to just an oversized shirt and nothing more, selecting which vibrator you wanted from the box beneath your bed. Today was going to be the purple bullet vibrator and then returned to the living room.

This was one of the only places where you could feel any sort of rebellion or thrill. Yes, you could and do masturbate in your bedroom just like anyone else would, but being able to do it in technically a public space gave you little bursts of adrenaline. If your father returned home, you’d be able to hear the security system unlocking, but it was also an area that was supposed to be where everyone gathered and had family time. This didn’t refer to your home, though, as you were the only person to use the living area as your father was either in his office, the gym or not home at all.

Lying down on the soft couch, your head nestling into the decorative pillow, you tried to focus your mind into the horny zone. The excitement you anticipated hit you in your gut as you lifted your shirt until it rested over your collarbones to reveal your nude body.

As the chilled breeze ghosted over your skin, it caused a ripple effect of goosebumps to shiver over you, nipples hardening, which sparked pleasure to build in your abdomen and moisture to slick at your entrance. Closing your eyes, your fingers teased over your breasts, imagining they were someone else's hands, exploring the fresh and finding where you were most sensitive.

Pinching your nipples gently, you released a soft sigh as another hand drifted down to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Biting your lip, your knees separated to allow your fingers to collect some of the juices that had leaked from your hole and then spread it over your clit, massaging the bundle of nerves in circles.

You were entirely in the zone, feeling increasingly more aroused with breathy moans and whimpers escaping your open mouth each second. This was your favourite place to be, hot and bothered, getting yourself off to feel your cunt pulsing around two of your fingers.

Then you were pressing the vibrator against your clit with two fingers delved into your warmth, curling and pressing on the spot that had your back arching and breaths hitching.

Everything was building, like an orchestra reaching its crescendo, approaching the peak of no return and complete euphoria. Then, the sensation rushed over you. Not the pleasant orgasmic blissful shiver but a haunting, the hairs standing on end over your arms and the back of your neck with unease. It felt like someone was watching you, but that wasn’t the case; the building was locked down, and the security cameras didn't point in this direction.

Your eyes opened on instinct, and fear, horror and dread pulsed through your stomach as you screamed, closing your legs and rushing to stand and cover your body with your shirt. Your knees buckled from the lasting effects of getting yourself off, but you clung to the arm of the couch whilst trying to turn off the vibrator.

It felt like your heart had moved to your throat, with the fear of throwing up and passing out at the same time taking over as you stared unblinking at the man currently sitting in the armchair next to the couch you’d been masturbating on. He was sitting as still as a statute, head to toe, in his tactical gear, even the mask.

“Soldier?” your voice reverberates off the walls you’ve shouted that loud. All it earned you was a tilt of his head to the side, but he didn’t say a single word, so you continued to shout, even though you knew you should have remained calm around someone as dangerous as him. “What the fuck are you doing here? You should have knocked or- something! How did you even get in here?!”

He simply sat there, staring at you with deep blue eyes, his long hair framing his face, his deadly hands resting on the arms of the chair, acting casually like he hadn’t just been sitting there as you feverishly masturbated naked in front of him. The more time passed, the worse your tremors became, almost like you were vibrating with anxiety.

It wasn’t uncommon for the Winter Soldier to not knock when he came to the house however usually your father was present or he’d been anticipated but for him to somehow get in when the house was on lockdown and not be expected, it had you on edge.

“Why didn’t you announce yourself, Soldier?” you tried to sound confident and not fearful, but your voice cracked on the last word, which gave away your anxiety. Your thoughts were going around and around in your head; how long had he been there? How did you not even hear him walking into the room?

The Assets head tilted to the other right, his eyes remaining focused only on your face as he finally began to talk in his low, drawled voice, “Why did you stop?”

Your eyes widened in shock briefly before trying to regain control, “What did you say?”

“You don’t usually stop. Why did you stop now?”

Your heart seemed to stop at this question. Swallowing the thick glob of spit in your mouth, you asked, “What do you mean usually? Have... have you seen me doing this before?”

He nods slowly, and you want to vomit immediately. Closing your eyes briefly, you tried to take a deep breath, hoping it would give you some composure. Maybe this was karma working her evil magic on you, you had decided, for having a kink with being caught, which is why you masturbated in the living room. Why on earth were you now upset when you’d actually been caught?

Sighing and rubbing both hands over your face, ignoring that they were still slightly wet from earlier, you tried to explain to the assassin, “You know, it’s not normal to watch people during intimate times like this. You’re supposed to announce yourself or something”.

“But you look at peace when you do it”, he says in the same emotionless voice. His words catch you off guard, but he continues, “You didn’t finish today like you usually do”.

The way he spoke about what you were doing, you weren’t even sure he knew what it was or the consequences of your actions. You knew his history, who he was and how they controlled him. Did he even know what sex was with all the times his mind had been wiped? He wasn’t acting like a creep, even if he had snuck in to watch you masturbate and clearly had watched it several times before. If he was going to hurt you, he would have done so by now, so tentatively, you sat back onto the couch, still pulling the bottom of your shirt lower over your legs and hiding the vibrator beneath your thigh.

“I didn’t finish like the other times because I didn’t know you were watching; it can make people uncomfortable knowing someone is watching them”.

“Does it make you uncomfortable that you know I’m watching?” his tone lowered with the question he was asking.

“Yes! I don’t want people to watch me do this, and what if my Dad finds out? What if you tell him what I’ve been doing?”

Bucky finally showed some emotion as he frowned in confusion, “Why would I tell your father about this? It has nothing to do with the mission? I like watching you because you seem to enjoy it; isn’t that a good thing?”

He seemed so innocent in his questioning. “Just so I’m getting this right, are you expecting me to continue?” The soldier nods yes in an answer as you release a long breath. “If I say no, will you kill me?” This time, he shakes his head, giving you the answer no, which did little to alleviate the nerves catapulting through you.

Standing up from the couch whilst clutching the vibrator, you rushed towards your bedroom, intending to hide the sex toy and lock yourself in so that you didn’t have to sit looking at the soldier anymore. However, as you stood before the door, you thought it over more. If he’d been watching you all of this time, then what’s the difference with him being here now? He could overpower you any time he wanted, and he didn't want any pleasure back; otherwise, he would have made advances before.

This whole situation came about because you liked the thought of being watched or caught, so why were you running away from that scenario? Having made up your mind, you returned to the living room, where the Soldier hadn’t moved even a strand of hair since you’d left in a hurry.

Sitting back on the couch, your eyes remained everywhere but on him. In fact, as you led back down, you closed your eyes with the hopes that not being able to see him would help to calm the pounding of your nervous heart.

Your nipples were still hard, so you pressed on them through your shirt with trembling fingers, not quite believing you were in this situation. The wetness from your earlier escapades was still evident over your thighs, which you sept firmly closed. Biting your lower lip until it hurt, you kept stimulating your nipples by rubbing the peaks around in circles before pinching them to elicit more of a reaction between your legs.

It worked after a couple of minutes as your muscles lost the tension and melted into the cushions further. Eventually, your thighs were spreading as you tried to only think about that orgasm that had been so very close to pleasuring your body but had quickly disappeared from the soldier's appearance.

With your legs now parted and cunt on full displaying, facing the Asset at the end of the couch, you turned the vibrator on, deciding to go straight for the toy this time rather than playing around first. Pressing the device just above your clit, you released a breathy moan, thighs shaking with the increased delight.

This time, your body heated to the point of sweat, and your face hot to the touch because no matter how much you tried to think of anything else, it always came back to the man sitting near you. With your hips jolting and rolling to push against the vibrator, your fingers moved the shirt further up your stomach, revealing your navel and breasts so you could rub and play with them without restriction.

Then, to both your horror and delight, the Winter Solider flashed into your mind, but this time, it was him hovering above you, using his gloved hands to press against your nipples. Your moans increased in volume, back arching with this thought as you begged your mind to continue this naughty thought.

Releasing your breast, your hand trailed down your body, tickling the delicate skin before dipping past your clit and two fingers into your drenched cunt. You were sure he had thicker fingers than you, but the thought of him between your legs, curling them right into that beautiful spot, his other hand holding the vibrator to your clit, had you whithering around on the couch.

Your pussy clenched harshly around your fingers, trying to draw them deeper, needing their fullness. You weren’t sure when it was, but at some point, your eyes opened so that you could look directly at the man in question, who still had failed to move from his seat in the armchair. You weren’t looking at his body thought; you were looking at those sparking blue eyes partially hidden beneath his hair as they continued to look at just your face like he only wanted to see the pleasure you displayed rather than just touching yourself.

“Oh god”, you groan aloud to these thoughts, legs spreading further open and half-flopping off the couch as you curl your fingers faster and harder. You wished it was his fingers touching you, getting you off and bringing you close to the point of orgasming. The vibrator stroked back and forth against your throbbing clit, and that was all the additional stimulation you needed to reach your peak.

Your eyes finally closed once more as you came hard, body shaking and curling in on yourself with each pulse of your pussy around your fingers. You hadn’t orgasmed that hard in months, so it took you a couple of minutes to try and catch your breath and come out of the buzzing created by the euphoria.

Now what? You thought whilst turning off the vibrator entirely and leaving the two of you in complete silence. The assassins still hadn’t moved, and for a brief second, you thought of his arousal. Could he even be turned on? Was that a function the scientists allowed him to keep while brainwashed? Was he watching you enough to turn him on?

The thought was swiftly pushed out of your mind as you realised he was the fucking Winter Soldier, the highest-trained assassin who was also 70+ years old; this was probably last on his list of things to be worried about. Sitting up whilst covering your body with your t-shirt once more, you struggled to think what to say or do.

“Do you want me to call my Dad to tell him you’re here for a debrief?” From the corner of your eye, the Asset nodded. You stood to take the call in your bedroom, but as you stood, your eyes briefly looked at him more clearly and noticed that he very evidently had an erection with the way his tactical gear was tented at the crotch. For some reason, this made you feel relieved that he had been turned on by what you saw, and it wasn’t just a one-way situation.

Standing and walking into your bedroom, you collapsed onto the bed with your phone raised to your ear.

Your dad answered immediately with a stern tone, “Yes?”

“Uh hey, Dad, just to let you know, the Soldier’s here”.

“What?” came Alexander Pierces’ concerned voice through the mobile.

“Yeah, he just turned up a couple of minutes ago in the living room”.

“Well, tell him to get back to the compound. I won’t be home tonight, so he needs to come here”.

Finishing the conversation with him, you stood to tell the Soldier his orders but found him nowhere in the building, not in the living room, kitchen or even by the front door. He had simply vanished, and what's more, the alarm was still in place, which meant he had a way of getting in and out of your home without triggering the alarm, which you were sure if it terrified or excited you.

#Winter soldier #bucky barnes #bucky #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #mine*

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ghettogirly · 1 year ago

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Hey, hope you're doing fine. Can I request something when Armando has to watch over the reader because she knows something about the cartel , she sees things you should have not seen , wrong place , wrong time for her. Even though they always argue, she knows that he always protects her. She does the same for him.

Kinda relates to a 'pieces of her ' on Netflix 😭 when they were in that hotel room

Him and I - g easy

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒: 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐗 𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀𝐇 (𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐅𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐂)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

-> synopsis: Miyah has a past that not even she knows about. Thinking her life was all normal, she is suddenly thrown into a whirlwind when an intruder breaks into her house. Are we prepared for her journey of not only finding herself but the answers to her past?

-> format: story.

-> theme: angst.

-> warning: mentions of violence, use of the n-word, mature language, themes of break-ins.

-> authors note: so i have turned this into a series!! i really want to write the pieces of her plot because i loved that show, but in a different type of way! thank you for requesting this! my update schedule is going to slightly change guys due to me getting more of an intense workload from my sixth form so i hope you all understand! 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝💕.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟏: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐈𝐍.

Trash clinked across the floor as a gust of wind swept it by. Desolate and quiet, only a couple cars were parked in the large space. A dark no

Heels were heard clacking off the floor as a brown skinned girl walked over to her car, clutching her purse with one hand while the other was angled in the direction of her mercedes benz. Opening the car door, she climbed into her seat.

Plopping the chanel bag that wrapped around her arm onto the passenger seat, the woman clicked her tongue while turning on the ignition. Settling into the seat, sighing as she recollected the hectic day that occurred.

“I really need to get home.”

Pressing onto the gas pedal while putting the gear stick into reverse, Miyah pulled out of the car park from her work place onto the highway. Flicking the headlights on, she started to drive down the road. The hum of the tyres mixed with the slow jam of the radio, lowly playing throughout the vehicle. Pink LED lights illuminated the interior of the car contrasting with the midnight black sky, coating the exterior as it hung over the trees and the wildlife surrounding the road.

The small screen of the navigation shone brightly in the woman’s face as she glanced down at it.

“15 minutes.”

Driving down the road, Miyah nodded her head to the slow beat of the rnb song playing through her sound system. Tapping her index finger onto the wheel she drove down the highway, content with her life currently. Life was hectic but she was satisfied.

Pulling into her gated residence, Miyah rolled down her window to enter the code into the pad. Once confirmed, she parked up her car at the front of her door before slipping out, grabbing her purse.

Opening her door, the hallway and living room was automatically irradiated by the modern lights that hung off her ceilings. Cylindrical pillars stood at every sharp corner, contrasting a classic element with the modern theme of her white and black marble interior.

Slipping off her heels, Miyah sighed in relief. “I really need to go to sleep.”

Shaking her head, she ascended up her stairs into her bedroom. A queen sized bed layered with fluffy comforts and duvets were placed in the middle of the woman’s bedroom. The colour scheme being white and grey , matching with the fluffy, white, circular carpet that was under it. Walking over to the bed, she placed her bag by her cabinet before flopping down on the bed.

“Why did i even become a lawyer again?”

That was a good question.

Why did she become a lawyer?

When thinking about society and the world today, you would think that the law reached everyone. Helped victims by putting away those who made their life hell but, we are wrong. Everyday, domestic abuse cases go silent, the justice system not caring enough for those who get abused in the relationships. Mainly women but also men becoming apart of the statistic of abuse victims, which could’ve been prevented if someone would’ve just listened. Child abuse cases go unheard until the severity of the abuse ends up in a death, which could’ve been prevented if someone would’ve just listened. Even random spree attacks which could’ve been prevented if someone would’ve just listened and understood that persons mental health.

I wanted to be the one to change this. To be able to keep law on track with the fast pace of the ever changing world. To be able to stand up for people who looked like me and those who were me.

And also for you mom.

Changing into her silk pyjamas, Miyah sat on her bed cross legged with her ipad on a stand. Parting her honey brown hair into 6 boxes with a rat tail comb, she braided two plaits in each section, ready to go to bed. Slipping her black bonnet on top of the loose braids, wanting to protect her curls from future breakage.

The girl pulled down her light, turning it off before getting underneath the covers. Closing her iPad, she sunk her head into the silk pillows that happily embraced her, closing her eyes.

It was pitch black in Miyah’s room. Not a shred of light peeked through her curtains. Stirring, she sat up. Glancing over at her alarm clock, the red bold numbers stating 3:32am. Sighing, she got out of bed, putting on her fluffy slippers.

Walking down the stairs she flicked the kitchen lights on, changing the settings to dim, not wanting to fully wake herself up. Grabbing a glass, she filled it up with water before taking a sip. Sighing, Miyah popped the now used glass, back into the sink before heading towards the stairs.

Something stopped her.

A rustle was heard from the living room next door. Slowly crawling into the kitchen, Miyah slightly opened the drawer for the utensils before grabbing a sharp knife. Peeking around the counter a black figure appeared before her.

“Who are-“

Wasting no time, the figure quickly punched Miyah causing her to stumble back. Throwing another punch to her chest, the figure then raised their fist, angling it towards a certain direction before throwing another. It was pretty clear they were male. Adrenaline ran through Miyah’s glands which secreted them into her bloodstream, activating her fight or flight.

Dodging the fist that was coming her way, she ducked and kicked the male in his balls before quickly running up the stairs. Loud banging was heard from within the room due to the stomps coming from the woman. just before reaching her bedroom a hand grabbed her ankles, brutally dropping her down on the marble floor.

“Fuck!! Get off me!”

The mystery man then swiftly got on top of Miyah, wrapping his rough hands around her neck before harshly gripping it. Pain and frustration overcoming the poor girl

“Stop..”

Pressing down onto her neck mired the man added more pressure, forcing less and less oxygen to not enter the girls body. Miyah’s muscles started to become frail as less oxygen was reaching the muscles, building more lactic acid causing them to become tired.

Slowly, her life began to slip away.

Her mind flashed to a deserted beach. The blue crystalline waves crashed against each other, slowly overlapping one another. The sky transitioned from a purple to orange ombré as the sun was setting, the orange rays shining onto the brownskin girl that stood there in the middle of the beach. Her curls waved in the wind due to the gentle breeze coming from the west.

A gentle tap was felt on Miyah’s shoulder, causing her turn around.

“It’s not your time.” The figure said before disappearing.

Suddenly, she was back in the present. Still feeling the man strangling her, a surge of strength powered suddenly came through.

Grabbing the nearest plant pot, she cracked it over the intruders head causing him to stumble back in pain. Gasping for air, Miyah panted heavily.

Yet, the man was still not done. Stomping over to her, he attempted to kick Miyah who was on the floor, out of breath. “Nigga, what- the fuck- is your issue?”

Quickly sliding out of the way, Miyah grabbed the man’s leg causing him to fall onto the floor, before grabbing a picture frame off the wall and violently smashing it off the intruders head, knocking the consciousness out of him.

“That’s what you get bitch.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[🌸] 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @thedarkworldofhananerea @shurisgf @milliumizoomi @armandosbabymama @tyneshaaa @dyttomori @5tarlan7 @deadpool15 @yeahnohoneybye @believeinthefireflies95 @wizewhispers @amplifiedmoan @sarcasticbitchsblog

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planet-hwa · 3 months ago

Text

BAD BOY FACADE CHAPTER 4 — 산

. . . ⇢ previous chapter ◦ series masterlist word count 7.4k

warnings MDNI mentions of smut but not in extreme detail, alcohol consumption, drug usage, mentions of previous fights, mentions of vomiting, petnames, swearing, getting caught, betrayal, arguments, adultery, slight self hatred/insecurities — featuring woosang

❝ 눈을 가리지 이기심이 마치 사랑한 적 없단 듯이 ❞ 🎧 now playing selfish waltz ; ateez

The drive up Hyunjin’s driveway was longer than the entire drive all together, leading up to a large three story mansion atop a hill. Bright colourful lights flashed through the windows and loud party music was blasting in the atmosphere — people were scattered around the yard, expectedly more

people inside. The entire property screamed money; the tennis court in the corner where a few drunk teenagers were scrabbling around with rackets, the pool in the backyard that people were jumping into from the second story balcony, the couple of hundred acres behind the house and down the hills.

Yeosang pulled up the driveway slowly, parking in between two other ‘daddy’s money’ bought cars, before the three of you hopped out. You pat down your clothes of any imperfections before jumping out of the car, the first thing grabbing your attention was a couple of motorbikes parked to the left of you. You definitely didn’t expect San to be here, never seeing him or his group talk to Hyunjin before tonight, but he did say everyone was invited. And by everyone, that also meant Yunho who you hadn’t spoken to since your fight a few days ago. You knew he was here, seeing a story posted by one of his friends with him in the corner.

A certain anxiety began to filter your system, multiple things on your mind as you stared and the overly full party house. Seonghwa noticed your hesitance the moment you got out of the car and was quick to link arms with you after Yeosang started walking ahead of the two of you, greeting everyone he walked by and into the house.

“I knew he’d leave us as soon as we got here.” You sighed with defeat, watching Yeosang wander through the large doors of the mansion and be greeted quickly at the door.

“Well, you’re stuck with me the entire night,” Seonghwa joked, squeezing your arm lightly before dragging you up to the grand entrance. “Especially since I still don’t know anyone.”

You giggled softly at his comment, but it made you feel safe and thankful to him. As you reached the open doors, Hyunjin was fast to greet you. The tall boy who attended your school was nice to everyone, no matter what their situation was, which is also why his invites were open to all.

“Y/N, What’s up babe!” He cheered, his expensive versace cologne wafted across your face as he pulled you in for a quick hug before turning and greeting Seonghwa. “Nice to meet you man, thanks for coming! I’m Hyunjin but lately most people are calling me kiwi.”

“Yeah, nice cut by the way.” You reached for his freshly blonde buzzed hair, his head automatically rubbing itself against your hand.

Giving Seonghwa a quick pointed tour of the place, where the drinks and the bathrooms were, Seonghwa shyly smiled at the genuine nice attitude of the boy. Since being a new student, especially one from the Southside, Seonghwa struggled to make friends who weren’t you and Yeosang. Everyone automatically thought he was just a poor loser who lived in a shitty house and got his fees paid by the school, but in reality; he was one of the few new students who were able to pay for their places at the school. It was nice not being judged straight away and being met with kindness.

Seonghwa spotted Yeosang pouring drinks in the kitchen and decided to join him, quickly checking with you and telling you he’d return in five minutes if you decided to not follow him. Assuring him as he walked off with a bright smile, you turned your attention back to Hyunjin.

“So how have you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you in years!” He exaggerated.

“Years? We literally have art class together.” You laughed as his drunken state realised he saw you earlier today.

“Ohhh yeah… forgot about that.” He smiled, sending a small wave to a newly come party goer. “By the way, am I even allowed to talk to you? I don’t want to get punched, my face is too pretty.”

That was quick to remind you of the incident from Wednesday, though Hyunjin was making a little joke out of it and you laughed along with him, it still worried you. You hadn’t seen or heard from Yunho since then, he had been ignoring all your messages and avoiding your presence at school. Though you were annoyed at him for pretending you didn’t exist, you were annoyed at yourself for bringing up the topic of his relationship with Hiraya one more time. When you think about it, he had never given you any true reason to distrust him. Yes — he spent more time with her at school than he did with you, but they were in the same friendship group and you weren’t a part of it that much. And you had never caught him flirting with her or him initiating the extra physical touch; it was always her.

But then another thing came back to your memory, the one thing you were trying your hardest to erase…

“Aww, is the valedictorian afraid that the southside scum is gonna steal his precious girlfriend?” San taunted, smirking as the red tint grew up Yunho’s neck. ‘Oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ filtered out of the students' mouths, this being the most interesting thing to happen in the school ever.

“San stop, please-”

“I mean, how precious is she really?” He cut you off, watching your expression change from concern to confusion along with Yunho’s. “Considering you seem to spend more time with your girl-friend than your girlfriend.”

Your face dropped as Yunho looked at you, the reality of the comment hitting you like a truck. Someone else had noticed it and brought it up, the unusually close relationship Yunho held towards Hiraya. Steam practically blew out of Yunho’s ears before he threw a punch towards San’s direction, but the bulkier boy was fast and dodged the flying fist, Yunho’s hand dinting the innocent locker door. It was then you realised he was no longer angry at San for flirting with you, but for bringing her up. He started to throw punches the moment she was brought up, not you.

Another reminder: you hadn’t seen San since then either, not in class, not at lunch, nowhere at school. You had seen the other three boys in his gang, but not him. Surely, he wasn’t suspended and Yunho was let off easy. Hyunjin noticed your absence in the conversation, quickly asking you if you were alright.

“Huh? Yeah, I’m okay.” Sending him a smile to cover up your drifting thoughts. “And you’ll be fine, Yunho won’t punch you.”

“Thank god!” He dramatically sighed, clasping his chain as if they were pearls. “But, that was sweet of him to defend you like that. What a great boyfriend!”

The innocence that Hyunjin held was sweet, but all you could do was shrug and force a smile. As Hyunjin started to talk about something arty that you weren’t too focused on, your eyes gazed around the crowded house looking for familiarity. The first person you recognised, who was squished in the living room, his height standing taller than everyone else was Yunho, dancing with his friends with a drink in his hand. Before you could get his attention, yours was pulled to the door of the kitchen, Seonghwa calling your name and holding two drinks in his hand. You bid goodbye to Hyunjin and promised to talk more later, to make up for the ‘missed years’, and made your way over to Seonghwa.

“Yeosang said you weren’t a huge drinker so he got you something fruity.” Seonghwa handed you the drink, taking a sip and grimacing at the bitter after taste of the alcohol.

You glanced around the busy kitchen at all the chaos — people chugging drinks, excessive flirters, people snorting all sorts of substances lined up on the benches. So many illegal activities that Northsiders commit without their parents’ knowledge, it’s exactly why the host of parties collects all phones until people leave; to make sure no pictures get out about any of this.

Just as Seonghwa was about to lead you outside to where Yeosang relocated, a large hand tugged at your wrist, a familiar hand. You spun around and were met with the view of Yunho’s chest, looking up at his eyes quickly. The tall boy looked down at you, his eyes filled with so many emotions, yet there was no anger in them, not like Wednesday. Was he finally ready to talk about it, to apologise?

“Can we talk?” He asked, his fingers hesitantly grazing over yours. “Please baby.”

A nickname you hadn’t heard in a while, so long that it almost felt wrong to hear. You turned to Seonghwa, explaining you’ll find him again, concern catered his face and he reassuringly asked if you were sure about talking to him. Appreciating his concern, you returned him with a soft smile and waved him away gently, Seonghwa instantly going to find Yeosang in case anything happened.

Yunho intertwined his fingers in yours and pulled you into the downstairs bathroom, locking the door behind himself.

The room was small, almost claustrophobic, making you feel trapped in a way. Yunho turned to you but couldn’t meet your eyes, not for more than a few seconds. Verbal silence filled the room, the dance music muffled in the background — the two of you were both thinking of what to say, unsure where to start and subconsciously waiting for the other to talk first.

“I’m sorry-” Interrupting one another, both of you letting out an awkward chuckle.

“Ladies first.” Yunho’s voice was awkward, almost unsure of what to say.

You also didn’t know what to say. Do you yell at him again? That wouldn’t turn out well. Do you apologise? But, there wasn’t anything for you to apologise for. Do you forgive him? If he apologises.

“I-I’m sorry for getting mad at you about Hiraya again, I know you don’t like her like that.” You sighed, like you knew you were completely lying to yourself. “I know you love me.”

A small smile curled at Yunho’s lips, inching closer to you and letting his large hands engulf your face, holding you gently before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. Sparks flew between the two of you, sharing a longing kiss, lips moving over each other with delicacy.

“I do love you, Y/N.” Yunho whispered against your lips before pulling away to look at your face, love filtering his eyes again. “And I’m sorry for getting jealous, I know you wouldn’t cheat on me. I just get so worried about losing you and it makes me do crazy shit.”

The confession made your knees weak, maybe the love from the beginning of your relationship still remained the same, hard to falter. You held his hand on your cheek, embarking in the sentimental moment before placing a chaste kiss to his lips once more. “I promise, you’ll never lose me.”

His smile brightened before passionately kissing you, tongues dancing together as the kiss grew heavy. The music in the background flooded into the room as the door swiftly opened, a random boy standing there with a disturbed face, stating his need to pee. Yunho grabbed your hand gently and the two of you left the bathroom, reentering the fast-paced party environment. He placed a kiss on your cheek before running off to his friends, an ‘I love you’ quickly whispered before you made your way outside to find Yeosang and Seonghwa.

Walking through the kitchen and into the backyard, it was just as packed as inside; drunk swimmers, secret makeout corners, plus a few beer pong tables that Seonghwa and Yeosang were huddled around playing terribly. Seonghwa spotted you and was quick to wrap his arm around your waist, instantly checking up on you and being reassured when he saw that the glint of happiness in your eyes. As Yeosang chugged one of the few left drinks that a ball fell into, his eyes widened at the sight of you as if he hadn’t seen you in months. Throwing the cup away, he pushed past Seonghwa and hugged you tightly.

“Oh my bestest friend!” He cheered, the intoxication in him very obvious as he wobbled into your arms. “Where have you been all my life!”

All you could was laugh at his messy drunk self, always growing more affectionate once he got a few shots in him. His attention was swiftly pulled back to the ongoing beer pong game as the ball landed in their final cup, Seonghwa quick to swallow the contents whilst the two boys they versed were cheering happily, begging for another game.

“Nah, I’m done for now.” Seonghwa yielded his hands up, the boys booing him as a bystander replaced his spot with Yeosang. Seonghwa linked arms with you before leading you over to an outdoor lounge, surprisingly empty and secluded enough from lingering ears, his curiosity of your conversation with Yunho obvious. “So what happened, is everything okay between the two of you?”

“Yeah, everything is good now.” You smiled, Seonghwa showing one of his own with a sigh of relief. “We both apologised and cleared everything up.”

Seonghwa sat and intently listened to the in depth explanation of your conversation, his face changing with each emotion he felt until he finally smiled. You could tell he was still suspicious of Yunho, but he was keeping quiet about it, even though his facial subtitles were struggling to.

“As long as you’re okay, that’s all that matters to me.” Seonghwa said, his genuine caring attitude filling your heart. It wasn’t before a drunk Yeosang came running towards the two of you to interrupt, begging to go dance inside after ditching his second loss at beer pong.

“Come on, the dance floor needs us!” He whined before dragging you inside.

As the three of you entered the living room, your eyes scanned the area, still in search of the brunette biker you had yet to see tonight. Your eyes landed on his taller friend, dancing surrounded by girls with drunken hearts in their eyes. You had learnt that his name was Mingi, and the shorter extremely strong boy next to him was Jongho, but the other two of the gang were nowhere. You knew he was here, his bike was right outside, so how had you not seen a single sight of him yet?

It’s not even that you particularly wanted to see him, maybe a part of you did, but you did want to apologise for the rude behaviour of your boyfriend, even if it wasn’t your responsibility. But in this moment, you focused on Seonghwa and Yeosang, the two of them swaying alongside you.

The party had grown ravenous, music blasting through the mansion and vibrating the floors, causing an earthquake effect. The living room was filled to the brim with drunk teenagers dancing their hearts out, all cares and worries flushed away by the alcohol and drugs in their systems. Yeosang stood in the middle of the dance floor practically throwing it back on Hyunjin whilst people around them cheered, You and Seonghwa danced together more to the side but kept an eye on your best friend. The floor bounced beneath you as Seonghwa twirled you around, causing you to wobble and fall into him, catching you without any effort — he was drunk too but his sober kindness still held.

Signing to Seonghwa that you wanted more drinks, offering to grab him one in the process, you pushed your way through the sweaty crowd to venture into the kitchen. Though the music was still loud, it was quiet enough for the ringing in your ears to become prominent, the kitchen now sitting empty. Searching through all the bottles for your favourite, you poured the substances into, hopefully clean, empty solo cups before a familiar voice interrupted you.

“Hey princess.” You turned your head and were met with a sharp gaze, the first you had seen of tonight. “Pour me one as well?”

San handed you his empty cup and watched as you shakily poured in his drink of choice, topping up the other two you had already started on. You passed him his drink, his fingers lightly grazing over yours and sending an electric shock through your body. That familiar smirk curled onto his face, his eyes still intently holding eye contact as he took a sip without grimacing.

He looked way too handsome for his own good, it was almost unfair to every other guy at the party. Wearing his regular style of leather jacket and jeans, his hair messily fell across his forehead yet it looked intentionally perfect. His face was slightly flushed with a pink undertone, a visible effect of his intoxication though he held himself soberly. The silver rings on his fingers shimmered in the dim light of the kitchen, evidently bringing attention to the veininess of his hands. He was undeniably hot. And he was quick to notice your eyes drifting over him, cocking an eyebrow at you and dragging you out of your fantasies.

“I haven’t seen you at school the past few days?” You stated, yet it sounded like a question.

“Oh yeah, just had some family stuff going on.” He quickly assured. “Nothing your pretty little brain needs to worry about.”

The words ‘pretty little brain’ caused your stomach to flip.

No, stop reacting like that body!

As he continued to sip on his drink, your eyes glazed over his face once more, instantly drawn to the small bruise on his jawline from where Yunho had landed a punch. Another reminder of the incident, and a reminder that made you feel the need to apologise to the man stood in front of you — even if you weren’t the one who punched him. You knew Yunho would rather fail all his classes than apologise to San, but you wanted to release any possible bad blood. Also, the fact that you were rude to him even after he was defending you had tormented your brain with guilt all week.

“Hey, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry that Yunho punched you. He can get a little… overly jealous.” You mumbled, San raising his eyebrows at the unnecessary apology from you. “And… I’m sorry for telling you to fuck off.”

“That’s fine,” He chuckled, his dimples prominent in his cheeks as he smiled. “You know, you don’t need to apologise for anything, right?”

All you could do was nod, looking down at the drinks in your hands before meeting his eyes once more. There was a softness to them, not like the usual mocking or flirtatious teasing look he usually held — his eyes were kind, sympathetic. You felt like you couldn’t talk with the way he stared at you, his eyes sticking to your face rather than moving across your body, so intense with his eye contact it produced electricity between the two of you.

“Yeah, I know…” You muttered, almost inaudible. “But I just… felt like I should.”

San moved closer to you, now only standing centimetres away, close enough to feel his warm breath caress your face. The scent of his cologne filled your nose, along with the mixture of alcohol from the both of you. You know you should’ve backed away, but you couldn’t, you didn’t want to. His hand drifted towards yours, with a hesitance that was atypical to his normal confident behaviour, his fingertips tickling at yours before pulling away. You were thankful that the kitchen was empty, because if someone caught you in this predicament, it would be unexplainable — the unknown lingering eyes of someone in the hallway saw it all.

“Don’t apologise for things that aren’t your fault.” San observed, he had noticed there was a pattern of you apologising for other people. “Besides, I actually got all of my punches in, he got me once.”

You shouldn’t have laughed, but it just slipped out. The surprised look and slap of your hand to your mouth almost made San melt into the floor, it was one of the cutest things he had ever seen. A strange feeling bubbled in his stomach, one he had never felt before and never wanted to, convincing himself it was just the liquor.

“Well, I have to get these back to Seonghwa,” You gestured at the drinks in your hands before passing by him with a sweet smile. “But I’ll see you later?”

“See you later, princess.” His familiar smirk and wink appeared on his face, earning a sassy eye roll from you as you entered the blasting living room once more and quickly located Seonghwa.

San was conflicted on his feelings towards you, the unusual sensation still fluttering around in his stomach as he watched you leave. He wanted to follow you, to be around you again, but he knew he shouldn’t, and he couldn’t. Yes: he had no trouble with ruining the romantic relationships of other people by sleeping with the girlfriend, and the effects of causing heartbreak on them never seem to affect him. But the thought of you being upset and heartbroken if he ever succeeded in making a move with you made him angry at the fake scenario of himself. He needed a release, a distraction from all these confusing thoughts in his head.

And the solution?

The girl who waltzed into the kitchen after you left, who had been sending heart eyes of desperation to San all night.

_________________________

The night grew tired, for you, your social battery drained and your body already preparing for the massive hangover tomorrow morning. The party was still fierce, you seeming to be the only one who is ready to leave. Spotting Seonghwa on the couch talking to a short blue haired boy, someone you didn’t recognise, you stumbled over and squeezed yourself next to him, instantly welcomed with an arm flung around your shoulder. Though he was still mid conversation with the boy, he was quick to notice your fatigue.

“Are you ready to go?” He whispered close to your ear and you nodded sluggishly.

“Where’s Yeosang?” Scanning the room and not seeing a glance of him. Seonghwa shrugged, standing up and holding his hand out for you as he pulled you to your feet.

You decided to split up quickly to find him, considering this house was huge and there were about fifty rooms to look through. Agreeing that you’d start your search upstairs, you struggled through the sweaty crowd and made your way upstairs. You opened every door to every room, and got slightly traumatised in the process by the amount of hookups you accidently walked in on, praying someone would fall into you with bleach that would land in your eyes.

Opening one of the final doors in the hallway, one you knew to be Hyunjin’s room so you expected it to be free of any… activity, especially since you just saw him downstairs and would think people would have enough respect to not hook up in the host’s bed.

You were proven wrong quite quickly.

Swinging the door open, your eyes connected with the boy’s in an instant — but it wasn’t Yeosang. Though the only light being produced was from the hallway behind you, those sharp eyes and shit-eating smirk were easily recognisable.

There lay San, hands resting behind his head as a faceless girl bounced up and down desperately on him. The light produced shadows that cascaded over his muscular chest, his abs prominent in the darkness. The girl riding him hadn’t even noticed your presence, your hesitant to exit presence, but San noticed you. He watched as your cheeks grew red, your body twitching slightly as his eyes glazed over you, a smirk curled deeply on his lips.

You don’t know why you hesitated to leave, almost hypnotised by the sight of him. A strange sensation grew in the pit of your stomach at it. The way his hands refused to touch the girl; the way she was hopelessly arching her back and moaning loudly; the way he was staring at you and not the girl giving him pleasure. Your stare was broken by his sudden question.

“Wanna join?”

That snapped you out of your hypnosis and made you realise you were standing there for way too long. Your cheeks grew a crimson red at your flustered state before swiftly closing the door, hearing a raspy chuckle fall from San’s lips a second before the door closed. You let out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding, shaking your head of all the confusing emotions you felt throughout your entire body.

You shuffled away from the room hastily and began to move back downstairs before hearing soft noises coming from the upstairs bathroom. Lightly knocking on the door and calling Yeosang’s name, you were met with no answer, just quiet muffled voices. Shaking the door handle and turning it, the sight before you was the most shocking one of the night.

There stood Yunho, his pants puddled at his ankles and his legs wedged between a girl’s hitched up skirt — Hiraya, who sat on the bathroom sink, legs wrapped around his waist. Their heads swung towards the open door, ready to scold the person who interrupted, their faces dropping as soon as they saw it was you.

“A-are you fucking kidding me?” Tears welled up in your eyes, already spilling down your cheeks as you stared in disbelief.

You glared at Hiraya who returned you with a cruel smirk, knowing she had just ruined your relationship. Yunho stared back at you with wide eyes, stumbling away from her and stuttering insincere apologies, begging you for forgiveness. You slammed the door in his face as he came towards you, bolting down the stairs with streaming tears. You felt like you were about to be sick, not only because of the alcohol in your system, but because the gut feeling you had tried to ignore for so long had been true all this time. You needed to get out of there now, with or without Yeosang and Seonghwa.

“Hey, I haven’t found him yet- Woah, what happened, are you okay?” Seonghwa stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching as you came down in an emotional wreck. You were unable to form words, pushing past him and out the door. “Y/N- Wait, Y/N!”

He was concerned and confused at your state, but his questions were answered by the tall boy stumbling down the stairs calling your name hopelessly. Seonghwa pieced the puzzle pieces together quickly at Yunho’s distressed state. “What the fuck did you do to her?” Seonghwa yelled with so much anger in his voice, Yunho hushed him and continued his chase.

Trying your hardest to get away from him, the sound of his desperate calls blurred in the background, but it was easy for him to catch up to you with his long legs.

“Please, baby-”

“Don’t call me that!” You spun around, the sudden motion causing him to stop in his place. The argument garnered unwanted eyes to stare at you, but you didn’t care. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.”

“It was a mistake, I swear-”

“How can you mistakenly slip your dick into someone else?!” Sadness was replaced with anger as you shouted at him.

“All this time you would accuse me of cheating when you were the one doing it! And don’t tell me this was a one time thing, I realise now that it wasn’t. I knew something changed after you went on that holiday with her over the summer, and this explains everything. I can’t believe you!”

Yunho stood there taking it all, he knew he deserved it, and yet he still had tears forming in his eyes. He wanted to say something, but he knew nothing he would say would change anything. Your feelings for him would never be the same, the love your relationship once had would never return.

“God, it was so obvious too but I chose to ignore it because I loved you.” As soon as the word love turned into a past tense, he knew.

“P-please, I’m so sorry Y/N.” He cried, stepping closer to you and watching as you moved a step away. “Please forgive me-”

You scoffed at his pathetic begging. Did he seriously think that after months of cheating and getting away with it, one little stuttered apology would fix it all? You couldn’t believe the words that fell out of his mouth. If he told you ‘good morning’, you would go outside and check the time: that’s how much trust you had for him now. You wiped your tear-stained cheeks with your sleeve, now holding the waterworks of your broken emotions.

“How can I forgive you for something like this?” You sobbed, your eyes already beginning to blur with tears once more. “I can never trust you again.”

“You said that I would never lose you.” Yunho reminded you, a promise from your earlier conversation.

And it was a lie, just like how he said he wouldn’t cheat on you and how he loved you. Everything mentioned in the bathroom earlier that night was a lie on top of another lie, nothing truthful coming out of it.

“That was before you cheated on me.”

“Please Y/N-”

“No, we’re done.” Was all you said before storming off to the car, quick to hop in and let your emotions flow out once more.

Seonghwa and Yeosang rushed out through the door after watching everything occur, Seonghwa pushing past Yunho and calling him out for being a complete idiot, and Yeosang mumbling a drunken threat to punch him if he could right now. Yunho’s shoulders hung low as he watched the car leave the driveway, turning around to see all the curious stares of outside lingerers. Awkwardly smiling, he started walking back towards the house but was blocked by a figure at the front door, one who also watched the entire thing go down. Anger flourished quickly within Yunho as the broad-shouldered figure smirked back at him before returning inside.

Out of the three of you, Seonghwa was definitely the most sober, though you were convinced you had just cried out all of your alcohol intoxication. Stealing Yeosang’s car keys before placing him in the back with you, instantly pulling you in for an embrace and holding you tight for the rest of the ride whilst you cried into his shoulder, Seonghwa hopped in the driver's seat and drove back to Yeosang’s house. The drive was quiet, the only sound being your muffled cries and comforting shushes from your best friend before Seonghwa finally pulled into Yeosang’s driveway.

Tiptoeing through the dead silence of the hallways, every creek of the floorboards threatening to wake up the entire house, you eventually found Yeosang’s room. He was quick to retrieve pyjamas for everyone and set up the couch in the corner of his room.

“You two sleep on the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.” He whispered, not wanting to wake his parents.

“No dude, this is your bed.” Seonghwa murmured just as quietly. “You two sleep in the bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Everyone sleep in the bed, please. It’s large enough to fit us all comfortably.” You mumbled in return. Honestly, you needed the comfort of the both of them and they could tell, the two of them quickly agreeing and climbing into bed.

As soon as they hit the bed, they knocked out, their soft snores filling the room. And though your body was exhausted, your brain was too wracked with emotion, struggling to allow you to sleep. You stared up at the ceiling, tears still managing to creep out of the corners of your eyes but you felt emotionless. The sudden warmth of Seonghwa’s body turning and cuddling into you was enough comfort to help you drift off to sleep, brain fogging all memories of Yunho.

_________________________

The warmth of the morning sun caused a gleam through Yeosang’s room, the temperature quickly matching the heat outside. Your body ached as you awoke from your deep slumber, eyes stinging and ears ringing, your face had an extra puff to it this morning due to the previous night’s endless cries. Facing Yeosang’s back, you watched as his shoulders rose and fell contently, still in a deep sleep. You turned in bed quietly and were met with an absence of the third body who slept next to you last night.

Through puffy eyes, you scanned the room until the sudden creeks of the bedroom door opening answered any questions — Seonghwa and Yeosang’s mother quietly entered the room with trays of tea, coffee and breakfast, and placed them on the nightstand next to the bed. Placing a gentle kiss on your forehead and rubbing your cheek with her thumb, Yeosang’s mother gave you a pitiful smile before leaving the three of you alone: Seonghwa must’ve mentioned something about your very fresh break up.

The smell of eggs and bacon filled the room and woke Yeosang immediately, already starting to devour the food the moment his eyes opened. Seonghwa handed you a cup of tea before sitting at the end of the bed, facing you and Yeosang who lent against the headboard comfortably. The room remained silent as you all ate, but you could tell they had so many questions and you knew neither of them would push you to explain, even when their curiosity was so intense. They had seen half of the argument, mostly the part where you finally broke up with the idiot, so they weren’t entirely sure as to what happened and why you were so upset — though they had a pretty accurate idea.

“How are you feeling, Y/N?” Seonghwa quietly asked, almost in a whisper but loud enough to break the silence.

You weren’t entirely sure how to answer, there were so many emotions that you felt: melancholy, anger, insecurity, grief. A single word would be unable to explain every feeling you had at this current time. All you could do was shrug softly, looking down and twirling the spoon in your tea, watching as it rippled against the cup.

“Can I ask…” Seonghwa started, his voice hesitant. “What exactly happened?”

“Yeah, we just saw you break up, but what caused it?” Yeosang added to the questions.

The silence grew once more as you gathered your thoughts, all memories of the previous night filing into your brain and beginning to trigger more unwanted tears, but you held them back. Taking a sip of tea to distract your brain and stop the threatening waterworks, you centred yourself and began to explain.

“He cheated on me with his best friend.” You sniffled lightly, eyes glassing over with unspilled tears. “He has been for months, and I was too stupid to notice.”

“Don’t say that, how would you have known?” Seonghwa held your hand in his, squeezing it comfortingly.

“He’s the stupid one, losing the best girl he’ll ever have.” Yeosang insisted, his mouth stuffed with bacon yet he still tried to be serious, but he accepted the small giggle that came from you.

You explained everything in detail, the two boys growing extremely protective of you as every chapter of the story got read, both ready to go to Yunho’s house right now and beat him up. Insisting that everything with you would be fine and to just forget about the tall boy entirely, you swiftly changed the subject into asking how their nights went before the three of you left.

Seonghwa talked about how nice Hyunjin was and how they got to know each other a little better, before his attention was drawn away by the blue haired boy who was sat next to him on the couch before your interruption. Learning his name was Hongjoong and that he attended the school in the town over, you and Yeosang admired as Seonghwa babbled on about the boy, his cheeks turning a shade of rosy pink with every mention. When you brought up his interest in the topic, his ears turned bright red and his eyes became shifty, lips holding an awkward little smile that was actually adorable.

“W-what about you, Yeosang?” Seonghwa stuttered, attempting to change the topic so his embarrassment wouldn’t show anymore. “How was your night?”

“Yeah, and where were you for half of it?”

Yeosang was surprised by the subject change, simply explaining that he got really drunk and couldn’t remember much of what happened, but you could tell when he was lying. You could always tell, Seonghwa hadn’t quite learnt the signs of it yet, but you have known for a long time. The way his eyebrows slightly twitch in furrow, his ears and neck turning a light shade of pink that was almost unnoticeable due to his tanned skin, his lisp growing slightly more prominent with every lie that fell from his tongue.

“Who were you in the bathroom with?” Seonghwa asked, something that was news to you. He explained that after you ran out, he had found Yeosang exiting the bathroom and had heard mumbles of conversation come from it seconds beforehand.

“Oh my god, did you hook up with someone Yeo?” You asked, your voice laced with excitement.

“Ah- what, no!” He was quick to shut down. “It was just some random person, I didn’t know them.”

You and Seonghwa continued talking about the party, the good parts, not entirely aware of the shutdown Yeosang was going through. He suddenly grew quiet as he reminded himself of the small parts of the night, a very confusing night.

_________________________ A Wooyoung and Yeosang drabble

❝ but there's a part of me that recognises you, do you feel it too? ❞ 🎧 now playing chihiro ; billie eilish

Yeosang’s brain was a jumbled mess, the multiple shots and drinks he chugged finally catching up to him. He rushed upstairs to the bathroom, banging on the locked door before hearing a strained moan of ‘occupied!’. His cheeks began to grow hot and numb, vomit threatening to spill onto the thousand dollar carpet if he couldn’t make it to a safe place.

He wobbled his way back downstairs and threw himself into the unoccupied bathroom, chundering into the toilet the moment his knees fell to the ground, substantial amounts of puke continuously spilling from his mouth turning the toilet into the bright colours of the fruity drinks. As his body calmed back down, his head fell against the toilet seat still slightly drooling.

“Jesus fucking christ.” An unknown voice from above, in an almost mocking tone. “Things never change, you’re still such a lightweight.”

The voice finally rendered in Yeosang’s brain, turning his head and peering through watery blurred eyes, he could still recognise that oreo coloured hair anywhere. Wiping his chin with toilet paper before flushing it down along with his mess, he scrambled back to his feet, his eyes gaining some sort of consciousness and staring at Wooyoung’s sly smirk and hazy eyes.

Yeosang watched as he lent his head down to the sink, pressing down on one nostril and holding a rolled up piece of paper to his other before deeply snorting the white power that was lined up. Throwing his head back and breathing in the substance before wiping any residue away with his sleeve — the sleeve of the red hoodie that Yeosang got him for his last birthday they celebrated together.

“Clearly things don’t change with you either…” Yeosang slurred his words slightly, holding his mouth from another threat of vomit. Wooyoung glared at him through intoxicated eyes, leaning up against the wall with crossed arms and scoffing at the insinuation; the reality. Both of them stood in silence — Yeosang stared down at his feet to avoid any eye contact, but Wooyoung was adamant in holding his glare on him.

“So when are you gonna quit the ignoring act and talk to me?” Wooyoung questioned, an eyebrow cocking up as he relaxed more against the wall.

“Ignoring act?” Yeosang repeated, genuine confusion masking his face. “Wooyoung, you told me to never talk to you again.”

“True, but I expected you to fight for us more like you usually did.”

Yeosang couldn’t believe what he was hearing, he almost believed he was hallucinating. Did Wooyoung seriously not remember anything? How dare he blame anything dealing with the end of their relationship on Yeosang, when he fully knows it was all his fault.

“A-are you kidding me?” Yeosang stuttered.

“Wooyoung, I fought my hardest for you, for us, and you threw it all away for some fucking biker gang you hardly knew! I tried to protect you for months, and when that didn’t work, I let you use me as your personal punching bag praying that it would click but it didn’t! And after all of that, I messaged you every day for three months even when you blocked my number! So don’t tell me I didn’t fight for it!”

Tears were threatening to fall from Yeosang’s eyes as he lectured the boy, whose expression changed from loathing to… melancholy. Wooyoung stepped closer to Yeosang, moving a hand to hold his cheek and noticing as he flinched away slightly, the trembled movement causing Wooyoung’s heart to break in two. But once his hand gently cupped Yeosang’s face, he melted into the touch, a stray tear escaping his eye and being wiped clean by Wooyoung’s thumb.

The first time they had seen each other in years, the first time they had spoken in years, the first time they had touched in years. It felt surreal, like the universe was falling apart, but it’s all the two of them wanted.

Wooyoung’s other hand made it up to Yeosang’s face, now holding him with the most delicate touch as to not break him. He could finally see the emotion in Yeosang’s eyes, the hurt he had been holding for so long, the love he still had for Wooyoung even after everything he did to him. And Yeosang could see something too; regret.

Wooyoung opened his mouth to say something but the words got caught up like a lump in his throat, speaking quieter than a whisper. “I’m sorry…”

Yeosang wasn’t sure if he heard him right over the loud muffled music. An apology, after all this time? Why did he wait until now? Nothing made sense in his inebriated brain. Wooyoung looked up at him, deep brown eyes filled with sorrow and a silent plea for forgiveness He inched his face closer to Yeosang’s, their alcoholic breaths mixing between them, an effect causing Yeosang to suddenly become sober and remember all the torturous things Wooyoung had done to him. He could tell Wooyoung was drugged up and in need of physical attention, and he knew it would be easiest to get from someone he hurt, knowing that person still held so much love and hope for him — and that person was Yeosang.

Abruptly, he pushed Wooyoung away, his back hitting the wall of the small bathroom. He looked at Yeosang in shock, never knowing he could fight back. But how would he know when he’s been gone for years, and how would he know that the only reason Yeosang fights back on occasion is because of him.

“You’re not sorry.” Yeosang growled, eyes glassing with tears once more as he glared at the oreo-haired boy. “You seriously expect me to believe that after all these years, you’re finally sorry? No, you’re not, you just want to know if you still have power over me.” Wooyoung’s face dropped emotionless, chewing on his lip to hold back any of his own tears.

“Well, you don’t.” Yeosang said, his voice serious and unwavering. Wooyoung stood there in disbelief, the best memories they shared flooding his brain as he watched Yeosang hastily exit the bathroom.

Yeosang closed the door behind him, leaning against it with closed eyes and letting out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. The sudden movement coming down stairs pulled him out of his relaxation, watching as you stormed down with a distressed look on your face, Yunho hurrying behind you and babbling incoherent excuses. Yeosang watched as the two of you burst out the front doors. Seonghwa turned around from the bottom of the stairs after watching you run out, his eyes quickly finding Yeosang and grabbing his hand.

“I think it’s time to go.” He whispered, and Yeosang followed him outside to find you, grabbing your three phones as they left.

. . . ⇢ next chapter

author's note sorry this chapter is late, i've had some personal issues happen but hopefully everyone enjoys !! i've also updated the dates on the releases just because i know some chapters are going to be a lot longer than others + the two chapters released in one day

this chapter was a lot longer but after rereading it, some of the plot was pretty pointless and had no connection to anything in the future so i removed it: which is exactly why this chapter has taken so long to edit (also peak the woosang drabble at the end >.<)

✉ taglist @morethingsfandom @solaris-amethyst @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @baby-stay92 @autieofthevalley @liveloveseonghwa @dejatiny @mortal-advocate @dreamsoffanfics @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @dalsuwaha @nevieatiny @woateez @choizlover @foreveryxunggg @woosmaid @yeosannie4 @auroras-colors @mintchocosan @jjongbearsies @frzzenfrxg @sanniebabes @cyberpvnk-enthusiast @eyesonlyformingi @sannies-tiddies @honeyjongie @rainteez02 @robertsbbygirl @mingisgf999 @atzz8 @moonlight-hwa @chrryjoong @sanhwalvr @cloudysannie @atxxzist @choisansplushie @starz-choisanii @slowitdownmakeitb0uncy @jerseygirlzzzxx @mzngi @sparda1234 @babigriin @marvolos @snapcracklen @posseup @justineasian @amazaynaastha @vixensss @deltamoon666

written by planet-hwa™

#written by planet hwa ༉‧₊˚✧#bad boy facade series 🕸♥✟🕷#ateez #choi san #ateez series #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez fanfic #ateez fluff #ateez angst #ateez smut #san series #san x reader #san imagines #san fanfic #san fluff #san angst #san smut

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fluffywing-e-tarot · 2 months ago

Text

Twins of Seperath Paths: Shen Shi

[Error! Error! Error!]

Shen Yuan wanted to slap the annoying thing making such a sound. Shen Yuan opened his eyes to a Red window in front of him

[System calibration] [System 'error' identified.]

The red screen turned blue in front of him. Shen Yuan tried to understand what was happening.

[Activation code: Dumbfuck Author Dumbfuck Novel. System automatically triggered] [ Welcome to the System. This System operates in line with the design concept “YOU CAN YOU UP, NO CAN NO BB”; we hope to provide you with the best possible experience. It is our sincere wish that during your time, you can fulfil your desires and, in accordance with your wish, transform a stupid work into a magnificent, high-quality, first-rate classic. We hope you enjoy.]

During the system's introduction. Shen Yuan became aware of a pain in his chest. And what was around him as someone gently pushed his shoulder, “Didi, are you awake?”

[The System was successfully activated. Bound role: Slave of the Qiu Family, younger brother to Shen Jiu, future Chang Quiong Mountain Sect, Peak Lord of Qing Jing Peak, “Shen Qingqiu”, Shen Shi. ]

[As there was an error in the user 002 bound roll. User 002 is granted 1000 B points. [The User was intended for “Shen Quinqui” after he selected Protagonist in the sect.] [Due to ‘error’ in this system. You are granted a specialised quest for continued use. DIE BUT SURVIVE.]

“Didi!” the address is shouted right next to his ear. Shen Yuan jumped, scrambling, but his limbs caught on the large cut in his clothes. His back hit the floor, jolting him.

“Ow," Shen Yuan said. A Cough slipping from his chest

“You’ve decided to live.” A young voice spoke. Shen Yuan looked up at a face that had small, sharp eyes despite his age and baby fat. He is handsome. “Get up, Shi, Master says you can't keep lying about.”

[Shen Jiu, Shen Shi's twin brother], the system chimes in. As Shen Yuan is dragged to standing. Then dragged out the door of their Scrappy room.

The Future Scum Villain looks to be ten. But this is a Xianxia novel, so age is Fucked. But also he looks to not had a good meal for years. So he might be older.

“Master Qiu Jianluo said to wash the Floors.” Shen Jiu says, handing over a bucket and a rag. “We need to hurry so we can eat our meal.”

Shen Jiu kneels and gets to work on the wood. Shen Yuan's stomach growls.

Wait. Shen Yuan thinks. This is the scum Villain’s backstory. He was going to discover how the Scum Villian became a scum villain.

“What are you doing standing there? We can't eat if we don't work.” Shen Jiu growled angrily at Shen Yuan.

Shen Yuan flinches and starts cleaning. His body wants to eat. While he's scrubbing the floors, Shen Yuan checks on the system.

[DIE BUT SURVIVE] [Quest summary: Find a way to escape the fated death of Shen Shi, blackening the morals of Shen Jiu. For the continued Use. User 002 bound role ‘Shen Shi’ must survive.]

Original Post & Master list

Next Post: Hu Fuzhu

Previous Post: Awakened Demon

#my writing #svsss #svsss au #svsss mxtx #scum villian self saving system #scum villain #demon shen yuan #shen yuan and shen jiu #shen twins #shen jiu #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #Qiu Jianluo #svsss system #twins of separate paths

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 1 month ago

Text

Starting at the End Ch. 2

Summary: Lily Crawford has been receiving disturbing letters from a worrisome fan. On the advice of an acquaintance she goes to Winchester Private Security and seeks out Dean Winchester to keep her safe. Will this troubled ex-marine be able to save her, and can she save him too?

Series Warnings: Angst. Smut. Fluff. (as usual, of course!) Discussion of war, loss, trauma, PTSD, grief. Stalking. Obsession.

Chapter Warnings: Nothing major. Talk of stalking.

Pairing: Dean x ofc (Lily Crawford)

Word Count: 2,137

A/N: This is my Dean "Bodyguard" AU. (Technically he calls himself Private Security and not a Bodyguard, but 🤷‍♀️) I've never written a bodyguard AU before, so I hope you all enjoy this one. It's been a while since I've written an ofc, so I hope you like Lily. I'm enjoying writing her. I know OC's aren't the fandoms favourite, but I really felt like I needed Lily to be Lily in this one. Hope you give it a chance anyway. ❤️

In this chapter a painting is discussed in detail, I thought it might help you to see it, so you can find it here.

POSTING EVERY FRIDAY! ❤️

Series Master List || Dean Master List || Main Master List || Tag Lists

They arrived at Lily's house almost an hour later because traffic was so terrible leaving the city. Dean had followed behind her in his big, old, classic car. It was sleek and black and pretty. It also dwarfed her little Chevy hatchback as he pulled into her driveway behind her.

When she got out, she looked back to see Dean slam the heavy door with a creak. He wasn't looking at her. Instead, his head seemed to be on a swivel, scanning up and down her street and then over her front yard.

“Come on in.” She said, waving him forward and up onto her porch. But he still wasn't looking at her. His eyes seemed to be focused on every inch of the space around them.

“See anything suspicious yet?” Lily asked, feeling a bit silly for bringing him here. The neighborhood was so peaceful and idyllic - it suddenly felt ridiculous to be worried about some weirdo fan, as little kids rode by on their bicycles and dogs barked happily.

He shook his head, and she moved forward to unlock her door. But Dean touched her arm to stop her. He pushed past her and examined her lock.

“Allow me.” He said quietly and then pulled a small leather pouch out of an inside pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out two metal instruments and poked them into her lock.

After an alarmingly short period of time, he got both the handle and deadbolt unlocked, and pushed the door open easily.

Lily felt a little sick to her stomach. Dean squeezed her upper arm. “Don't worry. We'll get you new locks that make that impossible.”

He preceded her into her house and she suddenly remembered the load of dishes that sat in her sink and the fact that she hadn't dusted or swept in about a month. The dust bunnies lived a good and happy life in the corners of her rooms and under her couch.

But Dean didn't seem to notice the dishes or the bunnies, instead he just slowly wandered from room to room while she trailed after him, feeling more ridiculous with every silent minute that went by.

Back in her living room, he approached the windows and fidgeted with the locks, frowning and shaking his head. She assumed that wasn't good. He confirmed her suspicions when he turned to face her.

“We'll get you new window locks as well.”

Lily felt her stomach plummet again as Dean pointed out yet another way she’d been fooled into thinking she was safe in her home, so her voice was a little sharp when she spoke.

“Why bother with locks for the windows at all? I mean, can’t he just smash them in?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yes, but they’ll be connected to your alarm system, so that if they are broken, the alarm company will be alerted immediately and a call goes out to 911 automatically.”

“My alarm system definitely doesn’t do that.”

Dean smiled. “Your new one will.”

Lily sighed. “Goodbye savings, I guess.”

Dean walked back into her bedroom which was right off the living room; he’d gone in briefly, but this time he took his time, scanning everything closely. Finally he came to stand at the end of her bed, pointing up at the painting that hung above the head of it. It was of a woman’s face, but her face was constructed from dozens of round spheres.

“Is this the painting he mentioned?”

Lily nodded. “Yeah.”

“What did he say about it?”

Lily took a deep breath, her stomach knotting with the same fear she’d felt when she read the words the first time. “He said that the painting was proof that we were perfect for each other because Salvador Dali was his favorite artist too.”

Dean looked down at her. “Is Salvador Dali your favorite artist?”

Lily shrugged. “Not necessarily. I like some of his stuff, but I usually prefer realism over surrealism.”

Dean looked back up at the painting. “So why do you have this painting in such a prominent and personal place? What’s it called?”

“Galatea of the Spheres. It’s a painting of Dali’s wife, apparently. But, I don’t know, I just…liked it.” Lily said with another shrug.

Dean shook his head. “Come on, that’s not an answer. What do you like about it?”

Lily sighed into her explanation. “I don’t know, I just feel like…she’s…I think she’s sad, and the sadness drew me in.”

Dean hummed. “Hmm…what makes you think she’s sad? She kind of looks like she’s sleeping.”

Lily shook her head. “No, she’s coming apart, she’s…it’s like she’s being pulled apart. She’s too many things, and she can’t hold herself together.”

Lily felt her cheeks get pink. “Or, I don’t know that’s my layman's interpretation anyway.”

Dean just nodded and then walked over to her bedroom window, scanning the outside, before he quickly strode past her.

“Be right back. Stay here.”

She heard him leave through the front door, but he was quickly back inside again, coming back into her room nodding as though he’d proven something. “He hasn’t been in your house, and he isn’t someone you know. I mean, he isn’t an ex, or an old acquaintance or anything like that.”

Lily was slightly baffled. “How do you know that?”

Dean pointed to her window. “I stood outside at the right vantage point, and I could see into your bedroom very easily. That’s how he knew about the painting. And I think, if he’d been inside, you’d be missing something; he would have taken a souvenir. And you didn’t say anything was missing.”

Lily shook her head. “No, nothing’s missing.” She whispered. She felt ill at the idea of him coming into her home and taking something personal as a keepsake, but she also felt stupid for thinking he’d been inside already. She’d let her imagination run away with itself.

Dean continued his explanation. “And if he knew you like he claims to, he’d probably know that Dali isn’t your favorite artist, and he’d likely know how personally connected you feel to this painting. If he knew about that he definitely would have used it to get closer to you, to try and forge a bond.”

“I don’t know about ‘personally connected’ to the painting.” Lily argued, slightly self-conscious now. “I just like it.”

Dean grunted non-commitally. “Either way, he’d know more personal information than that.”

Lily scrubbed her hand over her eyes. “So, I was panicking for nothing. The cops were right; he’s just some weird fan.”

Dean shook his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. Lily, this guy stood outside your window and stared into it, meaning he was probably close by, within binocular range, at least. Just because he hasn’t worked up the courage to come inside yet, doesn’t mean he won’t try. Everything about this guy says this is gonna escalate. Don’t doubt your instincts. They might save your life.”

Lily shivered at the idea of being spied on through her window. She walked over and pulled down the blind, shutting out the slowly setting, late summer sun. She hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

“Okay, what’s the next step?”

Dean’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Shopping.”

“So, everything is set up.” Dean said, nodding towards her new alarm system that he’d installed in record time. In fact, he’d done everything with so little effort she was amazed. He knew exactly what kind of alarm and locks to get and he’d installed them all in a matter of hours.

It was almost nine o’clock before they got back with all her new security gear, and she’d told him he could just come back the next day to install everything, but he’d refused. She was very grateful for that since she knew she wouldn’t have been able to sleep otherwise.

Now, it was nearly midnight and Dean was just finishing up a tutorial for her new alarm system which was connected to both her windows and doors.

“All you have to do is enter your password and everything will be armed. Remember to make it something that can’t be connected to you, like your birthday, and it shouldn’t be the same as any of your other passwords. It should be a series of eight, completely random numbers and letters. And you should change it every month or so.”

Lily nodded, reaching for the pad to enter something and Dean turned away so he couldn’t see it. She found the gesture surprisingly sweet. He really wanted her to feel safe, and she did. She’d been nervous and scared for weeks, but in half a day this man she barely knew had swooped in and made her feel safer than she had in a long time.

It was pretty extraordinary, really.

She clicked the last button for her password and the system beeped happily. She reached out to touch Dean’s forearm to let him know she was finished and to thank him. He’d long ago ditched his suit jacket, and rolled up his sleeves while he worked, so her fingertips brushed against his warm skin and his muscles tensed slightly as he turned back to face her.

She knew she was blushing slightly and felt like she did that quite often with this man. She smiled a little awkwardly as she dropped her hand back to her side.

“Thank you so much for everything. I really appreciate it all.”

Dean nodded and rolled down his sleeves as he crossed the room to pick up his suit jacket off her couch.

“No problem.” He said, shrugging back into his jacket and covering his shoulder holster again; he’d never taken off the gun.

He pulled his shirt sleeves into place under the jacket and smiled at Lily as he returned to her side. “Promise that you’ll reach out when you hear from him again.”

Lily closed her eyes for a moment. “Can you say, ‘if I hear from him again’? Just for me?”

Dean sighed and nodded indulgently. “Sure. If you hear from him again, call me.”

He reached around her to open the door and he was suddenly close enough that she could feel his warmth and smell the spicy scent of his cologne, or maybe that was just him.

Either way, it made her momentarily woozy and she had to close her eyes again for a moment. She clumsily moved out of the way of the door as it opened and Dean reached out to steady her a little.

“You good?” He asked, concern showing in his mossy green eyes.

Lily blushed even more and shook her head. “Yeah, I think I’m just overtired.”

Dean nodded and pointed to the alarm. “Make sure you set that as soon as I’m gone, and then you can finally let yourself get a good night’s sleep.”

Lily nodded back. “Yes, of course. Thanks again.”

Dean pulled back from her and stuck out his hand. “Best of luck, Lieutenant Crosby, and I truly hope I don’t hear from you again.”

Lily chuckled softly and shook his hand, trying not to fixate on the way his hand engulfed hers or the way the rough calluses on his palm rubbed against her skin.

“I hope not too.”

Dean walked out the door and started down her porch steps before she called him back. “Wait, Dean!”

He turned back to her and she laughed. “What do I owe you?”

He shrugged. “I know where you live. I’ll send you a bill.”

He felt his blood boil as he watched the man walk out of her house and slide behind the wheel of his classic Impala. Who the fuck was this guy? What the fuck was he doing in her house so late?

He hadn’t been able to get away from work until just now, so he was late to her place, later than usual, anyway. He got there just in time to see them talking and laughing on her porch. She was laughing, anyway. What was he saying that was so fucking funny? They were too far away for him to hear their words, but his binoculars allowed him to see how she smiled at him and laughed at his bullshit jokes. It made him want to scream.

She was taunting him with this man, testing him, he just knew it. He didn’t like the way she toyed with him. When they were finally together, he’d put a stop to that, immediately.

She won’t dare taunt me then. He thought furiously. We’ll see who’s in charge then, once I’ve finally forced her to acknowledge our love.

Then he’d make sure she never left him again.

@lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33

@alwaystiredandconfused @jzackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly

@candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma @luvr4miya

@arcannaa @viviwatchestv @winharry @ladysparkles78 @kr804573

@whimsyfinny @roonthelittlespoon920 @slamminmine @zepskies @safiyas-world

@aylacavebear @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl

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@eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @deangirl96 @stoneyggirl2

@fanfic-n-tabulous @traiitorjoe @lastcallatrockysbar @b3autyfuld1sast3r

#dean winchester #dean winchester fanfic #dean x ofc #dean winchester fluff #spn fanfic #dean winchester au #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #dean winchester imagine #supernatural imagine #spn #jackles #jensen ackes #dean

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blushingbubbles · 5 months ago

Note

Saw your post about wanting to write and thought I’d send a setting and let your mind run wild and share with us what you come up with.

The setting is a free use city. Everyone is of legal age and clean. Anyone wearing a collar is free use to anyone. Any man/woman could take you at any time. Waiting in line for food and the man behind you starts fingering you. At the register a free use woman is being fucked by the manager while you give your order. When you get on the bus, the driver grabs you to suck his cock while he drives and doesn’t let you go when your stop comes up. Your home has no locks and men can come and go in the night as they please.

How do you see a day living like this going?

first of all, thank you for giving the addendumn that everyone is clean and legal 🥰

this is a free use society marked by color-coded collars -- green for newbies (which are observers ONLY), blue for novices (who can be used ONLY by other novices and are also MENTORED by silves), and silvers (to be used by EVERYONE).

also cameramen take shifts night & day to film the sex happening in the city. they stream it all live, and people across the world can subscribe to see it. the subscription prices cover every civilian's taxes because im sick of paying mine lol

and i added a little tech in here too for like an extra layer of consent bc extra consent is extra sexy

this is SO FREAKING LONG SORRY NOT SORRY

It's 1:30 in the morning when the collar vibrates for the first time. The movement isn't enough to completely wake me. By now, I've gotten used to the sensation, the shifting coolness against my skin.

Someone's reserved me -- likely Charlie, the bartender in the apartment just above mine.

But it's only likely. I won't know for sure until they arrive.

The collar vibrates again at 1:40, and my eyes flicker open. If I really wanted to, I could disable the vibrations. If I really really wanted to, like some of my friends, I could take the collar off at night.

The system would label me "offline," my door would automatically lock, and I wouldn't be woken at 1:30 in the morning. But by this point it's a habit to keep it on.

The collar vibrates again, a third and final time, and my front door opens.

Charlie calls my name through the apartment. When I dont answer, he wanders the hall to my bedroom. His belt is already off. I wave at him from the pile of blankets.

"Hi."

He smiles, his belt hits the floor, and he unbuttons his dark jeans. "Thought for sure you'd be asleep."

I yawn and stretch, pointing to the silver collar winking in the light. "It woke me up. Do you want me to be asleep?"

His shirt went next. Then his boxers.

"No, but if I woke you up and you knew it was me without opening your eyes, it'd be hot as fuck."

"I'd always know," I admit. He grins and attempts to untangle my legs from the blankets. "You smell like whiskey. Like...all the time."

"That bad?"

"After leaving the bar? It's a dead giveaway."

When my legs are free, he rolls me onto my side. The little purple numbers on the nightstand clock glow back at me.

My back presses flush against his chest, and despite me lifting my leg for easier access, I feel myself on the verge of another yawn.

He kneads my tits and groans in my ear, "Fuckin' missed these."

Half a moment later, he slips inside me, and we both gasp.

The clock reads 1:59.

Sundays are my favorite day of the week. After changing my sheets and tidying my apartment, I stick an arm out the window to test the temperature.

On the street below, a woman moans. From the fire escape, I can see them both. The man kneeling before her wears a silver collar resembling my own, and she's grasping on the wall behind her, her chin tipped up. Next to them a man wearing a black vest films. It's Sam, this side of the city's morning videographer.

I get coffee with my friend Ash and we sit outside, enjoying the spring breeze. They play with their collar -- blue now instead of green.

"So I stayed online yesterday," they admit, and I gasp.

"How was it? Did you get any visitors?"

"Last night."

I squeal, tapping my feet on the pavement.

"Just the one! No more."

"No that's perfect, I'm glad," I say, taking another sip of my tea. "I know it might be frustrating, but it's better than being thrown in the deep end."

Until three days ago, Ash's collar and status was green: observer. The blue one signifies something else, a step further into the community. Now, they're free to service three other blue-statuses per day.

My next words halt at an approaching shadow.

"Good morning," Ash smiles.

"Morning," he says. He takes in both of our collars before nodding pointedly at me, and I stand from my chair.

He unzips his pants as he sits down. Toward me, he points at the ground. Two green collars sitting to my left turn to look.

Ash props their face in their hand while my knees meet the pavement. The stranger tugs the front of my dress down until my tits spring free.

"Better," he sighs, and I smile.

My hand secures around his length and I begin to stroke his hardening cock. He glances at Ash.

"How much longer do you have to go for silver?"

I draw him closer to my lips. Saliva pools in my mouth, coating my tongue, and I draw half of his length in. More saliva spills out, and I use it to work the base of his shaft.

"I just changed over three days ago, so about a month."

I hollow my cheeks and rise before taking him deeper. He grunts, his hand reaching for my hair.

"This your first training session?"

"No," Ash laughed. "She took me out on Friday. We went to Cobalt."

I remember the night and resist a smile, taking his cock to the back of my throat.

"Cobalt's--" he stumbles over his words. "--P--erfect."

"We had a lot of fun."

I brush a knuckle softly over the the underside of his shaft, and his breath hitches. "I'll bet."

"She's a very thorough teacher."

He breaches the back of my throat and stops speaking entirely. When the wind picks up, he pulls my hair from my face. Ash adjusts their chair, peering over the table at me.

My eyes flick up to meet his own, and his orgasm takes both of us by surprise. Startled, I gag on his cum, and some slips from my mouth. My tongue darts out to catch it before it seeps into his pants.

"Very thorough teacher," he agrees. For the next minute I clean him of my spit before tucking him back into his pants. He helps me stand from the pavement and brushes the pebbles embedded in my knees.

Before departing, he squeezes each of my still-exposed tits. "Keep these out today."

I take the seat he just vacated and grin at the green collars sitting nearby.

"Hi."

I could write forever abt this but this has gone on so so so long lmk if u want another part 🫠

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happypopcornprincess · 22 days ago

Text

guess who ended up writing a five part enemies to lovers fic about KimKenta? 😔 me :)

Fandom: Pit Babe the Series [Thailand]

Warnings: Food insecurity, ED.

a/n - this is set after Pete leaves Kenta with Kim. Suggest me some title for this lol.

Sneak Peak: Kim x Kenta

Kenta was hungry.

That quiet, gnawing kind of hungry that curled around his ribs and refused to let go. The kind he’d been trained to ignore.

He paced his room with slow, heavy steps, like he always did when it started. It helped... sometimes. It made him focus on something other than his twisting insides. His eyes flicked toward the door every few seconds, like it might swing open on its own. Like someone might notice.

He eyed the window and then cracked it open. The harsh afternoon sun burned against his skin. irritated even more... he shut the blinds.

The thought of asking Kim for food lodged in his throat like a stone. He was already staying at his house, putting his life in danger, but he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. There had been a protein bar in the afternoon, but it hadn’t done much.

What if Kim thought he was mooching? Taking advantage? What if asking for food made him seem needy, or worse, like he was trying to run Kim’s life?

He still remembered the first few days here, the way Kim had looked at him. That thin wall of suspicion behind every glance. And why wouldn't he? Kenta had kidnapped him. Held a freaking knife to his throat. Left wounds they hadn’t even begun to speak about.

Kenta rubbed a hand across his face and turned back toward the door, and a knock startled him. He opened the door a little too fast and nearly stumbled forward.

The scent hit him first; warm, comforting rice. Broth, maybe. Kim stood just outside, one hand resting on the frame, his dark hair still tousled and his eyes soft with sleep.

“Food’s ready,” Kim said, casual, like he hadn’t just flipped Kenta’s world on its side. “Come on. I’m starving.”

No sarcasm. No side-eye. Just... normal.

Kenta stared for too long, then gave a curt nod and followed Kim toward the kitchen.

The aroma got stronger the closer they got; he smelled anchovy broth, sesame oil, garlic, kimchi. The moment he sat, Kenta didn’t wait, he dug in. The first spoonful burned his tongue, but he didn’t care. It was hot and homemade, and that alone made him swallow more than he chewed.

He barely noticed Kim sitting across from him until he spoke between bites.

“You’re going to help out around the house if you’re staying, I’ll cook and you can do the dishes.” Kim said as he chewed, not even looking at him, “I’ve got to pick up some stuff from the garage tomorrow. You mind tidying up the things a bit? This whole moving and packing had screwed up my system.”

Kenta froze with a mouthful of rice. He blinked. Then nodded, the words slipping out automatically. “Sure.”

He reached for his empty bowl, instinct telling him to clean it, make himself useful before he became a burden... but Kim was already reaching across the table.

Without looking up, Kim ladled a second serving of rice into his bowl.

Kenta froze.

“I made too much,” Kim muttered quickly, eyes glued to his kimchi like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. “Help me finish it.”

Kenta looked down at the full bowl.

He didn’t say a word.

But he picked up his spoon. And started eating again.

---/---/---

SERIES OUT NOW!!!

32 notes · View notes

yall-batman-fanfic · 16 days ago

Text

Absolute Batman: Grit & Grime | Bruce Wayne/Batman x OC!Magician [Part 1]

Synopsis: After the events of The Zoo, Batman finds himself with another case that is far different from the usual things he’s been working on. One that involves magic.

Warnings: Graphic description of violence and blood.

Notes: This story is inspired by the setting of Absolute Batman but does not follow the timeline/storyline accurately.

Absolute Batman: Grit & Grime | Bruce Wayne/Batman x OC!Magician [Part 1] Absolute Batman: Grit & Grime | Bruce Wayne/Batman x OC!Magician [Part 2]

~ Lazarus Corp Research Facility, Somewhere in Nevada, USA ~

The bodies were shredded to the point that no technology can identify them. Not even blood samples with everything—rather, everyone mixed up on the floor. If given a best way to describe the scene before them, Sam Lane would say a blender did all of this. Everything and everyone was just all over the place. The once white and glass walls, the squeaky clean medical equipment were all covered with blood and guts and bone, and a couple of shards that were made from the suits they wore and the weapons they used.

They tried to fight it, Sam thought as he looked at the cracks on the glass and walls made by bullets, but can man-made weapons defeat an anomaly such as Subject 33?

“Oh god,” Sam heard one of his men gasp. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Do not add your DNA to the crime scene,” Sam told the man. “Get him out of here.”

“Yes, sir.”

The automatic door closed behind him and Sam was left alone there once again.

Subject 33, he thought again.

He didn’t know much of Subject 33 other than the fact it was a special research conducted by the founder himself, Ra’s Al Ghul. The whole team were handpicked by their boss and were given high-level security passes that not even he—a ranking officer—has access to it.

But Adam Royce did.

Not surprising considering Adam Royce is—like Subject 33—a special case. Recruited by the founder himself, Adam Royce didn’t go through the whole selection process to get a job in Lazarus Corp. This was given to him without a second thought, and he’s proven himself to be deserving of it too.

A decorated war hero—but the system let him down and he would have gone to a darker road ahead if Ra’s al Ghul had not come to him with a job offer.

“Captain Lane.”

Sam was stunned to find the face of Lazarus Corp standing at the door, dressed in his usual suit, accompanied by his daughter, Talia Al Ghul. “Sir, what are—I was told you were rushed to the Pits!”

That was an understatement, from what Sam heard, Ra’s al Ghul was in this very room when the incident happened.

“And like before, I have been reborn, Captain Lane.” said Ra’s. A simple gesture made towards Talia, and the woman stepped forward, not caring if her heels will get soaked with blood, and handed a tablet to Lane. “Your assignment. With the events that happened here, the retrieval of Subject 33 is imperative. I do hope your relations with the target will not pose as a challenge in this.”

Relations? Sam thought, but as soon as he swiped the assignment document he realized what the al Ghuls meant.

Mission Target: Royce, Adam James

Mission Prep: Lethal

“Captain Royce, sir?” Sam asked. “I don’t understand… I thought he’s…” one of the unfortunate soldiers to be in the crime scene. His blood mixed with the others in there.

Talia stepped forward and swiped the tablet again, this time showing the CCTV footage that happened in the cell. There were the scientists wearing scrubs, guards armed by the door and the glass window, and—

A little girl?

Sam had to look closer to check if what he was seeing was right, and no matter how many times he zoomed the footage his eyes were correct. That was a little girl, head shaved, strapped to the surgery bed. She showed signs of resistance as the scientists prepped the injection and placed the electrodes that monitored her heart, her brain activity, and her nervous system. All of the monitors were spiking, fast heart rate, brain activity showed panic, and then her nervous system looked like it was burning with fire. Everything was going wrong. And the scientists can see it too, so they tried sedating the girl. Then…

The door opened. Adam Royce, Sam identified him when one of the scientists said “Captain Royce, what are you doing here?”

Adam said nothing, he only looked at them then shot his gun at the scientist’s head. The man was fast, had no hesitation and he could have gotten all of them if it weren't for the dead switch placed on their uniform. Adam fell to the ground as the shock of the electrocution paralyzed him.

Then all hell broke loose.

The guns held by the other soldiers exploded in their hands. The room shook violently, and the little girl got up from her bed—-Lane had no idea how the bindings were ripped off—and then boom.

It was like the room exploded along with the people inside aside from herself and Adam Royce who were protected from the splatter of blood and guts, and the shards of glass and debris. The next was easy to guess—Adam took the girl and they ran out of the room.

“Subject 33 was a little girl?” Sam said, glaring at the Al Ghuls.

“Do not let appearances fool you, Captain,” said Talia. “Subject 33 is more dangerous than you think.”

“She’s a little girl! What were you doing with her anyway? What does Lazarus Corp want from a little girl!”

“Did you see the footage?” Ra’s spoke this time. “Everything that happened here came from that little girl. Lazarus Corp found Subject 33 after she did the same thing in her last place of residence killing eighteen people, Captain. Eighteen were dead and all is because of this little girl who has no knowledge of her power. We were studying her to understand her and find a way to contain her power.”

“That’s not what Lazarus Corp does,” Sam scoffed.

“Lazarus Corp is a multinational megacorporation who has dedicated its funding for research, and human evolution is one of them. This little girl would have gone to far worse conditions if we hadn’t taken her. Your mission is to retrieve her from that traitor, Adam Royce and bring her back where she will be safe!”

Everything seems to line up, Sam knew—despite the news of employee exploitation and extreme capitalism—that Lazarus Corp has always been the center of scientific research for the betterment of human life. They have been selling tear-drop vials of the Lazarus Pit for millions of dollars to keep eternal youth. They have also been contracted by the government to do research to better the agriculture production in the dying lands around them.

But Adam.

Sam couldn’t figure out how Adam fits in all of this.

He tried to remember if Adam mentioned anything about Subject 33 but nothing. Adam followed the rules, he knew the importance of high level security clearance, he knew best not to talk or even give hints about Subject 33…

But there was this one time. That time when they were having coffee, he remembered what Adam said: There is something wrong about this place.

He brushed it off then with a joke saying: A multimillion dollar corporation exploiting its employees for money. Yeah there is but it’s like the others out there. It just so happens we get better pay here.

Who would spend so much money for the type of security they have? Sam even recalled Adam saying their private army can beat the country’s very own army with the muscle, the tech, and the training they have here. The al Ghuls only take the best of the best.

The call of his name had Sam brought back from his reverie.

“I don’t understand,” Sam began. “Why would Adam.”

“You have your mission, Captain. There is no need to ask questions,” said Talia.

“With all due respect but this is Adam Royce—he wouldn’t, I don’t understand why.”

“Royce must have gotten blackmarket deals, human trafficking? Who knows. What matters is we get Subject 33 back. And you can deal with Royce with extreme prejudice. Understand?”

In other words, it’s best he doesn’t ask any questions at all.

Corporate were the brains, they were the guns. Corporate points, they shoot.

“Of course. I’ll handle it.”

~ Sixteen Years Later | Gotham City, New Jersey ~

The vehicle was the most inconspicuous there was, but Alfred Pennyworth thought if the muffler were to make another racket it would beat the whole idea of not catching attention. As soon as the engine was turned off, Alfred let out a sign of relief—silence filled the air again. Rather, as silent as Gotham can be: distant police sirens, crime, and the possibility of the Batman doing his work. From the car, a man came out, he was tall with a muscular build of a boxer, his head shaved with a clean cut at the right side—one would think it was purposely made but Alfred knew what a scar from a grazed bullet looked like.

The man nodded Alfred's way in greeting, but before he joined him, he leaned down to the passenger’s seat and spoke in a soft and hushed tone. The only thing Alfred heard was, “Keep an eye out. The gun’s in the glove compartment, don’t use it unless you need to. ‘Ight? Good girl. I won’t be long.” He reached in to mess with the passenger’s hair, which Alfred saw from the strands that peaked out of her bonnet were red.

They entered the safehouse and closed the door after.

“Are you sure it’s safe to leave your girl out there?” Alfred asked.

“She’s tougher than she looks. Long time hasn’t it? When was the last time we saw each other?”

Alfred chuckled. “Ninety-nine, Budapest. Before you joined that corrupt man in the desert. Good to see you again, old chap.”

“It’s good to see an old friend.”

They sat on the chairs in the room. Alfred offered him a pint, he accepted.

“When you called, you made two of each for these requests—no questions asked,” Alfred gestured to the envelope packet he placed at the table. “May I ask now? Who’s the girl, Adam?”

Adam Royce opened the packet and reached to retrieve two state IDs, credit cards, a bank account, a driver’s license, and other personal identifications they would need for their new life; and two phones. The names were close to the truth but far enough from it to keep their pursuers away from their trail. Sixteen years but Adam won’t be complacent. Not until they were put down.

But Sam’s exact words were: The man has time on his side. He won’t stop until he kills you and gets that girl.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Adam hid the IDs back inside the envelope. “You’re right, considering we’re intruding on your lovely stay here in this shit-place.” Alfred snorted in amusement. “It’s only right that I tell you about the trouble we might be bringing in the future.”

“Oh, good, should I expect bullets raining or is it RPGs?”

“All of it… you were right about them—about Lazarus—they’re nothing but shitty corpos who’d done nothin’ but worship their greedy god. It just so happens that god is real and he’s after my arse and my little girl’s.”

“Who is that girl, Adam?”

“You saw her name, you made the ID.”

Alfred glared at him. “Who is she?”

Adam hesitated, silence came to the room for a heartbeat. Then another and another. Then he spoke. Not in English, but in Gaelic—Irish—and said, “She’s a Ghost.”

“Ghost?” Alfred replied in the same language.

“No records of her existence can be found.”

“Nothing new, we dealt with it before.”

“Nothing like this. No records of birth, parents aren’t on any system, blood words can’t be identified either. Lazarus found her in the fire, unharmed. She shows abilities like that boy in Kansas.”

“Alien?”

“No. Ancient. Druid.”

Alfred scoffed a laugh this time. “Druid. Are you hearing yourself right now?”

“I’m not joking. I’ve seen it. Even Lazarus scientists can’t explain her energy signatures. You said those corpos are hiding something bad, well there she is. They want to harness the same thing as that kid in Kansas but more powerful. Her.”

Hearing the seriousness in his tone, Alfred saw it was no laughing matter. He looked into Adam’s eye and there he knew, the man was not mad nor was he delusional, he looked like a man who has seen Hell and has gone back. What did Lazarus do to him?

“What did you do?” Alfred asked.

“They were using her as a test subject. Hurting her. Then they planned to harvest her organs and her blood to study her—” Adam paused as the memories of watching through the glass poke and prod on that little girl as she begged them to stop. “I couldn’t stand it,” he switched back to English. “It was inhumane. She’s just a girl.”

“They might have a good reason—”

Adam slammed his fist on the table. “What good reason is there to harm a child? An innocent child? Have you forgotten what they made us do in the war? They saw her as a thing, not a human being. Not a child.”

He’s crossed a line. “I apologize… but Adam, whatever she is, whatever power she has… Can you control it?”

“We left the facility sixteen years ago and have been on the run since. The only times she’s lost control were just a handful of incidents. She’s gotten better at controlling her power.”

“Why Gotham? Why not the mountains where you’ll be safer. Alone.”

“The last time we did that, they found us and we had nowhere to go but to jump off the cliff. We wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for her powers,” Adam let out a heavy breath. “She needs a life, Alfred. I’ve given her all that she needs to know, educated her in ways we were but that’s not enough. I could see in her eyes that she wants to live life. Not in isolation but be part of all of this.”

“I understand. But why this shitty place? There are plenty of other places you could go to.”

Adam chuckled. “Last I checked, Gotham is the only place they have no hold on and that’s thanks to the syndicates and that Batman vigilante. Did you meet him?”

Alfred only chuckled as an answer, Adam took it as a yes. “Shit, that good?”

“Good enough. This won’t be an easy life. Corruption runs through this city’s roots. Just last week, we had trouble with the Party Animals. If it weren’t for Batman, Sionis would have had this city. I can’t say this is the safest place to raise your girl.”

“Trust me, mate. This is the best we could find right now. Gotham’s crime and corruption is what keeps it backwards. We can hide here. No one will find us here. And she’s not so little anymore, she’s all grown up now… More reason why it’s time we settle down.”

They finished their pint, and Alfred gave Adam a couple of biscuits for his passenger and a few words as they left the safe house. In the car, Alfred saw the girl sit up and look at them with curiosity, and for a moment he was sure he saw her eyes shine gold too. Or maybe that was just the reflection of the streetlights.

“You’ll find the address for the house there. Already paid in full with the money you wired. And it’s stocked with groceries that would last you a week—courtesy of me.”

“Thank you, old friend,” Adam embraced him. “We should meet again someday, you can finally meet your goddaughter.”

Alfred barked a laugh. “Goddaughter is it? I didn’t know she was mine. See you around, James.”

~ * ~

The girl waited for Adam until he came back from his meeting. When we entered the car, he immediately tossed the packet to her and some biscuits and sweets for her to eat. Good, she’s been starving.

“What are these?” She asked.

“Our new identities,” Adam answered as he drove out of the alleyway. “Give me one of those, would you?” The girl opened the wrapper and fed him a biscuit, shoving it into his mouth. With a full mouth, he asked, “What’s the address?”

“What address?”

“Check one of our IDs.”

Reaching in, the girl took one of the IDs and even with a flashlight she could see the thing and read the information there. The ID she got had her photo with the name Vivian Claire Pryor.

“My name’s Vivian?” She asked.

“Well, that’s what you said your name was,” Adam turned to her. “Or did you lie to me all this time and I’ve been calling you some random name then?”

Vivian chuckled. “No, that’s my name… but I thought you were going to give us different names.”

“You like the name, aye?”

“Yeah, I like my name. Mum gave me that name. But the Pryor…”

“We stick with the truth with what you told me. As far as Lazarus knows, there is no Vivian Pryor in their records. From now on, we live with the truth, a few lies like where we came from but the truth.”

“But yours says your name is James Phillip Pryor. You’re lying there.”

“Don’t worry about me, love. What matters is you’re happy. Now, the address. Come on, I wanna scout that place before we move in later today. Then once we settled in, we could look around town, maybe get some pizza, I heard there’s this place called Little Italy.”

Vivian couldn’t stop her smile, “Right. Our new place is at…”

~ * ~

Despite his nightly activities, Bruce Wayne woke up early. Too early if anyone was asked, but that was just how he operated. Little to no sleep and still gets up bright and early to go on a run, work out at Waylon’s Gym, and head back for breakfast before going to work. That morning, as he made his morning run in the cold Gotham air, he did his usual patrol route, making sure everything was in order. Or he might find something that Batman could use later on. A lead on a possible case.

Since the defeat of Roman Sionis and the Party Animals, Gotham has been quiet. Not surprising since the re-elected Mayor Hamilton Hill placed the city in Martial Law to get the Batman but that doesn’t mean crime stops.

With the spare keys Waylon left him, Bruce went to the gym and started his routine. He mainly focused on the bag than the weights, improving his agility, his speed with his punches and kicks, and each time he did so flashes of that day came. That time in the zoo. How his father saved their entire class from a gunman, and that same gunman would be the reason for everything in his life to just fall apart.

“Maybe I should start paying you for taking the opening shift,” Waylon entered the gym with his pet snake.

Bruce stopped his punches and caught the bag before it hit him. “What’s stopping you then?”

“Maybe if you started mopping the floor, opening the windows and getting us breakfast, I just might consider paying you for opening up the place,” Waylon chuckled.

Waylon Jones, owner of the gym and Bruce’s childhood friend who has a liking towards exotic pets. Bruce never really understood why he liked them, that he would risk getting caught by the authorities by having Oz look into the blackmarket. If things were black and white, Bruce wouldn’t tolerate Waylon’s little hobby and Oz’s business, but the world isn’t black and white. As long as they weren’t hurting people, the Batman wouldn't mind turning a blind eye.

“Finished?” Waylon asked.

“Didn’t see the time. I gotta get to work,” Bruce started unwrapping the bandages on his fists.

“Come on, man. At least have some coffee!”

Finished with the bandages, he threw everything in his bag and went to grab the mop and rag, and cleaned the spot he worked out on. “I gotta head out. I promised Ma I’d get us breakfast today. She had a long night at work.”

“Alright… but what about you, no long nights this time?”

Bruce put back the mop and rag in the closet and went to his bag. “I’ll see you around, Waylon.”

“Say hi to your mom for me, would you?”

“I will.”

The place he would go to for a good takeaway breakfast was a diner in Parkway, not far from where his mom worked and not far from Waylon’s Gym either. It was a 24/7 place, so he wasn’t surprised to see a couple of cars already parked at the front and a few customers inside, two of them were even GCPD right in the middle of their shift.

He was greeted by the waitress just as he approached the counter. She poured him a cup of coffee—free as long as you buy something there—and took his order.

“Comin’ right up,” she winked at him.

“Excuse me,” one of the customers approached the counter. Maybe it was second nature now but at a glance Bruce was able to ID the young woman leaning on the counter. Red hair, white hoodie under a denim jacket that’s seen better days, cargo pants too, then there’s her shoes—Bruce thought she might need a new pair because this one was being held by duct tape—probably in her twenties or younger, her height probably 5’4”, and not a usual face in Gotham.

The waitress didn’t hear her.

He wasn’t surprised, her voice was a little too soft to be heard.

She tried calling again, a little louder this time, but the waitress was too busy talking to the cook through the small window. She sighed and was about to take a deep breath and call out again—

“Excuse me, Ma’am,” Bruce called for the waitress. His voice was a tad bit loud, it made the woman and the waitress jump. “I think she wants a refill.”

The waitress sighed, her face showing annoyance as she faced the woman and said, “We only do two refills per order. Read the sign.” She pointed at the sign on the wall.

The woman blushed in embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t see that.”

“Come on, Jules, give the kid a break,” called out one of the police detectives, teasingly. “We gotta be understanding to the needy.”

Bruce was no fool, he knew bullying and he hated it. And he could see that the woman could see through those officers’ laughs and attempt to help. It was because of how the father and daughter looked, they were in dire need of new clothes. Behind him, Bruce could hear the shifting of someone in the booth’s couch. He glanced over his shoulder and turned to the table where he first saw sitting in a booth with a man who was old enough to be her father. The man was ready to get up, and those fists said he was one bad asshole away from causing trouble.

“Give her my refills,” Bruce told the waitress, shocking her. The two GCPD Detectives stopped their laughter.

“I just need the one,” the woman said.

“You both can have it.”

He glanced back at the man’s direction and saw him ease up a bit.

The waitress sighed and muttered, “Comin’ right up.”

The woman handed the mug she held then went to get her father’s from their table and waited for the refill. When it was done, the waitress turned her back to her and went to the kitchen where she won’t be bothered again.

“Thank you,” the woman said to him and went back to her booth with her father.

The officers got up from their seats to pay for their meal. They stood a seat-distance from Bruce—on purpose, because he was the only one sitting there, they could have stood elsewhere.

“Tryin’ to be a hero, Wayne?” Said one of the detectives, who Bruce identified to be Detective Arnold John Flass. Bruce wasn’t shocked that the detective knew who he was considering his mother ran as Deputy-Mayor to James Gordon, but the two lost. Some say it was because of the Party Animals attack, but if you lived in Gotham long enough, you’d know this city was for Mayor Hill and those who put him there. Gordon and his mom never stood a chance against the corruption that ran through Gotham’s roots.

Bruce kept silent and continued to drink his coffee.

Best not to engage with them.

Keep his head down.

He should have done it earlier too but he can never stand bullies.

The waitress came back and put their money in the cash register.

“I’ll see you around, Engineer Bruce Wayne,” Detective Flass said, his tone laced with mockery. “And to you two,” he guessed the detective was addressing the father and daughter. “Welcome to Gotham. If you’re just passin’ by, curfew starts at 10 PM. Best to be off before then.”

And they were gone, leaving the sound of the doorbell chiming after them.

His order came and just as Bruce paid the waitress for his take-aways, the father and daughter too came to pay. The man handed fifty-dollars and told the waitress to keep the change. He turned to Bruce and nodded at him—it was an unspoken thank you.

“Come on, love,” he called for his daughter. He was British, Bruce noted his accent. It reminded him of that agent who came to Gotham and helped him take down Black Mask. Alfred Pennyworth.

When the woman passed him, he heard her whisper, “Thank you.”

She wasn’t British.

Nothing to be alarmed about, he thought. There are many cases of families not having the same accent or native tongues. She could be the man’s biological daughter who just grew up in America hence the American accent, or maybe she’s adopted.

He watched the father and daughter get in their car, as the father fixed his seat and the radio, Bruce saw the woman look at him but she tore her gaze and just looked out of the window. They drove away and he took note of their car’s license plate. Montana plates.

~ * ~

Returning home, Bruce greeted his mother good morning with breakfast already set for them both. After getting ready for work, they ate in their usual and comforting silence, with little talks about their plans for the day and interesting news in the neighborhood.

“Do you know about the apartment next door?” Martha mentioned. She was currently packing her son’s lunch. Despite being a twenty-four-year-old-man who is a successful Engineer, he still prefers if his mom makes him his lunch and leaves him notes. Well, the notes were really just a habit of hers since he was a kid going to school. She just likes leaving notes for Bruce, hoping it would lessen the brooding. He was a hulking man made of pure muscle, standing 6’6”. He needs to smile, else he’ll be scaring children.

Actually, he kind of reminds her of a story about a friendly giant.

“What about it?” Bruce asked, coming down the stairs already dressed for work.

“Well, turns out someone already bought it,” Martha handed him his lunch.

“Someone already did?” His brows furrowed. “I don’t remember anyone coming by to check the place.”

“The agent who sold it—you know, Sal—told me that someone just made a visit, made a tour, and right after a quick call, they signed the paperwork. The payment took a little longer than expected, but now the title has been transferred.”

“Should we expect neighbors anytime soon?” He needed to ensure his safety protocols wouldn't be compromised by the new movers.

“Don’t know. Sal said he had a feeling that it’s just for investment because you saw the state of that place.”

“I did.”

If it was just for investment, then maybe he could move his operations there. It would be closer to home, a little risky but he can make things work. He can protect his mom even at night, when Gotham is quiet.

“But if we do have neighbors, we should welcome them… maybe we could give them a hand in fixing the place?”

In other words, he should help out, offer his services. Bruce smiled. Always helping people, he thought as he closed the door after his mother stepped out of the house. He locked it with their key. “I’ll see what I can do, Ma.”

Martha smiled. “That’s my boy.”

~ * ~

Like the other days, before he went home, Bruce walked to the Zoo to visit that day that changed his life. The day that man killed his father, Thomas Wayne. An innocent man, a good father, a good husband, and a good teacher who did everything to make sure his students were getting the best opportunities there are. To let them see their potential. He didn’t see how it happened, but he heard it even when they were hidden with the bats, behind the metal doors, he heard the gunshots and his father’s painful cry before another shot then silence.

It was there, under the colony of bats he knew his father was dead.

His visit to the zoo took longer than expected, so Bruce went straight home to meet with his mother, then he’ll head straight to work.

As came to their street in Crime Alley, he stopped on his tracks as he saw the familiar old car he saw his mother talking to two people standing by their home, and the car he saw in the diner earlier that had Montana plates. Now it had New Jersey plates.

“Oh, there he is! Bruce, come over, meet our new neighbors!” His mom beckoned him to get closer.

Taking a breath, Bruce approached their little gathering. He first bent down to kiss his mother’s cheek as a greeting, then faced their new neighbors. The father and daughter he encountered at the diner. But unlike earlier where they wore old and ratty clothes, the clothes they wore were decent—not new, if they wore new clothes it would be too obvious they bought their wardrobe just now. But if they got it from a thrift shop, it would show that they’ve owned it for a while now, and they’re just two people who moved to their new home. Not someone who's been on the road for a long time.

“Bruce, these are our new neighbors. James Pryor and Vivian Pryor—this is my son, Bruce.”

Bruce nodded. “Pleasure to meet you. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thank you,” the father, James, shook his outstretched hand. He still had his British accent, so that wasn’t a cover. That was real. “Did I see you somewhere before?”

He was playing games, acting like he forgot, but Bruce could see that the man’s memory was sharp. He knew who he was. He knew of their encounter in the diner.

“We did, at the diner,” Bruce answered. “I remember because,” he gestured to the daughter, Vivian. “The red hair…”

Vivian only smiled.

“Your son was gentleman, Ms. Wayne,” said James. “He helped out my Vee earlier when some rude waitress and cops were… well…”

Martha sighed. “I’m sorry your first encounter in Gotham wasn’t well. I know our city isn’t shiny or the best there is, but I promise you there are good things here too.”

As his mother and James spoke, Bruce’s gaze was on Vivian. Unlike earlier where she looked ragged, she looked cleaner now with her new and lighter shade clothes—khaki slacks, a blue jumper over a white collared shirt, her shoes were a huge improvement since they weren’t being held by duct tape and were now a pair of white sneakers. Then there was her hair, earlier it was just messily tucked under her jacket, now her long hair was pulled up to a ponytail, which lit up her face and let him see the long lashes of her eyes and how brown her irises were.

“We got this for you,” Vivian took the convenience store-bought doughnuts from the bag she held. “I told Dad we should at least get our new neighbors something.”

Bruce accepted the gift. “We should be the ones giving you gifts not the other way around.”

“I thought… I didn’t… never mind,” she whispered.

“Need a hand with your bags?” He gestured to the duffle bag on the hood of the car. He took the heavy thing but then Vivian was quick to take it back. “I got it. Thanks.”

That bag wasn’t just holding clothes. He knew the feeling of a weapon inside the bag. The weight of it. To Bruce, that weight didn’t bother him since he lifts more, but to her he could see her struggling to keep it in her grasp. Her father saw it too and took the bag from her.

“We should get settled in,” said James.

“Of course! If you need anything—anything at all just knock on our door,” said Martha.

“Much appreciated.”

Vivian turned to Martha and smiled. “It was lovely to meet you both.” her gaze turned to Bruce, “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Bruce trailed off. “Thanks for the doughnuts.”

Her smile grew but she quickly hid it by heading inside her new home with her father.

“They seem nice, don’t you think?” His mother spoke, breaking his gaze on their neighbor’s door.

“Yeah, they are.” But they’re hiding something.

Too many secrets to say Gotham will be safe with them around.

“Vivian seems like a nice girl too—did you know she’s just around your age? Just two years younger.”

Bruce sighed and gestured to his mother to walk home. “They just moved in, Mom. At least let them settle in before you start anything.”

“And how come you didn’t tell me about the trouble you got into with the GCPD and the waitress?”

“It wasn’t trouble. I was just helping them out. Those detectives were being rude to them, so was the waitress.”

Martha sighed. “I think I might make something for them tomorrow—just to welcome them to the neighborhood.”

“You do that, Ma.”

Him? He’ll start his work and find something about the Pryors next door.

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