#does a flip and lands in a cup of water

[avocadorablepirate]

hiii!!! i was wondering if you can make a fic with the one piece males dating a short reader with a massive scythe and is actually super skilled with it (bonus points if you add law) you dont have to ofcourse!! i love your work!!

Hello, hello! Of course I can do this and of course I will add Law (wouldn’t dream of leaving him out)! Thank you for requesting and I’m so happy to hear that you like my work :) 💕 I hope you like this as well. I also hope you don’t mind, but I’ve written it as headcanons with a short one shot for each of them.

××××

Tiny But Lethal

Pairing: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Law, Sabo, and Ace x fem!reader

Summary: Exploring what some One Piece men would be like with a short S/O whose weapon of choice is a scythe.

Word Count: 4.2K

Warnings: reader is kinda made fun of for being short, some light swearing, mentions of injuries, nicknames, Luffy’s is pretty platonic, Zoro’s implies that they’re attracted to each other but not dating (nothing else that I can think of, but let me know if you find anything)

Super excited to write this cause this is my first time writing something for anyone besides Law. I’ve stuck to Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Law, Sabo, and Ace cause well, they’re some of my favourite OP men. Since this is my first time writing for most of them, I’m not really sure how well I’ve captured their personalities, and some of the headcanons/fics are pretty short, so feedback would be great. But anyway, I hope you guys like it!

Luffy

Outright calls you short as heck when he first meets you. “Damn, you’re tiny!”

Immediately asks you whether you can use your scythe to catch him some fish. He has no clue what it actually does.

Number one hype man. Constantly yelling your name from the sidelines like a proud cheerleader. But also never misses a chance to poke fun at your height.

Zero self awareness, or any awareness for that matter. So if he yeets you across a battlefield, he fully expects you to stick the landing.

Don’t even bother trying to act all dark and threatening when he’s around, man does not care and will not get the memo. “Is my tiny slicer going to pull some moves?”

He doesn’t fear you at all - but every time someone else does? He’s wheezing. “You’re scared of her?? But she’s tiny!”

xxxx

The Sunny rocked gently in the calm sea, the afternoon sun casting a warm golden glow over the deck. Laughter from the crew filtered across the ship, a peaceful lull slowly setting in. You sat leaned back against the railing, eyes closed as you drifted in and out of sleep.

“Oii Y/N~” came the singsong voice of your captain, followed by bouncy footsteps. “I’m hungry, could you catch some fish for me?”

You cracked one eye open to see Luffy looming over you, arms crossed and that stupid grin plastered on his face. He then pointed towards your scythe like it was a kitchen utensil.

“Luffy,” you deadpanned, “This is a deadly weapon, not some glorified fishing rod.”

“But it’s so big and sharp! You could easily slice a tuna or something.”

You stood up with a sigh and a roll of your eyes. “I’m not using my scythe-”

Before you could even protest, snap. Luffy’s rubber arm shot forward, coiling around your waist.

“Luffy, don’t you-!”

Too late. He launched you like a cannonball, laughing like a madman as he watched you soar across the sea.

You screamed as the wind roared in your ears, the ocean rushing up to meet you. With a quick flip midair, you angled your scythe just right, and dived into the water, blade first.

A massive splash rocked the Sunny - and the crew stood frozen as they watched in anticipation. A rush of bubbles followed, and two seconds later a giant fish, impaled right through the middle, burst from the water. You surfaced behind it - soaking wet and scowling.

Luffy cupped his hands around his mouth, then grinned from ear to ear. “You did it! Coolest fishing spear ever!”

You swam back to the ship, Sanji and Usopp hauling you and your kill up with a rope. From somewhere on the deck Zoro muttered, “Idiot.”

Luffy ran over to meet you, hands on his hips as he looked at you with absolute pride. “Let’s do that again!” he beamed.

You wrung the jacket you had been wearing, glaring at him before you jabbed a finger into his chest. “Do that again, and I’ll use you as fish bait next time.”

Luffy laughed once more, not taking your threat seriously. He never did.

Still…as you watched him fawn over your catch and ramble excitedly about how cool you looked, you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

Monkey D. Luffy was an absolute menace to society. But somehow - he was your menace.

Zoro

Kinda underestimated you the first time you met. Huge mistake. You called him out on it, and ended up goading him into a duel. Needless to say, the Sunny was nearly cut in half by the end of it.

Now he smirks every time someone doubts your abilities and just takes a step back and watches as all hell breaks loose.

Thinks your scythe style mirrors his own swordsmanship. Loves sparring with you.

There’s something about the way your small frame handles such a massive, deadly weapon that he finds…intensely attractive.

Lowkey think that the dynamic between the two of you would be similar to how things are between him and Tashigi: rivalry, respect and just a hint more of exasperated fondness.

Tries to play it cool, but actually finds it endearing when you’re trying to be ominous. It’s only a problem if you’re threatening him. Then it’s just annoying. And hot.

You once yelled at him for carrying you over his shoulder, he yelled back. “I’m trying to save your life!” The building was about to explode. You had no idea. He had no time to explain because, well, the building was about to explode. You’re still miffed about it though. Ah romance…

xxxx

Some say the only direction Zoro knows how to follow is the one that leads to you.

To those people, Zoro says he’ll fight them if they ever say it where you can hear.

But deep down, he’d agree. Even in the midst of chaos he always finds you. And in this moment with Marines closing in from all sides and the Sunny beginning to pull away from the island’s shore, that unspoken truth was obvious.

Zoro blocked another strike aimed for his side, knocking his opponent’s weapon out of their hands in one clean move. But his attention wasn’t on the fight anymore.

It was on the ship.

Luffy was on the deck.

Zoro’s brows furrowed. He knew that look - that stupid grin. His idiot captain was about to use his rubber powers to grab the both of you and haul you onto the deck without a second thought.

Something both you and Zoro hated.

He turned, scanning the battlefield. And then he saw you.

You were sauntering towards a Marine Captain like they had a death wish, scythe balanced lazily over your shoulder, and the arrogance of someone who knew they could rain chaos down on anyone stupid enough to challenge them.

“Damn it Y/N,” Zoro muttered under his breath, knowing you were not going to like what he was about to do. Still, he couldn’t deny - you were kinda hot.

Zoro didn’t have the time to call out to you. He just moved as fast as he could.

You didn’t see him coming. One second you were closing the distance between you and your target. The next, you were in the air, strong arms casually tossing you over their shoulder. Your anger boiled over when you saw who it was.

“Zoro!? What the hell!?” You yelled, desperately trying to get out of his grip so that you could go take care of that asshole of a Marine Captain who had decided to underestimate you.

“Will you stop wiggling! I’m trying to save your ass!” he growled, dodging the following onslaught that came from the Marines as they noticed the two of you retreating.

“You could’ve given me a warning! Now put me down!” You continued to squirm violently, tempted to use your scythe to make him listen.

���You’re light,” he snapped, glancing back at you. “Now shut up. We don’t have time for arguments. There’s no way I’m getting slingshotted-”

“Zoro~!”

Ah shit.

Luffy’s rubber arm rocketed out, crossing the distance and wrapping around the both of you. Zoro cursed. Your expression turned murderous.

“Luffy I swear to-!” You tried yelling just before Zoro was yanked off his feet and both of you were flying through the air - a blur of limbs, weapons and swear words.

You crashed onto the deck of the Sunny - Zoro landing first with a grunt, instinctively shielding you from the impact. For a second you were cradled in his arms, breath knocked out of you, face way too close to his.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, breath warm against your cheek.

You were blushing before you could stop yourself.

Luffy’s loud laughter then snapped you out of your trance, pulling your attention away from Zoro. You scrambled to your feet, aiming your scythe at the rubber man. “I will end you, you stretchy idiot.”

Zoro stood beside you, cracking his neck and matching your glare. “Not if I end him first.”

“Sorry Zoro, sorry Y/N!” Luffy said with zero remorse, skipping off toward the galley.

You and Zoro exchanged a look - exasperated, exhausted, but also not at all surprised by your captain’s nonchalance. You then sighed, dragging a hand over your face. “Remind me again why I joined this crew?”

“Definitely not because it came with free air travel.”

You snorted despite yourself, rolling your shoulders to ease the ache of the landing.

“You sure you’re okay?” Zoro glanced at you from the corner of his eye as he brushed off the dust on his sleeve. You looked at him, catching the way his eyes now scanned you like he wasn’t entirely convinced you were alright.

“I’m fine, Zoro,” you said, softer than before. “Thanks to you.”

He grunted, looking away quickly, “Tch. Don’t get used it.”

You watched the way he lingered by your side a moment longer before heading below deck, and couldn’t help but smile to yourself. Because even if Zoro couldn’t follow directions to save his life, he always found a way to you.

Sanji

Instantly smitten the minute he saw you. You were probably holding your scythe like a warning sign. Didn’t work, he’s just fallen harder.

You would expect someone of your height to struggle with wielding a scythe, but you don’t - and in his eyes, the battlefield becomes your stage, where you move with the grace of a dancer.

Cue nosebleed every time you make a clean, graceful strike.

*Hearts in his eyes* “My angel of death!”

Beats up Luffy and Usopp if they make short jokes about you. Only thing worse than imitating Sanji, is imitating you.

Will lug that weapon around for you even if you don’t ask him to. “It’s a gentleman’s duty. I shall hold the murder stick, my love.”

Tries to sneak nutrients into your meals. “There’s still time for you to grow…” You glare. He melts.

xxxx

Nami had made it clear - no run-ins with the Marines. Stay low, get the supplies, and get out.

Simple. Something you had done a hundred times before.

But all that went to hell when you passed a group of Marines loitering near a wall plastered with wanted posters. One of those wanted posters being yours.

“That’s Y/N L/N bounty? Must be a mistake.”

“She’s so short, can she even lift that thing?”

“I bet I could take her. Knock her out while that scythe weighs her down.”

A chorus of laughter followed.

Sanji stiffened beside you, immediately noticing you had stopped in your tracks to listen. He reached out to hold you back, but you were faster.

You spun with the grace of a dancer - one smooth arc, metal gleaming, and then a splash of red. The Marine was on the ground, your scythe pressed just against his ear where the blade had nicked him.

“Still think you can take me?” you murmured, voice cold and steady.

He whimpered under your blade. The remaining Marines were quick to react, drawing out their weapons. You were still focused on the first when one lunged from the side, blade catching your cheek.

Sanji reacted before things could get worse. He grabbed your arm, landed a square kick to the Marine’s chest, and then pulled you into a sprint. Both of you ran back to the Sunny - and from there it was a quick escape accompanied by Nami’s furious yelling.

Later, tucked away in the medbay, Sanji knelt before you, gently brushing your hair back to dab at the small cut on your cheek with some antiseptic. You winced at the sting of the alcohol pressed against your open wound, and Sanji’s brows furrowed.

“You should have let me handle that guy,” he muttered, lower lip jutting out in a pout, irritation edged with concern.

“They needed to see what I can do with a scythe,” you replied casually, watching him as he continued to clean your wound. “Besides, I’m fine.”

“I know you are,” he said, pausing to meet your gaze. “Doesn’t mean I like seeing you get hurt.”

You tilted your head, a small smile forming. These were the moments that made you realise just how much he cared.

“It’s just a cut.”

He huffed, clearly very annoyed. “Still. If anyone hurts my beautiful lady like that again, I’ll crush their faces into the pavement myself.”

You chuckled. “Protective huh?”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “When it comes to you? Always.”

Law

Not one to quickly judge, but the sight of you with a scythe caught him off guard. Didn’t except you to wield a weapon that’s almost twice your size. Nevertheless, he is impressed.

Your sparring practice = Law’s secret favourite pastime. He’s standing in the corner, arms crossed, lips twitching.

He knows you’re strong, knows you can handle yourself - but he still worries. If he can’t see you on the battlefield, he’s looking for your scythe. And if that’s nowhere in sight? Then it’s full-on rampage mode. You were actually just behind him. But on the bright side, ten enemies were KO’d in an instant.

Makes you sit in his lap under the pretext of you being “too short” for the table (that’s a lie, the table is the perfect height). But everyone’s too scared to comment on the image of Trafalgar Law and the tiny scythe-wielding menace.

The height difference lowkey kills him. Cause how is someone who’s so short and carries a weapon that’s definitely too big for them, just as intimidating as him??

Internally combusting every time you wield your scythe. But no one can know, cause he’s the Surgeon of Death. A tiny Grim Reaper cannot be having this effect on him.

xxxx

You stormed into Law’s quarters, boots thudding heavily against the floor with purpose. The door slammed shut behind you, hard enough to rattle a nearby stack of books. But Law didn’t flinch. He barely looked up from where he sat scanning some maps he found at the Marine base you had just raided.

“You almost got us both killed!” you snapped, voice low but furious.

Without lifting his eyes, he replied flatly, “We’re not dead though.”

You scowled, tossing your scythe against the wall with a loud clatter. The dried blood on its blade was a reminder of just how close things had gotten. Marching forward, you slammed your fists against his desk, demanding his attention. “That’s not the damn point.”

This time, Law looked up - gaze sharp but unreadable as always. “I’m the captain. I made the final call.”

“Disrupting my fight was your ‘final call’!?” you shot back. “If I hadn’t noticed you in time, that scythe would have had your blood instead!”

He stood slowly, pushing the maps aside, then stepping towards you calmly. He was always composed. Even when you were cracking. “I make better decisions when I can see you.”

You crossed your arms, “Some would argue the opposite.”

He stood in front of you now, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of something. One hand rose, his thumb brushing under your eye.

You flinched.

“How did this happen?”

You blinked. You hadn’t even felt it. Hadn’t even known that it was there. But Law had seen it. Even amidst all the chaos of a battle - he had.

Without another word, he guided you to sit on the bed behind him. You didn’t resist, the fire in you having dissipated, replaced by something quieter. Law crouched in front of you, grabbing the first aid kit from his bedside.

He didn’t speak while he cleaned the wound, careful and methodical as always - dabbing antiseptic, then gently placing a small bandage under your eye. You’d torn through a squad of Marines today, and yet he touched you like you were something that might break.

When he was done, he didn’t step away. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a featherlight kiss to the spot just beneath the fresh bandage. He lingered there - silent and unmoving. Not asking for forgiveness, just holding you for a long quiet moment.

You closed your eyes, breathing out a sigh as you let your chin rest on the top of his head. “I’m not mad, that you made a call,” you whispered. “It just…sometimes it feels like you don’t think I’m capable enough.”

He pulled back slightly, gaze locking with yours. “I know you’re capable,” he said. “You’re precise, lethal, and brilliant. Everyone out there fears you.” A beat. “But that doesn’t stop me from worrying.”

You studied him for a moment, then allowed a tired smile to form. “You overthink too much.”

He smirked. “And you don’t think enough.”

The maps lay forgotten now. He nudged you back gently onto the bed, then lay beside you - finally calm. Peace, for Law, was simply being next to you.

Sabo

Pats you on the head after you do something. Doesn’t matter whether you like it or not - it’s happening.

He’s always complimenting you on your scythe technique. Just genuine admiration for you.

Thinks you look adorable when you’re sharpening your scythe in a corner. Everyone else is terrified - as they should be.

You try being all tough even around him, but he sees right through it. You’re his “tiny terror”.

Busting out a laugh every time you’re threatening someone - which totally ruins your vibe. You’re threatening him next. He’s still laughing.

Would also be one to worry if he loses sight of you during a fight. Nobody wants to get in his way then.

xxxx

The sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees, casting light over the Revolutionary Army’s camp. A few new recruits were scattered around the area - some fumbling through basic drills, others lounging about. You sat calmly on a tree stump, your scythe resting in your lap as you sharpened its blade. You could feel the stares - half curious, half fear - but your face gave nothing away.

“That’s the one they call the Grim Reaper, right?”

“Her? That thing’s taller than she is!”

You paused mid-stroke.

Your eyes flicked up, locking onto the group of wide-eyed recruits. They froze the moment your gaze landed on them.

“Wanna see what I can do with this thing that’s taller than me?” you asked, voice cold and clipped, driving the scythe’s blade into the ground.

Silence.

Then - laughter.

Your eyes narrowed in the direction of the sound, death glare sharpening as it found its mark.

Leant casually against a nearby tree, was Sabo, clearly entertained. When his eyes met yours he offered a lazy, amused smile - equal parts teasing and utterly enamoured.

He pushed off the trunk and sauntered over to you.

“Trying to scare the recruits again, my tiny terror?”

You rolled your eyes, refusing to look up as you continued sharpening your weapon. “What do you want, Sabo?”

He grinned. “Just dropped by to say - you look adorable right now.”

You froze, and slowly turned to stare at him, disbelief clearly written on your face. “Adorable? I’m sharpening a deadly scythe! I should be terrifying!” You gave an annoyed huff and went back to your task.

He crouched down beside you, an almost fond smile on his face before it turned into a cheeky grin. His tone then shifted to one of exaggerated affection.

“You’re so terrifying~” Sabo cooed, ruffling your hair. You shot him a glare, somewhere between exasperated and flustered. He then leaned in, grin widening when he caught a hint of colour creep up your cheeks. “But also, really, really cute.”

You scowled and swatted the top of his head with the base of your scythe, earning a dramatic “ow!” from him even though you barely tapped him.

“Did she just whack the Chief of Staff over the head!?” One of the recruits yelped in horror.

Sabo rubbed the back of his head like it actually hurt, still grinning like a fool. “Think they find you scary now?”

“Keep teasing me and I won’t use the blunt end next time.”

He leaned in even closer, lips almost brushing yours. Sabo stared at you for a while, a soft smile on his face, and you couldn’t help but blush again. “Would be totally worth it.”

You shoved him lightly, and he laughed as he stood and offered you a hand. “Come on, tiny terror. I made lunch. You’re going to need all the energy you can get if you’re going to keep terrifying the newbies.”

You muttered something under your breath but took his hand anyway. And as he led you off - still chuckling at your annoyed grumbling - the recruits watched in stunned silence.

Ace

“Hot damn.” That was his first reaction after you casually decapitated someone trying to sneak up on him. He’s now down bad.

You’re his “travel size Grim Reaper.” Short, lethal, and just for him. You hate it. He says it more.

“You’re dangerous.” he says eyeing your weapon and then you. “You like that, don’t you?” You say with a grin. “I’m crazy about it.”

Came up with a combo move where he coats your scythe with his flames. Insists on calling it the “Fire Reaper Flash”.

Comes to your defence when you’re in an argument with someone, but it doesn’t really do much, you’re far more intimidating than him.

Gets this mischievous glint in his eyes when someone underestimates you, “Want to see something cool?” Cue destruction. Uses the Fire Reaper Flash for extra effect.

xxxx

The battle field was chaos - flames, smoke, pirates shouting and scrambling for their lives. And in the middle of it all, there was you. Short, scythe-wielding and completely unbothered, as you moved through the ruckus as if you were taking a stroll through the park.

Through the smoke, Ace emerged, after knocking out an enemy with a flaming punch to the gut. He spotted you and grinned wide.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself, watching with a smirk as you swiftly dealt with a pirate that got in your way. “That’s my travel size Grim Reaper.”

You stopped in front of him, rolling your eyes. “I told you not to call me that in front of people.”

He chuckled, scanning the area around him. “They’re all unconscious, sweetheart.”

“Not that guy.” You pointed your scythe at one final pirate who was left standing - bloodied, furious, and charging at you with all the power he could muster. Someone was clearly mad about losing.

Ace spared him a glance, then looked back at you, completely unphased. He wiped the soot off your cheek, then tilted your chin up like he had all the time in the world.

“Ready for our ultimate couple move?” Ace cackled, eyes sparkling as if he had been waiting all day for this exact moment. Maybe that was why he ‘accidentally’ got caught while trying to raid a rival pirate crew’s base.

You groaned. “Do we have to?”

But he was already charging up, the heat around his body intensifying. Flames curled around his arm, and with a grin full of mischief and pride, he shot it towards your scythe, close enough to singe you, but obviously not.

You watched as his flames wrapped around the curved blade - beautiful but dangerous. It hummed in your hands like it was alive, the metal glowing a brilliant orange. But it didn’t burn you, Ace made sure of that.

The pirate was now fast approaching, shouting all sorts of profanities and how “tiny creatures” didn’t scare him. You didn’t even flinch.

Then you moved. One quick dash, your flaming scythe cutting through the smoke. The moment the blade made contact with its target, fire exploded, the force sending the pirate crashing into the dirt, flames licking at his coat before fizzling out.

Ace let out a low whistle, watching as the fire died down. “See!? I told you Fire Reaper Flash was a sick move!”

“You nearly set me on fire,” you muttered, flicking ashes off your sleeves and scythe.

He strolled over with a grin, clearly proud of himself. “You would’ve been hot - both figuratively and literally then.”

“Shut up.” You tried to scowl, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a smile.

Ace laughed, slipping his arms around your waist in one smooth motion. His hands were warm against your back as he pulled you close, forehead bumping gently against yours for just a second before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek - warm, soft, and just a spark of heat.

“We should come up with another move,” he murmured. “Something that screams us…Hot and Deadly, how does that sound?”

You groaned again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you,” he said with a wink, fingers intertwining with yours.

Then still laughing, he tugged you along and headed back to the Moby Dick - leaving behind fire, chaos, and one very unlucky pirate crew.

Kinda have a thing for Ace now, I mean who wouldn’t?? 👀

[heartsiebyul]

Walk with me here.. The VDC group with an S/O that does acrobatics but is to shy to tell them

Twisted Wonderland VDC boys when their shy lover turns out to be secretly talented at acrobatics.

NRC TRIBE

Vil Schoenheit

Vil had been rehearsing a particularly intricate dance segment when he noticed (name) stretching in the corner—nothing new, except the flexibility they displayed was exceptional. Too exceptional. Then came the moment that changed everything.

He turned around to grab his water bottle—and froze.

(name) was mid-air, flipping gracefully from a ledge of the stage rigging. They landed silently in a cat-like crouch, unaware of his presence.

A beat passed.

“…Stunning,” Vil breathed.

You froze. Your head snapped up to find Vil standing a few steps away.

“V-Vil?!” you gasped, heat rushing to your face. “I—I didn’t mean—!”

He approached with slow, deliberate steps, expression unreadable. Then, gently cupping your jaw, he said in a low, velvet voice,

“And here I thought I had an eye for elegance,” he said softly. “Why would you hide something so exquisite?”

You looked down, voice barely audible. “I didn’t think it was important… or that I was good enough to show you.”

Vil let out a soft sigh, He shook his head, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

“Darling, you don't need to meet my standards. You've already exceeded them simply by being you.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Tomorrow, we choreograph something together. Just the two of us. And we’ll make the stage ours.”

Rook Hunt

Rook had always suspected something extraordinaire about his beloved—(name). Your movements were far too fluid—like you had a bird’s knowledge of the wind.

So when he stumbled upon you practicing flips in the moonlight of the old courtyard, he didn’t interrupt. He stood in the shadows, utterly captivated as you performed a series of flawless aerials.

When you landed and turned, startled by a soft clap, Rook stepped into the light with a hand over his heart.

“Ah, mon ange acrobatique… I am truly blessed to witness such poetry in motion.”

You flushed instantly. “Y-You saw that? I—I usually only practice when no one’s around…”

Rook smiled, eyes sparkling. “Why conceal such beauty? You move like a sonnet—each motion a stanza, each breath a verse.”

He strode forward and gently took your hand.

“Please, allow me to celebrate this part of you. I would compose an ode to the skies just for the honor of seeing you fly."

Epel Felmier

It was during rehearsal that (name) saved Epel from taking a nasty fall. The prop platform they were standing on tilted unexpectedly, and in a flash, (name) launched into the air and caught Epel by the arm with astonishing ease.

Epel blinked up at you, jaw slack.

“…Did you just superhero flip to catch me?!”

You slowly set him down, flushed and flustered. “Uhh… maybe…?”

“You—That was frickin’ awesome!!” He grabbed your shoulders, eyes wide with excitement. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you could do that?!”

“I… I get nervous when people watch me…” you admitted, fidgeting.

Epel grinned. “Well, I’m gonna be your biggest fan now. You’re cooler than all those gymnasts on MagicTube.”

He nudged you playfully. “Bet I could learn some moves from you. Wanna teach me? You throw me, I’ll scream—win-win!”

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim had been enjoying the evening air from the Scarabia rooftop when he heard movement nearby. Curious, he peeked around the corner—and nearly fell over when he saw (Name) flipping in midair, silhouetted against the twilight sky.

“WHOA!” he gasped, hands on the railing. “(name)!! That was SO COOL!”

you stumbled to a halt, looking horrified. “Kalim?! I didn’t know anyone was up here—”

He was already running over, arms flailing excitedly. “You’re like a firework! Why didn’t you ever tell me you could do that?!”

“I… I didn’t think it was important,” you whispered.

Kalim shook his head, grabbing your hands with a bright grin.

“Everything about you is important to me. Especially the stuff you’re shy about. I love all of it!”

He twirled you around playfully. “We should plan a party just for this! Acrobatics and dance—it’ll be the best night ever!”

Then paused. “Unless… you don’t want people to know yet? That’s okay too! I’ll keep it a secret just for us.”

Jamil Viper

Jamil had heard strange sounds echoing through the empty dorm hallway—soft thuds, sharp exhales. Quietly following them, he turned a corner and found (name) springing off the walls with perfect precision, landing in a three-point stance like a trained performer.

He raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “…You planning to join the circus or just training to assassinate someone?”

you yelped and nearly fell flat. “I—I—Jamil!!”

He smirked but approached slowly. “Relax. I’m not mad. Just… impressed.”

you fidgeted. “I didn’t want you to think I was weird…”

Jamil’s voice softened. “(name)… you think I care about ‘weird’? Have you met my dorm?”

He reached out, brushing your fingers.

“You’re talented. And more than that, you’re strong enough to keep something like this hidden for so long. That’s impressive in itself.”

Then with a teasing glint, “Next time we perform, you’re flipping on stage. No arguments.”

Ace Trappola

It started with a dumb dare.

“I bet you can’t land a jump shot from behind the bleachers,” Ace teased, spinning the basketball on his finger.

You flushed and determined, just smiled slightly… then took a running leap, flipped over the bench, and dunked it clean into the hoop.

Ace stood frozen, ball thudding against the floor.

“…WHAT?!”

you landed with a soft, soft smile. “Um. Surprise?”

Ace ran over, staring like he’d seen a ghost. “YOU’RE AN ACROBAT?! Since when?! No—why didn’t you TELL ME?! That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!”

you shifted nervously. “I didn’t want to make a big deal…”

“You kidding? I’m making a huge deal! My partner’s a badass secret agent ninja acrobat!” He threw an arm around your shoulders. “We’re bragging. I’m bragging. Everywhere.”

He winked. “Unless you want me to keep it quiet. But like...I will explode.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce had gone looking for you in the gym after noticing they’d been distant all week. When he found you mid-backflip on the tumbling mat, he stopped dead in his tracks.

you landed cleanly—and then turned and locked eyes with him, going completely still.

“…Deuce.”

“(name)... are you a ninja?” he asked, entirely serious.

your face went red. “I just… do acrobatics for fun. I didn’t want anyone to know…”

Deuce slowly walked over, placing both hands on you shoulders.

“That was incredible. I mean it. I always thought you were amazing, but that just… wow.”

you laughed nervously. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

He shook his head fiercely. “No way. It’s inspiring. Honestly, I wish I was half that cool.”

Then, quieter, he added,

“Thanks for trusting me with this. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

He smiled, pure and steady. “If you ever want to show me more… I’d love to watch.”

[studioeisa]

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.

[goodluckchamp]

GO PAT GO 

PAIRING: Patrick Zweig x Art Donaldson x Tashi Duncan x Reader  WORD COUNT: 2208 CONTENT TAGS: College AU, frenemies, betting, tennis match, light public humiliation, sort of insecure reader?, frat boys (tw), Patrick being a pervert/asshole, unresolved sexual tension SUMMARY: You lose a bet, and Patrick has a perverted dare you have to fulfill at his match.

It starts with a stupid bet. Because of course it does. 

You and Patrick are bickering about something dumb— something not worth either of your time but it happens anyway— something about whether or not he can land a ridiculous trick shot in the dorm hallway with a tennis ball, a cup, and a frying pan. 

This is the exact kind of nonsense you wanted to avoid ever since you and your roommate, Tashi, ended up living across the hall from this stupid tennis freak. Although the four of you have gotten pretty close, it’s been months of this— his relentless, brash need to prove himself to you in the most useless ways. You hate it. You hate him. (Though his roommate Art is quite sweet.)

Tashi, lounging in your bed, proposes a bet. Loser does a dare. 

Somehow confident, you shake on it. 

And Patrick nails the shot. 

He is gleeful as you fume at the fact that the tennis ball, with a ridiculous precision, actually got into the slim cup with a single whack of a pan. Tashi gives Patrick some time to think of a dare, a really good one, for you to carry out. But he doesn’t think twice when he pulls out a picture of a specific outfit from a Halloween costume site. (The fact that he has the tab saved??)

Cut to Patrick’s match the next day, where you— murderous— sit in the front row, dead center of the bleachers in a skimpy, blue and white cheerleading outfit. Cropped tank, short skirt, knee-high socks, the works. Clearly, this outfit is meant for anything but actual cheerleading, seeing how the skirt is so short it’s practically indecent for any real sport. The whole thing screams “slut” in the sluttiest way possible— and you’ve already been whistled at by some frat dudes before the match even started. Fuck Patrick Zweig. You hope he fucking loses. 

Much to your dismay, Patrick’s taking the lead with ease. But honestly? He barely even registers it. He’s too busy sneaking glances at you in that damn cheerleading outfit, thighs and arms crossed in an attempt to hide the exposed parts of your body. Your scowl should make you look intimidating but somehow, it just makes you look hotter. 

And he knows that Tashi and Art are looking at you too. 

Tashi’s leaning back in her seat, legs crossed, sipping her drink with a straw as she goes back between Patrick’s game and your thighs, right where you keep rubbing together as if it’ll make your skin go away. Patrick makes eye contact with Tashi, and her lazy smile is not subtle— like she’s already seen this whole scenario play out in her head before it even happened. She gives Patrick a short nod— that sly devil. 

And Art? Although his eyes mostly remain at Patrick, he’s not being very subtle in his arousal either. He looks rather conflicted, like he doesn’t want to be affected because his best friend is playing tennis, Tashi's right there, and it’s so wrong to keep looking at you like that— yet his hands are clenched into fists, and he keeps shifting in his seat whenever you adjust yourself. He wants to pretend he’s above this, but he absolutely is not. 

You watch as Patrick saunters to his seat during the changeover, racket hanging loose in his grip, sweat sleek on his arms. He takes a swig from his water bottle but his eyes casually flicks up— right at you. 

Since you can’t flip him off in this very public event, you mouth the curse instead, nice and slow with a deliberate, irritated frown. Patrick smirks at your silent tantrum. Then, with his smug, manspreading posture that makes you want to strangle him, he winks. 

Ugh. Patrick does not deserve to win this match. 

You roll your eyes at his ridiculous confidence, and you stuff your aggravation down to your stomach. But there’s no hiding the way your lips twitch like you’re fighting a smile. 

And then— he goes off. 

Patrick is everywhere on the court, fast and aggressive. His reflexes are tied to his instinct, and he moves like he knows he’s going to win. Tashi leans in. His footwork is effortless, his swings are precise— he’s locked in.

“Damn,” Art comments, completely invested. “He’s actually playing clean.” 

Tashi smiles, amused. “He’s showing off.” 

And it’s working. Because at some point, you stop thinking about your outfit, about the whistling frat dudes, and how childish this whole thing is— and you just watch him. So does everyone else. 

Tashi’s elbow rests on her knees as she watches the match with sharp eyes, her drink discarded to the ground. Art has his hands gripping onto his seat, head turning left, right, left, right, following the tennis ball without fail. The crowd is hooked, and Patrick thrives in the spotlight like the attention whore he is. 

Patrick wins, obviously. The ball bounces out of reach, and the match is over. The crowd cheers as Patrick drops his racket and turns to you, giving a cocky little bow. He’s such a proud motherfucker with his curls damp, his shirt clinging to him, and his eyes sealed on you like he’s won something bigger than the match itself. 

And you— murderous, murderous— can’t stop your smile. 

He rushes through the obligatory handshake with his exhausted opponent before he jogs up to where you’re sitting. He wipes the sweat trickling down his face with his shirt, head buzzing from the win as he approaches you.

“I won.” He grins. “What’s my reward?” 

Your face twists, suddenly remembering, oh, right, you’re still in this fuckass costume. 

“The reward is that I don’t murder you in this stupid outfit.” 

Patrick leans in slightly. “Come on, (Y/N). Give me a little ‘Go, Pat, Go.’”

Tashi and Art are dying in the background and you just huff and turn your head away. Patrick laughs at your tinted cheeks but gives you grace, and leaves before he does something stupid. 

Patrick offers to walk you back to your dorm after the game, alone, claiming that you need to pretend to be his cheerleader girlfriend so that he can show you off— which isn’t part of the bet but you find yourself doing it anyway. 

He keeps bumping into people telling him how great he was today, while you stand awkwardly beside him with a bare-minimum smile plastered on your face out of politeness. You try to ignore the fact that you look like his trophy— dolled-up and suggestive— that’s about to be his reward back in his dorm room. The only thing you can do is cross your arms like you want to disappear. 

You and Patrick finally reach your building, and you walk with a gap between the two of you through the hallway as a way of protest. But Patrick gets closer, putting his arms around you. You glare at him, and fuck, you look good doing it. 

You push him away as an attempt to keep your distance, and Patrick, with his stupid, small mindedness, has the audacity to look offended. He is honestly confused. Because why are you so weird about this? Why are you acting like you did something humiliating instead of— well, just existing while looking hot? 

“You know, I don’t get you sometimes.” 

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” 

Patrick just grins, his hands in his pockets as he walks. “No, really. You lose a bet, you put on a little skirt, and you look cute as hell. Like, really cute, by the way— but instead of owning it, you look like you want to kill me and yourself at the same time.” 

“And?” 

“And,” Patrick shrugs. “Tashi wears whatever the fuck she wants, walks around like she’s God’s gift to Earth—” 

“ –She is.”

Patrick groans. You can be so protective over her. “Yes, she is. But she owns it. You don’t. And I’m wondering why that is.” 

“You try putting on this stupid outfit and see how it feels,” you mumble, pulling out your keys from your bag. “Not everyone is as comfortable with attention as you.” 

That slows him down as he cocks his head at your comment. “So that’s it? You hate attention?” 

It’s not that you hate it, you think. You just hate it when it's from Patrick Zweig. But you’d never admit that.

“It’s just that people only give it when they want something.” 

Patrick stops.

“What’s wrong with wanting something?” 

You turn to him and he’s looking right at you— not with his usual teasing amusement, like he’s waiting for you to get angry or embarrassed— but there’s a genuine amount of sincerity mixed with wonder on his face. Like he’s actually curious for your answer. It makes you feel so strange. 

“When I played today, I had your full attention,” Patrick hums. “Did you want something from me?” 

“I wanted you to die?” 

Patrick laughs. “Come on, be serious.” 

You can hear your heartbeat speeding up in your ears— since when were you so uncomfortable with being honest? You’re fine. You’re an adult. You can talk about your feelings.

“Fine,” You exhale. “I wanted you to win.”

Patrick beams. Exactly what he wanted to hear. 

“I liked that.” He tilts his head, as if to reminisce about the match. “Felt good, knowing you were watching. Wanting something from me.” 

You feel heat creep up the back of your neck. You push it down. 

“That’s different.” 

You start walking again, your steps a little bit faster than before. You arrive by your door without giving another look towards Patrick, pulling out your keys to unlock your room.

But Patrick catches up to you, and his relentless persona is back— he needs to prove something to you again. 

“Is it different, though?” 

You open the door but he quickly presses his body against it, his body weight easily overpowering your pull. 

You turn to him in irritation. “Let me open the door, Pat.” 

He stupidly persists. “You act like wanting something is some big, dangerous thing.” 

“It can be.”

He shakes his head. He’s not smiling anymore, like he’s actually frustrated at the wall you’ve put up just for him. And you’re grasping at the ends of it while it threatens to crumble away. 

“I think it only feels that way when you believe that you don’t deserve it.” He leans closer. “Being wanted.” 

You breathe in. It’s shaky. You refuse to fall this way. You stand your ground, eyes unwavering.

“So what do you want from me?” 

Patrick stares at you for a moment, watching you twitch at the silence. When he finally smiles— like he knew you’d ask, but he likes that you did—something shifts.

The space between you disappears before you can register it. You’re unsure who moved first. You’d like to think it wasn’t you, but the chuckle before Patrick really goes for it gives you the truth. And it infuriates you. 

His lips are surprisingly soft. You don’t want to admit you have thought about kissing him before, but you had your expectations— something rough, something intrusive, like he always is. But in reality, it’s actually quite sincere and earnest— like he truly, deeply wanted this for a very long time. 

His hand grabs your face as he slides his tongue into you— and you push his back against the door, attempting to regain some form of control when you feel like you’re losing it. He just lets it happen and pulls your body closer, like your strength means nothing to him. His hand relishes the feel of your uncovered waist. His touch is warm and nice— and you— you don’t know why you ever acted like you didn’t want this. 

Why didn’t you want this? 

The answer slams into you as his fingers sneak into your top— Patrick Zweig wants a lot of things. A lot of people. It’s just who he is, all hunger and impulse, collecting desires to prove himself to something that claws at the core of his being. 

And you refuse to be just another one of them. 

The realization burns through the haze of lust and suddenly, the kiss, the touches, and his pounding heartbeat feels dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with how good it feels. 

You pull back. 

What a sight— Patrick’s lips are swollen, parted, along with his pupils blown wide— like he wants to say something clever or cheeky but there’s nothing left in his brain anymore. 

He leans in again— and you wish you could keep him this way, tarnished and speechless— but you shove him away. You think he’ll push harder— do you want him to push you harder?— but he just stares at you like he knew this would happen. Something akin to defeat flashes past his expression. 

He has nothing else to say as you open your door. 

You swallow. “Goodnight, Patrick.” 

Patrick watches you head into your dorm room, but he doesn’t miss the way your cheeks are flushed as you shut the door in his face. 

He chooses not to comment on it. 

He’d like to think that he’s not a complete asshole after all. 

NOTE: Tashi please use me so you can manipulate the boys into playing better tennis hello please call me I miss you !!!

[voltronisanobsession]

Stuck in a Loop | Teen Wolf x Reader

A little story I had while listening to Emily Jeffri teehee😁 a little less focused on romance but whateva👼

If the end feels a little rushed, shhhh ignore it

A soft bump on the road awoke you, causing you to slowly open your eyes. Clearing your throat, you lean away from the window of the car and reach for the nearly empty water bottle next to you, drinking the last of it, yet still wanting more.

“Do you have any more water?” You ask, voice still scratchy from your nap. Stiles looks away from the road for a second and seems to think before answering.

“Uh yeah I think. Check in the pocket behind the seat.”

You twist your body as much as you could to reach the back of your seat, barely reaching it before you feel the familiar shape of a bottle. Cracking it open, you take two full gulps before pulling it away, asking if Stiles wanted any and covering it back up when he declined.

You look up just in time to see you guys passed a speed limit sign, the bold 40 MPH making it hard to miss.

“Why does Scott want us to meet him again? I feel like it’s too late to be calling us for help.” You yawned.

“I don’t know, he didn’t really say anything, just told me where to go.” Stiles shrugged while rubbing his eyes with one hand and steering with his other. You grabbed his hand before he could place it back on the wheel, wanting to just hold his hand.

The boy looked at you once again with a smile, slightly squeezing your hand which made you smile in turn. You both were so caught up with each other that none of you saw the deer that suddenly appear on the road until it was too late.

A quick glance in front you had you shouting in fear.

“DEER! STILES DEER!”

It all happened so quickly. Stiles swerved to the left trying to avoid the deer yet served back to the right too quickly. The car was off the road for a second, touching the natural ground for a moment before the tire started giving out. Had they popped the tire?

Stiles tried his best to steer the car back but it was done. The front right tire caused the entire car to lean towards the right, flipping the car over and down the hill it once drove on.

Neither of you could yell or scream by the amount of flips the car made going down the hill. You hit your head against the window of the door, your head pounding against it the entire way down.

After what felt like an eternity, the jeep finally made one more flip before landing on its side at the bottom. The silence was deafening after everything was done

Glass was scattered everywhere. You were littered with cuts all over your body. Opening your eyes with as much strength as you could muster, you tired your head to look at Stiles.

He sat there motionless and full of cuts and blood, arms hanging limp by his sides. As much as you tried, you couldn’t move your hand to hold his, tears slowly falling down your bloodied cheek. Somewhere inside you knew he was no longer with you

You felt yourself slowly fading into darkness. Your eyes struggled to stay open, your body struggled to not lose consciousness.

Yet you let it all go.

You closed your eyes and let death take away into the night, just like it did with Stiles.

═══

You slowly opened your eyes as a small bump in the road awoke you. Twisting your necklace, you stretched before glancing around in confusion.

You grabbed the nearly empty water bottle that sat next to you, staring at it with confusion as you held it in your hand.

“You good?” Stiles’ voice snapped you out of your trance, confusion and worry etched upon his face as he glanced at you

“Uh yeah, yeah. I just had a really weird dream. That’s it.” You say as you place down the bottle back in the cup holder.

You reach for the back of the seat, twisting your body enough for you to feel the shape of a bottle in the pocket hidden in the dark. Hm.

“I forgot that was there! I thought we were out.” Stiles said while gesturing to the bottle between you, still focused on the road yet continuously glancing at your silent frame.

“What?” You whisper in confusion, eyeing the yellow speed limit sign as you passed it. 40 MPH.

“You wanna, I don’t know, talk about your dream? You look like you've seen a ghost.” The boy said, a hint of humor in his voice. You glanced at him with a grimace. He immediately saw your apprehension and turned serious.

“I had a dream where everything that’s happening now, happened. Don’t look at me stiles, keep an eye on the road. After we passed the speed limit sign though, we were busy looking at each other to see a deer on the road.” Just as you said that, you saw a figure in the distance, the moonlight barely outlining it in the dark.

“There! Be careful!” Stiles had enough time to move to the left lane and carefully maneuvered the car back to the right lane. You look in the rear view mirror in shock as you stared at the deer, shrinking in the distance.

“How did you know it was there?” Stiles eyebrows furrowed. Your hand traveled to the necklace sitting on your neck, twisting it with anxiousness.

This had to be a dream, right? There was no way everything was repeating itself.

“What’s going on?” Whispering to yourself, you didn’t even see the car speeding towards you guys. And just like that, again, everything happened too quickly.

===

"STILES!" You gasp loudly, scaring the life out of the boy driving next to you.

"WHAT? WHAT HAPPENED?!" The brunette hit his brakes a little too hard causing you both to slam forward as the car makes a halting stop.

You take deep breathes as you take in your surroundings, hands fiddling with your necklace in anxiousness. You're still in the car, next to your boyfriend, alive. You were alive. He was alive.

You reach to grab the water bottle from the back of the seat, staring at it in horror. Something was not right.

"Y/N! What's going on? You can't just go screaming my name while I'm driving!" Stiles turns to you, trying to make sense why you look close to crying.

His heart clenches at the sight of tears trailing down your face.

"I-I don't know! I don't know what's going on! We keep dying and restarting this entire situation over again but something is always happening! First it w-was the deer and hill, then it was the random car! Stiles I don't know what to do!" You could only sob into your hands as Stiles tries his best to comfort you.

"What do you mean we keep dying? Hey, hey, calm down. You're ok, I'm right here." Stiles rubs your back as he twists his body to hug you over the car console. It's a bit awkward for him and you can't help the watery laugh you let out as he continues to hug you.

"Um yeah. I know it's not a dream because I r-remember everything. Every time we've had an accident, I wake up in the same spot and everything. It starts all over again everytime." You rub your eyes in exhaustion. Is this a supernatural problem you're facing right now? After everything you've been through, the signs are pointing to yes.

"Ok so like a time loop? If you're the only one who remembers what's happened before, then it's probably gonna keep happening until you break it." The boy says thoughtfully out loud. He seems to think for a moment and you can't help but feel thankful for him.

He didn't question what you were saying and fully believed you. Even though he doesn't remember the previous events, he was making an effort to help you. Stiles looks back to you and gives you a reassuring smile. You return it with a small smile of your own.

"If we're actually stuck in a time loop than we gotta figure what's trapping us in it. I'm guessing the same things are gonna happen no matter what until one of us figures out how to get out. Man this is so cool, I only read about these kinds of things in books!" You give him a dark glare as he says that last part. Everything about this has not been cool whatsoever.

"I genuinely don't know. Everything has been the same until we drive past the speed sign. After that, the deer came in, and then the random car." Stiles hums as you say this. Then he claps.

"Ok that's something! You said it happens after we pass the sign right? What if we just don't pass it?" You give him a look of confusion as he changes gears and starts driving in reverse.

"Ohh that's smart! It could be the sign that's keeping the loop going!" You give his arm a pat as you smile.

"That's what I was thinking! We'll just head to the gas station like this and see if that changes anything." You both sit in silence as he continues reversing. 10 minutes pass before either of you talks.

In this time, you should have reached the station but it's as if it was a never ending road. Stiles seems to notice this as well and huffs in annoyance. Putting his car in park, he sighs and looks ahead into the night.

"I don't think we've moved from the spot we're in. We're definitely in a loop." Stiles groans after wasting 10 minutes of driving backwards. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, once again grabbing onto your necklace for emotional support.

"I think we only have one choice. We go forwards since we can't go backwards. Just... Just try to be alert and be ready to drive like a mad man. I don't want to lose you again." Stiles glances at you before taking your hand and kissing it.

"I promise we'll get out of this. You're not losing me again." He said it was such conviction that you finally felt a sliver of hope blossom in you. You nodded and kissed his hand.

"Ok, let's get it." Feeling pumped up, Stiles shifted gears and began driving forwards. You saw the sign in the dark distance, chills running down your spine as you read 40 MPH.

"Get ready. A deer's gonna be on the road, so drive to the left when you see it." As you finished, the deer came into view, it's head turning towards you as it watched the car grow closer. Stiles carefully maneuvered around it and settled back into the road.

"Ok now a car is gonna be speeding towards us! I think it's a drunk driver? Please be careful." You say as you shake in fear. This is what got you both last time.

"Got it." He murmured, gripping the wheel as he noticed a shadowy figure growing closer. From the way it was driving erratically, he kept his senses on alert. Soon the car was near them. Stiles swiftly moved to avoid the car that was driving straight towards them. You let out a yelp as the car bumped into the side of his jeep, but nothing else happened.

"Oh thank god! Keep driving, we never got pass that car. I don't know what happens now." Your boyfriend nods and continues driving. It wasn't long until something else happened. This was much more terrifying for you though.

Suddenly loud noises from all over sounded throughout the night. From howling to growls, the noise was deafening to say the least. You let out a scream as something hit your side of the car. Not only were the animalistic sounds carving its way into your brains, now the entire car was getting assaulted from all angles.

"What the hell is happening?! What's hitting us?!" Stiles yelled out, flinching as something hit his window.

"I don't know but I have a feeling we need to figure out how to break the loop now or something bad's gonna happen!" You yelled back, covering your ears and letting out a scream of terror as a black figure rammed its body into your window.

"You have to figure out what's keeping us in the loop Y/N! Think! Was something different when you woke up last time?! Or was it all the same?! There has to be something!" Stiles swerved to avoid hitting a shadowy figure on the road. Whatever was attacking you didn't plan on letting either of you go.

You sat thinking quickly as the hits on the car grew more aggressive. The first time you woke up, you drank your water and then saw the sign. The the deer showed up and that ended! Then you entered the loop! You drank your water, passed the sign, then warned Stiles about the deer. You survived that but then a car came into the picture!

And now in this loop!

"SHIT!" A hit on your side caused the car to skid to the left side of the road which caused him to lose control of the car for a second.

"NOW WOULD BE A GOOD TIME TO SAVE US!" You shut your eyes and tried to focus on your thoughts.

You woke up, the water bottle was the same, you passed the yellow sign and passed the deer. Then you passed the car! So whatever caused this loop had to have been something from the very start! After the deer situation, nothing could have caused the loop. What was different about the beginning?!

You pulled on your necklace and froze. Your necklace. Your necklace? You realized you never had a necklace to begin with. This wasn't even yours!

You furrowed your eyebrows as you yanked the necklace from your neck. It hurt a bit but you didn't care.

"What are you doing?! You just broke the chain!" Stiles looked at you with wide eyes as the animal sounds suddenly grew louder than before. You lifted the object and looked it. It was made from a black metal with a red stone in the center.

"When have you ever seen me wear this?! It's not mine!" Quickly, you rolled down the window and threw the damned thing out and rolled it back up. As you threw it out, an energy force boomed from the car and you watched with fascination as the energy wave flowed through the air. The sheer force of it had you sitting flush against the seat and forced Stiles to stop the car as well.

The banging, the screaming and howling had abruptly stopped. It was quiet, save from the huffs coming from the two of you. You felt your body go lax against the car seat as you closed your eyes.

Finally, it was over.

You both sat in silence for a few minutes, too scared to move in fear something else will pop out in the dead of night. After a moment, Stiles spoke.

"You did it. I thought we were gonna die." His body sagged against the steering wheel, head turned towards you, sweat falling from his hair.

"Me too." You sighed as you dragged your hands down your face. You were never going to drive this late at night ever again.

"I'm proud of you Y/N. You got yourself out of the loop." He let out a laugh and sat against his seat again.

"Well I literally couldn't have done it without you. I'd probably be on my, like, 6th loop if it weren't for you." You smiled and looked into the night. The moon's light touched your hand. It gave you an ethereal glow. How long has it been watching you for?

"I'm going to kill Scott. It was his fault for making us come out this late." Stiles dove for his phone and called Scott. After three rings, the werewolf finally answered.

"Hello?" A groggy voice called into the phone, obviously heavy with sleep. You furrowed your eyebrows.

"What is WRONG with you?! We almost died trying to get to you man!" Stiles yelled into the speaker, causing Scott to wince at the sound.

"What are you talking about? Where are you guys?" Scott suddenly seemed more awake, his voice scratchy from being woken up.

"You sent me a text saying to meet you and to take Y/N with me. Stop trying to act all innocent." You sat in silence as the pieces started clicking together.

"I never sent you anything. I've been asleep the entire time dude." Stiles made a face before searching through his for the message.

"Ok don't play with me. You literally sent me-" He paused midsentence when he pulled up his messages with Scott, only to see the most recent message was sent more than 5 hours ago.

"What the hell? I had a message right here telling us to go to this sketchy place. Where'd it go?" Stiles muttered in confusion.

"I think this thing, whatever it was, was trying to lure us away from the others. We fell right into it's trap." You stated. "Real question is why us two, and why target me specifically?"

All three of you sat in silence before Scott spoke up.

"Come to my house guys. This might be a new monster and I wanna hear what happened with you two. Now I'm actually saying this, not some copy version of me." You both agreed and hung up the phone.

"Wanna go back through there or take the long way?"

You let out a short laugh. "After all that, I'm never driving through here again. Long way all the way."

"I agree. Long way it is."

[weemssapphic]

Lipstick Stains - Pt. 22

previous chapter | next chapter | series page

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

chapter summary: is Larissa right to be nervous to meet your parents? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

words: ~ 3k | ao3 link in title

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Larissa had gotten a call from you the following morning, asking if you could come over when she was finished with work. It was getting dark out earlier and earlier every day, however, and the thought of you driving alone through the woods again in the dark made Larissa’s stomach churn, so she insisted she come to you instead. 

That evening she drove over to Burlington, picking up some sushi on her way to your apartment. You answered the door with a soft smile on your face, which widened to a massive grin when your gaze dropped to the takeout bag Larissa was holding - it made Larissa’s heart skip a beat, and she couldn’t help but grin back. You ushered her into the living room, taking the bag from her and emptying its contents onto the coffee table as Larissa shrugged off her coat and draped it over the back of the smaller couch, before taking a seat on the larger one.

“Cass?” you called out - there were footsteps in the hallway and the brunette poked her head into the room, giving you a questioning glance as she tugged a brush through her hair.

“What?”

“Clear your shit off the table before you leave.”

Larissa arched an eyebrow, giving you a bemused glance as you gestured to a laptop, a flurry of charging cables, and a half empty plastic cup of iced coffee (or what was left of it, as the ice had melted and left a thin layer of water on top of the coffee). Cass rolled her eyes and made her way over to the table, tucking her belongings underneath her arm - she was about to pick up the coffee cup when she spotted the sushi and let out a squeal of delight, reaching out for an avocado roll.

“Hey! Fuck off and get your own!” You swatted her hand away and she huffed, grabbing the cup instead. “I have company.”

“It’s just Larissa,” she said with a laugh, smiling at the blonde - Larissa couldn’t help but smile back, a sideways glance at you showing your annoyed scowl. Cass must’ve noticed too, because she straightened up and started to back out of the room. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry - I’m leaving in 10 minutes anyway. Just don’t forget to put a towel down if you fuck on the couch!”

Larissa could feel her cheeks turn crimson as you picked up Cass’s forgotten hairbrush and threw it out of the room after her.

“I’m so sorry about her, I was hoping she’d be gone before you came over,” you mumbled, your cheeks looking just as red as Larissa’s felt. 

“It’s alright,” Larissa replied, taking your hand in her own and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles as she looked up at you with doe eyes. “She certainly is something.” Truth be told, Larissa found it rather endearing to watch you interact with your friends - especially to see how quickly you got riled up and flustered when they mentioned your relationship.

“Do you want something to drink?” you asked softly, brushing a hand through your hair.

“Just water, please.”

You left the room, returning a minute later with two glasses of water and setting them on the table, before taking a seat beside Larissa on the couch. Her hand landed on your thigh without a second thought, urging you to scoot closer until your thighs were touching as her thumb soothed over the top of your leg in a calming, repetitive movement.

As the two of you began to eat, Larissa could tell you were a bit on edge - you didn’t talk as much as you normally would and you ate slowly, fidgeting with your chopsticks between every bite. Larissa wondered if she should ask you about it, but she didn’t have to, as you set your chopsticks down and angled your body towards her.

“So my mom called yesterday,” you said - Larissa could tell you were trying to keep your tone casual, as if starting a random conversation, but your voice shook a bit and it made her stomach flip. You’d started fidgeting with the hem of your shirt in lieu of the chopsticks, and Larissa set her own aside to turn more towards you and take both of your hands in her own, soothingly stroking your knuckles with her thumbs.

“Oh?” she urged, tilting her head to the side. “Is something wrong?”

“No! Everything’s great. Uh, my parents are coming by this weekend, actually.”

Larissa thought she could see where this was going, and she found herself growing increasingly more nervous, wishing you would get to the point. “That’s nice… isn’t it?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s cool. My mom just, um, she mentioned that they really want to meet you.” Your nerves were definitely rubbing off on Larissa - she wasn’t sure what made you so nervous, but she could feel your hands tremble in her own and she squeezed them slightly. “She asked if you wanted to come out to dinner on Friday.”

There was a beat of silence as Larissa took a moment to process your words. She hadn’t met a girlfriend’s parents in ages - she hadn’t had a girlfriend in ages - and her relationship with you was certainly a little unique from an outside perspective. She blinked slowly, swallowing against the lump that was forming in her throat. 

“I can clear my calendar for Friday…” 

You blinked back at her, your eyes widening. “Wait, really? Are you sure?”

“Of course, darling…” Despite her nerves, she knew she should take the opportunity to meet your parents. “I love you. I would love to meet your parents.”

You visibly relaxed, squeezing Larissa’s hands in gratitude. “They’re probably just going to embarrass me,” you mumbled, letting go of one of Larissa’s hands to grab a sushi roll and pop it into your mouth. 

Larissa took a sip of her water as the gears in her mind turned. Knowing that you had a good relationship with your parents certainly helped, but nonetheless she couldn’t help but worry about their potential perception of her.

“How old is your mother?” she asked suddenly, steeling herself for the answer.

“Oh, um, I think she just turned 53. Why?”

Larissa’s stomach dropped. “Have you told her how old I am?”

You bit your lip as you glanced over at her. “Just that you’re older,” you whispered with a shrug. Larissa cocked an eyebrow at you and leaned back against the couch.

“Darling,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“I know, I know! I didn’t know how to tell them. I’m sure they’ll be fine once they get to know you, though!”

Doubt was already taking root in Larissa’s mind, and she began to fiddle with the strap of her wristwatch. “I admire your optimism, I really do, but a 28 year gap is quite substantial to spring onto your parents like that…”

“I guess… but I’m going to be with you whether they accept it or not, so it shouldn’t matter either way.” You raised an eyebrow at Larissa and she stared back at you unblinking, her worries, quite honestly, not assuaged at all.

“I really hope you’re right, darling,” she whispered.

~~~

Larissa tried her best to keep herself busy that week - anything to avoid overthinking the upcoming dinner with your parents. And she was mostly successful - or rather, the hyde was successful. After Dr. Kinbott’s brutal murder and Xavier’s resulting arrest, Larissa was left to deal with the fallout. 

The worried phone calls and emails from parents, the constant contact with the sheriff’s department, the search for a new therapist for her students, all kept her busy for much of the week, and whenever she called or wrote to you, the both of you avoided the subject of your parents like the plague.

On Friday, Larissa finished her last meeting of the day at 5:00 pm, after going way over the allotted time - it had been an extremely unpleasant staff meeting, as all the teachers were rightfully on edge from the recent attacks. She made a beeline for her office, locking the door behind her and heading straight for her quarters where she spent the better part of an hour standing in her little walk-in closet, choosing a dress to wear and trying not to overthink. 

She couldn’t help the way her thoughts drifted to her own parents, how she would feel if the roles were reversed and they’d decided to come into town on short notice. The thought made her shudder - she hadn’t seen or even spoken to her parents in years, they didn’t deserve to be involved in her love life. Not that they would approve anyway - her mother had always hated that she’d dated women (a sexual perversion, she’d called Larissa’s crush on Morticia), and her father wouldn’t dare go against anything her mother said… if he even cared enough at all, anyway.

She found herself praying to a God she didn’t believe in that your parents were different.

Settling on a cream-colored, woolen dress with long sleeves and a square collar, with pumps and a coat to match, she sat down at her vanity to fix her updo and touch up her makeup. Every little line on her face was heavily scrutinized as Larissa became overly conscious of the fact that she was so close in age to your mother. She’d thought she was fully over the age gap, had made peace with it, but meeting the woman who’d raised you brought old concerns to the forefront of her mind - worry that your mother wouldn’t accept her, and that it would put a strain on your relationship - the one good and pure thing in Larissa’s life.

Larissa frowned at her reflection - her frown only deepened as her gaze lingered on the deep lines between her eyebrows, around her mouth. She smoothed her fingertips over each wrinkle, working to relax her face - but traces of the lines remained and she slammed her fist down on her vanity in frustration. For a brief moment, she considered shifting the wrinkles away - it would be all too easy to make herself appear younger, to completely rid herself of the slight bags beneath her eyes and the smile lines that gave away her nearly 50 years on this earth…

Her phone lit up, drawing her eyes down to the screen and snapping her out of her thoughts. It was a text from you, asking if you should wear heels out to dinner, and it was successful in dragging a chuckle out of Larissa as she picked up the phone and shot back a text.

Larissa: Wear what you feel comfortable in x

Y/N: Are you wearing heels? Y/N: Nevermind, of course you are

Larissa chuckled a bit more freely at that, biting back a smile.

Larissa: How about I pick your shoes when I pick you up?

Y/N: PLEASE

Larissa: I’m leaving in 10 minutes.

Y/N: Ok, drive safe! <3

Larissa: Thank you.

Standing from her vanity without so much as another look in the mirror, Larissa grabbed her lipstick and slid both that and her phone into her clutch, slipping on her shoes and coat and making her way out to her car, hoping she wouldn’t run into anyone who would delay her.

Luck was on her side - the halls were deserted and she was soon on the road, taking the shortcut through the woods to have as much time as possible with you before dinner. She pulled into the parking spot nearest your apartment, finding herself almost shocked at how confidently she walked towards your front door, as if it were her own. She rang the doorbell and the door opened almost immediately, your bright smile at her presence stealing the breath from Larissa’s lungs.

You were a vision in a form-fitting black turtleneck and gray, high-waisted trousers with a thin black belt, your makeup natural and your feet bare. Larissa mirrored your smile, reaching forward to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear and immediately cupping your cheek and tugging you in for a soft, lingering kiss, a pleased hum leaving her lips.

“Hi,” you whispered as you drew back for air, a blush flooding your cheeks, and you reached up to fix her lipstick with the pad of your thumb.

“Hi,” Larissa whispered back. “You look beautiful.”

Your blush deepened and you quickly ushered Larissa inside, past your roommates in the kitchen and into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. “Which shoes?” you asked, gesturing towards a line-up of shoes at the foot of your bed that made Larissa laugh. She placed her hands on her hips as she scanned the options, humming in thought.

“How about these?” she asked softly, tapping the front of her own shoe against a pair of black, heeled loafers with a gold buckle. You murmured out a ‘thanks’ as you sat down at the edge of the bed to put them on, then graciously took Larissa’s hand as she held it out to help you up, whirling you around to face the floor length mirror in the corner of the room. 

She pulled your back flush against her front, her hands resting on your abdomen and her chin resting on your head as her gaze traveled the length of your body in the mirror, finally landing on your shoes. “What do you think?” she whispered, her gaze flicking back up to meet yours in the mirror and gauge your reaction.

“Perfect,” you whispered back, a little breathless, your cheeks a little flushed - Larissa smirked, her eyes darkening as your own eyes widened.

“Pretty girl,” she purred, a warmth rising in both her chest and her cheeks as your bodies seemed to melt together into one. 

“We have to leave…” Your voice was a little hoarse, and Larissa’s stomach churned as her arms tightened subconsciously around you, your words slamming her back down to earth. She closed her eyes for just a moment as she took a deep breath, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head - then, reluctantly, she stepped back and allowed her arms to drop to her sides.

“Let’s go then,” she said, holding your bedroom door open for you and allowing you to lead her out to the car.

~~~

The drive to the restaurant was rather short, yet it felt like hours to Larissa, who was drumming her fingers anxiously against the wheel. Your hand on her thigh soothed her, but only a little, and as she pulled into the parking lot, she found herself scanning the rows of cars to spot your parents, even though she quickly realized she had no idea what they looked like or what kind of car they drove. 

“It’s going to be okay,” you murmured reassuringly, giving Larissa’s thigh a little squeeze. She put the car in park and turned her head to face you - despite your words, you looked nervous as hell, and Larissa couldn’t help but chuckle softly in spite of herself.

“Don’t get me wrong, I really am glad to meet your parents, I just-”

“I know.” 

Larissa leaned in to kiss you but stopped halfway when you turned your head and a look of recognition crossed your face. Her heart began to thunder in her chest, so hard that she could feel it in her throat as her gaze followed yours and landed on a couple about her own age getting out of a white SUV. 

As if on autopilot, Larissa got out of her car and walked around to your side, opening the door for you before you could do it yourself. Her fingertips brushed against your lower back as you stood, searching any sort of contact she could get as her other hand pressed the car door closed behind you. To her surprise, your hand found her hand and your fingers wove themselves between hers as you walked towards your parents - she realized that she probably should have asked you in advance about openly displaying affection in front of them, so she couldn’t do anything but grip your hand as tightly as possible and let you take the lead.

Your father was the first to notice the two of you coming, gesturing towards you with a smile and indicating for your mother to turn around. She did so with an equally bright smile, both of them looking eager to see you as they said hello. Your mother pulled you into a hug first, one which you returned one-armed as you kept a firm hold on Larissa’s hand. 

When you pulled back, your mother turned to Larissa, subtly giving her a once-over and dropping her gaze to your intertwined hands, her smile faltering ever so slightly. To an onlooker, it would have been barely perceptible, but it made Larissa’s stomach drop and her cheeks flush - which she quickly shifted away as she painted a decidedly fake smile onto her lips.

“Larissa, I presume?” your mother asked, her gaze flicking between Larissa’s and your own as she extended her hand towards Larissa.

“Yes, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Larissa replied with a slow nod, her voice sweet as honey - the same tone reserved for some of the more difficult parents of her students. She lifted her free hand, but then the smile slipped from your mother’s face and she dropped her hand to her side, making Larissa’s stomach churn as she retracted her own hand and, instead, smoothed it nervously over her updo.

An uncomfortable silence followed, Larissa’s gaze flitting to your father, who appraised her rather stoically. Larissa cleared her throat as her stomach sank further and, feeling her palm grow clammy against yours, she tried to pull it from your grasp - you held it tightly, refusing to let go as you leaned against her arm.

“Should we go inside?” came your voice from beside her, slightly shaky, somehow sounding miles away. Larissa stole a glance at you, tension and embarrassment etched across your features - it provided a brief distraction as it made her want to scoop you into her arms and shield you from the world.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, darling,” she said softly, squeezing your hand before letting go of it and placing her hand instead on your lower back, her other hand gesturing for your parents to head into the restaurant.

x

Taglist: @littledollll @nlr-33 @mysaviorfalsegod @imlike-so-gaydude @rainbow-hedgehog @enchantressb @alder-saan @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @amateurwritescm @brienneswife @principal-weems09 @messynessi @larissaoftarthweems @anti-bright-places @lvinhs @catechristiesstuff @ladyzmilf002 @milfsloverblog @opheliauniverse @orangeisnttheonlyfruit @im-a-carnivorous-plant @alexusonfire @bigolgay @kimiinou @wastdstime @scream-queenlover @imprincipalweemspet @justcallmelittleone @willowshadenox @milfsloverblog @leftoverenvy @yahaqueen @peggycarter3 @lilfartbox1 @makemyworldworthliving @crow-raven-crow @mosscoveredcrucifix @opalthefrog @barbarasstar @giogwensversion @theswordmaiden @sapphictacobomb

[419jhat]

Back before Steve met Dustin the way he does in Steve and Eddie's Tryst Through Time, this was the original scene. I cut it up and added bits and pieces elsewhere. I thought it would be fun to share the original idea, even if it's incomplete because I scrapped it.

***

Steve woke up to the sound of the door being kicked in. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. Eddie groaned and flipped onto his stomach. Steve stared at him for a moment, taking in the first time he’d seen Eddie in a sleeping position other than “Dead in a Coffin.” (Except for the time they got high, and Eddie fell asleep hanging half off the bed. But Eddie’s drug-induced state didn’t really count.) The banging continued, so it was up to Steve to handle it. He slipped out of bed and opened the front door, only to look down. There was a child in front of him.

“Who the fuck are you?” the child asked.

Steve rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“Uh, hello? Dude, are you listening to me? Who are you?”

Jesus, the kid had an attitude. Steve examined him closer. He had a mop of curly hair shoved under a baseball cap and a Hellfire club t-shirt. This was one of Eddie’s kids.

“Are you looking for Eddie?” he asked.

“Why are you in pajamas?” the kid asked back.

What had he done to deserve this? Steve looked down at himself and then shrugged. “Probably because I was sleeping before I opened the door to the world’s bitchiest Oompa Looma?”

“If you're making fun of my height, I'll have you know that I grew two inches over summer and my family doctor says I'm going to keep growing. Why are you sleeping at Eddie’s place? Are you his brother? He never mentioned having a brother. You don’t even look like him. Are you adopted?”

“Ok,” Steve muttered. He swung the door shut right in the kid's face.

“Hey!” the kid yelled, and then the banging continued. Steve walked into the bedroom and picked up a pillow. He fluffed it for a second and then swung it as hard as he could at the back of Eddie’s knees.

“AAHH!” Eddie shrieked, leaping into the air and landing on his back. He scrambled out of the bed, arms out, ready to catch any more swings of the pillow.

“Why would you do that?” he whined.

“Go handle your kid,” Steve said.

“What?”

The banging continued.

“Oh my god what is happening,” Eddie whispered.

Steve followed Eddie to the door, which Eddie ripped open, looking more than upset he’d been woken up for this.

“Eddie! I figured it out! Your problem was that guy, wasn’t it? Is he a criminal or something? Are you hiding him from the police?”

“Your problem?” Steve repeated.

“How did you find out where I live?” Eddie asked the child.

“Chris told me,” he said.

“Fucking Chris,” Eddie sighed. “Dustin, it’s too early for this. What do you want?”

So, this was Dustin. Suddenly, Steve understood Eddie’s fear of children, if this was what he had to deal with. Steve wandered into the kitchen, where he could watch the drama unfold and make coffee at the same time. He never drank coffee to wake up, but Eddie did, and for once, he felt like he could use it too.

“You said we could come to your place to watch a movie.”

“At five in the morning!?”

“No, I’m just here to ask if you got the movie,” Dustin said.

“At five in the morning!?” Eddie repeated.

Dustin at least had the self-awareness to look embarrassed. “I thought it would take longer for me to bike here. I wanted to get here at six.”

“Hey little man, I respect the effort,” Steve said.

Dustin looked disgusted.

“Who is this again?” he asked, waving in Steve’s general direction.

“What are you, my mom? Why are you so up my ass about this, Henderson?”

“My name is Steve,” Steve said, as he poured boiling water into a cup with instant coffee mix.

“Steve!” Eddie barked.

“What? Is he not allowed to know that or something?”

“He’s never going to leave us alone,” Eddie whined. Steve handed him the coffee and Eddie took a careful sip. He made a face and leaned over the counter to grab the sugar.

“Why are you talking about me like I’m not even here?” Dustin pouted.

“Because I’m pretending you aren’t,” Eddie said.

“Can I have some coffee, Steve?” Dustin asked sweetly.

Steve shrugged and handed the kid his cup, which Eddie intercepted.

“I’m sorry, no. He’s already lost his fucking mind; he doesn’t need to add a stimulant to his current state.”

“You’re rude when you’re sleepy,” Dustin said.

“And you’re rude, like, all the time, you little stalker.”

Steve opened the fridge and grabbed some orange juice for him instead.

"I'm not a stalker!" Dustin protested.

Eddie looked like he was about to kick him out of the trailer. "Uh you found me when I was dealing at the quarry, and now you've managed to find my address. What, do you want my phone number too?"

"The quarry was different...we didn't mean to find you there," Dustin said with a degree of hesitation that Steve found to be odd.

"That's not what you said when you found me! You need to learn some boundaries, dude!"

Steve didn't know a lot about children, but the way Dustin looked down at his own hands and began fiddling with them made Steve think Dustin was hiding something. Then, Dustin looked right up at Steve like he was the real intruder that morning.

“So, was I right? Is Steve why you canceled D&D?” Dustin asked as he downed the orange juice in one gulp.

Eddie sighed and slowly collapsed onto the counter.

“I don’t understand why you couldn’t just tell us. Unless he is a criminal or something. And if that’s the case, we may still be able to help you out depending on what he did. We know people.”

Steve wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, but Eddie looked beyond irritated, so he figured it was his turn to jump in.

“I’m not a criminal, Dustin. Eddie’s an old friend and I’m staying with him for a bit. I had an emergency and he helped me out.”

“What kind of emergency?”

Who did this kid think he was, the FBI? He was nosier than his mom. Good thing Steve knew how to handle nosey people. He slammed his coffee cup on the counter and went with the closest thing to the truth he could think of.

“My parents died,” he said.

The blood drained out of Dustin’s face so fast Steve almost thought he’d fall over. Eddie turned around and gave Steve a look. Steve reached over and nudged his shoulder.

“Oh my God dude, that’s awful,” Dustin breathed.

“Yeah, so stop asking questions, you little shit,” Eddie said.

“Sorry,” Dustin said. He looked down at his shoes with guilt swimming in his eyes, like a puppy. Steve decided to take pity on him.

“Did you eat breakfast yet?” he asked.

“Yeah, I had some toast.”

“That’s not a real breakfast,” Steve said.

“That’s what we usually eat for breakfast,” Eddie muttered.

"I'll make you some eggs, and you can tell me about your D&D plan to turn on everyone."

"YOU TOLD HIM!?" Dustin yelled with all of the power of an energetic child. Eddie looked like he was going to cry into his mug.

"He's not in the campaign dude, it's ok."

"IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SECRET!"

Eddie dropped his face onto the counter and Steve decided to intervene again.

"I don't really understand D&D, but it sounds like your character is secretly a bad guy? I thought it was super cool."

Steve cracked some eggs into a bowl and whisked them with a fork. When Dustin didn't answer, he looked over his shoulder. The kid was just staring at him.

"You thought it was cool?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, little dude. It's super creative. And to have kept it a secret this whole time? Genius."

He was laying it on a little thick, but it worked. Dustin's face lit up with the compliment and Steve realized he must have awakened something because then Dustin began to ramble about his character's story. The kid was talking so fast, all Steve could do was nod and hum in agreement as he fished around the fridge for cheese and any vegetables he could add to the omelets. Onions were his best bet. Eddie looked like he'd passed out right there standing up. When the eggs were done, Steve placed a plate in front of each of them.

"Wow, these are soooo good!" Dustin exclaimed. Then he turned to Eddie and smacked him on the back. Eddie shot up, nearly knocking his coffee over. "Dude, try this! Steve made it! He can cook better than my mom!"

"That's probably not true," Steve said.

Eddie didn't even wait for Steve to grab him a fork. He grabbed it with his bare hands and shoveled the omelet into his mouth like it was a hot dog.

"What are you-"

Eddie cut Steve off with an overdramatic moan of appreciation. Steve had to bite his lip to hide his smile.

"Oh. My. God. This is so good, I don't even want to add ketchup!"

"Alright dude, calm down they're not that good," Steve said.

"Steve. They're that good. They're so good I'm wondering why the fuck I've been making toast and peanut butter sandwiches every morning when we could have been eating like kings."

It wasn't polite to fish for compliments, but Steve was enjoying the praise.

"You want me to cook for you more often, Eds?" he asked, unable to hide his smile.

"If it's like this? Every fuckin' day, Stevie," Eddie replied. His fingers were greasy from eating with his bare hands like a weirdo and he'd dripped coffee on the front of his white T-shirt. He was a total mess but Steve couldn't stop smiling back at him.

"Will you cook for me too?" Dustin asked.

"No," Steve and Eddie said at the same time.

[winchesterwild78]

The Gravity of it All pt 2

Part 1

Characters: Dean Winchester x Reader, Cass, Jack, and Sam

Warnings: angst, mention of death, language,

A/N: This takes place between Season 14 and 15. I’ve been rewatching Supernatural and I’ve been thinking about how things would be different if Dean had someone in his life during this time.

This does not follow the Supernatural storyline, but does include some of the story. I do not own the rights to Supernatural or the characters.

This will also be in a few parts.

All work is my own, don’t take it. Please reblog and like. Comments and feedback are always appreciated.

Minors DNI 18+

That was the first night Dean and I slept together. We’ve been inseparable since.

Back at the bunker we noticed changes in Jack.

Dean and I would lay awake at night talking about it. “I don’t know what to do. He’s like our son and we don’t just give up on family.” Dean said as he pulled me close.

I placed my hands on his chest, “I know Dean. We’ll figure it out.”

He nodded and kissed my lips. “Thanks sweetheart. You always make me feel good. And I’m not just talking about your words.” He chuckled and pulled me on top of him. My legs landed on either side of his waist.

I leaned down and kissed his lips. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me further into him. I moaned into his mouth feeling his arousal.

Dean’s hands slid under the hem of my shirt and he cupped both breasts. Pulling a hiss from my lips. He smirked, “You like that sweetheart?” I nodded.

My hand slid down his chest and in between us. My palm rested on his hard cock. He hissed and then it was my turn to smirk.

He grabbed me and flipped me over on my back, pulling a giggle from me. He chuckled lowly. As I looked up into his eyes I felt a warmth bloom in my chest and before I could stop myself I whispered, “I love you, Dean.”

His eyes locked on mine and the air grew thick between us. My heart pounded in my chest. I saw his eyes flash with something and I wasn’t sure what it was.

Then he leaned down, placed his lips on mine softly and pulled back smiling, “I love you too, Y/N.”

My breath hitched and a single tear fell from my eye. His thumb brushed it away. “Hey, don’t cry.” His voice is calm and steady.

I chuckled, “It’s just I’ve wanted to hear you say that for a long time. I just can’t believe I’m yours and you’re mine.”

He cupped my face, “You better believe it, and I’m not going anywhere.”

I nodded and we made love like it was the first time. Something shifted between us after we said “I love you”. Our bond grew deeper and I knew we’d be together forever.

Later that night I had a nightmare. I dreamed about Dean taking off to Donna’s cabin to build the ma’lak box. He said his goodbyes to all of us. Not telling any of us what his plan was. When Mary found it and he came clean we were devastated. I spent the next three days and nights after he returned home in my room crying. My dream didn’t end that way, it ended with him getting into the box. A simple note saying he was sorry.

I woke up in a panic and sweating. I looked over and Dean was sleeping peacefully beside me. My heart hammered in my chest.

I slipped out of bed and made my way to the kitchen for some water. I mindlessly walked around and ended up in front of the storage room. The one where countless demons were kept tied up. Now home to the ma’lak box.

I walked in and turned on the light. It flicked overhead and I saw the box. Sitting in the middle of the room. Silently mocking me. I walked over and placed my hand on it. The rush of emotions flooded me and I collapsed on the floor crying.

At some point Dean woke up to find me gone. He walked into the kitchen then heard my muffled sobs. He searched and found me sitting on the floor next to the box, sobbing.

He rushed to my side and pulled me into his arms. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m here. You’re okay baby. What’s wrong?”

A hiccup sob escaped my lips, “You were going to leave me. Leave me here all alone. I would have never gotten the chance to tell you I loved you. Dean, why? Why would you leave me, us?”

“Shhh, I know. I’m not going anywhere. I’m so sorry. I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

I pulled back, “You can’t promise that, Dean. This life is too unpredictable.”

Dean sighed. He knew I was right. He ran his fingers through my hair, “I know, but I promise I won’t leave you willingly.”

I just held him tighter, because if I was being honest the thought of Dean not being here willingly or not made my soul ache.

He kissed my head, “Come on baby. Let’s go back to bed.” I nodded and he helped me up.

The soft click of the light switch and the shutting of the door caused me to jump a little. Dean’s hand firmly on my lower back.

We crawled back in bed and he held me. His fingers drew lazy circles on my arm as he held me. I finally fell back asleep listening to his steady heartbeat.

The next few days were spent just enjoying each other’s company and doing “normal” tasks. Then the phone call from Donatello came in.

Dean missed the call but as soon as he heard it, he, Sam and I were on our way to Donnie’s house. They convinced Jack to stay behind and play the voicemail for Mary. He agreed.

When we arrived we found Nick there and Donatello gone.

The plan was to take Nick back to the bunker and find Donatello.

Once back at the bunker Jack confronted Nick and busted his face on him. Blood fell from his nose and onto Nick’s shirt. Nick teased Jack and he grew angry.

We pulled him away. Then Nick started in on me. “So, Y/N. You finally bagged a Winchester. Tell me something, is Dean as good as he lets people think he is or is he not satisfying that pretty little cunt of yours? Huh? Wanna give me a little taste?”

Dean flew at Nick and punched him in the face. I grabbed Dean’s arm and pulled him back, “He’s not worth it Dean.” Nick just laughed.

Dean and I left the room. He grabbed his jacket and keys and said he was going for a drive. “Want me to go with you?” I asked softly. His green eyes flicked to mine. Anger etched in his face softened and he nodded. I grabbed my coat and walked out with him.

Sam was staying behind with Jack and Nick.

We climbed in the Impala and he drove. Nothing was said for a few minutes. He had one hand on the wheel and the other on my thigh.

I kept looking over at him and noticed his jaw was tense.

“Dean, honey it’s okay. He was just trying to get under your skin.”

His eyes flicked to mine, “I know sweetheart. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to hear him talking about you like that.”

I placed my hand on his arm, “I know baby. He was just being an ass. You know I only want you.”

He nodded and kept driving. When we finally got back home Sam told Dean Nick was gone.

The pieces started to fall into place. He was trying to bring Lucifer back and he needed Jack’s blood to do it.

Mary and Jack found Nick. Before Mary could stop him, Jack killed Nick. Jack begged Mary not to tell the boys and she told him they needed to know.

Before he could comprehend what he did he yelled and Mary was dead. He returned to the bunker like nothing had happened.

Dean knew something was off the moment he tried to call Mary’s phone and it rang in the bunker.

The truth finally came out, Jack had killed Nick and Mary. The latter being an accident.

Dean flew into a rage and kicked Cas and Jack out. He blamed both for Mary’s death.

I tried to console him but he pushed me away. I touched his arm and started to speak softly, “Dean I’m…”

He jerked his arm away, “Don’t! Don’t tell me how sorry you are and how you understand. You don’t understand. I just lost my mother, my best friend and my kid all in one day. So don’t, Y/N!”

I pulled my hand back and nodded. I walked back to my room as the tears began to fall. He had no idea the depth of the loss I’ve suffered. I lost my whole family in front of my eyes, and my husband and kids were killed by Michael. I’d never told Dean.

Later I heard his footsteps heavy in the hallway. His keys jangled. I knew he was leaving. Hearing the low rumble of the Impala was too much and it broke me. He was leaving. Shutting me out and not letting me help him navigate his loss.

About ten minutes later I was determined to fight for Dean, for us. I grabbed my keys and drove. I headed for the cabin that Mary was killed at. Figuring that’s where he was.

I pulled in the driveway and everything was dark. The only sounds I heard were the crickets singing their lullaby and an owl in the distance. Then I heard a sound that made my blood run cold and stopped me in my tracks.

It was Dean. His muffled sobs began to fill the night air. My heart ached for him.

I made my way to the back of the cabin and found Dean sitting on a stump near the clearing where Mary was killed.

I didn’t hesitate and I refused to let him push me away this time. I ran to him and wrapped him in my arms.

His arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me close to him. He sobbed into my chest. “She’s gone again, Y/N. How many times do I have to say goodbye to her? This isn’t fair. We didn’t get enough time with her.”

He sobbed. My arms wrapped around him tighter, “I know Dean. I’m so sorry baby. I wish there was something I could do to fix this.”

His arms held my waist tighter. He held me like I was the only thing anchoring him to this world.

After a few hours Dean and I returned to the bunker. Sam and him were trying to track Jack but noticed he kept jumping around.

When Jack and Cas finally returned to the bunker Dean was furious and told him he could never forgive him.

Dean had come up with a plan. He would trick Jack into getting in the ma’lak box. “It was going to contain Michael. It will contain him until we can figure out how to restore his soul.”

I stepped towards Dean, “Dean, this isn’t right. We can’t lock him up. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He’s scared and he’s a child.” I protested.

Dean put his hand up, cutting me off. “No! That’s exactly why we have to do this. He doesn’t have control and he’s already killed mom. I can’t even fathom him killing Sammy or you! He’s going in the box!”

I sighed and pulled away, “Then you’ll do it without me. I can’t, no I won’t do this!”

I started to walk away and Dean grabbed my arm, “Don’t do this Y/N. Please, I can’t lose you too.”

I shook my head, “Dean if you do this I can’t be with you. He’s innocent.”

“No he’s not! He killed my mother and so many other people. You have no idea what it’s like to bury the people you love!”

His chest heaved as his voice rang with anger. I couldn’t take it anymore.

I pulled my arm away from him, tears ran down my face as I stepped closer to him. My finger poking his chest, “You have no fucking idea what I’ve been through. No idea how many people I’ve lost, I’ve seen killed in front of me. You don’t know me Dean Winchester. You just think you do. I’m just a means to an end for you.”

I stormed away as the tears fell heavy. Dean stood in disbelief and Sam followed after me.

I went to my room and started packing. No idea where I was going, but I knew I needed to get away from him, from this heartbreak.

Sam knocked on my door, “Y/N, are you okay?” He saw my bag and sighed. “Where are you going to go?”

I looked up, tears still flowing, “I have no idea, but I can’t be here when he puts Jack in that box.”

Sam stepped closer to me, “I know. Dean has his way of dealing, and this is the only way he knows how to protect us. He loves you, Y/N.”

“I know, Sam. I love him too. That’s why this is so hard for me, but I can’t watch someone I love die again.”

Dean was standing outside the bedroom door listening. He wanted to come to me, but he couldn’t move.

Sam pulled me into a hug, “Take care of yourself, Y/N and if you ever need anything please call me. I love you like a sister and you’ll always be family.”

I hugged him back, “I love you too Sammy. I will and please tell Dean I love him and always will.”

Dean heard my words and a lump formed in his throat. A single tear slipped from his eye. He whispered, “I love you too.” Then he walked away.

I grabbed my bag. Turned and took one last look around mine and Dean’s room. Walking to my car I climbed in and drove out of the garage. Looking back at the bunker as I drove away. Leaving my heart behind with Dean Winchester.

Part 3…coming soon

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[honeycrispjamz]

➶➴➵➶➴➵➶Shauna & Misty’s friendship➴➵➶➴➵➶➴

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶headcanons➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

➴ Before the crash, Shauna and Misty had english class together and were constantly competing for the best grade/mark. It was an unacknowledged competition, but a competition no less.

➶ Shauna lets Misty help her in the meat shack— dividing rations, cleaning/sharping Shauna’s knife in between uses, etc— despite everyone else’s (Mari’s) objections. Misty’s rambling can be almost meditative to zone out on, even if it can get a bit annoying at times.

➴ Misty figures out how to make (shitty) coffee using just ground up coffee beans from the cabin pantry and hot water. So, every morning, before the other girls wake up, Misty makes Shauna and herself a cup of coffee to share while they watch the sun rise.

➶ Misty teaches Shauna how to make origami animals out of her journal pages, and Shauna teaches Misty how to make a friendship bracelet (using whatever scrap of fabric and string she can get her hands on.) She teaches Misty the exact same way Jackie taught her years ago.

➴ Even though it takes a bit of convincing, Misty helps Shauna do morning, afternoon, and bedtime stretches/exercises throughout her pregnancy. At first it felt like torture, having to contort her already aching body 5 billion different ways with Misty yapping in her ear while she does so, but after a week of constant stretching she does notice a difference and (begrudgingly) keeps it up.

➶ Misty was one of the only people brave enough— besides Taissa— to go check on Shauna while she was out in the meat shed with Jackie’s corpse, even though Shauna never let her in. That didn’t stop her, though, from sitting outside with her back pressed against door, talking to Shauna through it about anything and everything. She always ended up getting ran off after a few minutes, of course, but that never deterred her from checking on Shauna.

➴ Shauna thinks it’s cute how much her dry-pan humor makes Misty laugh. Jokes that usually never land with the other girls— or jokes that were deemed ‘too mean’ by Jackie long before the crash— never fail to make Misty giggle, even if she doesn’t fully understand all of them.

➶ Unlike other people, when Shauna flips out on Misty, Misty never seems to hold a grudge for every long like she does with other people who are mean to her. She’s always back a few hours later, mug in hand, with a smile on her face as she makes a place for herself in Shauna’s vicinity. Sometimes, it makes Shauna feel powerless, but most times it makes her feel accepted.

➴ After Shauna’s miscarriage, Misty and Taissa team up to make her healing process as comfortable and easy as possible. Taissa focuses more on keeping Shauna mentally active— making conversation, getting her to start up journaling again, etc— while Misty focuses on keeping Shauna physically clean/healthy. She washes all of Shauna’s clothes by herself, braids Shauna’s hair while she’s bedridden so it doesn’t get matted, even washes her face every morning for her so Shauna doesn’t have to worry about doing it/can feel somewhat clean while she gets better.

➶ They wear each other’s socks constantly out in the wilderness, more than they do with the other girls. Misty just always ends up in a pair of Shauna’s black crew socks, while Shauna sneakily wears Misty’s fuzzy pink ones around the cabin.

[chaosofonyx]

Part 3:

Jasper flipped on the kettle. (It’s electric.)

He fumbled through the cabinets and grabbed a tea bag. He yawned. Fweeeeeeeeeeeeeeet! The kettle whistled. Jasper picked up the kettle then poured the boiling contents into his mug, only halfway. He dropped the tea bag in, the water slowly pigmented. He bent his head under the cabinet to grab a spoon to stir the tea. He grabbed a spoon and stood - “Ow!” his head hit the cabinet. “Ay.” he rubbed his head. 

Jasper stirred his tea, he rubbed his throbbing head again. He filled a cup with ice and dumped it into the tea. He flipped on the fan and walked over to the table and sat down. He brought the cup up to his lips and sipped……a blood curdling scream. He spat the tea from his mouth, he slowly looked down. Oliver. Oliver was floating in his tea, staring up at Jasper in absolute horror.

---------------

Kai balanced himself on the blade of the fan, Oliver right next to him. They watched as Jasper boiled some water for his tea. Sometimes, Kai had noticed, Jasper made tea for himself in the morning. “What’s he making, is that tea or coffee or just-ooh a tea bag! Tea!” Oliver said, “I love tea!”

“Since when did you drink tea?” Kai asked Oliver, completely baffled.

“The old man at the house drank tea every morning, it was usually sweet though.” Oliver said, “So I decided to try it, it’s actually pretty good.” Kai was happy to see Oliver smiling, “Y’know, he’s not that scary from afar.” Though Kai wished Oliver would understand that he didn’t have to be afraid of Jasper.

“Oof.” Kai mumbled as Jasper’s head hit the cabinet. Kai watched as Jasper stirred his tea. “I think he’s too tall for his own house.” Oliver giggled. 

“Hey!” Kai nudged his brother, they both laughed. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever tried tea.” The two brother’s watched as Jasper walked towards the table, flipping a switch then sitting down. “Wait, wasn’t that the switch to the f-woah!” Oliver slipped, “KAI!!”

“Ollie!” Kai reached for Oliver, “Grab my hand, you’re so close to the edge–OLLIE!!” Oliver fell, slipping off the edge of the fan.

---------------

Oliver watched as Jasper flipped a switch and then sat down at his table. “Wait, wasn’t that the switch to the f-woah!” He slipped, “KAI!!”  Oliver slid across the fan blade, Kai reached out his hand. Oliver groped for his brother’s hand, “OLLIE!” Oliver fell, he slipped off the edge. 

Time seemed to slow as Oliver fell, he could hear his blood rushing in his ears. Then time caught back up to him. He rushed past Jasper’s giant face and–PLOP! He landed in a liquid–tea–No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. NO. Oliver gasped for air, he stared up. Then the mug tipped forward, the upper lip of a mouth pressed against the rim. Oliver screamed. Oliver screamed the loudest, most shrill scream he had ever screamt.

He was terrified, he stared up. Two bright green eyes stared back down at him. Nope!! Thought Oliver, Nope, I hate Jasper. I absolutely HATE Jasper. “Oliver?” Jasper’s upper half loomed over him, “Where did you come from? Um…” A giant finger lowered towards Oliver, he swam away from it. “Wait, Oliver, please don’t be afraid of me. I’m just trying to help you.” Jasper pulled his finger out.

Something bumped into Oliver’s back, he spun around. “Ack!” He had bumped into the tea bag. “Wait,” Jasper’s voice boomed from above, “if you don’t want me to touch you, grab onto the tea bag.” Oliver really didn’t want to follow the instructions of a human, but he wanted to be touched by-ugh-Jasper-even less. Plus he REALLY didn’t want to be in-ugh-Jasper’s tea. SO he reluctantly gripped the tea bag.

----------------

This was definitely the most awkward situation Jasper had ever been in. He was pulling a person,  smaller than his eye, out of his tea, on a tea bag. He also had so many questions. Like first off, where was Kai? Why does Oliver still hate him? How did Oliver end up in his tea?

Jasper carefully set the tea bag down on the table. He could barely make out Oliver’s terrified and……angry(?) expression. The poor borrower was completely soaked in tea. As soon as Oliver stepped off the tea bag, he ran. Jasper would probably tell him at some point that running on the table in an attempt to get away from him was not gonna work. “Wait.” Jasper said, “Where’s Kai?” 

“Oh wow! You only care about Kai, huh?” Oliver shouted as he ran. 

Jasper frowned, “No, Oliver, that’s not true. I’m just worried, I don’t like when I can’t see you guys, now, especially after what just happened.” Jasper put out his hand, Oliver screamed, again, as Jasper’s hand ‘slammed’ down in front of him. “Agh, sorry!” 

Oliver frowned and crossed his tiny arms, “Are you trying to kill me?! Oh wait, you don’t even have to try!” Jasper stared down at his hand and the borrower beside it. I guess Oliver has a point. But I don’t want to hurt him. Why is he so mad at me? “Oliver, please.”

---------------

Kai held his balance. He watched the two.  I have to help, both of them. He gripped the edge of the fan, if he could just–WOAH! He slipped, falling off the fan. Kai squeezed his eyes shut, now he felt really bad about letting Oliver fall. This was really, really, scary. Now he hoped he didn’t land in Jasper’s tea.

“Oof.” The wind was knocked out of his lungs. Where he landed was warm, but not wet. He slowly opened his eyes, he almost screamed. He was faced with two bright emerald eyes, like pools of green, staring cross-eyed back at him. A noise that sounded kind of like an ‘oh’, rumbled Kai deep in his soul. “Kai?” The voice rumbled Kai’s bones again, “Do you need help?” Though Kai’s only reaction was, “Jasper, your voice is rumbly, please stop.” he paused, “Also, yes.” He could feel all of Jasper’s body heat. Kai felt something bump his back, “Be careful though!” He squeezed his eyes shut, again. 

Two giant, warm fingers lightly gripped around his waist. Then he was swiftly lifted off Jasper’s face/nose. He didn’t open his eyes till Jasper said, “I’m gonna set you down now.” Kai felt his feet touch the table, soon he was standing on his own. “Thank you.” He turned around, Oliver was standing there, mouth agape, “How can you trust him so much?! He’s a human!”

Y'all want to know my secret for writing this? I do stuff, then think, "I wonder what would happen if we threw a tiny into this chaos?" And boom(!) you get this stuff.

[noodledoodlebugs]

Nick Valentine in: Machine vs Man.

Based on Sonnet 29 by Shakespeare

for @bookwermthings for the Secret Santa.

Nick Valentine is… something.

Nick sits up on his bed. It was summer, so the fans were kicked on at their highest setting. Nick slept on the top floor, slightly cracking the door for more air. He has been staring at the blank metal wall for what felt like hours. He is a synth, yes, but something else entirely. He has a personality. He can dream, he can want, he can loathe and hate, and while he does not need to, he can smoke.

So why must people look at him as if he were a rogue, as if he was one of them? As if he was nothing more than and “tin for brains” robot, hellbent on destroying their life and taking their loved ones? The fear of him has only helped a few times when he was new. But as the new wave of synths began rolling out, people learned more about the capabilities of synths. Now instead of being curious and frightful, there was only hate.

The wasteland is an awful place.

Nick takes his rusted metal arm and caresses it down his face, tracing the edge of his rubbery skin. He can hear the clicks and whirs of his inner mechanisms, careful not to touch any of them. It was already hell trying to keep up with maintenance. He closes his eyes and imagines his past. How it felt to be human. He can feel the benches he’s sitting on. He can taste the warm air and can feel it on his skin again. The sun is bright, warm, and forgiving. He turns to find Jennifer by his side, hair blowing gracefully in the air.

She looked… wonderful.

He can feel Jennifer caressing his face again. She speaks something into the air, smiling. Nick looks back at her, only to find her going limp. He grabbed her, holding on to her, calling out her name. He’s now in the street, lying in a dark alleyway. He can hear someone crying, tears rolling down his cheek.

Nick snapped out of his daydream, frazzled. There was a glow of orange from the cracked door. If he still had skin, he would have been sweating. He sighs and parts away, hastily putting on his jacket and crumpled fedora.

The wasteland is a terrible place. He needed a distraction.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nick needed to find passion. Yes, he had a job of being a detective, but he lacked fulfillment in the joys of life. He needed to find the simple joys of the wasteland.

Sun peeked through his door, filling the room with a bright light and a warm breeze. Nick sat at his office desk feeling heavy. He needed to start from his home and find the simple joys of Diamond City. Swiping paper and ink pens, he opened his daily issue of Publick Occurrences. He had asked Ellie the night before to find the case files for missing people. Right on cue, Ellie barged into Nicks office, holding a large manilla folder, stuffed with a stack of papers.

“Here are the files you ordered Mr. Valentine.”  Ellie said, settling down the papers.

“This is perfect, thank you Ellie” Nick said grabbing them, flipping through them. He has been on the same case for a few weeks now, maybe he just needed to switch gears. He notices Ellie’s eyes seem to be drooping. “You seem a bit tired, are you good?”

“I am fine, don’t worry. I just need a cup of coffee.” She said. She quickly left, coming back with a whistling kettle, spoon, and a mug filled with crushed coffee beans. Ellie pours some hot water and sugar in the mug, mixing it with a bent spoon.

Ellie sips her cup of coffee, deeply inhaling. Warmth spreads everywhere across her skin. This sense of bliss, which was so rare in a land of savagery and hatred, was one of the longest she has ever felt.

Nick envied Ellie a bit. He wondered how it felt to taste again. He could feel heat throughout his body, but he could never taste the bitterness and pure happiness of a hot coffee after a long night. He can’t truly feel tired, so the bliss of a night rest continuously escapes him, and he doesn’t need to eat to energize. He can feel sensations, but nothing that made him human.

Nick closed the door to his office. He needed some fresh air.

Nick has had his fair share of visits to Good Neighbor. Occasionally, he went to look for a missing person and they would end up here. Other times, he had ran into the charming mayor, often giving grand speeches from the balcony, high off jet. It was impressive he wasn’t dead from overdose yet.

Today though, he found himself sitting with the mayor of good neighbor, Hancock. Hancock had invited him to one of his favorite shows at the Third Rail Bar. Hancock was a pretty chill guy. He had his fair share of wasteland tragedies, but he has kept his spirits high. If anyone knew how to find simple joys in life it would be him.

“If you’re looking for a slice of heaven in this wasteland, you are looking at the gates” Hancock says point to the red dim lighted sign.

“I know that you have good entertainment Hancock, if you didn’t, I don’t think Good Neighbor would let you get away with it.” Nick said walking inside down the stairs. He hears low music and chattering slowly fills the air.

Hancock and nick sat down at a table a few feet from the bar. Nick would have picked a table closer to the door in case things got seedy but decided to pick a table near the edge of the room, in the perfect viewing area of the stage. He was here to see entertainment.

“I’m telling you Nick. You’ve heard anything like this before. Absolutely breathtaking.” Hancock smiled, downing a bottle of ale.

Nick responded with a quiet hum.

 The lights dimmed into a dark blue, leaving only a spotlight onto the stage. Music filled the room, and the crowd hushed. Magnolia stood in the corner singing, the crowd drawn to her as if she were a siren. She steps off the stage and walks around the tables, swaying and dancing as if she were weightless. Hancock cheered from the tables, drank another bottle, and hummed along quietly to the songs.

Nick studies the room. He enjoys the music and the atmosphere, but doesn’t feel fulfilled, only con. It felt as if he was biting into a cloud. Soft, sweet, but empty. He envies Hancock a bit, how he can just be around people. How he can give speeches, leaving the city hanging on to his every word. He was respected, feared, but most importantly loved. Even if it is a crime-ridden city, it’s a city of misfits all counting on him to keep it moderately peaceful.

The crowd cheered as the song came to an end. Some shout for encore. Magnolia waves her hand and sits at the far end of the bar, drinking in hand. No wonder Magnolia was one of the top acts in Good Neighbor.

Nick got up to leave his table, walking towards the stairs.

“Nick wait! Aren’t you staying for the second set?” Hancock called out to him, slightly buzzed.

“Sorry Hancock but my schedules full again. I have to get back to work” he says trudging up the stairs. He continues his journey back to Diamond City, determined to find joy in his life.

The wasteland is an awful but interesting place.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nick had taken a break from his detective work. After taking a trip to the Colonial Taphouse and earning a glare from the various drunk patrons, he decided to cut his trip short and take a smoke break. Its odd, despite not being able to get addicted, smoking was a reflexive action. Lighting his cigarette, he looked outward to the city.

“Hey.”  Said a voice beside him. It was Piper.

“Hey Piper, what are you doing here?” Nick asked.

“Enjoying the view. The city looks so beautiful from up here” she says, sighing wistfully. Her eyes sparkled looking down at the city. “What about you? You don’t drink… unless I missed a crucial update.”

He rolled his eyes. “I needed to take a break and clear my mind.” Nick said, still looking down at the city. The city’s bright lights are normally blinding, but today they seem inviting. They both watched the area silently. After a while, Piper got up from leaning turning to the stairs, before momentarily pausing. She fishes out a letter from her coat pocket and hands it to Nick.

“Before I leave, Blue invited you to a party.” she says, handing him a small note. “Come to the home plate if you have the time tomorrow, me and Hancock were invited, along with a few others.”

Nick grabbed the note. A party? Here? The details were vague, but the party included free food and drinks, and the invitation extended to all of the Sole Survivor’s personal companions. Why him then? He can’t eat or drink, so why bother even making an invitation for him.

Only one way to find out.

Nick had been invited by the Sole Survivor for a small dinner party. He followed the directions to the home plate, where he was greeted by Sole. Opening the door, he found a large table filled with food and drinks, surrounded by several chairs. The food wasn’t particularly fancy, it was warm deviled eggs, spam, and Fancy Lad Cakes, served with Insta-Mash and tatos. Each seat had a can of purified water, except one. That must be his seat.

“Oh, hey Nick, was wondering when you were going to show up.” Piper said cheerfully. “Come, have a seat, I’m sitting next to you.”

Taking his seat next to Piper, he looks around. Codsworth was serving up the purified water and handling setting up the table, keeping it in an orderly fashion. Macready and Sole talked outside, greeting the other companions coming in. Hancock and Cait walked in, chatting about fighting styles. They both notice and waved at him and continue their talk on how efficient a spiked baseball bat was for combat. Dogmeat licked his hand and wagged his tail, earning a few head scratches from Nick, and scampered off, finding his seat underneath the table.

Nick smiled. He had found the thing he was missing. His simple joy.

The wasteland was an interesting place.

[ladylooch]

You, Me, and Mexico [Lucie x Connor] - Part 1

A/N: I mentioned this before, but want to re-iterate that this is basically a re-write of the beginning of Lucie and Connor's story. This happened because as I got to know the characters more, I didn't feel like what was written before accurately reflected their start. So here is a much hotter, achey, pining version of that story. ICYMI, you will want to check out this part first, which is mentioned in a few moments below.

Word Count: 5.1k

(Lucie)

The last time Lucie Hischer set foot in Mexico, she was ten years old. After that, family vacations revolved more around the Spanish and Italian areas of Europe. There was so much to explore within a short flight of their permanent home in Switzerland. 

Everything about this trip is going to be different. 

Starting with the sleeping hockey player on her left. 

Since Lucie and Connor separated on New Years, she hasn’t seen much of him or Lio. The Devils skid continued the next few weeks, but a long, West coast road trip helped them turn everything around. Her desperate arms had clawed Connor into a hug at the airport this morning when she met Lio and him at the security line for their Allstar retreat. Lucie has tons of assignments and school work she should be focusing on this week. Instead, she’s throwing it all out the window for some fun in the sun. Hopefully. 

Lucie glances to the left again, away from her book to Connor who sleeps with his big headphones covering his ears. His arms are crossed over his chest where he wears a dark grey sweatshirt. A well-worn Patriot’s hat sits on his head. His face is turned towards her so she can examine his features as the sunlight tries to collect on his lips from her window. His jaw flexes and he breathes heavily, almost like he might be dreaming. He looks so beautiful right now. Not even hot or sexy, just damn beautiful with his gorgeous and chiseled features. She’s almost disappointed that his closed lids hide those water, blue eyes from her.

Behind her, Lio taps her seat.

“Do you have chapstick?” He asks her, one eye peeking through the from her armrest.

“Yeah.” Lucie nods, rummaging round in her bag for it. She holds it behind her head for him to grab. A minute later, he is placing it back in her palm.

“Thanks. Hey, are you good to go to the beach tonight? Supposed to be a big party there. Lots to do. We are going to meet some of the other boys there.” A few other players Lio and Connor know from around the league are meeting up with them.

“Yeah. Sounds fun.” Lucie nods.

“Cool.” Lio leans back, leaving Lucie to go back to her book. 

However, she quickly  falls asleep, curled up in her seat, feet off the floor so her knees are basically a pillow. Her book falls down from her hand, collecting on Connor’s thigh.

“Luc.” She hears, then feels Connor’s hand slide around her ankle. He rubs his thumb across it, catching both her skin and her sock. He increases his pressure when she doesn’t respond. “Lucie, wake up.” His hand works it’s way up to hold her calf. His thumb presses into her muscle harder. Lucie slowly opens her eyes, looking at him with bleary brown orbs. “Hi.” He smiles sweetly at her. He moves his hand up to cup her cheek for a moment, then lets his hand fall. Lucie’s stomach does flip flops in her body. “We are landing soon.” He tells her. 

“Okay.” She mumbles, letting her legs fall back to the floor. Connor hands over her book, already placing the bookmark in it so she doesn’t lose her spot. She puts her shoes back on, then works her dilapidated hair out of it’s scrunchie. She works the long brown strands back into a fresher, more contained style. The entire time she can feel Connor’s eyes on her. “What?” She asks, then shrugs when he shakes his head, finally looking away.

Lucie frowns. She can’t help but feel frustrated that her and Connor had this big moment and distance has iced out whatever had been building between them. It’s like yes, he kissed her, multiple times, but it’s not like he has been texting her or interacting with her when he was on the road. Maybe what she thought was happening wasn’t. 

After a short and quiet cab ride, they reach their resort on the coast. They are greeted with sparkling water and limes, then check into their three separate rooms. Despite Lucie’s insistence on paying her own way, Lio paid for her entire trip, thus their rooms are right next to each other. Connor is on the same floor, but in the opposite direction.

“Let’s meet up in an hour?” Lio asks them both. Connor nods, then heads off to his room. 

Lucie disappears behind the door to her room after a wave to Lio, then immediately runs into her room to jump on the bed. She sighs happily, curling into the cloud like bed and it’s soft embrace of her. She doesn’t stay there long. She knows if she does, she will fall asleep again. So, she focuses on getting ready for the evening. She washes her face, then re-does her makeup into a night out shades and coverage. Her eyes are smokey and her lips are subtle. Her hair has started to wave up in the costal humidity, so she uses her Dyson to encourage the waves more.

From there, Lucie unpacks her suitcase. She dresses herself in forest green linen shorts and with a pale pink bralette and a white shirt. She spritz on two more pumps of her perfume and rubs her wrists together before dabbing them behind her ears. She knows how good she looks. If Connor isn’t going to look then she is sure others will be. 

After grabbing her crossbody purse and putting her sandals on, Lucie heads down to the lobby while sending a quick text to her parents that they made it to the resort. She sees Lio and Connor sipping margaritas in plastic cups with a few other men who must be hockey players. They’re all wearing different colors and patterns of tropical themes shirts. They should look dorky and unassuming, instead they draw attention from patrons all across the resort. She walks up to Lio’s left, avoiding Connor on his right. 

“Hey! This is Lucie, my cousin and entirely off limits.” Lio introduces her to the group. Lucie rolls her eyes. 

“Wow, what an introduction.” She purrs, extending her hand to the man on her left. “Hi, I’m Lucie, Lio’s very available cousin.”

“Nice to meet you.” He grins. He is entirely too blonde and skinny for her. The rest of them are all similar with various colors of hair and eyes. None of them are as big and filled out as Connor Wood. 

“Want something to drink?” The one who introduced himself as Brandt asks.

“I got it.” Connor insists. Lucie looks over at him, seeing his hard set jaw and lowered eyebrows. He doesn’t look thrilled. 

“I’ll go with you.” She offers. He extends a hand out to encouraging her to walk towards the bar in front of him.

“You shouldn’t of done that.” He says quietly from behind her.

“What?” She asks as they reach the outer loop of the bar.

“Told a group of hockey players that you’re open for business.” 

“Why?” She laughs as she scans her eyes over the menu. She is pretty sure she wants a margarita but it’s always good to look.

“Because they’re going to spend this entire trip trying to get a taste of you.”

“That bother you?”

“You know it does.” He rolls his eyes. “You and your little games. Always playing some angle.” He scoffs quietly, putting his forearms on the bar, eyes zeroing in on the bartender. Lucie snorts quietly, then licks her lips with frustration.

“Says the guy who kisses me once and thinks he owns me.”

“Nobody owns you, Lucie. No one ever will.” Annoyed fire dashes through Lucie’s chest.

“Are you going to keep pretending like our kiss never happened?” She demands, frustrated that it’s been brought up and he is flinging it away like a fly. He looks over at her, blue eyes smoldering her in place. 

“No. That’s the last thing I want to do. But we’re here with Lio. And a group of guys who are going to be falling all over themselves for a chance with you and your smart mouth.”

“Hey…. My mouth is more than just smart.” She smirks. She leans in, whispering in his ear. “You would die at the things it could do to you.” Her lips brush against the sleeve of his blue, tropical shirt. She puckers them, kissing his bicep gently as the bartender comes over.

“What can I get you?”

“A margarita. On the rocks. Make it extra salty on the rim.” She murmurs, not taking her eyes off Connor. 

“On my tab.” Connor says. “Room 561.”

“Yes sir.” The bartender responds, then heads off to mix up Lucie’s drink.

“You can’t say stuff like that to me, Luc.” Connor says to her, finally breaking their stare down.

“I can do whatever I want.” Connor inhales heavily, then drops his shoulders as he exhales. 

“Nothing has changed about Lio.” He reminds her.

“Sure, but everything has changed between us. And you did that. Don’t chicken out on me now, Woody.” 

“I’m not chickening out.”

“Then what are we doing?” He stares at her, eyes tracing over her face in a warm caress.

“We’re in Mexico, Lucie. That’s what we are doing.” 

The bartender sets Lucie’s drink on the bar top by her elbow, but it goes unacknowledged by her and Connor. Anxiousness and disappointment swirls in Lucie’s body. She was so hopeful that her and Connor would find themselves tangled up in each other. But his reserved look tells her that this week she really is going to be Lio’s unavailable cousin. Hurt bubbles up in her throat, so she stands up tall, shaking her hair over her shoulder.

“Well then. Have a fun trip.” She snaps at him, grabbing her margarita off the bar and heading back to the group. On the way, she sucks in two big, deep breaths to stop the stinging of her eyes.

She settles into her spot on Lio’s right while Connor slowly rejoins the group on Lio’s left. He is quiet, hands in his pockets, not laughing along with the rest of the boys as they razz on Sean. 

“Ready for the beach?” Lio eventually asks the group.

“Yeah, it should be about that time for the wet t-shirt contest.” Brandt says.

“What?” Lio’s eyebrows knock up excitedly. 

“Yeah. Hopefully the blonde from the pool is participating.” The boys all grin excitedly, except Connor.

Lucie walks perfectly in line with Lio to avoid any more discussion with Connor. Her chest feels bruised with anger and disappointment. Her brain swirls and she feels like clawing the skin off her lips so she doesn’t have a part of her that has touched him anymore. Why did he kiss her? Why did he open this door only to shut it in her face the next time he saw her? She thought he was good, nice, a gentleman. No, he’s like the rest of them- lying about what he can actually deliver.

Lucie slams the rest of her margarita, scanning the crowded beach. A DJ plays to the left on a big stage that has a bunch of people with arms in the air by them. People stand in groups, clumping together around a few high top tables. Some people wade through the water up to their knees. The group hits the bar again immediately. This time Lucie grabs two margaritas. Then they wander by a few carts selling amazing smelling food as they troll through the party, looking for their next adventure.

The group finds themselves close to a few more people their age. The gregarious hockey players immediately hit it off with a group of women. Connor engages Lio in conversation, leaving Lucie on her own for a few moments. This gives her plenty of time to down both of the cups in her hands. On her walk back to the group from the trash can, the tequila washes over her in a welcome, distorting heat. 

A little more North, people cheer drawing Lucie’s sporadic attention.

“What’s over there?” She asks Lio, trying to see but not being able to even on her tip toes. A few of the hockey boys have disappeared in that direction.

“It’s the wet t-shirt contest.”

“We should go.” Lucie grins. 

“No.” Lio shakes his head immediately, taking a sip of his drink.

“Lio doesn’t want to go see boobs?” Lucie scoffs then leans forward to put her hand on his forehead. “Someone call your mama! He’s dying!!!” She shoves his head. Then starts to walk towards the cheering.

“Lucie.” Lio groans.

“I know! I’m the worst! Making you go see tits for free.” Lucie giggles, turning to stick her tongue out at him while walking backwards. She accidentally bumps into someone, offering a sincere, drunk girl apology before continuing on.

Lucie reaches the outer edge of the crowd, looking up on the stage to see a handful of women in white t-shirts waiting for the contest to start. Lucie can’t really understand what’s going on, but pushes further into the crowd, losing Connor and Lio in the process. She can hear Lio’s half-assed call for her to come back. No. She doesn’t want to be anywhere near those two right now. 

And she knows exactly how to get away from them. 

She skirts through the crowd relatively easily. Everyone is drunk and focused on the stage. They don’t care for the random girl pushing forward to try to get up there. When she reaches the front, she scans for anyone who looks important. She sees a guy with a clipboard and grins, moving towards him.

“Hey!” She yells. He looks at her. “Can I get in on that?” He scans Lucie, then shrugs, nodding. 

“What’s one more?” He tells her. Lucie smiles back pleasantly like the Hischier she was taught to be, then allows a security guard to help her over the small fencing. She smooths down her shirt as she climbs the stairs to the stage. The MC stops mid-sentence.

“Do we have another contestant!? Excellent. Come here, honey. Tell us about yourself.”

“I’m Lucie and I’m from Switzerland.” She drawls out. The lights of the stage are bright so she can’t see out, but can hear.

“Lucie from Switzerland, are you ready to show us your tits?” Lucie laughs. 

“Sure.” She flirts back. 

“I love girls with daddy issues.” He jokes. Lucie’s smile falters a bit. She doesn’t have daddy issues… She just has listening issues. “Get in line, sweetheart.” 

Lucie complies, then looks to the contestant on her right.

“Hey, you probably want to take your bra off.” Lucie looks down at her bralette. 

Oh yeah. 

She shimmies off the straps then tucks it into the pocket of her shorts. She looks down, seeing the distinct point of her nipples already. She looks out towards the stage again, imagining Connor out there, watching her do this. A shivery thrill rolls down her spine. She swallows hard, seeing a handful of guys with buckets come out in front of them. She can hear ice swirling around in the plastic. She watches as one of them comes to stand directly in front of her. He smiles at Lucie and she feels a little claw of ick pinch her through her drunken, tequila haze.

Maybe she shouldn’t be doing….

Any other words she could think are slapped from her by the ice cold water hitting her chest. It splashes onto her face and legs too. Lucie and the rest of the contestants stumble back slightly. 

“Oh my god.” The girl next to her snaps. “That’s not how they did it in Florida.” She wipes at her eyes, careful not to smear her mascara. Her hair got wet too, causing it to flatten out immediately.

“Jesus Christ.” Lucie hears muttered to her left. She blinks the water out of her eyes, then watches Connor’s approach. She instinctively reaches for him as a source of safety. Connor stands in front of her, chest heaving as if he was running or working hard to get here. “Are you okay?” He asks her. Lucie nods, then looks away, embarrassed as hell that she got herself into this moment. When she looks back, she can see Connor staring at her pink nipples showing through her shirt. He forcefully removes his gaze, turning back to her face. “I’ve got you, okay?”

“Dude, move we can’t see her!!!”’ Someone yells from the crowd. When Connor stays planted in place, the guy starts to boo. Others follow suit until the whole, drunk crowd is booing at them both. 

“We want to see her boobs!” Another man yells. Connor scoffs, glaring over his shoulder. He shrugs his shirt off his shoulders and a loud female crowd starts to scream. 

“Damn man, you should have entered.” The MC laughs. The crowd cheers louder. Lucie’s cheeks burn red as Connor wraps the shirt round her, ignoring everything else except for her. He puts his arm over her shoulder, then walks her to the edge of the stage. “Guess Lucie from Switzerland is out.” 

The crowd moves on quickly, enjoying the sights of 10 other women with perky tits on display in front of them. Lucie shakes in Connor’s embrace as the wind whips against her wet clothing. She is soaked from her chin down to her mid-thighs. Beads of cold water trail down her legs, dripping off her heels. The couple comes up on the group they came with. Lio is flaming pissed. Lucie can practically see the steam blowing the top of his head off. 

“I’ve got her, Lee.” Connor says as he pushes past, not even bringing them further into their group. 

“Lucie, go to bed and sober up. I better not see you on this beach again tonight!” Lio snaps. She can hear the disgust in his voice, but when she looks at him, he has his arm around two women. 

“You’re one to talk, asshole.” She calls back to him, rolling her eyes. He can fuck off with his misogynistic treatment of women. He’s going to rail two girls tonight but she can’t participate in a wet t-shirt contest? Or fuck any of the boys they came here with? Seems fair. 

All Lucie can think about as Connor maneuvers her towards her room is that she wishes she was anywhere but here.

- - -

(Connor)

When Connor saw Lucie on that stage, he blacked out. He didn’t think about anything else but the fact that he has had a hard on for this beautiful woman for months, and now a hundred other strangers were going to see her perky breasts before he does. He didn’t think about how he was going to get her down, or how he was going to shield her and bring her to a safe place. It just happened.

But that’s what Lucie Hischier does to him. Everything just happens. Whether he wants it to or not. Now she is curled into his side, clutching the waistband of his shorts as she shivers slightly in the cool, beach breeze. 

Since that cold water hit her body, Connor has been alternating between being angry and turned on. Why doesn’t she listen? Why does she always insist on pushing the limits between them and with everyone in her life who cares about her? What is she running from? What is she doing by throwing caution to the wind like that? Doesn’t she understand that people only want to protect her? No. Because she’s too busy chasing the thrill.

He has a thrill she can chase. It’s hard and thick and will shut her damn mouth up if she ever wants it. Connor shakes his head, leading Lucie into the elevator. Fuck, he needs to stop thinking like that or his dick is never going to soften tonight. But really, Connor knows it won’t until he gets back to his room and strokes one out. He has no chance of a cold shower helping this. Not with the eyeful of her nipples he got on that stage. He about fell to his knees to kiss them there, in front of Lio and the boys too. 

“Do you have your key?”

“Yeah.” Lucie fumbles around in her pocket, handing over the thin card to him. He knows what room she is in, guiding her there after they step off the elevator. “Connor, I’m sorry. I…” She trails off, looking up at him with sad brown eyes.

“It’s okay.” He shakes his head. “Lio’s being an asshole. You’re allowed to…” He widens his eyes, shaking his head again. “Have fun.” He ends with a smirk. Lucie stands in place, looking at him for a moment as he holds her door open for her to go inside. 

“You should go in and make sure my room is safe…” She suggests. Connor can tell nothing about that request is innocent. But still, his feet enter her room. He makes a big show of looking around, even behind the glass shower door and in the small wardrobe. All he finds are her clothes.

“All clear.” He murmurs, turning back to her. She stands there with her bottom lip tucked in her mouth, brown eyes doey and seductive. And he knows he is so fucked.

“You can look here too.” Lucie huskily whispers, letting his shirt fall away from her breasts so he can see her still soaked through t-shirt. Connor’s jaw clenches as his eyes stay on her face. Slowly, she peels his shirt off her body that’s now wet from being connected to hers. It drops in a pool at her feet. Lucie’s arms drop to her sides, allowing him to see her fully.  “What do you think, Connor?”

“I think you’re drunk, Luc.” His hands ball into fists beside his thighs trying not to reach for her.

“Is that why I’m wondering what they would feel like in big hands.” She drawls at him.

The change in the tone of her voice has Connor’s eyes slipping. When he takes his peek, he almost falls to his knees at how beautiful she is. Connor inhales heavily, cock twitching in his shorts as he traces the pink circles. He can see the texture of them through the wet fabric. His tongue gets heavy in his mouth, wanting to trace them for textural memory too. His lips part, blue eyes staying there as if he is painting them for his long-term memory. He steps forward, then trolls his eyes back up to her face. Desire swallows her brown eyes, reaching out to make his skin burn like wildfire everywhere they touch. He licks his lips, stopping in front of her.

“You still look cold, sweetheart. You need someone to warm those up?” Connor leans down, hovering over her face, lips mere inches away.

“I don’t need someone. I need you.” 

Liquid lust rushes through Connor’s body. He doesn’t have a shot in hell of holding himself back. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close so he can lift her into his arms. Lucie gasps in surprise, then brings her lips over his.

“Kiss me.” She demands. Connor smiles. This girl always knows exactly what she wants.

“I’ll kiss you when I’m ready. First, I wanna look at you.” He murmurs.

He sits down on the bed with her in his arms. They work together to get Lucie straddling his lap. Her wet breasts are directly below his chin, but his eyes stay on hers. Lucie rolls her hips into his lap, letting out a breathy, needy sigh as she feels his stiffness connect with her clothed core. 

“Please Connor.”

That will get him. His big hand comes to the back of her neck, tugging her lips to his. Fireworks explode inside of him, and maybe outside, he can’t tell, but she tastes and feels like the best thing he’s ever had in his life. Connor groans against her mouth. His hands wrap around her higher now, covering her ribs on either side of her abdomen, thumbs brushing almost where they both needs him.

Lucie gasping against his mouth when his thumbs stroke around her tight peaks once, ignoring their center. His cock jolts, oozing into his boxer briefs. Fuck, he has barely touched her and he could cum right now. She circles her hips into him. Connor feels the plumpness of the underside of her breasts on his lazy trail down to her hips. He squeezes her tighter to hold her down on him firmly.

“Please, Connor. Please fuck me.”

He pulls back to look at her. She is wild under his hands. He has never, ever needed someone as bad as he needs Lucie Hischier right now. She watches him come closer. He drops his mouth down to the thin, still wet cotton and sucks her nipple into his mouth. Lucie’s hand crawls into his hair. She moans his name. Connor closes his eyes in ecstasy trying not to combust in his pants with her building friction rubbing her clothed pussy along his cock in sync with his suckles. Fuck, she is so needy. She would be like putty in his hands tonight, twisting and turning her every which way. Once wouldn’t be enough. He’d need her at least three times to get this painful twist out of his balls. 

He pulls away again, shoving the fabric out of the way to get her bare flesh into his mouth. She squirms under his hands. He wants to lick her up and lay her flat on her back on this bed. Fuck her well into the morning and do all the things he’s been imagining with her. He can feel the heat from her seeping through her damp shorts. His fingers itch to move down, feel how wet he is making her compared to the water from the contest. He sets his fingers on the waistband of her shorts, then something makes him pause.

This isn’t a hook up. Or some random girl he met on the beach. This is Lucie. Lio’s cousin, Connor’s best friend, and he came up here to make sure she made it safely. Not take advantage of a drunk, Swiss hockey princess. When he takes her, and he knows he will, it isn’t going to be here, in the room next to her cousin where he is trying to get two women back to his bed.

Connor falls back with a pop of his lips as her breast falls out of his mouth. He looks at her blown pupils, swollen lips from his kiss, and as bad as his balls ache to release he knows they are done for the night. Gently, he cups her face.

“Not like this, Luc.”

Connor watches the excitement drain from Lucie’s eyes. They dull instantly. He sighs, rubbing his thumb into her hip. She begins to clam up in his arms, muscles going from loose and languid to ridging in seconds.  She moves to get off him and he can see what’s happening. 

“Luc.”

“Let me go please.” He does immediately, watching as she turns back towards the front of the room heading to where the bathroom is.

“I want to so much. More than I can even say.” He calls to her. Fuck, why is she so upset with him? He’s only trying to respect her and their relationships with Lio.

“Yep. Sure. It’s all good. Have a good night.” She calls as she goes into her bathroom. The door shuts with a definitive click. Connor collapses inward on himself. He looks towards the ceiling, closing his eyes. Why does he have to be a good guy? Why can’t he be more like Lio and just fuck her for his own personal pleasure and not care about anything else?

Connor runs a hand through his hair, sighing. He hears the water turn on in the shower. Knowing Lucie is naked in the next room, water dripping down her beautiful body, does nothing for the hard lump under his zipper. He adjusts himself, trying to focus on other things like Herbies or being yelled at by his dad. 

Maybe he should have left once she got in the shower, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays on her bed until she comes out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. It’s clear she thought he left. But there he is, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped together in front of him as he leans forward, ready to clear the air that staled when they pulled apart.

“I want to fuck you so bad right now.” He says immediately.“Want to peel off that towel. Kiss all over your sexy body. Want to mark you in places I can see tomorrow in your little bikini that I know you’ll be messing with in front of me on purpose. I want to grab handfuls of your ass while you ride me. You like to ride cock don’t you, baby? You’d love mine. Big and thick. Would split you open the way you’re begging for tonight.”

Lucie clutches the towel tighter over her chest, mouth dropping slightly open and she begins to breathe heavily.

“But the first time I have you is not going to be in some Mexican resort with your cousin banging two random chicks next door while you’re drunk off tequila and the high of disobeying. You deserve better. What we are going to be deserves better.” He stands up, reaching out for her, not wanting to cross a line if she is going to tell him to go to hell.

“Now come here and properly kiss me goodnight.”

Lucie’s bare feet shuffle quietly over the carpet. Then she collapses into his chest. He cradles her there, inhaling her freshly shampooed scalp. He rubs her bare back above the towel, then kisses the top of her head. She tilts her face up, letting him kiss her. It’s a soft kiss. Nothing like the ones they had been sharing before this. It aches with tenderness and a deep appreciation of each other.

“Thank you for saving me. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Probably not.” He agrees. “We’re okay?” Lucie drops her gaze to his bare chest.

“Yeah. Thank you for staying… to tell me that. It helps. Um, I don’t want anything bad to happen between us. But tonight, I just…. Forgot.”

“Trust me, I did too.” He nods. “You make me wanna forget it all.” 

“But that’s not who you are.” Lucie nods. His heart warms at the way she sees that in him.

Connor leans down to give her one more kiss, then threads their fingers together so they can walk to her door. Lucie kisses his tricep as they come to stop by the door.

“Goodnight.” He says to her. 

“Goodnight.” She responds quietly. “Dream of me?” She asks him innocently. 

“Only you.” He murmurs, then kisses her quickly before heading down towards his room. 

Read more Lucie and Connor here.

[breakfastteatime]

Today's Survivor request is "Fall" for @etoiline

It finds Cal in the quiet, in the stillness, in the emptiness, when sleep refuses him.

Darkness.

The fall. His fall. It happened so easily.

(No, it didn’t.)

He gave into the darkness without a fight.

(No, you didn’t.)

That rage. That power. He misses it.

(Do you?)

Sighing, Cal rolls out of bed and heads out into the Koboh night. BD doesn’t let him go alone. No one stops them – everyone’s used to Cal’s nighttime wanderings by now – but BD will never let him wander off alone. The Outpost is quieter by night, only the hardiest (or most destitute) prospectors heading out to work. He decides to head for the forest. The quiet trees and waterfalls usually soothe his whirring mind.

His feet take him across Swindlers Wash and into the forest, head buzzing with self-recriminations as he heads into the forest. He reaches the Basalt Rift, distracted by the guilty part of him that doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life in hiding, who loves the variety of Koboh and the wider galaxy…

He doesn’t hear the battle droid until it’s on him, and while he does take it down before it shoots him in the head, his balance is all off, and he tips backward, plummeting off a cliff and falling, down, down, down. The Force howls, and he flips in time to hit a pool of water feet first. Deep, deep under the water, it takes Cal’s scrambled head a few seconds to catch up. He kicks his way back to the surface, fighting the current. When he breaks through, he’s already a long way from the cliff he fell off.

“BD?!”

A slightly waterlogged warble comes from Cal’s back. A sob of relief escapes him, and he nods in agreement when BD tells him to find somewhere to climb out of the river as soon as he can.

By the time Cal’s on dry land again, he’s soaked but warm, the Koboh night far from cold. He’s unhurt, although his ego’s taken a good hit. Distracted. Reckless. When will he learn?

BD beeps for Cal’s attention. “I’m okay. Guess I need to find a better coping skill.”

Talking. He could try talking.

Cal reaches over, gives BD a head pat. “I know. I just don’t know where to start.”

BD does, because he knows Cal is a good person. How could he not be, when he’s still so torn up over everything that happened, including using the dark side. A bad person wouldn’t care like Cal does.

“Cere always told me every Jedi faces the dark side. It was stupid of me to think I wouldn’t, that I’d be too good for that.” Cal sighs, and not because he’s not entirely sure where he is and how long it will take to get back to the Outpost. “I’m going to carry it for the rest of my life.” Everyone has something to carry. He thought he was at his limit after Cere and Master Cordova died.

Turns out there’s more beneath rock bottom.

Hopping onto Cal’s head, flashlight shining, BD suggests that if Cal wants to use up all his energy on worrying about it, maybe next time he could do it in the garden, instead of taking a dive off a cliff?

Cal chuckles. “I’m happy to skip the cliff diving.” He glances up, gauges the distance. “Can’t believe I didn’t break anything. Maybe we don’t tell anyone about this?”

BD is noncommittal. He needs blackmail material.

“I don’t have to give you oil baths.”

Cal’s secret is safe with BD.

By the time they return to the Outpost, dawn is breaking and Greez waits for them outside Pyloon’s with a hot cup of caf and the medkit. He hands over the caf, gives Cal a good looking over, then nods, taking the unopened medkit inside with them.

“You figure out what you needed to figure out?” Greez asks as they walk into the bar.

“Kinda?”

“Try to sound a little less uncertain.”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, awe-inspiring, kid. Anyway, there’s some weeds in the garden and Pili wants your help with them. Says you’re the best one to deal with the Spikers.”

“Spikers, you got it.”

“Right, right, and by the time you’re done with the weeding, it’ll probably be time to take a nap.”

Cal smiles. “I’ll give it a go.”

[mapis-putellas]

Don’t say I didn’t warn you

Advent day 12: Carry me?

Paring: sick Yelena x reader

Notes: the longest one yet!

“Come on,” Yelena shouts giddily as the rain water from the puddles soak her legs, spinning in circles with her arms out either side of her. “This is so much fun.”

You watch with a smile -from the very dry threshold of the doorway might you add, as Yelena jumps in yet another puddle. It was currently summer, and after weeks upon weeks of unbearable heat, the sky had finally let loose with a much needed torrential downpour.

It had started of small. Tiny drops of moisture dotting the windows and the cement, then with an almighty roar of thunder, it had begun to bucket it down.

The second Yelena had gotten a glance out of the window after putting away the dishes from lunch, there had been no stopping her. Both her shoes and coat had been left abandoned in the entry way of your home as she’d excitedly run outside, and despite your concerns that this decision might bite her in the butt, you couldn’t deny just how adorable she looks.

Soon, the sound of wet feet hitting the cement catches your attention, and you flicker your eyes over just in time to see Yelena running full speed towards a large, still steadily growing puddle.

Your eyes widen. “Yelena no-” too late. She lands in the very centre, and the power of her feet hitting the water has her absolutely saturated. Seemingly uncaring over this fact, she lets out a loud laugh and wipes at her eyes before turning to face you with a proud grin.

You couldn’t help but return it, not remembering the last time you’d seen her so happy. Knowing she’d be content by herself for a few moments, you disappear inside and grab a few towels from the laundry closet, not intending on letting her back inside when she’d be sure to drip water absolutely everywhere.

By the time you return, she was walking back towards the house looking like an adorably drowned rat, and you hold out one of the towels ready for her to step into. She does, and you don’t miss the sigh of relief that escapes her lips as she allows you to pull her into her arms.

“Did you have fun?” You murmur as you close and lock your front door before securing your arms around the small, shivering blonde, cupping the back of her head with one hand whilst the other rubs up and down her back in a futile attempt at warming her up.

She nods, “So much.” She murmurs contently as she nuzzles her nose into your neck, and you couldn’t help but smile as you press your lips against the side of her head. With the knowledge that she probably wouldn’t willingly leave your arms for at least some time, you bend and lift her with the intention of giving her a lift to the bathroom so she could shower.

“I’m not a baby.” She grumbles, but wraps her legs around your waist anyway, and you roll your eyes fondly as you pat her behind and begin making your way up the stairs.

“Being held doesn’t make you a baby,” you remind her like you’ve done many times before, and though she grumbles, she doesn’t retort knowing you were speaking the truth. Once you’ve made it to the bathroom, you set her down on her feet and cup her face before placing a kiss to her forehead.

Her cheeks flush, and you smile softly as you pull away from her. “Go shower and I’ll make us some hot chocolate, okay?”

“With whipped cream and marshmallows?” She tilts her head to the side, and you nod with a knowing smile.

“Duh.” You retort, and Yelena playfully flips you off before turning towards the shower. Taking that as a dismissal, you turn to leave the room making sure to close the door behind you.

You hum softly to yourself as you begin preparing the drinks, adding a little more chocolate to Yelena’s own knowing that’s how she prefers it. After adding a sufficient amount of whipped cream and marshmallows, you carry both cups through to the living room just in time for Yelena to make an appearance at the bottom of the stairs.

“You should dry your hair.” you say in place of a greeting as you give her a knowing look, sitting down on the couch and picking up the remote. Yelena huffs in fake annoyance as she comes to sit next to you, tucking her bare feet beneath your thigh as she reaches for her drink.

“It will be fine. You worry too much.” She mumbles distractedly as she sticks out her tongue to scoop up a marshmallow, and you watch her for a second before rolling your eyes with a fond sigh.

You knew it was another decision that would later bite her in the ass.

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” You muse as you select frozen 2 on Disney +, a known favourite of Yelena’s that she would watch at least twice a week.

*

And warn her you did. Just two days later, Yelena had fallen ill with such a heavy cold you wondered just how she was alive. She was severely congested. Hazy with a high fever, and that wasn’t even mentioning the continuous coughs and sneezes.

“Baby, you know the beds a whole lot more comfortable right?” You murmur in quiet amusement as you reach out to gently brush a damp strand of hair out of the sick Russians face.

Yelena simply grunts in acknowledgment as she wipes uselessly at her running nose, and you fondly roll your eyes as you lean down to press a kiss to her warm forehead. “I’ll go get the bed ready okay? You stay here.” You speak, and this time, Yelena doesn’t even acknowledge you. She simply closes her eyes and falls into what you could only assume was a fitful sleep.

You weren’t offended by the action. Yelena was notoriously grumpy when feeling sick, and due to the fact you’d been together for over three years, it was something you were pretty much used to. The same couldn’t be said when you first got together, but that was a story for another time.

With another sigh, -because it sucked when she was sick, even if it wasn’t self inflicted- you leave the living room and make your way up to your shared bedroom. The bed was neatly made, just as it was everyday, and you don’t waste any time in pulling the covers back and knocking the decorative pillows out of the way .

You make sure there were tissues and water readily available on the nightstand before heading back over to the sick blonde, and you couldn’t help but smile when you realise she was in the exact same position you’d left her in.

Well, excluding her nose that was yet again running. Without a word, you grab a few tissue from the box on the coffee table and fold them in half before crouching down before her and pinching the end of her nose in a futile effort to get rid of the dripping snot.

She rouses slightly at the action, her face scrunching up in discomfort, and you quietly shush her with a gentle hand on her stomach as you finish with your task and make quick work of sanitising your hands.

“Time for bed baby, come on.” You reach out and give her behind a few steady pats in a futile effort at rousing her. Yelena whines quietly as she lazily bats your hands away, and you chuckle slightly as you instead reach up to gently pat her upper back. “Lena? Come on. Time to get up.”

Yelena again, bats your hand away, her eyes flickering open and sending you a pretty deadly glare. Before she could chew you out, you scoot a little closer and cup her cheek. Without thought, Yelena falls into your soothing touch, and your lips quirk up at the corners as you trail the pad of your thumb over warm skin.

“Let’s get you in bed, okay?” You murmur, and Yelena sniffles wetly as she gently bobs her head up and down. You release her face and go to stand up, but a gentle whine stops you in your tracks. You look down and see her staring at you with a pleading look on her face.

“What is it baby?” You question, and whilst Yelena’s cheeks flush a light shade of red, she seemingly responds to you with ease.

“Carry me? Please?” She murmurs, and your heart melts in your chest as you immediately nod your head. Normally, it was only ever you who insinuates holding her. So for her to ask, whilst nearly unbelievable, was absolutely amazing.

With a smile, you bend down and wrap your arms around her midsection. You lift her with relative ease, her legs hooking tightly around your waist as she buries her head into your neck. With an arm remaining beneath her behind for support, you bring the other one up to cup the back of her head and press a tender kiss to her shoulder.

“I’ve got you, baby.”

**

@goldenempyrean @alotofpockets @somber-sapphic

[ms-scarletwings]

Now I don’t mind this established trope at all where people are basically ants in the minds of dragons, but then, just once in any fantasy media or campaign I want a dragon or other massive higher creature that responds to the existence to humans in the exact way that I do to bugs.

Dragon that stops flying because it saw someone sleeping in a field and pokes them with a branch out of sheer curiosity to check if they’re dead or not.

Dragon that watches goblins scurry into one of their little huts and just pries the roof off to stare at them and look at the inside of their little shelter before putting it back down with a satisfied grin and leaving.

Dragon that sees a person treading water in the middle of a lake or the ocean, carefully plucks them out, and sets them down on dry land. Maybe puts a goat’s leg in their lap in case they need a snack. Also calls them “Harold” for no apparent reason.

Very young dragon that screams and freaks out upon seeing a bearded man with brightly colored robes and a pointed hat until it realizes the guy isn’t casting any spells. “Ohhhh you’re a wizard mimic” and then proceeds to handle the guy for a few minutes, fascinated. It also addresses the dude as “Craig” the entire time.

Dragon grabs a wild boar and repeatedly starts placing it in front of a town because it wants to see some hunting behavior in action.

Thief gets caught sneaking into a dragon’s lair. Resident reptile roars and is seemingly about to obliterate them when its mate suddenly comes rushing in with a giant cup. They have a grumbly back and forth before the thief is scooped up and promptly brought to be dropped off at the nearest random village. Dragon’s mate refers to the thief as “Sullivan SillyMan” the whole way.

Dragon that encounters a member of a humanoid race it has never heard of or seen before, at least in this region. Stops everything it’s doing and immediately kidnaps the individual. Speeds back to its lair and keeps them imprisoned while trying to flip through some tomes. Eventually drags out a magical item that they use to open a communication with another dragon, describing the prisoner, showing them the prisoner, exchanging friendly banter. There’s a whole 30 minute to and hour convo and everything. Dragon refers to the captive as “Thaddeus” the whole time. Last thing it does is sketch out a drawing of the person before taking them back to where they found them and turning them loose again.

Dragon doing this to a gnome

[delopsia]

delly, in the spirit of spooky fun times (feat. the floytts, but specifically robby and rhett): who is trying (and succeeding) to convince the other that the cabin that they’re staying in for a few weeks during the month of october (lmao) is haunted, and who is trying (and failing) to not believe it while also getting jumpier and poutier by the day?

🎃 t

omg, I'm so sorry that this took me forever to answer! 😭

I've got this very specific image in my head of Bob deliberately picking a cabin in the woods, trying his best to make Reader and Rhett think it's haunted, and it winds up backfiring.

He thinks he's so clever when he picks out that cute little forest cabin, isolated from the surrounding area, at the end of a never-ending gravel driveway. It's got the rickety wooden floors and the creepy basement; all you'd need to film the next big horror film is a camera crew and a script.

Of course, he doesn't tell either of you that this is why he picked this specific cabin. He lists everything, the breathtaking mountaintop view, the sea of golden leaves, the cute little town located nearby, but he conveniently 'forgets' to share that one of the reviews claimed this place was haunted.

The first night is fine. So is the second, and the third, and the fourth. Rhett doesn't say anything about being spoked. You have an instance with a moth unexpectedly landing on you while you're getting a glass of water, but that's the scariest thing that happens.

It's the fifth day that has Bob thinking that the review about the ghost was a complete, utter lie. A marketing gimmick to lure people in, and he fell for it.

So what does he do? He starts trying to convince Rhett this place is haunted. Leaves behind little hints and wonderings, says that something moved on its own last night, rearranges different items when you and Rhett go to bed. He even puts an empty cup too close to the edge of the table, teetering in such a way that it falls when Rhett walks past it.

But then...then things start happening. The stove randomly turns on by itself. The light goes out when he's in the shower. Every night at exactly midnight, something starts scratching in the hallway. There's strange writing in his notebook; his laptop keeps getting unplugged. And then, one night, he goes to bed early, and the sheets get ripped off of him.

"This place is haunted to hell," he blurts, stumbling into the living room.

Your eyes lift, peeking over the rim of your glass. Mid-sip. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Yeah, because—"

Something jumps on him.

And he screams.

What he doesn't know is that Reader and Rhett figured him out before you even booked the cabin for the month. For as smart as Bobby can be, he sometimes forgets the little things, like leaving his laptop wide open on the kitchen table, mid-search for "creepy cabins near..."

So here he is. Squealing. Shoving Rhett away. Red-faced and stuttering, cannot fathom why you two are laughing at him.

Turns out, all of those 'supernatural' occurrences were just you and Rhett deliberately fucking with him. The suspicious sounds were all from a speaker you had cleverly hidden behind some furniture. The sheets had been tied to fishing line, making it easy for Rhett to hide outside the room and yank them off. The light? Rhett briefly flipped the breaker.

It was all one big joke to get back at him for his antics, and it's probably shaved a good ten years off his lifespan. Okay, okay, maybe his reaction was kind of funny. But he's still going to sit on the couch and whine about it for the rest of the night, fussing for endless kisses from the both of you.

You're all lying in bed together when you hear something scuttering above the ceiling.